Rookwood (Historical Novel) - William Harrison Ainsworth

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near to Luke, he took him gently by the arm. Thus disturbed, Luke groaned aloud.

      “I am glad to find you can breathe, if it be only after that melancholy fashion,” said the sexton; “but come, I have wasted time enough already. You must indulge your grief elsewhere.”

      “Leave me,” sighed Luke.

      “What, here? It were as much as my office is worth. You can return some other night. But go you must, now — at least, if you take on thus. I never calculated upon a scene like this, or it had been long ere I brought you hither. So come away; yet, stay; — but first lend me a hand to replace the body in the coffin.”

      “Touch it not,” exclaimed Luke; “she shall not rest another hour within these accursed walls. I will bear her hence myself.” And, sobbing hysterically, he relapsed into his former insensibility.

      “Poh! this is worse than midsummer madness,” said Peter; “the lad is crazed with grief, and all about a mother who has been four-and-twenty years in her grave. I will e’en put her out of the way myself.”

      Saying which, he proceeded, as noiselessly as possible, to raise the corpse in his arms, and deposited it softly within its former tenement. Carefully as he executed his task, he could not accomplish it without occasioning a slight accident to the fragile frame. Insensible as he was, Luke had not relinquished the hold he maintained of his mother’s hand. And when Peter lifted the body, the ligaments connecting the hand with the arm were suddenly snapped asunder. It would appear afterwards, that this joint had been tampered with, and partially dislocated. Without, however, entering into further particulars in this place, it may be sufficient to observe that the hand, detached from the socket at the wrist, remained within the gripe of Luke; while, ignorant of the mischief he had occasioned, the sexton continued his labors unconsciously, until the noise which he of necessity made in stamping with his heel upon the plank, recalled his grandson to sensibility. The first thing that the latter perceived, upon collecting his faculties, were the skeleton fingers twined within his own.

      “What have you done with the body? Why have you left this with me?” demanded he.

      “It was not my intention to have done so,” answered the sexton, suspending his occupation. “I have just made fast the lid, but it is easily undone. You had better restore it.”

      “Never,” returned Luke, staring at the bony fragment.

      “Pshaw! of what advantage is a dead hand? ’Tis an unlucky keepsake, and will lead to mischief. The only use I ever heard of such a thing being turned to, was in the case of Bow-legged Ben, who was hanged in irons for murder, on Hardchase Heath, on the York Road, and whose hand was cut off at the wrist the first night to make a Hand of Glory, or Dead Man’s Candle. Hast never heard what the old song says?” And without awaiting his grandson’s response, Peter broke into the following wild strain:

      From the corse that hangs on the roadside tree

       — A murderer’s corse it needs must be —

       Sever the right hand carefully:—

       Sever the hand that the deed hath done,

       Ere the flesh that clings to the bones be gone;

       In its dry veins must blood be none.

       Those ghastly fingers white and cold,

       Within a winding-sheet enfold;

       Count the mystic count of seven:

      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 treasures 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 carcass 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 own sake I am glad of it.”

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

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