Rookwood Part 18

The progress of the storm was watched with infinite apprehension by the crowd of tenantry a.s.sembled in the great hall; and loud and frequent were the e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.i.o.ns uttered, as each succeeding peal burst over their heads. There was, however, one amongst the a.s.semblage who seemed to enjoy the uproar. A kindred excitement appeared to blaze in his glances, as he looked upon the storm without. This was Peter Bradley. He stood close by the window, and shaded not his eyes, even before the fiercest flashes. A grin of unnatural exhilaration played upon his features, and he seemed to exult in, and to court, the tempestuous horrors, which affected the most hardy amongst his companions with consternation, and made all shrink, trembling, into the recesses of the room. Peter's conduct was not un.o.bserved, nor his reputation for unholy dealing forgotten. To some he was almost as much an object of dread as the storm itself.

"Didst ever see the like o' that?" said Farmer Burtenshaw--one of the guests, whose round, honest face good wine had recently empurpled, but fear had now mottled white,--addressing a neighbor. "Didst ever hear of any man that were a Christian laughing in the very face o' a thunder-storm, with the lightnin' fit to put out his eyes, and the rattle above ready to break the drums o' his ears? I always thought Peter Bradley was not exactly what he ought to be, and now I am sure on it."

"For my part, I think, Neighbor Burtenshaw," returned the other, "that this great burst of weather's all of his raising, for in all my born days I never see'd such a hurly-burly, and hope never to see the like of it again. I've heard my grandfather tell of folk as could command wind and rain; and, mayhap, Peter may have the power--we all know he can do more nor any other man."

"We know, at all events," replied Burtenshaw, "that he lives like no other man; that he spends night after night by himself in that dreary churchyard; that he keeps no living thing, except an old terrier dog, in his crazy cottage; and that he never asks a body into his house from one year's end to another. I've never crossed his threshold these twenty years. But," continued he mysteriously, "I happened to pa.s.s the house one dark, dismal night, and there what dost think I see'd through the window?"

"What--what didst see?"

"Peter Bradley sitting with a great book open on his knees; it were a Bible, I think, and he crying like a child."

"Art sure o' that?"

"The tears were falling fast upon the leaves," returned Burtenshaw; "but when I knocked at the door, he hastily shut up the book, and ordered me to be gone, in a surly tone, as if he were ashamed of being caught in the fact."

"I thought no tear had ever dropped from his eye," said the other. "Why, he laughed when his daughter Susan went off at the hall; and, when she died, folks said he received hush-money to say nought about it. _That_ were a bad business, anyhow; and now that his grandson Luke be taken in the fact of housebreaking, he minds it no more, not he, than if nothing had happened."

"Don't be too sure of that," replied Burtenshaw; "he may be scheming summat all this time. Well, I've known Peter Bradley now these two-and-fifty years, and, excepting that one night, I never saw any good about him, and never heard of n.o.body who could tell who he be, or where he do come from."

"One thing's certain, at least," replied the other farmer--"he were never born at Rookwood. How he came here the devil only knows. Save us!

what a crash!--this storm be all of his raising, I tell 'ee."

"He be--what he certainly will be," interposed another speaker, in a louder tone, and with less of apprehension in his manner than his comrade, probably from his nerves being better fortified with strong liquor. "Dost thou think, Samuel Plant, as how Providence would entrust the like o' him with the command of the elements? No--no, it's rank blasphemy to suppose such a thing, and I've too much of the true Catholic and apostate church about me, to stand by and hear that said."

"Maybe, then, he gets his power from the Prince of Darkness," replied Plant; "no man else could go on as he does--only look at him. He seems to be watching for the thunderbowt."

"I wish he may catch it, then," returned the other.

"That's an evil wish, Simon Toft, and thou mayst repent it."

"Not I," replied Toft; "it would be a good clearance to the neighborhood to get rid o' th' old croaking curmudgeon."

Whether or not Peter overheard the conversation, we pretend not to say, but at that moment a blaze of lightning showed him staring fiercely at the group.

"As I live, he's overheard you, Simon," exclaimed Plant. "I wouldn't be in your skin for a trifle."

"Nor I," added Burtenshaw.

"Let him overhear me," answered Toft; "who cares? he shall hear summat worth listening to. I'm not afraid o' him or his arts, were they as black as Beelzebuth's own; and to show you I'm not, I'll go and have a crack with him on the spot."

"Thou'rt a fool for thy pains, if thou dost, Friend Toft," returned Plant, "that's all I can say."

"Be advised by me, and stay here," seconded Burtenshaw, endeavoring to hold him back.

But Toft would not be advised--

Kings may be blest, but he was glorious, O'er all the ills of life victorious.

Staggering up to Peter, he laid a hard grasp upon his shoulder, and, thus forcibly soliciting his attention, burst into a loud horse-laugh.

But Peter was, or affected to be, too much occupied to look at him.

"What dost see, man, that thou starest so?"

"It comes, it comes--the rain--the rain--a torrent--a deluge--ha, ha!

Blessed is the corpse the rain rains on. Sir Piers may be drenched through his leaden covering by such a downfall as that--splash, splash--fire and water and thunder, all together--is not that fine?--ha, ha! The heavens will weep for him, though friends shed not a tear. When did a great man's heir feel sympathy for his sire's decease? When did his widow mourn? When doth any man regret his fellow? Never! He rejoiceth--he maketh glad in his inmost heart--he cannot help it--it is nature. We all pray for--we all delight in each other's destruction. We were created to do so; or why else should we act thus? I never wept for any man's death, but I have often laughed. Natural sympathy!--out on the phrase! The distant heavens--the senseless trees--the impenetrable stones--shall regret you more than man shall bewail your death with more sincerity. Ay, 'tis well--rain on--splash, splash: it will cool the h.e.l.l-fever. Down, down--buckets and pails, ha, ha!"

There was a pause, during which the s.e.xton, almost exhausted by the frenzy in which he had suffered himself to be involved, seemed insensible to all around him.

"I tell you what," said Burtenshaw to Plant, "I have always thought there was more in Peter Bradley nor appears on the outside. He is not what he seems to be, take my word on it. Lord love you! do you think a man such as he pretends to be could talk in that sort of way--about nat'ral simpering?--no such thing."

When Peter recovered, his insane merriment broke out afresh, having only acquired fury by the pause.

"Look out, look out!" cried he; "hark to the thunder--list to the rain!

Marked ye that flash--marked ye the clock-house--and the bird upon the roof? 'tis the rook--the great bird of the house, that hath borne away the soul of the departed. There, there--can you not see it? it sits and croaks through storm and rain, and never heeds at all--and wherefore should it heed? See, it flaps its broad black wings--it croaks--ha, ha!

It comes--it comes."

And driven, it might be by the terror of the storm, from more secure quarters, a bird, at this instant, was dashed against the window, and fell to the ground.

"That's a call," continued Peter; "it will be over soon, and we must set out. The dead will not need to tarry. Look at that trail of fire along the avenue; dost see yon line of sparkles, like a rocket's tail? That's the path the corpse will take. St. Hermes's flickering fire, Robin Goodfellow's dancing light, or the blue flame of the corpse-candle, which I saw flitting to the churchyard last week, was not so pretty a sight--ha, ha! You asked me for a song a moment ago--you shall have one now without asking."

And without waiting to consult the inclinations of his comrades, Peter broke into the following wild strain with all the fervor of a half-crazed improvisatore:

THE CORPSE-CANDLE

Lambere flamma taf?? et circ.u.m funera pasci.

Through the midnight gloom did a pale blue light To the churchyard mirk wing its lonesome flight:-- Thrice it floated those old walls round-- Thrice it paused--till the grave it found.

Over the gra.s.s-green sod it glanced, Over the fresh-turned earth it danced, Like a torch in the night-breeze quivering-- Never was seen so gay a thing!

Never was seen so blithe a sight As the midnight dance of that blue light!

Now what of that pale blue flame dost know?

Canst tell where it comes from, or where it will go?

Is it the soul, released from clay, Over the earth that takes its way, And tarries a moment in mirth and glee Where the corse it hath quitted interred shall be?

Or is it the trick of some fanciful sprite, That taketh in mortal mischance delight, And marketh the road the coffin shall go, And the spot where the dead shall be soon laid low?

Ask him who can answer these questions aright; I know not the cause of that pale blue light!

"I can't say I like thy song, Master Peter," said Toft, as the s.e.xton finished his stave, "but if thou _didst_ see a corpse-candle, as thou call'st thy pale blue flame, whose death doth it betoken?--eh!"

"Thine own," returned Peter, sharply.

"Mine! thou lying old cheat--dost dare to say that to my face? Why, I'm as hale and hearty as ever a man in the house. Dost think there's no life and vigor in this arm, thou drivelling old dotard?"

Upon which, Toft seized Peter by the throat with an energy that, but for the timely intervention of the company, who rushed to his a.s.sistance, the prophet might himself have antic.i.p.ated the doom he prognosticated.

Released from the grasp of Toft, who was held back by the bystanders, Peter again broke forth into his eldritch laugh; and staring right into the face of his adversary, with eyes glistening, and hands uplifted, as if in the act of calling down an imprecation on his head, he screamed, in a shrill and discordant voice, "Soh! you will not take my warning?

you revile me--you flout me! 'Tis well! your fate shall prove a warning to all unbelievers--_they_ shall remember this night, though _you_ will not. Fool! fool!--your doom has long been sealed! I saw your wraith choose out its last lodgment on Halloween; I know the spot. Your grave is dug already--ha, ha!" And, with renewed laughter, Peter rushed out of the room.

"Did I not caution thee not to provoke him, friend Toft?" said Plant; "it's ill playing with edge-tools; but don't let him fly off in that tantrum--one of ye go after him."