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THE LIBRARY

THE UNIVERSITY

OF CALIFORNIA

BEQUEST

ANITA D. S. BLAKE

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HORNSEY GATE.

P. 267.

XGQICWGDD.

A 'How a net,

-LONDON &_ MEW Y O R K
G E Q BOD fiOU TLED GE &. S G M S

KOOKWOOD

& Romance

¥. HARRISON AINSWORTH

AUTHOR OF "THE TOWER OF LONDON," "THE MISER'S DAUGHTER," &C. &C.

I see how Ruin, with a palsied hand,
Begins to shake our ancient house to dust.

Yorkshire Tragedy.

WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY
GEORGE CRUIKSHANK AND SIR JOHN GILBERT, A.R.A.

LONDON :
GEORGE ROUTLEDGE AND SONS

THE BROADWAY, LUDGATE.
NEW YORK : 416, BROOME STREET.

CONTENTS.

♦ —

PAGE

Memoir of "William Harrison Ainsworth, by Laman Blanchard . v
Lineage oe William Harrison Ainsworth xxix

ROOKWOOD.

Dedication xxxi

Preface ........... .xxxiii

BOOK I.— THE WEDDING BING.
chap.

I.— The Vault 1

II. — The Skeleton Hand 10

III.— The Park 16

IV.— The Hall 25

V. — Sir Reginald Book wood 29

VI. — Sir Piers Bookwood 35

VII.— The Return 37

VIII. — An Irish Adventurer 39

IX. — An English Adventurer 47

X. — Ranulph Bookwood 63

XI. — Lady Book wood 71

XII. — The Chamber of Death 77

XIII.— The Brothers - . . . . 79

BOOK n.— THE SEXTON.

I.— The Storm S7

II. — The Funeral Oeation 93

III. — The Churchyard 100

IV.— The Funeral 107

V.— The Captive Ill

VI. — The Apparition . . . 116

BOOK III.— THE GIPSY.

I. — A Morning Bide 127

II. — A Gipsy Encampment 133

III.— Sybil 147

IV. — Barbara Lovel 154

V. — The Inauguration 162

VI. — Eleanor Mowbray 1S9

VII. — Mrs. Mowbray 197

IV CONTENTS-

CHAP. PAGE

VIII. — The Pasting 201

IX. — The Philter 204

X. — Saint Cyprian's Cell 208

XI. — The Bridal 213

XII. — Alan Rookwood 223

XIII.— Mr. Coates .... 230

XIV.— Dick Turpin 234

BOOK IV.— THE RIDE TO YORK.

I. — The Rendezvous at Kilburn 244

II.— Tom King 253

III.— A Surprise 262

IV.— The Hue and Cry 265

V.— The Short Pipe 268

VI.— Black Bess 272

VII.— The York Stage 278

VIII.— A Road-side Inn 280

IX. — Excitement . . .284

X.— The Gibbet 285

XI. — The Phantom Steed . . . . g . . . . 288

XII. — Cawood Ferry *..... 294

BOOK V.— THE OATH.

I. — The Hut on Thorne Waste 299

II. — Major Mowbray 304

III. — Hand ass ah 312

IV.— The Dower of Sybil 320

V. — The Sarcophagus 329

MEMOIR

WILLIAM HARRISON AINSWORTH.

BY LAMAN BLANCHARD.

■4-

A RECENT review in a leading journal of France bears testimony
to the great popularity which has been obtained in that romance-
reading nation by the writer of whom we are now to offer some
account. The estimation in which he is held by his own country-
men is evinced by the large sale which each new production of his
pen successively commands. In America his writings have been
extensively read. They have all been translated into German
and some of them into Dutch. Dramas have been founded upon
them; their more striking passages have become as familiar as
household words; and their subjects, in some important instances
at least, are associated with the most memorable features of Eng-
lish history. The biography of a writer who has secured so pro-
minent a position may be supposed calculated to awaken a more
than ordinary curiosity; not merely with respect to those early
dawnings of intellect, and those traits of personal character, to
which a deep interest always attaches, but in relation to the family
from which he has sprung. Happily, in the present instance, we
are able to gratify the reader's curiosity.

William Harrison Ainsworth unites in his own name the
names of two families which, in the eminent success of various
members of them, had obtained celebrity long prior to the present
generation. Amongst his paternal ancestors are, Robert Ains-
worth, the well-known scholar and author of the Latin Dictionary,

VI MEMOIR OF

and Henry Ainsworth, the Brownist, who flourished at the com-
mencement of the seventeenth century. The latter was one of the
most profound Hebrew scholars of his time, and author of " Anno-
tations upon the Old Testament," and of a translation of the
Pentateuch.* From these we come to the father of the living
descendant from this learned stock, Thomas Ainsworth, of Man-
chester, a solicitor in very extensive practice.

This gentleman, though descended from a family residing at
Plessington, in Lancashire, was born at Rosthorne, in Cheshire, a
village which he always remembered with affection, and where,
dying in June, 1824, he was interred. Manchester, however, the
stage on which his active life was passed, benefited most largely
by the ardour and zeal with which he devoted himself to the pro-
motion of public improvements. He was one of the main instruments
in causing the rebuilding and widening of one of the principal
thoroughfares — Market-street: and though he did not live to see
the work accomplished, his name must always be honourably con-
nected with it. Of rather an irritable temperament, perhaps, he
was known extensively for a singular liberality of character and
generosity of disposition. He was a man of taste and virtu;
uniting, with a fair degree of classical scholarship, considerable
proficiency in botany, and a general fondness for scientific pursuits;
and thus the excellent library he possessed was, throughout life, a
source of pleasure and recreation that lightened the graver duties
he so faithfully discharged.

He married, in 1802, Ann, daughter of the Rev. Ralph Harri-
son, a Presbyterian divine, and Ann Touchet. This divine, him-
self the son of a minister, and great-grandson to the Rev. Cuthbert

* The Novelist's grandfather, Jeremiah Ainsworth, of Manchester, was a
distinguished mathematician. In a Memoir of Joint Buttertrorth, the Mathe-
matician, by Thomas Wilkinson, of Burnley, it is said, " A cursory glance at
some of the Mathematical periodicals of the day (1761) will readily furnish the
name of Ainswohtii, whose elegant productions in pure geometry adorn the'
pages of the Gentleman's and Burrow's Diaries." And again : " During the
greater part of the time just reviewed, Mr. Jeremiah Ainsworth was resident
m the neighbourhood of Manchester, and so early as 1761 was in correspond-
ence with the editors of the Mathematical Magazine. He subsequently asso-
ciated with Mr. George Taylor, a gentleman of kindred habits, then resident in
the immediate vicinity, and these worthy veterans of Science, as time wore on,
collected around them a goodly array of pupils and admirers, and hence may
truly be said not only to have laid the foundation of the ' Oldham Society,' but
also to have been the fathers of the Lancashire School of Geometers." Jere-
miah Ainsworth was born at llillenden, in Lancashire, in 1713, and died in
1784; consequently, the "veteran geometer" could only have been eighteen
when he first distinguished himself'

WILLIAM HARRISON AINSWORTH. Vll

Harrison, who, as a famous Nonconformist teacher, is noticed in
Dr. Calamy's account of ejected ministers,* attained a high repu-
tation in Manchester as a preacher, an author, and a scholar. In the
academy there he was appointed professor of the Greek and Latin
languages, and of polite literature. He produced many able works
of an educational character; and left behind him a volume of dis-
courses that fully bear out his claim to the affectionate regard in
which his character and ministrations were held. Of these ser-
mons, which, with a biographical memoir, were first printed in

* From another source, a manuscript to which we have had access, we derive
some particulars relative to this said Cuthbert, far too curious to omit. Cuth-
bert, the youngest son of Jlichard Harrison, who resided at Newton, was born
about 1627, and was regularly ordained. In 1672 he obtained the king's
license to preach in Elswick Lees, according to the doctrines of "the per-
suasion called Congregational;" but this license served him but for a short
time, the Parliament declaring the meetings illegal ; and he preached as before,
in his own house at Bankelield, and also at others, "very privately in the
night, to such as would venture to hear him." The following extract- from a
letter written by one of his descendants explains the rest, and fully develops
at once his character and his persecutions : " Mr. Richard Clegg, vicar of Kirk-
ham, fell violently upon him, first, in the ecclesiastical court, for preaching,
marrying one James Benson, and baptising his child, and got both him and
Benson excommunicated. [He was absolved from this censure in 1677.] He
sometimes repaired to the parish church at Kirkham, particularly one Lord's
day, whilst he was under the aforesaid censure, and took his place amongst the
gentlemen in the chancel. Mr. Clegg, the vicar, who wrote his prayer before
sermon, and all his sermons also, in characters, was got into the pulpit, and,
looking aside and seeing him come in and place himself, lost the end. He
could not find it again, and was silent for some time ; then ordered the church-
wardens to put him out. They went to our father, and told him what Mr.
Clegg had ordered, and desired he would go out. He refused ; and said that,
except Mr. Clegg himself would put him out, he would not go. Mr. Clegg
then desired Mr. Christopher Parker, who was justice of the peace, and then in
church, and sat within six foot of our father, to put him out ; but Mr. Parker
refused, and said he would not meddle. Then Mr. Clegg went to our father,
and took him by the sleeve, and desired him to go out. He went along with,
Mr. Clegg, and opened the chancel-door, and was no sooner out, but with a
strong voice said, * It's time to go when the devil drives.' Thou canst scarce
imagine a greater disorder than was reported to have been in the church at
that time. Shortly after, the vicar sued our father at common law, upon the
statute called Qui tarn, for 20/. a month, for six months absenting from the
church, and the case was brought to a trial at the assizes at Lancaster; but I
could never know the judge's name. Our father, in his defence, proved that
he was at church one Lord's day in one of the months, on his jornall to Chester,
being cited to appear and answer a libel of Mr. Clegg's, a Lord's day in another
month, and under the church censure for the other time, and that he went to
church and was put out as aforesaid. The judge was hearty, and after he had
summed up the evidence, he told the jury ' There was fiddle and be hanged, and
there was fiddle not and be hanged. The defendant was under church censure,
which might prevent his going to church. Gentlemen, pray consider it.' The
iury brought in for the defendant, and all costs were thrown on Mr. Clegg, with,
many affronting scoffs." There are other characteristic stories of this veteran
Nonconformist. The war was continued, even to the writing of his epitaph.

Vlil MEMOIR OF

1813, a new edition appeared in 1827. It may here be men-
tioned, as a somewhat rare occurrence in the life of a Presbyterian
minister, that this reverend person, the grandfather of the subject
of this sketch, realised, by fortunate speculations in land and build-
ing, a large fortune, leaving behind him upwards of 60,000/. Of
this union two sons were born; the elder named William Harrison,
the younger, Thomas Gilbert, who, distinguishing himself at Cam-
bridge, and taking a scholarship there, unfortunately fell into ill-
health from over-study, which so affected his nervous system that
he never took his degree, and his intention of going into the church
was therefore abandoned.

William Harrison Ainsworth was born on the 4th of February,
1805, at the house of his father, in King-street, Manchester; but
not long after, the family removed to a very commodious and
pleasantly situated country-house, called Beech Hill, about two
miles from the town, on the Chetham side. Here was a very ex-
tensive garden; and here all the time that could be spared by its
possessor from professional pursuits was devoted to the studies and
recreations of which he was so passionately fond. The grounds
were laid out under his own eye, and several of the trees were
planted by the young brothers.

To the education of the elder of these it is now necessary to
refer. The early part of it was undertaken by his uncle, the Rev.
William Harrison ; and then, while still very young, he was placed
at the free grammar-school in Manchester, in one of the classes of
the Rev. Robinson (afterwards Dr.) Elsdale. In this school, which
was founded early in the sixteenth century, many persons eminent
for science and learning!; have been educated. The list extends as
far back as the reign of Mary, opening with the well-known name
of John Bradford, who suffered martyrdom in 1555. Reginald
Heber (the father of the bishop) was here — Cyril Jackson, and his
brother the Bishop of Oxford — the first Lord Alvanley, Mr.
Morritt of Rokeby, David Latouche, the celebrated banker, the
present Mr. Justice Williams, and many others. Here our youth-
ful student so far distinguished himself as to have received very
flattering testimonials from Dr. Smith (the then head-master of the
school), and his colleague, Dr. Elsdale. He wrote several transla-
tions from the Latin and Greek poets, which obtained their appro-
bation. At that period (the practice, we believe, has been since
• discontinued) there were held, once a year, " speaking days" — the

WILLIAM HA CRISON AINSWORTH. IX

head boys reciting passages from the poets and orators in Greek
and Latin; and upon one of these occasions he obtained great
praise and credit by reciting Seneca's Qais vere Rex? with a
translation by himself. In this school he remained, gathering
honour and advantage, until he reached the first form, when his
father, who designed his son to be his successor, placed him as a
clerk with Mr. Alexander Kay, a then rising, and since risen, so-
licitor in the town.

The blossom of that literary fruit, on which the public, in more
than one nation, has since fed with such eagerness and relish, had
begun to develop itself previously even to this youthful period —
and not in one form only, but in many ; not in translations merely,
but in original compositions — in tales, sketches, dramatic scenes —
even in tragedies.

But, to begin with the beginning, it should be mentioned that
these literary predilections had their precursors in other tastes.
The first passion, if report speaks truly, took a pyrotechnic direc-
tion; it shot upward like a rocket. Firework-making was, in
short, the earliest predilection that manifested itself with any con-
siderable potency; and the first throb of young ambition was to
make a rocket in earnest. Roman candles, serpents, &c, were ac-
complished satisfactorily; but the "greatest was behind," the grand
triumph was the rocket; and in the blaze and brilliancy of this — for
it was at last achieved — the passion for pyrotechnic glory seems to
have evaporated. Success sometimes involves terrible disappoint-
ment, and has the most unlooked-for consequences — swallowing
up, in the moment of victory, all care and concern for the very
objects of success.

We hear no more of this passion ; but of another which suc-
ceeded it we may justly say, that while it lasts it burns with such
ardour as to consume or draw to itself every other youthful feeling.
This is the rage for private theatricals. The nature on which this
had now taken hold was not one to surrender itself by halves, with
reluctance, or with misgivings. The whole heart of the schoolboy,
for as yet he was no more, was freely given to the new passion.
He constructed a theatre in the cellar (the majesty of buried Den-
mark speaking from the "cellarage !"), put together the machinery,
fixed the great essential, the curtain, painted the scenes, made the
dresses, acted the characters — having first written the pluys I It is
to this circumstance, perhaps, that our libraries are indebted for

X MEMOIR OF

many admirable romances; as it is to such seemingly trivial acci-
dents we may often trace the first workings of a genius which, in
its fully developed beauty, delights the world with animated pic-
tures drawn from the past or imagined of the future — dazzling
the eye with glittering fictions, and filling the soul with sweet
perfumes.

His literary career, ere he had yet left school, may now be said
to have commenced, since he contributed largely to a weekly lite-
rary journal then existing in Manchester, called "The Iris;" and
so profusely were his youthful feelings and opinions poured forth,
that it may be doubted whether he ever wrote more, even at the
busiest season of his subsequent career. His reputation as a writer
was thus so far advanced, that a printer was induced to bring out a
small theatrical paper, written solely by him; and, subsequently, a
journal (on the plan and in the form of the "Indicator") entitled the
a Boeotian." Of this work (the motto of which was Boeotum crasso
jurares aire naturn, in merry allusion to the town where it was
produced) six numbers were published. Its young editor about
the same time contributed regularly to the " European Magazine."

It had been his father's wish, wThen the period of the youth's
law-studies commenced, that he should devote himself chiefly to
that branch of the profession which it was intended he should
practise — conveyancing; but no great progress was made in this
study. Byron, Scott, and Shelley had charms that title-deeds
could never boast; writing verses was far more attractive than
making abstracts, and drawing drafts bore no comparison to sketch-
ing for Magazines. It was the old story — he was literally

A youth foredoom'd his father's hopes to cross,
Who penn'd a stanza when he should engross.

The nameless editor of a Magazine was, in his enchanted view,
greater by far than the greatest of the whole tribe of lawyers; and
the occupation of the editorial chair appeared in his fanciful dream
an object worthier of a lofty ambition than a seat on the woolsack.
What his present feeling may be — now that he has accomplished
his young desire to the full — we pause not to ask. It is enough to
know that coming events often cast before them shadows far
gaudier than themselves. The glory fades in possession — u the
beautiful has vanished, and returns not." And yet — for there is
no end to contradictions — the early vision has been more than
realised.

WILLIAM HARRISON AINSWORTH. xi

But if law failed to attract, other studies were not at this time
neglected. His father's lavish care had provided masters of various
kinds, and he continued to read the classics, on two days of the
week, with Dr. Smith, the head-master of the school he had quitted.
Literature only consumed the time apportioned by parental anxiety
to severer pursuits ; but that the literary fruits of these stolen
marches were not slight, a simple enumeration of his published
pieces will show. Having composed, prior to the appearance of
Lord Byron's "Foscari," a tragedy on the same subject, he sent
some account of it to Constable's " Edinburgh Magazine," in which
miscellany a notice appeared a month previous to the publication
of Byron's drama. A regular contributorship to that periodical en-
sued; but it did not absorb all his literary interest, for he wrote a
tale for Taylor and Hessey's "London Magazine," called the
"Falls of Ohiopyle;" and through the medium of Mr. Arliss, the
printer, published with Whittaker two poems, entitled the " Maid's
Revenge," and "A Summer Evening's Tale." Some of the tales
and essays thus scattered over various periodicals were afterwards
collected into a little volume, under the title of " December Tales,"
and published by Whittaker.

Of what was unpublished we know nothing ; but all these pro-
ductions saw the light before their author was nineteen years of
age. Thus early was he a prolific writer. It was at this period
that his father's death occurred, from the shock naturally conse-
quent upon which he awakened to a sense of the expediency of
completing his term as a conveyancer, and qualifying himself for
assuming the professional responsibility which this bereavement
devolved upon him. With this view he repaired to London, to
finish his term with Mr. Jacob Phillips, of the Inner Temple.
Yet it does not appear that he devoted himself with the adequate
diligence and zeal to professional study. The literary enthusiasm
was still the stronger feeling, though less productive in its imme-
diate results than before ; for the metropolis was a novel scene, and
some time was spent in acquainting himself with its amusements.

Not long before the completion of his appointed stay in town, he
commenced an acquaintance with Mr. Ebers, at that time the ma-
nager of the Opera House. A constant attendance there was, of
course, included among hisLondon pleasures. Still literature asserted
its claims ; and with Mr. Ebers, a few months after the commence-
ment of their intimacy, he published a romance entitled " Sir John

Xli MEMOIR OF

Chiverton." Of this work, which we never happened to read, we
cannot, of course, offer any critical opinion ; yet we remember to
have observed that Sir Walter Scott has referred to it not uncom-
plimentarily in his u Diary." We pass it to record a more im-
portant step in life — the marriage of Mr. Ainsworth to Fanny, the
youngest daughter of Mr. Ebers. This event occurred in the au-
tumn of 1826. Three daughters, still living, were the offspring of
this union. They lost their mother in the spring of 1838.

The connexion thus formed with Mr. Ebers had a material in-
fluence in deciding the young law-student as to the course he
should pursue. His repugnance to " conveyancing" being insu-
perable, and his tastes and inclinations being decidedly literary, he
readily listened to the suggestions of Mr. Ebers, to make an expe-
riment as a publisher. The sacrifice, to be sure, was considerable.
It involved the relinquishment of his share in his father's lucrative
business, which had been carried on, meanwhile, by two partners,
at the head of whom he would necessarily be placed ; it was the
exchanging a certainty for a chance. Yet, on the other hand, he
was to secure the advantage of Mr. Ebers's extensive connexion,
and of his practical knowledge of a business which as yet was a
" book sealed" to him. There were other temptations, not un-
worthy of a high literary ambition, and a generous zeal for the
interests of authors. The period, that of 1828-9, was the season of
the (exclusively) "fashionable novels," when what was most ephe-
meral was most triumphant, and when works of a more enduring
though less winning- character had fewer charms than usual in a
publisher's eye. Let us here pause for a moment to consider what
his aims were, and, at the same time, what were his qualifications
for giving effect to them.

Mr. Ainsworth entered upon his speculation doubtless with lite-
rary feelings not very dissimilar to those with which he may be
supposed to have recently originated his Magazine. His was not
the speculation of an ordinary publisher ; his aim was to promote
the interests of literature, to advance his own reputation as a
writer, and to surround himself with such authors as it was alike
honourable to serve and to be associated with ; he thought that he
might bring forward sterling works, rejected, perhaps, as not
" fashionable," and assist writers of a better class than those who
aspired to a merely fleeting popularity ; in any case, he should
succeed in showing that such an enterprise might be conducted on

WILLIAM HARRISON AINSWORTH. Xlll

liberal and gentlemanlike principles. These, as we believe, were
his objects ; but he mistook the practicability of the scheme, and
misconceived his own qualifications for conducting it. He had
great liberality, a highly cultivated literary taste, ripe scholarship,
and popular manners; he was borne up by the spirit of youth, and
the love of books for their own sake, to make an experiment, and
his entering upon it was the best proof of the sacrifices he could
cheerfully incur, and that he thought of no selfish or mercenary
bargain. But with these fine qualities he wanted some that are
not always found in their company and in that of youth, — fore-
thought, deliberation, patience under disappointment, submission
to repugnant tasks, and indifference to the trifling circumstance of
being always unthanked and generally misapprehended. What
young man of one-and-twenty understands his own character
sufficiently to justify such an attempt? His principles were but
partially recognised by the writers with whom he was brought into
connexion, and he was of too impatient a temperament to afford
them time to understand him. His pride speedily revolted from
the position he had voluntarily chosen, and at the expiration of
about a year and a half he abandoned the experiment ; the result
was — neither good nor harm beyond loss of time. During this
period, and up to the year 1830, a few trifles had been written; a
tragedy on the subject of Philip van Artevelde was planned, and
two acts composed ; a melodrama or two, never acted, swelled the
stock ; but nothing was published. A change of scene was now
resolved upon : in the summer of that year Mr. Ainsworth started
on a tour in Switzerland and Italy.

It was in the following year, during a visit to Chesterfield, .that
he first thought of writing a three-volumed tale, and the idea of
" Rookwood" arose. He has told us his object. u Wishing," he
says, " to describe somewhat minutely the trim gardens, the pic-
turesque domains, the rook-haunted groves, the gloomy chambers,
and gloomier galleries of an ancient Hall with which I was ac-
quainted, I resolved to attempt a story in the bygone style of Mrs.
Radcliffe ; substituting an old English squire, an old manorial
residence, and an old English highwayman for the Italian marchese,
the castle, and the brigand of that great mistress of romance."

u Rookwood" was commenced, but many and serious pauses oc-
curred in the completion of the story; nor was it until May, 1834,
that it was published ; but the power with which the design was

XIV MEMOIR OF

worked out, the success with which it was accomplished, was in-
stantaneously recognised. The " Edinburgh Review" described
the novel achievement — " What Mr. Ainsworth has ventured to
do, and successfully, was to revive the almost exploded interest
afforded by the supernatural ; and to preserve this, too, not in
connexion with days long gone by, but side by side with the sober
realities of 1737, with the convivialities of Yorkshire squires and
country attorneys, with the humours of justices of the peace and
the feats of Dick Turpin the highwayman." The same writer
describes, also, the influences of all this upon the reader. " Strange
as it may seem, the author has contrived to present the terrors of
burial vaults and the blood-stained mysteries of family crime side
by side with the most familiar scenes of the every-day life of the
eighteenth century, without exciting the slightest feeling of the
ludicrous — nay, more, with a character of earnestness and solemnity
with which, a priori, we should have hardly thought such subjects
could have been invested."

But the truth is, as the critic seems to have felt, that the reader
is never allowed to pause for an instant to think at all. The famous
picture of the ride to York, now as well known as the name of
Turpin himself, is but an. image of the reader's course as he leaps
the abrupt gaps and turns the picturesque corners of this singular
tale. He goes through it hurried, yet noting everything, and with
breathless interest ; and it is not until after a pause at the close
that he bethinks him of the songs and ballads whose lively or
solemn chimes struck his ear as he passed rapidly; when he is sure
to turn back to read them leisurely over one by one, enjoying the
true spirit of the old minstrelsy with which they are imbued, and
wishing for a whole volume of such tuneful rarities. The effect of
this publication was to place Mr. Ainsworth in the first rank of
writers of romantic fiction. The first edition was speedily sold off;
a second followed. In 1 836, Mr. Macrone issued a beautiful volume
with designs by Cruikshank.

" Crichton" was the next work meditated ; and as soon as pro-
jected Mr. Macrone offered 350/. for the manuscript. It appeared
in the spring of 1837, and a rapid sale betokened the now esta-
blished reputation of the writer. This historical romance afforded,
in some respects, indications of a higher aim and more elaborate
finish than the happiest pictures of the preceding work. Extensive
and curious reading — a minute acquaintance with the modes,

WILLIAM HARRISON AINSWORTH. XV

usuages> intrigue, and philosophy of the time — a capacity at once
to analyse and combine — an eye for grand effects as well as the
smallest details — were everywhere recognised. Many rare qualities
united in the composition of this work. Its pictures of the times
and persons it treats of are " finished sketches," the effect of which,
by a truly artist-like skill, is heightened instead of diminished by
the small fine touches that denote a thorough familiarity with every
incidental particular of the subject. Thus, not only are the king's
jester and the king's cook as vividly set before us as Henri him-
self; but Henri's lineaments are not more accurately painted than
is the quaint figure on a piece of embroidery, the fashion of a
jewel, or the cut of a garment. In spite of a most hurried and
effect-marring termination, this romance has in it the seeds of life,
and contains some of its author's soundest and most brilliant
writing. Here, again, we see a lyrical genius in full flow ; some of
the songs are o£ a most dainty fashion, and charm equally by their
structure and their fancy.

The " Admirable Crichton" was yet winning admiration when
his untired historian commenced another romance, which he origi-
nally intended to call " Thames Darrell," and under that name it
was announced by its publisher. After considerable delays, the
opening chapters of the work made their appearance in " Bentley's
Miscellany," under the title of " Jack Sheppard." This was in
January, 1839. Two months afterwards, on the retirement of
Mr. Dickens, the author of the new romance was installed as
editor of the " Miscellany" — the terms agreed upon being 51/. per
month.

As the story month by month developed itself, the circle of its
success widened ; not an audible objection to its hero or to its
author — to his plot, scenery, or persons — their life, character, or
behaviour — was raised, as far as we are aware, in the most fastidious
coterie ; but, on the contrary, many established critics of high cha-
racter, fully cognisant of the significant fact that the hero of the
tale was the veritable housebreaker, welcomed him with winged
pens as he broke limb by limb out of the Magazine, and shook
him heartily by the hand as a legitimate historical acquaintance.
When he stood before them, whole, in the autumn of the same
year, he met with astonishing success, and became the " rage " for
months. The three volumes were produced in a dramatic form
simultaneously at eight different theatres ; and George Cruikshank's

xvi MEMOIR OF

inimitable designs became set scenes east and west. At last, how-
ever, the prison-breaker's popularity became all at once an offence
in people's eyes greater than any of which he was ever convicted.
He was denounced as something worse than the monster in
" Frankenstein." Critics, who had always a passion for heroes in
fetters before, now found out that housebreakers are disreputable
characters. They were in raptures with the old-established brigand
still, and the freebooter of foreign extraction ; they could hug
Robin Hood as fondly as ever, and dwell with unhurt morals on
the little peccadilloes of Rob Roy ; nay, they had no objection to
ride behind Turpin to York any day, and would never feel
ashamed of their company ; but they shook their heads at Shep-
pardy because low people began to run after him at the theatres;
he was a housebreaker !

We are here recording facts, and have small space for opinions.
It may be observed, however, that the outcry, to have served any
moral end, should have been raised much sooner. Why did it not
break out when the housebreaker first broke out in January amidst
public plaudits? Why was it silent for a whole twelvemonth?
But this is not the only question. Why was not that moral outcry
raised long before this culprit ever made a literary appearance at all?
He had some remarkably suspicious precursors — heroes selected
only for their ruffianism ; yet the storm falls on this offender, pro-
bably because he comes late in the field. In answer to the charge
of choosing a Newgate hero, the romancer is surely entitled to say,
u I did not select him because he was a housebreaker, but because
he was a prison-breaker" And if mischief arise from the delinea-
tion of the characters of such criminals — which is a separate ques-
tion, and would lead us as far afield as the " Robbers" of Schiller
led the young reprobate nobles who turned thieves in imitation,
and might suggest a committee of inquiry concerning Bardolph
and Company, amongst a crowd of others — but if mischief arise,
which course has the directest tendency to produce it — that which
introduces the criminal into the story to play off his brutalities un-
restricted, and, as it were, under cover of false dates and places —
or that which avows the heroship on the title-page, and warns off
those of timid tastes and trembling morals? People seem to object
to no atrocity, no vulgarity, so that it be unexpected, and not con-
centrated in the hero. We take up the most innocent-looking
Arcadian sort of books, and find ourselves in the heart of Newgate.

WILLIAM HARRISON AINSWORTH. XVll

Of this we may have some cause to complain ; but we cannot com-
plain of going to Tyburn, when the hero's very name tells us we
shall be taken there in the end, wheresoever the story may pre-
viously wind.

Gay has been libelled for his " Beggar's Opera," and Fielding
has been abused for his " Jonathan Wild the Great " (excellent
company wherein to sin or to suffer martyrdom); but those exqui-
site satires, if liable to be misunderstood by the dull, are as inno-
cent of evil as they are brave in purpose and profound in wit.
They are what they profess to be, and do not cheat the reader
with a promise of something different. It is so, in its degree, with
the romance to which we have referred. It can have injured or
imposed upon no family on earth, except the Fudge Family.

We now approach the consideration of works on which their
author has unquestionably employed his best powers, and in which
at least he has not sinned in point of subject. With the new year
he commenced two new romances. u Guy Fawkes " appeared in
the " Miscellany," and was completed in eighteen monthly num-
bers, when it was reprinted in three volumes. The sum received
during this period from the publisher exceeded 1500/. Of the
several romances that have been founded partly or entirely upon
the same subject, it is by far the most striking. The bold and
simple painting of character, the felicitous description, the hair-
breadth 'scapes which the reader follows with an interest trem-
blingly alive, the constant fertility of invention, while the stream
of historical truth flows on in the midst of all, denote the abundance
of the resources which this wrriter always brings to his task. The
time and subject seem new in his hands, because his manner and
his materials (save the simple truth upon and around which he
works them) are entirely his own.

The " Tower of London " — the twin-born romance, running
chapter by chapter with the foregoing — is a work of yet more
remarkable power, because it is more fully and consistently sus-
tained to the close. It had been the author's wish — if we are not
misinformed — from the hour when he first saw the old fortress, to
write a romance on one of the thousand almost incredible truths
with which the memory that sanctifies it is peopled. The com-
panion-thought to this was the hope to connect another historical
legend with the Castle of Windsor — both so picturesque in them-
selves, and both so surpassingly rich in historical recollections.

XVlll MEMOIR OF

The one object is accomplished, the other is on the eve of com-
mencement.

The project of the u Tower" brought together author and artist
— Ainsworth and Cruikshank — in partnership, on equal terms, and
on their own responsibility. Considerations, however, connected
with publication, led to an arrangement with Mr. Bentley, who
was appointed to publish the work in monthly parts. It is still as
popular as ever, as it must long remain. " Desirous," says Mr.
Ainsworth, " of exhibiting the Tower in its triple light of a palace,
a prison, and a fortress, the author has shaped his story with re-
ference to that end; and he has also contrived such a series of in-
cidents as should naturally introduce every relic of the old pile —
its towers, chapels, halls, chambers, gateways, arches, and draw-
bridges, so that no part of it should remain unillustrated " It is
curious to observe how this purpose is worked out in entire con-
sistency with an unbroken and uninterrupted narrative. With
every necessity imposed upon the historian for going out of his
way in order to realise previously resolved upon effects, there is no
appearance of his ever doing so, and indeed, the scene being cir-
cumscribed and the locality fixed, there is in this work fewer
abrupt turns and changes than in the majority of its predecessors.
The historical events chosen for illustration are happily suited for
the design: they admit of every variety of agency, and embrace
an enormous field in a small space ; — they involve the throne and
the block, the siege and the stake, the secret plot and the fiery
storm of revolt; — "the mad battle and the ghastly grave." They
comprise the cold, insidious foreign bigot, wily as a serpent, and
the hot-gospeller, frantic in his fanaticism; the haughty, daring
noble and the brutal gaoler; the courtly knight and the headsman
— a goodly company, with an infinite train of " dwarf and giant
auxiliaries." The characters are extremely numerous; but they
are not more skilfully grouped than they are artfully discriminated.
Two of them seem to us of first-rate rank in that grand human
gallery to which this author has now contributed several noble
portraitures; these are, Mary the queen, and the subtle Spaniard,
Simon Renard. But the whole space allotted to this memoir
would not be too wide a limit for a comprehensive review of the
characteristics of this admirable romance.

One remark may be allowed. Mr. Ainsworth, in his intro-
ductory observations, says: " Opposite the matchless White Tower

WILLIAM HARRISON AINSWORTH. XIX

— William of Orange by the side of "William the Conqueror — is
that frightful architectural abomination, the Grand Store-House.
It may not be impossible to remove this ugly and incongruous
structure." Not long after this was written, the abused building
was burnt down. Should not cant or prejudice, when it traces
robberies to novels, have traced the conflagration to this romance?

In the first week of 1841, " Old Saint Paul's" was commenced.
The proprietors of the Sunday Times newspaper had proposed to
Mr. Ainsworth to write a romance to be published in their journal
weekly throughout the year, for which they very liberally offered
1000/. This was a new feature in newspaper management and
romance-writing. The offer was accepted: the tale appeared in
successive numbers, and at the close of the year (the copyright
reverting to Mr. Ainsworth) it was re-issued in three handsome
volumes, lavishly illustrated by Franklin. A large edition was
disposed of. This work, u a tale of the Plague and the Fire,"
abounds, as this explanation denotes, in the terrible and the sub-
lime. The time extends from April, 1665, to September in the
following year, embracing the two most fearful and fatal calamities
that ever London was visited with. With what grasping power
Mr. Ainsworth has seized upon the prominent points arising out of
these scenes of devastation and dismay, those best may judge who
can most vividly recal past examples of his art in stirring men's
blood and lifting the imagination to a point of horror ; but they
may not so readily surmise with what a gentle and reconciling
humanity he has detained us amidst what was loathsome, to exhibit
to us, as it were, the lily in the charnel-house; and carried us
through the pestilence and the flame, to vindicate the severity of
human trials, to inculcate salutary lessons of exertion and en-
durance, and track the course of faith, and courage, and happiness,
through all. From the insupportable and unredeemed ghastliness
of Defoe's astonishing narrative, we turn to this peopled story, and
discover a vitality amidst the shadows of death, and hope stealing
silently on through the desolation and the ruin.

Mr. Ainsworth's engagement as editor of " Bentley's Miscellany "
terminated with the year 1841, and in February, 1842, appeared
the first number of "Ainsworth's Magazine," a journal of Romance,
Literature, and Art. Its success, measured by the sale of the first
volume, now completed, surpasses, it is said, by many degrees, that
of any similar periodical that ever made its appearance. Its editor

XX MEMOIR OF

had surrounded himself by many able writers, but his reliance,
perhaps, was upon a new tale from his own pen, " The Miser's
Daughter." Though scarcely half finished, public opinion seems
to have set its seal upon this fine-toned and charmingly-coloured
story, as " the favourite and the flower." Of this work Cruikshank
is the illustrator; but Mr. Ainsworth, it seems, purposes to keep
the imagination of a second artist employed, for in July he opens,
in his Magazine, a new tale, entitled " Windsor Castle," for which
the celebrated Tony Johannot is to furnish steel engravings, and
Alfred Delamotte woodcuts.

Here draw we to a close, with the observation, that, should
these new romances, now in a state of progress, share the good for-
tune of their predecessors, they will not only be extensively read,
but dramas will be founded upon them in this country; the Paris
press will give them a new shape; America will spread them over
her surface ; the German translator will ensure them a wide circu-
lation in that land of the mysteries; and even the Dutch, as in the
case of " Rookwood " and " Crichton," will mark them for their
own. There is one event of a domestic nature that should be
mentioned in a more saddened tone at the close. On the 15th of
March, in the present year (1842), it was Mr. Ainsworth's affliction
to lose his surviving parent — the revered mother who had taken
pride in his rising fame, and had found joy in his constant affection.
A beautiful monumental tribute to both parents has just been
erected in the cemetery at Kensal Green.

What have we to add to what we have here ventured to record,
which the engraving that accompanies this memoir* will not more
happily embody? Should that fail to do justice to his face — to
its regularity and delicacy of feature, its manly glow of health, and
the cordial nature that lightens it up, we must refer the dissatisfied
beholder to Mr. Pickersgill's masterly full-length portrait, exhibited
last year; in which the author of " The Miser's Daughter" maybe
seen, not as some pale, worn, pining scholar — some fagging, half-
exhausted periodical romancer — but as an English gentleman, of
goodly stature and well-set limb, with a fine head on his shoulders,
and a heart to match. If to this we add a word, it must be to
observe, that, though the temper of our popular author may be
marked by impatience on some occasions, it has never been upon

* This refers to a portrait by Maclise which appeared in the " Mirror."

WILLIAM HARRISON AI'XSWORTH. XXI

any occasion marked by a want of generosity, whether in con-
ferring benefits or atoning for errors. His friends regard him as a
man with as few failings, blended with fine qualities, as most
people; and his enemies know nothing at all about him. He is
liberal towards his contemporaries, and quick to feel a kindness
rendered to himself. He writes rapidly, and finds leisure, we are
told, for a full portion of social enjoyment and relaxation; so that,
at Kensal Manor-House, hospitality is a virtue that is always at
home.

Amongst the possessions which Mr. Ainsworth has more recently
inherited is the charming residence at Beech-hill, where, as above
stated, his early years were passed. To that house, with which all
his younger and pleasanter recollections are connected, he medi-
tates, we believe, a return in mature life. But the metropolis and
its neighbourhood, the pursuit of fame, and the fields in which he
has gathered up so many golden sheaves, will long detain him
thence : the delay only tending to enrich his memories, and double
the sweetness of a late retirement. And when that late day shall
come, and the home of his childhood shall again be his, may he
find the end like the beginning — with its "vision splendid " turned
to a reality.

The foregoing Memoir originally appeared in the " Mirror," in
1842.

As emanating from an intimate and very dear (though now,
alas! lamented) friend of Mr. Ainsworth, it will naturally be
suspected of leaning to the side of partiality. And so it does, no
doubt. Still, that does not seem a sufficient reason for withholding
it from the present collective edition, to which it forms so appro-
priate an introduction. A few more particulars are subjoined.

Mr. Blanchard's favourable prognostications in regard to the
"Miser's Daughter" were fully justified by the result. Of all
the writer's productions it has, perhaps, held the chief place in
public estimation.

"Windsor Castle" was completed, and published with illustra-
tions, in 1843, and obtained a very large sale.

In the following year, " Saint James's ; or, the Court of Queen
Anne," was commenced in " Ainsworth's Magazine," and was
subsequently republished in three volumes.

XX11 MEMOIR OF

In the spring of 1845, Mr. Ains worth became sole proprietor of
the " New Monthly Magazine," by purchase from Mr. Golburn.
. In 1848, the " Lancashire Witches" appeared in weekly portions
in the Sunday Times. For this romance 1000/. was received by
its author, being the same amount as that paid him by the liberal
and spirited proprietors of the journal in question for his previous
work, " Old Saint Paul's."

In, 1850-1, cheap editions of all such of Mr. Ainsworth's ro-
mances and tales as had appeared up to that date were published
by Messrs. Chapman and Hall. Upwards of thirty thousand copies
of " Windsor Castle" (the first of the series) were disposed of in a
short time, and all the works enjoyed a very large sale.

Early in 1854, the "Star-Chamber," an historical romance, was
published in two volumes. And in May in the same year appeared
a Tale of English Home, entitled " The Flitch of Bacon; or, the
Custom of Dunmow." This domestic story, very charmingly illus-
trated by John Gilbert, seems to have taken rank as one of the
most popular productions of its author.*

In November, 1854, Mr. Ainsworth purchased "Bentley's
Miscellany" from its proprietor and publisher; and in December
an the same year " Ainsworth's Magazine" wTas discontinued, being
■ combined with the " Miscellany."

In July, 1855, the ancient ceremony of the Flitch of Bacon was
revived at Dunmow by Mr. Ainsworth. The following account of
the proceedings on that occasion is from the Illustrated London
Neics :

" Thursday of last week, July 19th, was fixed, it will be re-
membered, for the revival of this curious and interesting old
custom. The publication of Mr. Harrison Ainsworth's romance,
'The Flitch of Bacon; or, the Custom of Dunmow/ last year,
produced quite a new excitement on the subject in the neighbour-
hood, and some of the inhabitants of Great Dunmow, a small
market-town about two miles from the site of the Priory of Little
Dunmow, where the flitch was originally given, formed themselves

* There have been German, Dutch, and Russian translations of this tale.
Lawrence, in his Life of Fielding, speaking of Russian versions of English
novels, says : " I see by a new number of one of their periodicals (the Otechest-
vennuiya Zapiski, for June, 1855), that in the midst of the desperate struggle
before Sebastopol, the public of Saint Petersburg was being amused with trans-
lations given at full length in that magazine of Lever's ' Dodd Family Abroad
.and Ainsworth's ' Flitch of Bacon.' "

WILLIAM HARRISON AINSWORTH. XXm

into a committee, and placed themselves in communication with
Mr. Ainsworth, for the purpose of reviving the custom. Mr.
Ainsworth entered warmly into the plan, and not only subscribed
handsomely towards the expenses, but offered to give the flitch.
"When this was made public, the applications were more numerous
than could have been expected; and, eventually, Mr. Ainsworth
offered a second flitch. The couple first selected were Mr. Black-
well, a surgeon of Cranbrook, in Kent, and his wife ; but, un-
fortunately, Mrs. Blackwell died last February, and it became
necessary to choose another couple in their place. The honour fell
next upon Mr. James Barlow, a builder, of Chipping Ongar, in
Essex; and the second flitch was adjudged to a couple from London,
the Chevalier de Chatelain and his lady. The Chevalier is a French
gentleman, and the lady an Englishwoman, and both of them are
favourably known by their literary labours. As the Lord of the
Manor of Little Dunmow refused to allow the revival of the custom
there, the next best thing was to hold the ceremony in the town of
Great Dunmow, which, at the present day, is by much the more
appropriate place of the two; and there, accordingly, it was an-
nounced that the adjudication of the flitches would take place.
But it met with opposition even there ; and the greater part of the
clergy of the neighbourhood, rather injudiciously, we think, set
their faces against it ; and this feeling was carried to such an extent,
that hostile papers were distributed about in some of the neigh-
bouring towns and villages. It was evidently, however, very
popular among the people of Dunmow generally.

a The disappointment of the latter may be easily imagined when
the morning of Thursday, the 19th of July, was ushered in by a
pelting storm of rain, and everything announced its continuance
during the whole of the day. This mischance kept away many of
the visitors who had to come from a distance; and the special
trains from the metropolis brought probably not more than one
half of the number who would have been collected in them had
the day been fine. In spite, however, of the inclemency of the
weather, people poured in from the country around in great num-
bers, some of them in waggons and carts decorated with flowers and
green branches; and by mid-day the streets and open places in the
town were everywhere crowded. Fortunately, the earlier and
longer part of the proceedings were to be performed under cover.
A chair of state, jury-boxes, seats for the claimants, witnesses, and

Xxiv MEMOIR OF

counsel, had been prepared in the handsome little Town-hall, and
profusely decorated with garlands of roses and other appropriate
ornaments. Although the company here was select, as they were
admitted only by five-shilling tickets, the hall was well filled with
spectators of both sexes, out of whom six maidens and six bachelors
volunteered to act as the jurors. At two o'clock Mr. Harrison Ains-
worth, as the giver of the flitches, took the chair to preside over the
court ; the two sets of claimants, with their two witnesses each, were
ushered into the places appropriated ; and the counsel (consisting
of Mr. Eobert Bell, for the claimants, and Mr. Dudley Costello,
opposed to them) took their seats. The prseco, or crier (Mr. Pavey),
with mock ceremony, opened the court, and Mr. Ainsworth from
the chair delivered an appropriate address, in which he traced very
lucidly all that is known of the history of this custom ; dwelt on
the advantage of keeping up old customs like this, which furnished
innocent and exhilarating amusement to the people, and tended to
protect rather than endanger morality, and upon the injudicious
but fruitless opposition which a party had made to it in the present
instance. The jury was then called over and received its charge;
after which Mr. Bell addressed the company on the history of such
courts, instancing others of the same character which had formerly
existed in various countries, and comparing them with the Courts
of Love in the middle ages, of which he gave a rather learned, but
very amusing account. He concluded by confuting two objections
which had been made to the court; first, that it was illegal, because
held in Great Dunmow instead of Little Dunmow; and, secondly,
that the claim was in neither case admissible, because not put in at
the exact period of a year and a day after marriage.

" Mr. and Mrs. Barlow, as the first claimants, were first brought
forward. They were a good-humoured and intelligent-looking
couple, excellent examples of good old English humanity, and they
evidently carried with them the sympathies of the audience, among
whom were many of their friends and acquaintance. Mr. Barlow,
it appears, is a man who has raised himself to a respectable and
comfortable position in life by his own industry and good conduct,
having been originally a mere ploughboy; but, having entered into
service as a man of all work, he saved sufficient money to put him-
self apprentice to the business of a carpenter, in which he worked
for some years as a journeyman, and subsequently set up in business
for himself; and it was stated as a proof of the respect in which he

WILLIAM HARRISON AIXSWORTH. XXV

is lield by his townspeople, that they had shut up all their shops
during the day in order to come to be witnesses of his triumph.
The chief examination by Mr. Bell, and the cross-examination by
Mr. Costello, of these claimants and their two witnesses, were
carried on with admirable gravity; but they produced a very con-
trary effect upon the audience, who were kept in a continual roar
of laughter for considerably more than an hour. The position in
society of the second claimants, the Chevalier de Chatelain and his
lady, made their case far less calculated to afford amusement, and
it was passed through more rapidly. At about half-past four this
part of the proceedings was concluded, and both sets of claimants
were declared worthy of the prize.

" During this time the weather outside had undergone a propi-
tious change, and the rain of the morning had given place to bright
sunshine, leaving, however, behind it an abundance of mud. The
procession set off from the Town-hall, immediately after the con-
clusion of the court, to the great satisfaction of the crowd in the
streets, who cheered it loudly as it went along. At the head rode
a ' marshal/ or herald, in dress of the olden time ; then followed a
party of the riders of the circus on their horses ; next came a car
decorated with garlands, in which rode the ' ladies and gentlemen'
of the jury. These were followed immediately by four yeomen,
also in antiquated costume, carrying a frame, in which was sus-
pended the first flitch of bacon, banded with wreaths of roses.
This was followed immediately by the first successful couple,
carried on men's shoulders, in a chair which appeared as though it
were made of flowers. These were followed by another party of
the equestrians of the circus, and by the second flitch, carried in
the same manner, and by a similar chair, in which were the Cheva-
lier and Madame de Chatelain; and the rear of the procession was
brought up by Mr. Ainsworth in a carriage and a party of gentle-
men on horseback. The procession proceeded through the town
to a place outside called Windmill Field, where there was a large
enclosure, in which stood the temporary building of Smith's circus,
and a large booth for refreshments. From a rough calculation, we
should judge that hardly less than seven thousand persons were
assembled on this occasion ; and there was a great struggle to get
into the enclosure, by those who were unwilling to pay the shil-
ling demanded for admission. It wTas here that the concluding
part of the ceremony took place. This consisted in taking with

XXVI MEMOIR OF

due solemnity the ancient Oath of the Flitch, thus expressed in

rhyme :

We do swear by custom of confession
That we ne'er made nuptial transgression ;
Nor since we were married man and wife,
By household brawls or contentious strife,
Or otherwise at bed or at board,
Offended each other in deed or word ;
Or since the parish clerk said amen,
Wished ourselves unmarried again ;
Or in a twelvemonth and a day
Repented in thought in any way,
But continued true and in desire
As when we joined in holy quire.

" When this oath was taken by each couple, it was the duty of
the officer who administered it to reply :

Since to these conditions, without any fear,
Of your own accord you do freely swear, ,
A whole flitch of bacon you shall receive,
And bear it hence with love and good leave ;
For this is our custom at Dunmow well known,
Though the pleasure be ours, the bacon's your own.

"After this ceremony, the two couples were carried in their
chairs to another part of the field, where the flitches were delivered
to them, and acknowledged by the Chevalier in a rather short
address, but by Mr. Barlow in a long one, in which he endea-
voured to demonstrate to all married pairs how easy it was to live
without quarrelling.

" The remainder of the day, until a late hour, was passed in
various sports and amusements, for which ample provision had been
made. A party of near thirty gentlemen dined at the Saracen's
Head with Mr. Ainsworth, who was supported by several of his
literary friends, including Messrs. Robert Bell, Francis Ainsworth,
T. Wright, Dudley Costello, J. W. Kaye, Lascelles Wraxall, Bertie
Mostyn, &c, and passed a very pleasant social evening. An excellent
haunch of venison had been presented by the Viscountess Maynard.
Generally speaking, the proceedings of the day seem to have produced
a favourable impression, for they presented none of the objection-
able characteristics which some people seem to have expected, while
the c performance' itself was carried on in a much more refined
style of burlesque than any one looked for. No one could deny
that there were here as honest couples as in days of yore, as imma-
culate a jury, as good counsel, and as honest a judge, and many a
good honest English yeoman, with plenty of sturdy lads and buxom

WILLIAM HARRISON AIXSWORTH. xxvil

lasses. A universal wish was expressed that it might be repeated
another year."

In 1855, appeared a beautifully printed edition of Mr. Ainsworth's
poetical works, under the title of " Ballads : Romantic, Fantastical,
and Humorous," with illustrations by John Gilbert.

In 1856, the "Spendthrift" was published, with illustrations by
John Gilbert, having previously appeared in " Bentley's Mis-
cellany."

It only remains to be added that a uniform octavo edition of
Mr. Ainsworth's entire works, with illustrations by John Gilbert,
George Cruikshank, Hablot K. Browne, John Franklin, Tony
Johannot, and W. Alfred Delamotte, has been published by
Messrs. Routledge and Co.; and that a cheap edition of the same
works is included in the " Railway Library."

" One of the main causes of the great popularity of Mr. Ains-
worth's novels," says the Examiner, in a notice of the u Spend-
thrift," " is the easy, familiar, natural style in which his narratives
are told. Abundant in incident, ingenious in construction, clear
and picturesque in description, sharp and decisive in the delineation
of character, they excite an interest which never flags. A story
in his hand receives a treatment peculiarly his own. From the
first page to the last the movement is ever right onward : there are
no retrospective pauses — no longueurs; he sets the goal fairly in
view at once, and reaches it without swerve or check. But this
rapidity is not achieved at the expense of method. That necessar}'
adjunct to all successful novel-writing is, on the contrary, notably
present in the artistic skill with which the actors in Mr. Ainsworth's
spirited dramas are kept together, all advancing with equal foot,
and moving by a common impulse. Mr. Ainsworth's predilections
in the choice and treatment of a subject are essentially romantic —
not to say tragic; but a large proportion of domestic incidents,
which are always treated with much breadth and humour, is
mingled with his tales ; so that though the general purport of them
be serious, that quality does not overlay the lighter matter. There
is no need for us to illustrate this fact by special reference to books
which are in everybody's hands; and we only allude to it for the
purpose of saying, that if a departure from his general plan be ob-
servable, it is in his later productions."

AINSWORTH OF SPOTLAND AND BEECH HILL,

CO. LANCASTER.

FROM BURKE'S "LANDED GENTRY."

Ainsworth, William Harrison, Esq., of Spotland and Beech Hill, co. Lan-
caster, b. 4 Feb., 1805 ; m. 11 Oct., 1826, Anne-Frances, younger dau. of John
Ebers, Esq., and by her (who d. 6 March, 1838) has issue three daus., viz.,

i. Fanny.
ii. Emily-Mary.
in. Anne-Blanche.

The Spotland estate came into the possession of Thomas Ainsworth, Esq., of
Tottington, co. Lancaster, in 1708, through his wife, Jane, dau. of Jane Hop-
wood, and James Echersall, Esq., Beech Hill, Smedley, near Manchester, was
purchased in August, 1811, from Samuel Chetham Hilton, Esq., by the late
Thomas Ainsworth, Esq., as were land and messuage in King-street, in March,
1819, from William Rigby, Esq., of Oldfield, Cheshire, together with other pro-
perties in Manchester and Salford, in the years 1811, 1819, 1820, and 1822.
Other property in Manchester was bequeathed to Thomas Ainsworth' s wife,
Ann, for her separate use, by her father, the Rev. Ralph Harrison, who was the
son of the Rev. William Harrison,* a Presbyterian divine, and the great-grand-
son of the Rev. Cuthbert Harrison, a famous Nonconformist teacher, noticed in
Dr. Calamy's account of ejected ministers. The Rev. Ralph Harrison attained
a high reputation in Manchester as a preacher, an author, and a scholar, and
realised a large fortune. He produced many able works of an educational cha-
racter, and left behind him a volume of discourses that fully bear out his claim
to the affectionate regard in which his character and ministration were held.

William Harrison Ainsworth s. to the property on the death of his mother,
15 March, 1842.

* The Rev. Ralph Harrison, b. 10 Sept., 1748, m. 6 March, 1775, Ann, dau.
of John Touchet, Esq., of Manchester, by Sarah, dau. of James Bayley, Esq., and
d. 24 Nov., 1810, having had issue six sons and three daus.,
i. John, b. 7 Jan., 1777, d. 11 Sept., 1777.
ii. William, b. 22 May, 1779, minister to a society of Protestant Dissenters

belonging to Blackley, Lancashire.
in. James, b. 27 April, 1783, d. 6 Sept., 1788.
iv. Ralph-Cooper, b. 5 Feb., 1785, d. 18 May, 1804.
v. John, b. 6 Feb., 1786.
vi. James, b. 10 March, 1791.
i. Ann, b. 16 July, 1778, m. 23 June,' 1802, to Thomas Ainsworth, Esq., of

whose line we treat.
ii. Sarah, b. 21 Feb., 1787, d. 23 Sept., 1787.
in. Sarah, b. 29 Dec., 1788, d. 13 June, 1789.

XXX AINSWORTH OF SPOTLAND.

Hmeage.

Jeremiah Ainsworth, Esq., of Tottington, co. Lancaster, was father of
Jeremiah Ainsworth, Esq., b. 13 Dec, 1622, whose son,
Thomas Ainsworth, Esq., of Tottington, b. in 1656, m. Jane, dau. of James
Echersall, Esq., of Spotland, by Jane, his wife, dau. of Edmund Hopwood, Esq.,
and grand-dau. of Thomas Hopwood, Esq., whose wife, Alice, conveyed the Spot-
land estate to Edward Hopwood, Esq., of Hopwood, in trust for her son, John
Hopwood, father of Jane Echersall. Thomas Ainsworth d. in 1742. Of this
marriage the son and heir,

James Ainsworth, Esq., of Mottram, m. Apphia, dau. of Joseph Holland, Esq.,
by Anne, dau. of John Braddock, Esq., and d. leaving four sons and two daus.,
James, Joseph, Jeremiah, Robert, Jane, and Apphia. The third son,

Jeremiah Ainsworth, who was b. 25 Feb., 1743, m. Ann, dau. of John Shuttle-
worth, Esq., of Rostherne, co. Chester, and d. 13 Nov., 1784, leaving issue,
i. Thomas, b. 3 Feb., 1769, d. 29 Dec, 1771.

ii. John, a capt. in the army, b. 4 April, 1771, m., 1st, Sarah, dau. of Benjamin
Bancroft, Esq., by wnom ne had issue, John, likewise a capt. in the army,
since deceased; Joseph, a major in the army, who d. in India; and Thomas,
in holy orders, of Hartford Hall, co. Chester, who d. 15 May, 1847; Capt.
Ainsworth m., 2ndly, Sarah, daughter of Thomas French, Esq., of Fobbing,
Essex, by whom he had issue two sons and one dau., of whom the sole sur-
vivor is William Francis Ainsworth, F.G.S., F.R.G.S., Corresponding Mem-
ber of the Geographical Society of Paris, of the German Oriental Society,
and of the German " National Union," Vice-President of the Institut
d'Afrique, Corresponding Member of the Natural History Society of Mol-
davia, Hon. Member of the Limerick Institution, and Honorary Secretary
of the Syro-Egyptian Society, b. 5 Nov., 1807; appointed, in 1835, Surgeon
and Geologist to the Euphrates Expedition; and despatched, in 1838, by
the Royal Geographical Society, and the Society for Promoting Christian
Knowledge, in charge of an expedition to the Chaldean Mountaineers.
Captain Ainsworth d. 8 Sept., 1849.
in. Jeremiah, b. 2 Sept., 1775, d. 13 Nov., 1784.
iv. Thomas, of whose line we treat.

v. James, F.R.C.S. Lond., and Senior Surgeon to the Manchester Infirmary, b.
5 March, 1783, m. Elizabeth, dau. of James Fawsett, Esq., by whom he has
issue, 1. Ralph-Fawsett, M.D.,F.R.CP. Edinb., Physician to the Manchester
Infirmary, and Lecturer to the Manchester School of Medicine; and 2. Anne,
m. to the Rev. Thomas Ainsworth. She d. 30 May, 1847.
i. Mary, b. 18 April, 1773.
ii. Elizabeth, b. 18 Jan., 1781, since deceased.

Thomas Ainsworth (the fourth son), b. at Rostherne, 19 June, 1778, m. 23
June, 1802, Ann, dau. of the Rev. Ralph Harrison, of Manchester, and d. 20 June,
1824, leaving issue,
i. William-Harrison, the present representative.
ii. Thomas Gilbert, 6. 4 Oct., 1806.

Arms. — Gu., three battle-axes, arg.

Crest— An arm in armour, grasping a battle-axe, ppr., suspended therefrom an escutcheon,
arg., charged with a spade, sa.
Motto. — Vi et virtute.
Residence. — Brighton.

TO MY MOTHER.

When I inscribed this Romance to you, my dear Mother, on
its first appearance, I was satisfied that, whatever reception it
might meet with elsewhere, at your hands it would be sure of
indulgence. Since then, the approbation your partiality would
scarcely have withheld, has been liberally accorded by the public ;
and I have the satisfaction of reflecting, that in following the
dictates of affection, which prompted me to select the dearest
friend I had in the world as the subject of a dedication, I have
not overstepped the limits of prudence; nor, in connecting your
honoured name with this trifling production, involved you in a
failure which, had it occurred, would have given you infinitely
more concern than myself. After a lapse of three years, during
which my little bark, fanned by pleasant and prosperous breezes,
has sailed, more than once, securely into port, I again commit it
to the waters, with more confidence than heretofore, and with a
firmer reliance that, if it should be found " after many days," it
may prove a slight memorial of the warmest filial regard.

Exposed to trials of no ordinary difficulty, and visited by do-
mestic affliction of no common severity, you, my dear Mother,
have borne up against the ills of life with a fortitude and resigna-
tion which those who know you best can best appreciate, but
which none can so well understand, or so thoroughly appreciate,
as myself. Suffering is the lot of all. Submission under the
dispensation is permitted to few. And it is my fervent hope that
my own children may emulate your virtues, if they are happily
spared your sorrows.

Hereafter, if I should realise a design, which I have always
entertained, of illustrating the early manners and customs, as well

t •

xxxn DEDICATION.

as the local peculiarities, of the great commercial town to which I
owe my birth, I would inscribe that book to my Father — u line
pauvre feuiile de papier, tout ce quefai, en regrettant de ri avoir pas
de c/ranil ;" — as a fit tribute to the memory of one whose energies
were so unremittingly and so successfully directed towards the pro-
motion of the public improvements in Manchester, that his name
may, with propriety, be associated with its annals. Would that
he had lived to see the good work he so well began entirely ac-
complished !

But the present Dedication, and that which I meditate, are
inseparably connected together in my mind by the same ties of
reverence and love. I would offer one to both, and both to one.

The tenderness lavished on my childhood, the guidance be-
stowed upon my youth, and the counsel afforded me in maturer
years, —

All these, still legible in memory's page,

And still to be so to my latest age,

Add joy to duty, make me glad to pay

Such honours to thee as my numbers may :

Perhaps a frail memorial, but sincere,

Not seorn'd in heaven, though little noticed here !

That you may be long spared to him* is the earnest wish of

Your very affectionate Son,

WILLIAM HARRISON AINSWORTH.
October 18, 1837.

* The prayer was not granted. My venerated Mother was lost to mo in
little more than four years from the date of this Dedication. She died 15th
March, 1842.

PREFACE.

During a visit to Chesterfield, in the autumn of the year 1831,
I first conceived the notion of writing this story. Wishing to de-
scribe, somewhat minutely, the trim gardens, the picturesque
domains, the rook-haunted groves, the gloomy chambers, and
ffloomier galleries, of an ancient Hall with which I was ac-
quainted, I resolved to attempt a story in the bygone style of Mrs.
RadclifTe (which had always inexpressible charms for me), substi-
tuting an old English squire, an old English manorial residence,
and an old English highwayman, for the Italian marchese, the
castle, and the brigand of the great mistress of Romance.

While revolving this subject, I happened, one evening, to enter
the spacious cemetery attached to the church with the queer, twisted
steeple, which, like the uplifted tail of the renowned Dragon of
Wantley, to whom u houses and churches were as capons and
turkeys," seems to menace the good town of Chesterfield with de-
struction. Here an incident occurred, on the opening of a vault,
which it is needless to relate, but which supplied me with a hint
for the commencement of my romance, as well as for the ballad
entitled "The Coffin." Upon this hint I immediately acted; and
the earlier chapters of the book, together with the description of
the ancestral mansion of the Rookwoods, were completed before I
quitted Chesterfield.

Another and much larger portion of the work was written
during a residence at Rottingdean, in Sussex, in the latter part of

XXXIV PREFACE.

1833, and owes its inspiration to many delightful walks over the
South Downs. Romance-writing was pleasant occupation then.

The Ride to York was completed in one day and one night.
This feat — for a feat it was, being the composition of a hundred
ordinary novel pages in less than twenty-four hours — was achieved
at " The Elms" — a house I then occupied at Kilburn. Well do I
remember the fever into which I was thrown- during the time of
composition. My pen literally scoured over the pages. So tho-
roughly did I identify myself with the flying highwayman, that,
once started, I found it impossible to halt. Animated by kindred
enthusiasm, I cleared every obstacle in my path with as much
facility as Turpin disposed of the impediments that beset his flight.
In his company, I mounted the hill-side, dashed through the
bustling village, swept over the desolate heath, threaded the silent
street, plunged into the eddying stream, and kept an onward course,
without pause, without hindrance, without fatigue. "With him I
shouted, sang, laughed, exulted, wept. Nor did I retire to rest till,
in imagination, I heard the bell of York Minster toll forth the
knell of poor Black Bess.

The supernatural occurrence, forming the groundwork of one
of the ballads which I have made the harbinger of doom to the
house of Rookwood, is ascribed, by popular superstition, to a
family resident in Sussex; upon whose estate the fatal tree (a
gigantic lime, with mighty arms and huge girth of trunk, as de-
scribed in the song) is still carefully preserved. Cuckfield Place,
to which this singular piece of timber is attached, is, I may state,
for the benefit of the curious, the real Rookwood Hall ; for I have
not drawn upon imagination, but upon memory, in describing the
seat and domains of that fated family. The general features of the
venerable structure, several of its chambers, the old garden, and, in
particular, the noble park, with its spreading prospects, its pic-
turesque views of the Hall, " like bits of Mrs. Radcliffe" (as the
poet Shelley once observed of the same scene), its deep glades,
through which the deer come lightly tripping down, its uplands,
slopes, brooks, brakes, coverts, and groves, are carefully delineated.

The superstition of a fallen branch affording a presage of ap-
proaching death is not peculiar to the family I have mentioned.
Many other old houses have been equally favoured: in fact, there
is scarcely an ancient family in the kingdom without a boding sign.
For instance, the Breretons of Brereton, in Cheshire, were warned

PREFACE. XXXV

by the appearance of stocks of trees floating, like the swollen bodies
of long-drowned men, upon the surface of a sombre lake (called
Blackmere, from the inky colour of its waters) adjoining their
residence; and numerous other examples might be given. The
death-presage of the Breretons is alluded to by Drayton in the
"PolyoUrion?

It has been well observed by Barry Cornwall, " that the songs
which occur in dramas are more natural than those which proceed
from the author in person." With equal force does the reasoning
apply to the romance, which may be termed the drama of the
closet. It would seem strange, on a first view, that an author
should be more at home in an assumed character than his own.
But experience shows the position to be correct. Conscious he is
no longer individually associated with his work, the writer pro-
ceeds with ail the freedom of irresponsibility. His idiosyncrasy is
merged in that of the personages he represents. He thinks with
their thoughts; sees with their eyes; speaks with their tongues.
His strains are such as he himself {per se) would not — perhaps
could not — have originated. In this light he may be said to bring
to his subject not one mind, but several; he becomes not one poet,
but many ; for each actor in his drama has a share, and an im-
portant share, in the lyrical estro to which he gives birth. This it
is which has imparted any verve, variety, or dramatic character
they possess, to the ballads contained in this production. Turpi n
I look upon as the real songster of " Black Bess ;" to Jerry Juniper
I am unquestionably indebted for a flash melody which, without
his hint, would never have been written; while to the Sexton I
owe the solitary gleam of light I have been enabled to throw upon
the horrors and mystery of the churchyard.

As I have casually alluded to the flash song of Jerry Juniper,
1 may, perhaps, be allowed to make a few observations upon this
branch of versification. It is somewhat curious, with a dialect so
racy, idiomatic, and plastic as our own cant, that its metrical
capabilities should have been so little essayed. The French have
numerous chansons d'argot, ranging from the time of Charles
Bourdigne and Villon down to that of Vidocq and Victor Hugo,
the last of whom has enlivened the horrors of his " Dernier Jour
dun Condamne" by a festive song of this class. The Spaniards
possess a large collection of Romances de Germania, by various
authors, amongst whom Quevedo holds a distinguished place. We,

xxxiv PREFACE.

1833, and owes its inspiration to many delightful walks over the
South Downs. Romance-writing was pleasant occupation then.

The Ride to York was completed in one day and one night.
This feat — for a feat it was, being the composition of a hundred
ordinary novel pages in less than twenty-four hours — was achieved
at " The Elms" — a house I then occupied at Kilburn. Well do I
remember the fever into which I was thrown- during the time of
composition. My pen literally scoured over the pages. So tho-
roughly did I identify myself with the flying highwayman, that,
once started, I found it impossible to halt. Animated by kindred
enthusiasm, I cleared every obstacle in my path with as much
facility as Turpin disposed of the impediments that beset his flight.
In his company, I mounted the hill-side, dashed through the
bustling village, swept over the desolate heath, threaded the silent
street, plunged into the eddying stream, and kept an onward course,
without pause, without hindrance, without fatigue. With him I
shouted, sang, laughed, exulted, wept. Nor did I retire to rest till,
in imagination, I heard the bell of York Minster toll forth the
knell of poor Black Bess.

PREFACE. XXXV

It has been well observed by Barry Cornwall, u that the songs
which occur in dramas are more natural than those which proceed
from the author in person." With equal force does the reasoning
apply to the romance, which may be termed the drama of the
closet. It would seem strange, on a first view, that an author
should be more at home in an assumed character than his own.
But experience shows the position to be correct. Conscious he is
no longer individually associated with his work, the writer pro-
ceeds with ail the freedom of irresponsibility. His idiosyncrasy is
merged in that of the personages he represents. He thinks with
their thoughts; sees with their eyes; speaks with their tongues.
His strains are such as he himself (per se) would not — perhaps
could not — have originated. In this light he may be said to bring
to his subject not one mind, but several; he becomes not one poet,
but many; for each actor in his drama has a share, and an im-
portant share, in the lyrical estro to which he gives birth. This it
is which has imparted any verve, variety, or dramatic character
they possess, to the ballads contained in this production. Turpin
I look upon as the real songster of u Black Bess ;" to Jerry Juniper
I am unquestionably indebted for a flash melody which, without
his hint, would never have been written; while to the Sexton I
owe the solitary gleam of light I have been enabled to throw upon
the horrors and mystery of the churchyard.

As I have casually alluded to the flash song of Jerry Juniper,
1 may, perhaps, be allowed to make a few observations upon this
branch of versification. It is somewhat curious, with a dialect so
racy, idiomatic, and plastic as our own cant, that its metrical
capabilities should have been so little essayed. The French have
numerous chansons oVargot, ranging from the time of Charles
Bourdigne and Villon down to that of Vidocq and Victor Hugo,
the last of whom has enlivened the horrors of his " Dernier Jour
dun Condamne" by a festive song of this class. The Spaniards
possess a large collection of Romances de Gertnania, by various
authors, amongst whom Quevedo holds a distinguished place. We,

XXXVI PREFACE.

on the contrary, have scarcely any slang songs of merit. With a
race of depredators so melodious and convivial as our highwaymen,
this is the more to be wondered at. Had they no bards amongst their
bands? Was there no minstrel at hand to record their exploits?
I can only call to mind one robber who was a poet — Delany, and
he was an Irishman. This barrenness, I have shown, is not attri-
butable to the poverty of the soil, but to the want of due cultiva-
tion. Materials are at hand in abundance, but there have been few
operators. Dekker, Beaumont and Fletcher, and Ben Jonson,
have all dealt largely in this jargon, but not lyrically; and one of
the earliest and best specimens of a canting-song occurs in Brome's
u Jovial Crew;" and in the a Adventures of Bamfylde Moore Careio"
there is a solitary ode, addressed by the mendicant fraternity to
their newly-elected monarch; but it has little humour, and can
scarcely be called a genuine canting-song. This ode brings us
down to our own time; to the effusions of the illustrious Pierce
Egan ; to Tom Moore's Flights of " Fancy ;" to John Jackson's
famous chant, " On the High Toby Spice flash the Muzzle" cited
by Lord Byron in a note to u Don Juan ;" and to the glorious Irish
ballad, worth them all put together, entitled " The Night before
Larry was stretched" This facetious performance is attributed to
the late Dean Burrowes, of Cork. It is worthy of note, that almost
all modern aspirants to the graces of the Musa Pedestris are Irish-
men. Of all rhymesters of the " Road" however, Dean Burrowes
is, as yet, most fully entitled to the laurel. Larry is quite " the
potato ! "

And here, as the candidates are so few, and their pretensions so
humble,

I can't help putting in my claim for praise.

I venture to affirm that I have done something more than has
been accomplished by my predecessors, or contemporaries, with the
significant language under consideration. I have written a purely
flash song; of which the great and peculiar merit consists in its
being utterly incomprehensible to the uninformed understanding,
while its meaning must be perfectly clear and perspicuous to the
practised pattercr of Romany, or Pedlar's French. I have, more-
over, been the first to introduce and naturalise amongst us a mea-
sure which, though common enough in the Argotic minstrelsy of
France, has been hitherto utterly unknown to our pedestrian poetry.
Some years afterwards the song alluded to, better known under the

PREFACE. xxxvn

title of u Nix my dolly, pals,— fake away l'^ sprang into extraor-
dinary popularity, being set to music by Rodwell, and chanted by
glorious Paul Bedford and clever little Mrs. Keeley.

Before quitting the subject of these songs, I may mention that
they probably would not have been written at all if one of the
earliest of them (a chance experiment) had not excited the warm
approbation of my friend Charles Oilier, author of the striking
romance of "Ferrers." This induced me to prosecute the vein
accidentally opened.

Turpin was the hero of my boyhood. I had always a strange
passion for highwaymen, and have listened by the hour to their ex-
ploits, as narrated by my father, and especially to those of " Daunt-
less Dick," that " chief minion of the moon." One of Turpin's
adventures in particular, the ride to Hough Green, which took
deep hold of my fancy, I have recorded in song. When a boy, I
have often lingered by the side of the deep old road where this
robbery was committed, to cast wistful glances into its mysterious
windings; and when night deepened the shadows of the trees, have
urged my horse on his journey, from a vague apprehension of a
visit from the ghostly highwayman. And then there was the
Bollin, with its shelvy banks, which Turpin cleared at a bound;
the broad meadows over which he winged his flight ; the pleasant
bowling-green of the pleasant old inn at Hough, where he produced
his watch to the Cheshire squires, with whom he was upon terms
of intimacy ; all brought something of the gallant robber to mind.
No wonder, in after years, in selecting a highwayman for a cha-
racter in a tale, I should choose my old favourite, Dick Turpin.

In reference to two of the characters here introduced, and drawn
from personages living at the time the tale was written, it may be
mentioned that poor Jerry Juniper met his death from an accident
at Chichester, while he was proceeding to Goodwood races; and
that the knight of Malta (Mr. Tom, a brewer of Truro, the self-
styled Sir William Courtenay, who played the strange tricks at
Canterbury chronicled in a song given in these pages), after his re-
lease from Banning Heath Asylum, was shot through the head
while leading on a mob of riotous Kentish yeomen, whom he had
persuaded that he was the Messiah !

If the design of Romance be, what it has been held, the expo-
sition of a useful truth by means of an interesting story, I fear I
have but imperfectly fulfilled the cfiice imposed upon me; havings

XXXVlll PREFACE.

as I will freely .confess, had, throughout, an eye rather to the
reader's amusement than his edification. One wholesome moral,
however, may, I trust, be gathered from the perusal of this Tale;
namely, that, without due governance of the passions, high aspira-
tions and generous emotions will little avail their possessor. The
impersonations of the Tempter, the Tempted, and the Better
Influence, may be respectively discovered, by those who care to
cull the honey from the flower, in the Sexton, in Luke, and in
Sybil.

The chief object I had in view in making the present essay, was
to see how far the infusion of a warmer and more genial current
into the veins of old Romance would succeed in reviving her flut-
tering and feeble pulses. The attempt has succeeded beyond my
most sanguine expectation. Romance, if I am not mistaken, is
destined shortly to undergo an important change. Modified by
the German and French writers — by Hoffman, Tieck, Hugo,
Dumas, Balzac, and Paul Lecroix (le Bibliophile Jacob) — the struc-
ture commenced in our own land by Horace Walpole, Monk
Lewis, Mrs. Radcliffe, and Maturin, but left imperfect and inhar-
monious, requires, now that the rubbish which choked up its ap-
proach is removed, only the hand of the skilful architect to its entire
renovation and perfection.

And now, having said my say, I must bid you, worthy reader,
farewell. Beseeching you, in the words of old Rabelais, " to inter-
pret all my sayings and doings in the perfectest sense. Reverence
the cheese-like brain that feeds you with all these jolly maggots;
and do what lies in you to keep me always merry. Be frolic now,
my lads ! Cheer up your hearts, and joyfully read the rest, with all
ease of your body, and comfort of your reins."

Kensal Manou-House,
December 15, 1S49.

ROOKWOOD.

BOOK I.

THE WEDDING RING.

It has been observed, and I am apt to believe it is an observation which will
generally be found true, that before a terrible truth comes to light, there are
certain murmuring whispers fly before it, and prepare the minds of men for the
reception of the truth itself. Gallick Reports.

Case of the Count Saint Geran.

CHAPTER I.

THE VAULT.

Let me know, therefore, fully the intent

Of this thy dismal preparation —

This talk fit for a charnel. Webster.

Within a sepulchral vault, and at midnight, two persons were
seated. The chamber was of singular construction and consider-
able extent. The roof was of solid stone masonry, and rose in a-
wide semicircular arch to the height of about seventeen feet, mea
sured from the centre of the ceiling to the ground floor, while the
sides were divided by slight partition- walls into ranges of low, nar-
row catacombs. The entrance to each cavity was surrounded by
an obtusely-pointed arch, resting upon slender granite pillars ; and
the intervening space was filled up with a variety of tablets, escut-
cheons, shields, and inscriptions, recording the titles and heraldic
honours of the departed. There were no doors to the niches ;
and within might be seen piles of coffins, packed one upon another,
till the floor groaned with the weight of lead. Against one of
the pillars, upon a hook, hung a rack of tattered, time-out-of-mind
hatchments ; and in the centre of the tomb might be seen the
effigies of Sir Ranulph de Rokewode, the builder of the mau-
soleum, and the founder of the race who slept within its walls.
This statue, wrought in black marble, differed from most monu-

2 EOOKWOOD.

mental carved-work, in that its posture was erect and life-like. Sir
Ranulph was represented as sheathed in a complete suit of mail,
decorated with his emblazoned and Q-ilded surcoat, his arm leaning
upon the pommel of a weighty curtai-axe. The attitude was that
of stern repose. A conically-formed helmet rested upon the
brow ; the beaver was raised, and revealed harsh but commanding
features. The golden spur of knighthood was fixed upon the
heel ; and, at the feet, enshrined in a costly sarcophagus of marble,
dug from the same quarry as the statue, rested the mortal remains
of one of " the sternest knights to his mortal foe that ever put
speare in the rest."

Streaming in a wavering line upon the roof, the sickly flame of
a candle partially fell upon the human figures before alluded to,
throwing them into darkest relief, and casting their opaque and
fantastical shadows along the ground. An old coffin upon a bier,
we have said, served the mysterious twain for a seat. Between
them stood a bottle and a glass, evidences that whatever might be
the ulterior object of their stealthy communion, the immediate
comfort of the creature had not been altogether overlooked. At
the feet of one of the personages were laid a mattock, a horn
lantern (from which the candle had been removed), a crowbar, and
a bunch of keys. Near to these implements of a vocation which
the reader will readily surmise, rested a strange superannuated
terrier with a wiry back and frosted muzzle; a head minus an car,
and a leg wanting a paw. His master, for such we shall suppose
him, was an old man with a lofty forehead, covered with a sin-
gularly shaped nightcap, and clothed, as to his lower limbs, with
tight, ribbed, grey worsted hose, ascending externally, after a by-
gone fashion, considerably above the knee. The old man's elbow
rested upon the handle of his spade, his wrist supported his chin,
and his grey glassy eyes, glimmering like marsh-meteors in the
candlelight, were fixed upon his companion with a glance of
searching scrutiny.

The object of his investigation, a much more youthful and
interesting person, seemed lost in reverie, and alike insensible to
time, place, and the object of the meeting. With both hands
grasped round the barrel of a fowling-piece, and his face leaning
upon the same support, the features were entirely concealed from
view; the light, too, being at the back, and shedding its rays over,
rather than upon his person, aided his disguise. Yet, even thus
imperfectly defined, the outline of the head, and the proportions
of the figure, were eminently striking and symmetrical. Attired
in a rough forester's costume, of the mode of 1737, and of the
roughest texture and rudest make, his wild garb would have de-
termined his rank as sufficiently humble in the scale of society,
had not a certain loftiness of manner, and bold, though reckless
deportment, argued pretensions on the part of the wearer to a
more elevated station in life, and contradicted, in a great measure,

f§^£^^

THE VAULT

P. 2.

ROOKWOOD. 3

the impression produced by the homely appearance of his habili-
ments. A cap of shaggy brown fur, fancifully, but not ungrace-
fully fashioned, covered his head, from beneath which, dropping,
in natural clusters, over his neck and shoulders, a cloud of raven
hair escaped. Subsequently, when his face was more fully revealed,
it proved to be that of a young man, of dark aspect, and grave,
melancholy expression of countenance, approaching even to the
stern, when at rest; though sufficiently animated and earnest when
emraired in conversation, or otherwise excited. His features were
regular, delicately formed, and might be characterised as singularly
handsome, were it not for a want of roundness in the contour of
the face which gave the lineaments a thin, worn look, totally dis-
tinct, however, from haggardness or emaciation. The nose was
delicate and line ; the nostril especially so ; the upper lip was
short, curling, graceful, and haughtily expressive. As to com-
plexion, his skin had a truly Spanish warmth and intensity of
colouring. His figure, when raised, was tall and masculine, and
though slight, exhibited great personal vigour.

We will now turn to his companion, the old man with the great
grey glittering eyes. Peter Bradley, of Rookwood (comitatu.
Ebor.), where he had exercised the vocation of sexton for the best
part of a life already drawn out to the full span ordinarily allotted
to mortality, was an odd caricature of humanity. His figure was
lean, and almost as lank as a skeleton. His bald head reminded
one of a bleached skull, allowing for the overhanging and hoary
brows. Deep-seated, and sunken within their sockets, his grey
orbs gleamed with intolerable lustre. Few could endure his gaze;
and, aware of his power, Peter seldom failed to exercise it. He
had likewise another habit, which, as it savoured of insanity, made
him an object of commiseration with some, while it rendered him
yet more obnoxious to others. The habit we allude to, was the
indulgence of wild screaming laughter at times when all mei'd-
ment should be checked ; and when the exhibition of levity must
proceed from utter disregard of human grief and suffering, or from
mental alienation.

Vvrcaried with the prolonged silence, Peter at length conde-
scended to speak. His voice was harsh and grating as a rusty
hi n ire.

" Another glass ?" said he, pouring out a modicum of the pale
fluid.

His companion shook his head.

" It will keep out the cold," continued the sexton, pressing the
liquid upon him ; " and you, who are not so much accustomed as I
am to the damps of a vault, may suffer from them. Besides,"
added he, sneeringly, u it will give you courage."

His companion answered not. But the flash of his eye resented
the implied reproach.

" Nay, never stare at me so hard, Luke," continued the sexton;

4 ROOKWOOD.

a I doubt neither your courage nor your firmness. But if you
won't drink, I will. Here's to the rest eternal of Sir Piers Rook-
wood ! You'll say amen to that pledge, or you are neither grand-
son of mine, nor offspring of his loins."

" Why should I reverence his memory," answered Luke, bitterly,
refusing the proffered potion, u who showed no fatherly love for
me? He disowned me in life: in death I disown him. Sir Piers
Rook wood was no father of mine."

"He was as certainly your father, as Susan Bradley, your mother,
was my daughter," rejoined the sexton.

" And, surely," cried Luke, impetuously, " you need not boast
of the connexion ! 'Tis not for you, old man, to couple their
names together — to exult in your daughter's disgrace and your
own dishonour. Shame ! shame ! Speak not of them in the
same breath, if you would not have me invoke curses on the
dead ! / have no reverence (whatever you may have) for the se-
ducer— for the murderer of my mother."

" You have choice store of epithets, in sooth, good grandson,"
rejoined Peter, with a chuckling laugh. u Sir Piers a murderer I"

" Tush !" exclaimed Luke, indignantly, " afFect not ignorance.
You have better knowledge than I have of the truth or falsehood
of the dark tale that has gone abroad respecting my mother's fate;
and unless report has belied you foully, had substantial reasons for
keeping sealed lips on the occasion. But to change this painful
subject," added he, with a sudden alteration of manner, "at what
hour did Sir Piers Rookwood die?"

" On Thursday last, in the night-time. The exact hour I know
not," replied the sexton.

"Of what ailment?"

" Neither do I know that. His end was sudden, yet not with-
out a warning sign."

" What warning?" inquired Luke.

" Neither more nor less than the death-omen of the house.
You look astonished. Is it possible you have never heard of the
ominous Lime-Tree, and the Fatal Bough? Why, 'tis a common
tale hereabouts, and has been for centuries. Any old crone would
tell it you. Peradventure, you have seen the old avenue of lime-
trees leading to the hall, nearly a quarter of a mile in length, and
as noble a row of timber as any in the West Riding of Yorkshire.
Well, there is one tree — the last on the left hand before you come
to the clock-house — larger than all the rest — a huge piece of
timber, with broad spreading branches, and of I know not what
girth in the trunk. That tree is, in some mysterious manner, con-
nected with the family of Rookwood, and immediately previous to
the death of one of that line, a branch is sure to be shed from the
parent stem, prognosticating his doom. But you shall hear the
legend." And in a strange sepulchral tone, not inappropriate, how-
ever, to his subject, Peter chanted the following ballad:

ROOKWOOD. O

THE LEGEND OF THE LIME-TREE.

Amid the grove o'er-archcd above with lime-trees old and tall
(The avenue that leads unto the Rookwood's ancient liall),
High o'er the rest its towering crest one tree rears to the sky,
And wide out-flings, like mighty wings, its arms umbrageously.

Seven yards its base would scarce embrace — a goodly tree I ween,

With silver bark, and foliage dark, of melancholy green ;

And mid its boughs two ravens house, and build from year to year,

Their black brood hatch — their black brood watch — then screaming disappear.

In that old tree when playfully the summer breezes sigh,

Its leaves are stirred, and there is heard a low and plaintive cry ;

And when in shrieks the storm blast speaks its reverend boughs among,

Sad wailing moans, like human groans, the concert harsh prolong.

But whether gale or calm prevail, or threatening cloud hath fled,
By hand of Eate, 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 blood-hounds 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 befel ! — 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 Lukef
who had listened with some attention to his grandsire's song.

66 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

6 ROOKWOOD.

hour, but 1 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 carcase afar off. Just then a livelier
sound saluted my ears. The cheering cry of a pack of hounds re-
sounded from the courts, and the great gates being thrown open,
out issued Sir Piers, attended by a troop of his roystering com-
panions, 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 favourite steed, who never swerved at stake or pale before) set
eyes upon this 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
nice 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, re-
specting 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 accom-
plished."

" 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 feel-
ing 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 oc-
curred to my own knowledge, and ever with the same result : firstly,
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.

EOOKWOOD. 7

"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 respect-
ing her? if not, let me be gone."

"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 for ever, 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 sus-
pected "

"Of what?"

" Of murder!" returned the sexton, in a hissing whisper.

"Murder!" echoed Luke, recoiling.

" There is one dark stain — one foul blot on all. Blood — blood
hath been spilt."

"By all?"

" Ay, and such blood ! theirs was no common crime. Even
murder hath its decrees. Theirs was of the first class."

" Their wives ! — you cannot mean that?"

" Ay, their wives ! — I do. You have heard it, then? Ha ! ha !
'tis a trick they had. Did you ever hear the old saying?

No mate ever brook would
A Rook of the Rookwood !

A merry saying it is, and true. No woman ever stood in a Rook-
wood's way but she was speedily removed — that's certain. They
had all, save poor Sir Piers, the knack of stopping a troublesome
woman's tongue, and practised it to perfection. A rare art, eh?"

" What have the misdeeds of his ancestry to do with Sir Piers,"
muttered Luke, " much less with my mother?"

" Everything. If he could not rid himself of his wife (and she
is a match for the devil himself), the mistress might be more
readily set aside."

"Have you absolute knowledge of aught?" asked Luke, his
voice tremulous with emotion.

"Nay, I but hinted."

" Such hints are worse than open speech. Let me know the

8 ROOKWOOD.

worst. Did he kill her?" And Luke glared at the sexton as if
he would have penetrated his secret soul.

But Peter was not easily fathomed. His cold, bright eye re-
turned Luke's gaze steadfastly, as he answered, composedly,

" I have said all I know."

"But not all you think"

" Thoughts should not always find utterance, else we might
often endanger our own safety, and that of others."

" An idle subterfuge — and, from you, worse than idle. I will
have an answer, yea or nay. Was it poison — was it steel?"

" Enough — she died."

" No, it is not enough. When ? where ?"

" In her sleep — in her bed."

" Why, that was natural."

A wrinklinsr smile crossed the sexton's brow.

" What means that horrible gleam of laughter?" exclaimed
Luke, grasping the shoulder of the man of graves with such force
as nearly to annihilate him. " Speak, or I will strangle you. She
died, you say, in her sleep?"

" She did so," replied the sexton, shaking off Luke s hold.

' ' And was it to tell me that I had a mother's murder to avenge,
that you brought me to the tomb of her destroyer — when he is
beyond the reach of my vengeance ?"

Luke exhibited so much frantic violence of manner and gesture,
that the sexton entertained some little apprehension that his in-
tellects were unsettled by the shock of the intelligence. It was,
therefore, in what he intended for a soothing tone that he at-
tempted to solicit his grandson's attention.

" I will hear nothing more," interrupted Luke, and the vaulted
chamber rang with his passionate lamentations. " Am I the sport
of this mocking fiend?" cried he, "to whom my agony is derision
— my despair a source of enjoyment — beneath whose withering
glance my spirit shrinks — who, with half-expressed insinuations,
tortures my soul, awakening fancies that goad me on to dark and
desperate deeds? Dead mother! upon thee I call. If in thy
grave thou canst hear the cry of thy most wretched son, yearning
to avenge thee — answer me, if thou hast the power. Let me have
some token of the truth or falsity of these wild suppositions, that
I may wrestle against this demon. But no," added he, in accents
of despair, il no ear listens to me, save his to whom my wretched-
ness is food for mockery."

" Could the dead hear thee, thy mother might do so," returned
the sexton. " She lies within this space."

Luke staggered back, as if struck by a sudden shot. He spoke
not, but fell with a violent shock against a pile of coffins, at which
he caught for support.

" What have I done?" he exclaimed, recoiling.

A thundering crash resounded through the vault. One of the

ROOKWOOD. 9

coffins, dislodged from its position by his fall, tumbled to the
ground, and, alighting upon its side, split asunder.

"Great Heavens! what is this?" cried Luke, as a dead body,
clothed in all the hideous apparel of the tomb, rolled forth to his
feet.

"It is your mother's corpse," answered the sexton, coldly; "I
brought you hither to behold it. But you have anticipated my
intentions."

" This my mother?" shrieked Luke, dropping upon his knees
by the body, and seizing one of its chilly hands, as it lay upon the
floor, with the face upwards.

The sexton took the candle from the sconce.

" Can this be death?" shouted Luke. " Impossible ! Oh, God !
she stirs — she moves. The light ! — quick. I see her stir ! This
is dreadful I"

" Do not deceive yourself," said the sexton, in a tone which
betrayed more emotion than was his wont. "*Tis the bewilder-
ment of fancy. She will never stir again."

And he shaded the candle with his hand, so as to throw the
light full upon the face of the corpse. It was motionless as that
of an image carved in stone. No trace of corruption was visible
upon the rigid, yet exquisite tracery of its features. A profuse
cloud of raven hair, escaped from its swathements in the fall, hung
like a dark veil over the bosom and person of the dead, and pre-
sented a startling contrast to the waxlike hue of the skin and the
pallid cereclothes. Flesh still adhered to the hand, though it
mouldered into dust within the gripe of Luke, as he pressed the
fingers to his lips. The shroud was disposed like night-gear about
her person, and from without its folds a few withered flowers had
fallen. A strong aromatic odour, of a pungent nature, was dif-
fused around; giving evidence that the art by which the ancient
Egyptians endeavoured to rescue their kindred from decomposi-
tion had been resorted to, to preserve the fleeting charms of the
unfortunate Susan Bradley.

A pause of awful silence succeeded, broken only by the convul-
sive respiration of Luke. The sexton stood by, apparently an in-
different spectator of the scene of horror. His eye wandered
from the dead to the living, and gleamed with a peculiar and in-
definable expression, half apathy, half abstraction. For one single
instant, as he scrutinised the features of his daughter, his brow,
contracted by anger, immediately afterwards was elevated in scorn.
But otherwise you would have sought in vain to read the purport
of that cold, insensible glance, which dwelt for a brief space on
the face of the mother, and settled eventually upon her son. At
length the withered flowers attracted his attention. He stooped
to pick up one of them.

" Faded as the hand that gathered ye — as the bosom on which
ye were strewn!" he murmured. " No sweet smell left — but —

10 ROOKWOOD.

faugli !" Holding the dry leaves to the flame of the candle, they
were instantly ignited, and the momentary brilliance played like a
smile upon the features of the dead. Peter observed the effect.
" Such was thy life," he exclaimed; aa brief, bright sparkle, fol-
lowed by dark, utter extinction !"

Saying which, he flung the expiring ashes of the floweret from
his hand.

CHAPTER II.

THE SKELETON HAND.

Duch. You are very cold.

I fear you are not well after your travel.

Ha ! lights. Oh horrible !

Fer. Let her have lights enough.

Duch. What witchcraft doth he practise, that he hath left

A dead hand here ? Duchess o/Malfy.

The sexton's waning candle now warned him of the progress
of time, and having completed his arrangements, he addressed
himself to Luke, intimating his intention of departing. But re-
ceiving no answer, and remarking no signs of life about his grand-
son, he began to be apprehensive that he had fallen into a swoon.
Drawing 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 insen-
sibility.

" 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-twmty 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 accom-
plish it without occasioning a slight accident to the fragile frame.
Insensible as he was, Luke had not relinquished the hold he

ROOKWOOD. 11

maintained of his mother's hand. And when Peter lifted the
body, the ligaments connecting the liand with the arm were sud-
denly 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 labours un-
consciously, until the noise which he of necessity made in stamp-
ing with his heel upon the plank, recalled his grandson to sensi-
bility. The first thing that the latter perceived, upon collecting
his faculties, were the skeleton fingers twined within his own.

u What have you done with the body? Why have you left
this with me?" demanded he.

u 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."

u Never," returned Luke, staring at the bony fragment.

u 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 ni^ht
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 :

THE HAND OF GLORY*

Prom 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 :

Name the Governors of Heaven.f

Then in earthen vessel place them,

And with dragon-wort encase them,

Bleach them in the noonday sun,

Till the marrow melt and run,

Till the flesh is pale and wan,

As a moon-ensilvered cloud,

As an unpolluted shroud.

Next within their chill embrace

The dead man's Awful Candle place ;

* See the celebrated recipe for the Hand of Glory in "Les Secrets du Petit
Albert."

| The seven planets, so called by Mercurius Trismegistus.

12 ROOKWOOD.

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 treasure 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. u 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 carcase is my own."

" The hand' — 'tis hers. Can any doubt exist?"

" Wherefore should it? It was broken from the arm by acci-
dent 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 "

u 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."

u Listen to me, Luke," said the sexton, solemnly. " I told you,
when I appointed this midnight interview, I had a secret to com-
municate. 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."

61 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

ROOKWOOD. 13

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 death," replied Peter, coldly. " What Jesuit ever forgave
a wrong — real or imaginary? Your mother, I ought to have said,
was a Protestant. Hence there was a difference of religious opinion
— (the worst of differences that can exist between husband and
wife). Checkley vowed her destruction, and he kept his vow.
He was enamoured of her beauty. But while he burnt with
adulterous desire, he was consumed by fiercest hate — contending,
and yet strangely-reconcilable passions — as you may have reason,
hereafter, to discover."

" Go on," said Luke, grinding his teeth.

" I have done," returned Peter. u From that hour your father's
love for his supposed mistress, and unacknowledged wife, declined;
and with his waning love declined her health. I will not waste
words in describing the catastrophe that awaited her union. It
will be enough to say, she was found one morning a corpse within
her bed. Whatever suspicions were attached to Sir Piers were
quieted by Checkley, who distributed gold, largely and discreetly.
The body was embalmed by Barbara Lovel, the Gipsy Queen."

" My foster-mother !" exclaimed Luke, in a tone of extreme
astonishment.

" Ah," replied Peter, " from her you may learn all particulars.
You have now seen what remains of your mother. You are in
possession of the secret of your birth. The path is before you, and
if you would arrive at honour you must pursue it steadily, turning
neither to the right nor to the left. Opposition you will meet at
each step. But fresh lights may be thrown upon this difficult case.
It is in vain to hope for Checkley's evidence, even should the caitiff
priest be living. He is himself too deeply implicated — ha !"

Peter stopped, for at this moment the flame of the candle sud-
denly expired, and the speakers were left in total darkness. Some-
thing like a groan followed the conclusion of the sexton's discourse.
It was evident that it proceeded not from his grandson, as an ex-
clamation burst from him at the same instant. Luke stretched out
his arm. A cold hand seemed to press against his own, commu-
nicating a chill like death to his frame.

14 ROOKWOOD.

" Who is between us?" he ejaculated.

" The devil !" cried the sexton, leaping from the coffin-lid with
an agility that did him honour. " Is aught between us?"

" I will discharge my gun. Its flash will light us."

" Do so," hastily rejoined Peter. "But not in this direction."

" Get behind me," cried Luke. And he pulled the trigger.

A blaze of vivid light illumined the darkness. Still nothing
was visible, save the warrior figure, which was seen for a moment,
and then vanished like a ghost. The buck-shot rattled against
the further end of the vault.

u Let us go hence," ejaculated the sexton, who had rushed to
the door, and thrown it wide open. " Mole! Mole!" cried he,
and the dog sprang after him.

" I could have sworn I felt something," said Luke ; " whence
issued that groan?"

"Ask not whence," replied Peter. "Reach me my mattock,
and spade, and the lantern ; they are behind you. And stay, it
were better to bring away the bottle."

"Take theln, and leave me here."

"Alone in the vault? — no, no, Luke, I have not told you half
I know concerning that mystic statue. It is said to -move — to
walk — to raise its axe — be warned, I pray."

"Leave me, or abide, if you will, my coming, in the church.
If there is aught that may be revealed to my ear alone, I will not
shrink from it, though the dead themselves should arise to pro-
claim the mystery. It may be — but — go — there are your tools."
And he shut the door, with a jar that shook the sexton's frame.

Peter, after some muttered murmurings at the hardihood and
madness, as he termed it, of his grandson, disposed his lanky
limbs to repose, upon a cushioned bench without the communion
railing. As the pale moonlight fell upon his gaunt and cadaverous
visage, he looked like some unholy thing suddenly annihilated by
the presiding influence of that sacred spot. Mole crouched him-
self in a ring at his master's feet. Peter had not dozed many
minutes, when he was aroused by Luke's return. The latter was
very pale, and the damp stood in big drops upon his brow.

" Have you made fast the door?" inquired the sexton.

" Here is the key."

" What have you seen?" he next demanded.

Luke made no answer. At that moment, the church clock
struck two, breaking the stillness with an iron clang. Luke
raised his eyes. A ray of moonlight, streaming obliquely through
the painted window, fell upon the gilt lettering of a black mural
entablature. The lower part of the inscription was in the shade,
but the emblazonment, and the words —

Orate pro arnrna 3£UgfaaUrf Hooklnoofc ccruttts auratf,

ROOKWOOD. 15

were clear and distinct. Luke trembled, he knew not why, as
the sexton pointed to it.

" You have heard of the handwriting upon the wall," said Peter.
li Look there ! — ' His kingdom hath been taken from him.' Ha,
ha ! Listen to me. Of all thy monster race — of all the race of
Rookwood I should say — no demon ever stalked the earth more
terrible than him whose tablet you now behold. By him a brother
was betrayed ; by him a brother's wife was dishonoured. Love,
honour, friendship, were with him as words. He regarded no
ties: he defied and set at nought all human laws and obligations —
and yet he was religious, or esteemed so — received the viaticum,
and died full of years and honours, hugging salvation to his sinful
heart. And after death he has yon lying epitaph to record his
virtues. His virtues ! ha, ha ! Ask him who preaches to the
kneeling throng gathering within this holy place what shall be
the murderer's portion — and he will answer — Death ! And yet
Sir Reginald was long-lived. The awful question, ' Cain, where
is thy brother?' broke not his tranquil slumbers. Luke, I have
told you much — but not all. You know not, as yet — nor shall
you know your destiny; but you shall be the avenger of infamy
and blood. I have a sacred charge committed to my keeping,
which, hereafter, I may delegate to you. You shall be Sir Luke
Rookwood, but the conditions must be mine to propose."

" No more," said Luke; " my brain reels. I am faint. Let us
quit this place, and get into the fresh air." And striding past his
grandsire he traversed the aisles with hasty steps. Peter was not
slow to follow. The key wras applied, and they emerged into the
churchyard. The grassy mounds were bathed in the moonbeams,
and the two yew-trees, throwing their black, jagged shadows over
the grave hills, looked like evil spirits brooding over the repose of
the righteous.

The sexton noticed the deathly paleness of Luke's countenance,
but he fancied it might proceed from the tinge of the sallow moon-
light.

" I will be with you at your cottage ere daybreak," said Luke.
And turning an angle of the church, he disappeared from view.

u So," exclaimed Peter, gazing after him, "the train is laid;
the spark has been applied; the explosion will soon follow. The
hour is fast approaching when I shall behold this accursed house
shaken to dust, and when my long-delayed vengeance will be
gratified. In that hope I am content to drag on the brief rem-
nant of my days. Meanwhile, I must not omit the stimulant. In
a short time I may not require it." Draining the bottle to the
last drop, he flung it from him, and commenced chanting, in a
high key and cracked voice, a wild ditty, the words of which ran
as follow :

16 ROOKWOOD.

THE CARRION CROW *

The Carrion Crow is a sexton bold,
He raketh the dead from out the mould ;
He delveth the ground like a miser old,
Stealthily hiding his store of gold.

Caw! Caio!

The Carrion Crow hath a coat of black,
Silky and sleek like a priest's to his back ;
Like a lawyer he grubbeth — no matter what way —
The fouler the offal, the richer his prey.

Caw! Caw! the Carrion Crow!

Dig ! Dig ! in the ground below !

The Carrion Crow hath a dainty maw,
With savoury pickings he crammeth his craw ;
Kept meat from the gibbet it pleaseth his whim,
It never can hang too long for him !

Caw! Caw!

The Carrion Crow smell eth powder, 'tis said,
Like a soldier escheweth the taste of cold lead ;
No jester, or mime, hath more marvellous wit,
For, wherever he lighteth, he maketh a hit !

Caw! Caw! the Carrion Crow!

Dig ! Dig ! in the ground beloio \

Shouldering his spade, and whistling to his dog, the sexton
quitted the churchyard.

Peter had not been gone many seconds, when a dark figure,
muffled in a wide black mantle, emerged from among the tombs
surrounding the church ; gazed after him for a few seconds, and
then, with a menacing gesture, retreated behind the ivied but-
tresses of the grey old pile.

* Set to music by Mr. E. Romer.

CHAPTER III.

THE PAKK.

Brian. Ralph ! nearest thou any stirring ?

Ralph. I heard one speak here, hard by, in the hollow. Peace ! master,
speak low. Nouns ! if I do not hear a bow^ go off, and the bnck bray, I never
heard deer in my life.

Bri. Stand, or I'll shoot.

Sir Arthur. Who's there ?

Bri. I am the keeper, and do charge you stand.

You .have stolen my deer. Merry Devil of Edmonton.

Luke's first impulse had been to free himself from the restraint
imposed by his grandsire's society. He longed to commune with
himself. Leaping the small boundary-wall, which defended the

ROOKWOOD. 17

churchyard from a deep green lane, he hurried along in a direction
contrary to that taken by the sexton, making the best of his way
until he arrived at a gap in the high-banked hazel hedge, which
overhung the road. Heedless of the impediments thrown in his
way by the undergrowth of a rough ring fence, he struck through
the opening that presented itself', and, climbing over the moss-
grown paling, trod presently upon the elastic sward of Rookwood
Park.

A few minutes' rapid walking brought him to the summit of a
rising ground crowned with aged oaks, and, as he passed beneath
their broad shadows, his troubled spirit, soothed by the quietude
of the scene, in part resumed its serenity.

Luke yielded to the gentle influence of the time and hour. The
stillness of the spot allayed the irritation of his frame, and the
dewy chillness cooled the fever of his brow. Leaning for support
against the gnarled trunk of one of the trees, he gave himself up
to contemplation. The events of the last hour — of his whole exis-
tence— passed in rapid review before him. The thought of the
wayward, vagabond life he had led; of the wild adventures of his
youth ; of all he had been ; of all he had done ; of all he had en-
dured— crowded his mind ; and then, like the passing of a cloud
Hitting across the autumnal moon, and occasionally obscuring the
smiling landscape before him, his soul was shadowed by the re-
membrance of the awful revelations of the last hour, and the fear-
ful knowledge he had acquired of his mother's fate — of his father's
guilt.

The eminence on which he stood was one of the highest p oinls
of the park, and commanded a view of the hall, which might be a
quarter of a mile distant, discernible through a broken vista of
trees, its whitened walls glimmering in the moonlight, and its tali
chimney spiring far from out the round masses of wood in which it
lay embosomed. The ground gradually sloped in that direction,
occasionally rising into swells, studded with magnificent timber —
dipping into smooth dells, or stretching out into level glades, until
it suddenly sank into a deep declivity, that formed an effectual di-
vision, without the intervention of a haw-haw, or other barrier,
between the chase and the home-park. A slender stream strayed
through this ravine, having found its way thither from a small
reservoir, hidden in the higher plantations to the left; and further
on, in the open ground, and in a line with the hall, though, of
course, much below the level of the building, assisted by many
local springs, and restrained by a variety of natural and artificial
embankments, this brook spread out into an expansive sheet of
water. Crossed by a rustic bridge, the only communication be-
tween the parks, the pool found its outlet into the meads below;
and even at that distance, and in that still hour, you might almost
catch the sound of the brawling waters, as they dashed down the
weir in a foaming cascade; while, far away, in the spreading valley,

18 ROOKWOOD.

the serpentine meanderings of the slender current might be traced,
glittering like silvery threads in the moonshine. The mild beams
of the queen of night, then in her meridian, trembled upon the
topmost branches of the tall timber, quivering like diamond spray
upon the outer foliage; and, penetrating through the interstices of
the trees, fell upon the light wreaths of vapour then beginning to
arise from the surface of the pool, steeping them in misty splendour,
and lending to this part of the picture a character of dreamy and
unearthly beauty.

All else was in unison. No sound interrupted the silence of
Luke's solitude, except the hooting of a large grey owl, that,
scared at his approach, or in search of prey, winged its spectral
flight in continuous and mazy circles round his head, uttering at
each wheel its startling whoop ; or a deep, distant bay, that ever and
anon boomed upon the ear, proceeding from a pack of hounds
kennelled in a shed adjoining the pool before mentioned, but
which was shrouded from view by the rising mist. No living
objects presented themselves, save a herd of deer, crouched in a
covert of brown fern beneath the shadow of a few stunted trees,
immediately below the point of land on which Luke stood; and
although their branching antlers could scarcely be detected from
the ramifications of the wood itself, they escaped not his practised
ken.

"How often," murmured Luke, "in years gone by, have I
traversed these moonlit glades, and wandered amidst these wood-
lands, on nights heavenly as this — ay, and to some purpose, as yon
thinned herd might testify ! Every dingle, every dell, every rising
brow, every bosky vale and shelving covert, have been as familiar
to my track as to that of the fleetest and freest of their number :
scarce a tree amidst the thickest of yon outstretching forest with
which I cannot claim acquaintance ; 'tis long since I have seen
them. By Heavens ! 'tis beautiful ! and it is all my own ! Can
I forget that it was here I first emancipated myself from thraldom ?
Can I forget the boundless feeling of delight that danced within
my veins when I first threw off the yoke of servitude, and roved
unshackled, unrestrained, amidst these woods? The wild intoxi-
cating bliss still tingles to my heart. And they are all my own —
my own ! Softly, what have we there?"

Luke's attention was arrested by an object which could not fail
to interest him, sportsman as he was. A snorting bray was heard,
and a lordly stag stal'ked.slowly and majestically from out the copse.
Luke watched the actions of the noble animal with great interest,
drawing back into the shade. A hundred yards, or thereabouts,
might be between him and the buck. It was within range of ball.
Luke mechanically grasped his gun ; yet his hand had scarcely
raised the piece half way to his shoulder, when he dropped it
again to its rest.

" What am I about to do?" he mentally ejaculated. " Why, for

ROOKWOOD. 19

mere pastime, should I take away yon noble creature's life, when
his carcase would be utterly useless to me? Yet such is the force
of habit, that I can scarce resist the impulse that tempted me to
fire; and I have known the time, and that not long since, when
I should have shown no such self-control."

Unconscious of the danger it had escaped, the animal moved
forward with the same stately step. Suddenly it stopped, with
ears pricked, as if some sound had smote them. At that instant
the click of a gun-lock was heard, at a little distance to the right.
The piece had missed fire. An instantaneous report from another
gun succeeded ; and, with a bound high in air, the buck fell upon
his back, struggling in the agonies of death. Luke had at once
divined the cause ; he was aware that poachers were at hand. He
fancied that he knew the parties; nor was he deceived in his con-
jecture. Two figures issued instantly from a covert on the right,
and making to the spot, the first who reached it put an end to the
animal's struggles by plunging a knife into its throat. The
affrighted herd took to their heels, and were seen darting swiftly
iown the chase.

One of the twain, meantime, was occupied in feeling for the
deer's fat, when he was approached by the other, who pointed in
the direction of the house. The former raised himself from his
kneeling posture, and both appeared to listen attentively. Luke
fancied he heard a slight sound in the distance; whatever the noise
proceeded from, it wras evident the deer-stealers were alarmed.
They laid hold of the buck, and, dragging it along, concealed the
carcase among the tall fern; they then retreated, halting for an
instant to deliberate, within a few yards of Luke, who was con-
cealed from their view by the trunk of the tree, behind which he
had ensconced his person. They were so near, that he lost not a
word of their muttered conference.

" The game's spoiled this time, Bob Rust, any how," growled
one, in an angry tone ; u the hawks are upon us, and we must
leave this brave buck to take care of himself. Curse him ! — who'd
a' thought of Hugh Badger's quitting his bed to-night? Respect
for his late master might have kept him quiet the night before the
funeral. But look out, lad, Dost see 'em?"

" Ay, thanks to old Oliver — yonder they are," returned the
other. " One — two — three — and a muzzled bouser to boot. There's
Hugh at the head on 'em. Shall we stand and show fight? I
have half a mind for it."

"No, no," replied the first speaker; " that will never do, Rob —
no fighting. Why run the risk of being grabb'd for a haunch of
venison? Had Luke Bradley or Jack Palmer been with us, it
might have been another affair. As it is, it won't pay. Be-
sides, we've that to do at the hall to-morrow night that may make
men of us for the rest of our nat'ral lives. We've pledged our-
selves to Jack Palmer, and we can't be off in honour. It won't do

C9-

20 . ROOKWOOD.

to be snabbled in the nick of it. So let's make for the prad in
the lane. Keep in the shade as much as you can. Come along,
my hearty." And away the two worthies scampered down the
hill-side.

" Shall I follow," thought Luke, " and run the risk of falling
into the keeper's hand, just at this crisis, too? No, but if I am
found here, I shall be taken for one of the gang. Something
must be done — ha ! — devil take them, here they are already."

Further time was not allowed him for reflection. A hoarse
baying was heard, followed by a loud cry from the keepers. The
dog had scented out the game; and, as secrecy was no longer
necessary, his muzzle had been removed. To rush forth now were
certain betrayal} to remain was almost equally assured detection ;
and, doubting whether he should obtain credence if he delivered
himself over in that garb and armed, Luke at once rejected the
idea. Just then it flashed across his recollection that his gun had
remained unloaded, and he applied himself eagerly to repair this
negligence, when he heard the dog in full cry, making swiftly in
his direction. He threw himself upon the ground, where the fern
was thickest; but this seemed insufficient to baffle the sagacity of
the hound — the animal had got his scent, and was baying close at
hand. The keepers were drawing nigh. Luke gave himself up
for lost. Tho dog, however, stopped where the two poachers had
halted, and was there completely at fault: snuffing the ground, he
bayed, wheeled round, and then set off with renewed barking upon
their track. Huidi Badger and his comrades loitered an instant
at the same place, looked warily round, and then, as Luke con-
jectured, followed the course taken by the hound.

Swift as thought, Luke arose, and keeping as much as possible
under cover of the trees, started in a cross lane for the line. Rapid
as was his flight, it was not without a witness : one of the keeper's
assistants, who had lagged behind, gave the view-halloo in a loud
voice. Luke pressed forward with redoubled energy, endeavouring
to gain the shelter of the plantation, and this he could readily
have accomplished, had no impediment been in his way. But his
rage and vexation were boundless, when he heard the keeper's cry
echoed by shouts immediately below him, and the tongue of the
hound resounding in the hollow. He turned sharply round, steer-
ing a middle course, and still aiming at the fence. It was evi-
dent, from the cheers of his pursuers, that he was in full view, and
he heard them encouraging and directing the dog.

Luke had gained the park palings, along which he rushed, in the
vain quest of some practicable point of egress, for the fence was
higher in this part of the park than elsewhere, owing to the in-
equality of the ground. He had cast away his gun as useless.
But even without that incumbrance, he dared not hazard the delay
of climbing the palings. At this juncture a deep breathing was

ROOKWOOD. 21

heard close behind him. He threw a glance over his shoulder.
Within a few yards was a ferocious bloodhound, with whose savage
nature Luke was well acquainted; the breed, some of which he
had already seen, having been maintained at the hall ever since the
days of grim old SirRanulph. The eye-s of the hound were
glaring, blood-red ; his tongue was hanging out, and a row of
keen white fangs were displayed, like the teeth of a shark. There
was a growl — a leap — and the dog was close upon him.

Luke's courage was undoubted. But his heart failed him as he
heard the roar of the remorseless brute, and felt that he could not
avoid an encounter with the animal. His resolution was instantly
taken : he stopped short with such suddenness, that the dog, when
in the act of springing, flew past him with great violence, and the
time, momentary as it was, occupied by the animal in recovering
himself, enabled Luke to drop on his knee, and to place one arm,
like a buckler, before his face, while he held the other in readiness
to grapple his adversary. Uttering a fierce yell, the hound re-
turned to the charge, darting at Luke, who received the assault
without flinching; and in spite of a severe laceration of the arm,
he seized his foe by the throat, and hurling him upon the ground,
jumped with all his force upon his belly. There was a yell of
agony — the contest was ended, and Luke was at liberty to pursue
his flight unmolested.

Brief as had been the interval required for this combat, it had
been sufficient to bring the pursuers within sight of the fugitive.
Hugh Badger, who from the acclivity had witnessed the fate of
his favourite, with a loud oath discharged the contents of his
gun at the head of its destroyer. It was fortunate for Luke
that at this instant he stumbled over the root of a tree — the shot
rattled in the leaves as he fell, and the keeper, concluding that he
had at least winged his bird, descended more leisurely towards him.
As he lay upon the ground, Luke felt that he was wounded ;
whether by the teeth of the dog, from a stray shot, or from bruises
inflicted by the fall, he could not determine. But, smarting with
pain, he resolved to wreak his vengeance upon the first person who
approached him. He vowed not to be taken with life — to strangle
any who should lay hands upon him. At that moment he felt a
pressure at his breast. It was the dead hand of his mother !

Luke shuddered. The fire of revenge was quenched. He men-
tally cancelled his rash oath ; yet he could not bring himself to sur-
render at discretion, and without further effort. The keeper and
his assistants were approaching the spot where he lay, and search-
ing for his body. Hugh Badger was foremost, and within a yard
of him.

"Confound the rascal!" cried Hugh, "he's not half killed; he
seems to breathe."

The words were scarcely out of his mouth ere the speaker was

22 EOOKWOOD.

dashed backwards, and lay sprawling upon the sod. Suddenly and
unexpectedly, as an Indian chief might rush upon his foes, Luke
arose, dashing himself with great violence against Hugh, who
happened to stand in his way, and before the startled assistants,
who were either too much taken by surprise, or unwilling to draw
a trigger, could in any way lay hands upon him, exerting all the
remarkable activity which he possessed, he caught hold of a pro-
jecting, branch of a tree, and swung himself, at a single bound,
fairly over the paling.

Hugh Badger was shortly on his legs, swearing lustily at his
defeat. Directing his men to skirt alongside the fence, and make
for a particular part of the plantation which he named, and snatch-
ing a loaded fowling-piece from one of them, he clambered over
the pales, and guided by the crashing branches, and other sounds
conveyed to his quick ear, he was speedily upon Luke's track.

The plantation through which the chase now took place was
not, as might be supposed, a continuation of the ring fence which
Luke had originally crossed, on his entrance into the park, though
girded by the same line of paling, but, in reality, a close pheasant
preserve, occupying the banks of a ravine, which, after a deep and
tortuous course, terminated in the declivity heretofore described
as forming the park boundary. Luke plunged into the heart of
this defile, fighting his way downwards, in the direction of the
brook. His progress was impeded by a thick undergrowth of brier,
and other matted vegetation, as well as by the entanglements
thrown in his way by the taller bushes of thorn and hazel, the
entwined and elastic branches of which, in their recoil, galled and
fretted him, by inflicting smart blows on his face and hands. This
was a hardship he usually little regarded. But, upon the present
occasion, it had the effect, by irritating his temper, of increasing
the thirst of vengeance raging in his bosom.

Through the depths of the ravine welled the shallow stream be-
fore alluded to, and Hugh Badger had no sooner reached its sedgy
margin than he lost all trace of the fugitive. He looked cautiously
round, listened intently, and inclined his ear to catch the faintest
echo. All was still : not a branch shook, not a leaf rustled. Hugh
looked aghast. He had made sure of getting a glimpse, and,
perhaps, a stray shot at the " poaching rascal," as he termed him,
" in the open space, which he was sure the fellow was aiming to
reach ; and now, all at once, he had disappeared, like a will-o'-the-
wisp or a boggart of the dough." However, he could not be far
off, and Hugh endeavoured to obtain some clue to guide him in
his quest. He was not long in detecting recent marks deeply in-
dented in the mud on the opposite bank. Hugh leaped thither at
once. Further on, some rushes were trodden down, and there
were other indications of the course the fugitive had taken.

"Hark forward!" shouted Hugh, in the joy of his heart at this
discovery; and, like a well-trained dog, he followed up with

ROOKWOOD. 23

alacrity the scent he had opened. The brook presented still fewer
impediments to expedition than the thick copse, and the keeper
pursued the wanderings of the petty current, occasionally splash-
ing into the stream; Here and there, the print of a foot on the
sod satisfied him he was in the right path. At length he became
aware, from the crumbling soil, that the object of his pursuit had
scaled the bank, and he forthwith moderated his pace. Halting,
he perceived what he took to be a nice peeping at him from be-
hind a knot of alders that overhung the steep and shelving bank
immediately above him. His gun was instantly at his shoulder.

u Come down, you infernal deer-stealing scoundrel," crid Hugh,
u or I'll blow you to shivers."

No answer was returned: expostulation was vain; and, fearful
of placing himelf at a disadvantage if he attempted to scale the
bank, Hugh fired without further parley. The sharp discharge
rolled in echoes down the ravine, and a pheasant, scared by the
sound, answered the challenge from a neishbourin<r tree. Huirh
was an unerring marksman, and on this occasion his aim had been
steadily taken. The result was not precisely such as he had an-
ticipated. A fur cap, shaken by the shot from the bough on
which it hung, came rolling down the bank, proclaiming the ruse
that had been practised upon the keeper. Little time was allowed
him for reflection. Before he could reload, he felt himself col-
lared by the iron arm of Luke.

Hugh Badger was a man of great personal strength — square-
set, bandy-legged, with a prodigious width of chest, and a frame
like a Hercules, and, energetic as was Luke's assault, he main-
tained his ground without flinching. The struggle was desperate.
Luke was of slighter proportion, though exceeding the keeper in
stature by the head and shoulders. This superiority availed him
little. It was rather a disadvantage in the conflict that ensued.
The gripe fastened upon Hugh's throat was like that of a clenched
vice. But Luke might as well have grappled the neck of a bull,
as that of the stalwart keeper. Defending himself with his hob-
nail boots, with which he inflicted several severe blows upon
Luke's shins, and struggling vehemently, Hugh succeeded in ex-
tricating himself from his throttling grasp ; he then closed with
his foe, and they were locked together like a couple of bears at
play. Straining, tugging, and practising every sleight and strata-
gem coming within the scope of feet, knees, and thighs — now
tripping, now jerking, now advancing, now retreating, they con-
tinued the strife, but all with doubtful result. Victory, at length,
seemed to declare itself in favour of the sturdy keeper. Aware of
his opponent's strength, it was Luke's chief endeavour to keep his
lower limbs disengaged, and to trust more to skill than force for
ultimate success. To prevent this was Hugh's grand object.
Guarding himself against every feint, he ultimately succeeded in
firmly grappling his agile assailant. Luke's spine was almost

24 ROOKWOOD.

broken by the shock, when he suddenly gave way; and, without
losing his balance, drew his adversary forward, kicking his right
leg from under him. With a crash like that of an uprooted oak,
Hugh fell, with his foe upon him, into the bed of the rivulet.

Not a word had been spoken during the conflict. A convul-
sive groan burst from Hugh's hardy breast. His hand sought his
girdle, but in vain; his knife was gone. Gazing upwards, his
dancing vision encountered the glimmer of the blade. The
weapon had dropped from its case in the fall. Luke brandished
it before his eyes.

" Villain!" gasped Hugh, ineffectually struggling to free him-
self, "you will not murder me?" And his efforts to release him-
self became desperate.

" No," answered Luke, flinging the uplifted knife into the
brook. "I will not do that, though thou hast twice aimed at my
life to-night. But 1 will silence thee, at all events." Saying
which, he dealt the keeper a blow on the head that terminated all
further resistance on his part.

Leaving the inert mass to choke up the current, with whose
waters the blood,oozing from the wound, began to commingle,
Luke prepared to depart. His perils were not yet past. Guided
by the firing, the report of which alarmed them, the keeper's
assistants hastened in the direction of the sound, presenting them-
selves directly in the path Luke was about to take. He had either
to retrace his steps, or face a double enemy. His election was
made at once. He turned and fled.

For an instant the men tarried with their bleeding companion.
They then dragged him from the brook, and with loud oaths fol-
lowed in pursuit.

Threading, for a second time, the bosky labyrinth, Luke sought
the source of the stream. This was precisely the course his enemies
would have desired him to pursue; and when they beheld him
take it, they felt confident of his capture.

The sides of the hollow became more and more abrupt as they
advanced, though they were less covered with brushwood. The
fugitive made no attempt to climb the bank, but still pressed for-
ward. The road was tortuous, and wround round a jutting point
of rock. Now he was a fair mark — no, he had swTept swriftly by,
and was out of sight before a gun could be raised. They reached
the same point. He was still before them, but his race was nearly
run. Steep, slippery rocks, shelving down to the edges of a small,
deep pool of water, the .source of the stream, formed an apparently
insurmountable barrier in that direction. Rooted (Heaven knows
how !) in some reft or fissure of the rock, grew a wild ash, throw-
ing out a few boughs over the solitary pool ; this was all the sup-
port Luke could hope for, should he attempt to scale the rock.
The rock was sheer — the pool deep — yet still he hurried on. He

ROOKWOOD. 25

readied the muddy embankment; mounted its sides; and seemed
to hesitate. The keepers were now within a hundred yards of
him. Both guns were discharged. And, sudden as the reports,
with a dead, splashless plunge, like a diving otter, the fugitive
dropped into the water.

The pursuers were at the brink. They gazed at the pool. A
few bubbles floated upon its surface, and burst. The water was
slightly discoloured with sand. No ruddier stain crimsoned the
tide; no figure rested on the naked rock; no hand clung to the
motionless tree.

" Devil take the rascal!" growled one; "I hope he harn't
escaped us, arter all."

u Noa, noa, he be fast enough, never fear," rejoined the other ;
" sticking like a snig at the bottom o' the pond ; and, dang him !
he deserves it, for he's slipp'd out of our fingers like a snig often
enough to-night. But come, let's be stumping, and give poor
Hugh Badger a helping hand."

Whereupon they returned to the assistance of the wounded and
discomfited keeper.

CHAPTER IV.

THE HALL.

I am right against my house — seat of my ancestors.

Yorkshire Tragedy.

KoOKWOOD Place was a fine, old, irregular pile, of considerable
size, presenting a rich, picturesque outline, with its innumerable
gable-ends, its fantastical coigns, and ta'll crest of twisted chim-
neys. There was no uniformity of style about the building, yet
the general effect was pleasing and beautiful. Its very irregularity
constituted a charm. Nothing except convenience had been con-
sulted in its construction : additions had from time to time been
made to it, but everything dropped into its proper place, and,
without apparent effort or design, grew into an ornament, and
heightened the beauty of the whole. It was, in short, one of
those glorious manorial houses that sometimes unexpectedly greet
us in our wanderings, and gladden us like the discovery of a hidden
treasure. Some such ancestral hall we have occasionally encoun-
tered, in unlooked-for quarters, in our native county of Lancaster,
or in its smiling sister shire; and never without feelings of in-
tense delight, rejoicing to behold the freshness of its antiquity,
and the greenness of its old age. For, be it observed in passing,

26 ROOKWOOD.

a Cheshire or Lancashire hall, time-honoured though it be, with
its often renovated black and white squares, fancifully filled up
with trefoils and quatrefoils, rosettes, and other figures, seems
to bear its years so lightly, that its age, so far from detracting
from its beauty, only lends it a grace ; and the same mansion, to
all outward appearance, fresh and perfect as it existed in the days
of good Queen Bess, may be seen in admirable preservation in the
days of the youthful Victoria. Such is Bramall — such Moreton,
and many another we might instance; the former of these houses
may, perhaps, be instanced as the best specimen of its class (and
its class, in our opinion, 'is the best) to be met with in Cheshire,
considered with reference cither to the finished decoration of its
exterior, rich in the chequered colouring we have alluded to, pre-
served with a care and neatness almost Dutch, or to the consistent
taste exhibited by its possessor in the restoration and maintenance
of all its original and truly national beauty within doors. As an
illustration of old English hospitality (that real, hearty hospitality
for which the squirearchy of this country was once so famous —
ah ! why have they bartered it for other customs less substantially
English?) it may be mentioned, that a road conducted the pas-
senger directly through the great hall of this house, literally " of
entertainment," where, if he listed, strong ale, and other refresh-
ments, awaited his acceptance and courted his stay. Well might
old King, the Cheshire historian, in the pride of his honest heart,
exclaim, " I know divers men, who are but farmers, that in their
housekeeping may compare with a lord or baron, in some countries
beyond the seas ; — yea, although I named a higher degree, I icere
able to justify it." We have no such " golden farmers" in these
degenerate days !

The mansion was originally built by Sir Ranulph de Rookwood
(or, as it was then written, Rokewode), the first of the name, a
stout Yorkist, who flourished in the reign of Edward IV., and
received the fair domain and broad lands upon which the edifice
was raised, from his sovereign, in reward for good service ; retiring
thither in the decline of life, at the close of the wars of the Roses,
to sequestrate himself from scenes of strife, and to consult his
spiritual weal in the erection and endowment of the neighbouring
church. It was of mixed architecture, and combined the pecu-
liarities of each successive era. Retaining: some of the sterner
features of earlier days, the period ere yet the embattled manor-
house peculiar to the reigns of the later Henrys had been merged
in the graceful and peaceable hall, the residence of the Rookwoods
had early anticipated the gentler characteristics of a later day,
though it could boast little of that exuberance of external orna-
ment, luxuriance of design, and prodigality of beauty, which,
under the sway of the Virgin Queen, distinguished the residence
of the wealthier English landowner ; and rendered the hall of

ROOKWDOD. 27

Elizabeth, properly so called, the pride and boast of our domestic
architecture.

The site selected by Sir Ranulph for his habitation had been
already occupied by a vast fabric of oak, which he in part removed,
though some vestiges might still be traced of that ancient pile. A
massive edifice succeeded, with gate and tower, court and moat
complete; substantial enough, one would have thought, to have
endured for centuries. But even this ponderous structure grew
into disuse, and Sir Ranulph's successors, remodelling, repairing,
almost rebuilding the whole mansion, in the end so metamor-
phosed its aspect, that at last little of its original and distinctive
character remained. Still, as we said before, it was a fine old
house, though some changes had taken place for the worse, which
could not be readily pardoned by the eye of taste : as, for instance,
the deep embayed windows had dwindled into modernised case-
ments, of lighter construction; the wide porch, with its flight of
steps leading to the great hall of entrance, had yielded to a narrow
door ; and the broad quadrangular court was succeeded by a
gravel drive. Yet, despite all these changes, the house of the
Kookwoods, for an old house (and, after all, what is like an old
house?), was no undesirable or uncongenial abode for any wor-
shipful country gentleman " who had a great estate."

The hall was situated near the base of a gently declining hill,
terminating a noble avenue of limes, and partially embosomed in
an immemorial wood of the same timber, which had given its
name to the family that dwelt amongst it rook-haunted shades.
Descending the avenue, at the point of access afforded by a road
that wound down the hill-side, towards a village distant about
half a mile, as you advanced, the eye was first arrested by a
singular octagonal turret of brick, of more recent construction
than the house ; and in all probability occupying the place where
the gateway stood of yore. This tower rose to a height cor-
responding with the roof of the mansion; and was embellished
on the side facing the house with a flamingly gilt dial, peering,
like an impudent observer, at all that passed within doors. Two
apartments, which it contained, were appropriated to the house-
porter. Despoiled of its martial honours, the gateway still dis-
played the achievements of the family — the rook and the fatal
branch — carved in granite, which had resisted the storms of two
centuries, though stained green with moss, and mapped over with
lichens. To the left, overgrown with ivy, and peeping from out
a tuft of trees, appeared the hoary summit of a dovecot, indicating
the near neighbourhood of an ancient barn, contemporary with
the earliest dwelling-house, and of a little world of offices and
out-buildings buried in the thickness of the foliage. To the right
was the garden — the pleasaunce of the place — formal, precise, old-
fashioned, artificial, yet exquisite ! — (for commend us to the bygone,

28 ROOKWOOD.

beautiful English garden — really a garden — not that mixture of
park, meadow, and wilderness,* brought up to one's very windows
— which, since the days of the innovators, Kent, and his " bold
associates," Capability Brown and Co., has obtained so largely) —
this ivas a garden! There might be seen the stately terraces,
such as Watteau, and our own Wilson, in his earlier works,
painted — the trim alleys exhibiting all the triumphs of topiarian
art —

The sidelong walls
Of shaven yew ; the holly s prickly arms,
Trimm'd into high arcades; the tonsile box,
Wove in mosaic mode of many a curl,
Around the figured carpet of the lawn ;\

the gayest of parterres and greenest of lawns, with its admonitory
sun-dial, its marble basin in the centre, its fountain, and conched
water-god; the quaint summer-house, surmounted with its gilt
vane; the statue, glimmering from out its covert of leaves; the cool
cascade, the urns, the bowers, and a hundred luxuries beside, sug-
gested and contrived by Art to render Nature most enjoyable,
and to enhance the recreative delights of home-out-of-doors (for
such a garden should be), with least sacrifice of in-door comfort
and convenience.

When JEpicurus to the world had taught,
That pleasure was the chiefest good
(And was perhaps i' W right \ if rightly understood),

His life he to his doctrine brought —

And iti his gardens shade that sovereign pleasure sought. %

All these delights might once have been enjoyed. But at the
time of which we write, this fair garden was for the most part a
waste. Ill kept, and unregarded, the gay parterres were disfigured
with weeds; grass grew on the gravel walk; several of the urns
were overthrown ; the hour upon the dial was untold ; the fountain

* Payne Knight, the scourge of Repton and his school, speaking of the
licence indulged in by the modern landscape-gardeners, thus vents his indig-
nation :

But here, once more, ye rural muses weep

The ivy'd balustrade, and terrace steep ;

Walls, mellowed into harmony by time,

On which fantastic creepers used to climb ;

While statues, labyrinths, and alleys pent

Within their bounds, at least were innocent ! —

Our modern taste (alas !) no limit knows ;

O'er hill, o'er dale, through wood and field it flows ;

Spreading o'er all its unprolific spawn,

In never-ending sheets of vapid lawn.

The Landscape, a didactic Poem,

addressed to Uvedale Price, Esq.
f Mason's English Garden. % Cowley.

ROOKWOOD. 29

was choked up, and the smooth-shaven lawn only rescued, it would
seem, from the general fate, that it might answer the purpose of a
bowling-green, as the implements of that game, scattered about,
plainly testified.

Diverging from the garden to the house, we have before re-
marked that the more ancient and characteristic features of the
place had been, for the most part, destroyed ; less by the hand of
time than to suit the tastes of different proprietors. This, how-
ever, was not so observable in the eastern wing, which overlooked
the garden. Here might be discerned many indications of its
antiquity. The strength and solidity of the walls, which had not
been, as elsewhere, masked with brickwork; the low, Tudor arches ;
the mullioned bars of the windows — all attested its age. This
wing was occupied by an upper and lower gallery, communicating
with suites of chambers, for the most part deserted, excepting one
or two, which were used as dormitories; and another little room
on the ground-floor, with an oriel window opening upon the lawn,
and commanding the prospect beyond — a favourite resort of the
late Sir Piers. The interior was curious for its honeycomb ceiling,
deeply moulded in plaster, with the arms and alliances of the
Kookwoods. In the centre was the royal blazon of Elizabeth, who
had once honoured the hall with a visit during a progress, and
whose cipher 15. 3H. was also displayed upon the immense plate of
iron which formed the fire-grate.

To return, for a moment, to the garden, which we linger about
as a bee around a flower. Below the lawn there was another ter-
race, edged by a low balustrade of stone, commanding a lovely
view of park, water, and woodland. Pligh hanging- woods wravcd
in the foreground, and an extensive sweep of flat champaign
country stretched out to meet a line of blue, hazy hills bounding
the distant horizon.

CHAPTER V.

SIR REGINALD R00KW00D.

Un homme qui ckaugeait de femmes, comme une femme de robes. II repudia
la premiere, il nt couper la tete a la seconde, il fit ouvrir le ventre a la troisieme :
quant a la quatrieine, il lui fit grace, il la chassa ; mais en revanche il fit couper
la tete a la cinquieme. Ce n'est pas le conte de Barbe-Bleue que je vous rais
la, e'est de l'histoire. — Victor Hugo : Marie Tudor.

From the house to its inhabitants the transition is natural.
Besides the connexion between them, there were many points of
resemblance ; many family features in common ; there was the same
melancholy grandeur, the same character of romance, the same
fantastical display. Nor were the secret passages, peculiar to the

30 EOOKWOOD.

one, wanting to the history of the other. Both had their mysteries.
One blot there was in the otherwise proud escutcheon of the Rook-
woods, that dimmed its splendour, and made pale its pretensions :
their sun was eclipsed in blood from its rising to its meridian; and
so it seemed would be its setting. This foul reproach attached to
all the race; none escaped it. Traditional rumours were handed
down from father to son, throughout the county, and, like all other
rumours, had taken to themselves wings, and flown abroad : their
crimes became a by-word. How was it they escaped punishment?
How came they to evade the hand of justice? Proof was ever
wanting; justice was ever baffled. They were a stern and stiff-
necked people, of indomitable pride and resolution, with, for the
most part, force of character sufficient to enable them to breast
difficulties and dangers that would have overwhelmed ordinary
individuals. No quality is so advantageous to its possessor as
firmness ; and the determined energy of the Rookwoods bore them
harmless through a sea of troubles. Besides, they were wealthy;
lavish even to profusion ; and gold will do much, if skilfully ad-
ministered. Yet, despite all this, a dark, ominous cloud settled
over their house, and men wondered when the vengeance of
Heaven, so long delayed, would fall and consume it.

Possessed of considerable landed property, once extending over
nearly half the West Riding of Yorkshire, the family increased in
power and importance for an uninterrupted series of years, until
the outbreak of that intestine discord which ended in the civil wars,
when the espousal of the royalist party, with sword and substance,
by Sir Ralph Rook wood, the then lord of the mansion (a dissolute,
depraved personage, who, however, had been made a Knight of the
Bath at the coronation of Charles I.), ended in his own destruction
at Naseby, and the wreck of much of his property ; a loss which
the gratitude of Charles II., on his restoration, did not fail to make
good to Sir Ralph's youthful heir, Reginald.

Sir Ralph Rookwood left two sons, Reginald and Alan. The
fate of the latter was buried in obscurity. It was even a mystery
to his family. He was, it was said, a youth of much promise, and
of gentle manners; who, having made an imprudent match, from
jealousy, or some other motive, deserted his wife, and fled his
country. Various reasons were assigned for his conduct. Amongst
others, it was stated that the object of Alan's jealous suspicions was
his elder brother, Reginald ; and that it was the discovery of his
wife's infidelity in this quarter which occasioned his sudden dis-
appearance with his infant daughter. Some said he died abroad.
Others, that he had appeared again for a brief space at the hall.
But all now concurred in a belief of his decease. Of his child
nothing was known. His inconstant wife, after endurin^ for some
years the agonies of remorse, abandoned by Sir Reginald, and ne-
glected by her own relatives, put an end to her existence by poison.

ROOKWOOD. 31

This is all that could be gathered of the story, or the misfortunes
of Alan Rookwood.

The young Sir Reginald had attended Charles, in the character
of page, during his exile ; and if he could not requite the devotion
of the son, by absolutely reinstating the fallen fortunes of the
father, the monarch could at least accord him the fostering in-
fluence of his favour and countenance; and bestow upon him
certain lucrative situations in his household, as an earnest of his
good-will. And thus much he did. Remarkable for his personal
attractions in youth, it is not to be wondered at that we should
find the name of Reginald Rookwood recorded in the scandalous
chronicles of the day, as belonging to a cavalier of infinite address
and discretion, matchless wit, and marvellous pleasantry; and
eminent beyond his peers for his successes with some of the most
distinguished beauties who ornamented that brilliant and volup-
tuous court.

A career of elegant dissipation ended in matrimony. His first
match was unpropitious. Foiled in his attempts upon the chastity
of a lady of great beauty and high honour, he was rash enough to
marry her; rash, we say, for from that fatal hour all became as
darkness; the curtain fell upon the comedy of his life, to rise to
tragic horrors. When passion subsided, repentance awoke, and
he became anxious for deliverance from the fetters he had so
heedlessly imposed on himself, and on his unfortunate dame.

The hapless lady of Sir Reginald was a fair and fragile creature,
floating on the eddying current of existence, and hurried to destruc-
tion as the summer gossamer is swept away by the rude breeze, and
lost for ever. So beautiful, so gentle was she, that if,

Sorrow had not made
Sorrow more beautiful than Beauty's self,

it would have been difficult to say whether the charm of softness
and sweetness was more to be admired than her faultless personal
attractions. But when a tinge of melancholy came saddening and
shading the once smooth and smiling brow; when tears dimmed
the blue beauty of those deep and tender eyes; when hot, hectic
flushes supplied the place of healthful bloom, and despair took
possession of her heart, then was it seen what was the charm of
Lady Rookwood, if charm that could be called which was a sad-
dening sight to see, and melted the beholder's soul within him.
All acknowledged, that exquisite as she had been before, the sad,
sweet lady was now more exquisite still.

Seven moons had waned and flown — seven bitter, tearful moons
— and each day Lady Rookwood's situation claimed more sooth-
ing attention at the hand of her lord. About this time his wife's
brother, whom he hated, returned from the Dutch wars. Struck
with his sister's altered appearance, he readily divined the cause;

32 ROOKWOOD.

indeed, all tongues were eager to proclaim it to him. Passionately
attached to her, Lionel Vavasour implored an explanation of the
cause of his sister's griefs. The bewildered lady answered evasively,
attributing her wobegone looks to any other cause than her hus-
band's cruelty; and pressing her brother, as he valued her peace,
her affection, never to allude to the subject again. The fiery
youth departed. He next sought out his brother-in-law, and
taxed him sharply with his inhumanity, adding threats to his
upbraidings. Sir Reginald listened silently and calmly. When
the other had finished, with a sarcastic obeisance, he replied,
" Sir, I am much beholden for the trouble you have taken in
your sister's behalf. But when she entrusted herself to my
keeping, she relinquished, I conceive, all claim on your guardian-
ship: however, I thank you for the trouble you have taken;
but, for your own sake, I would venture to caution you against a
repetition of interference like the present."

" And I, sir, caution you. See that you give heed to my
words, or, by the heaven above us ! I will enforce attention to
them."

" You will find me, sir, as prompt at all times to defend my
conduct, as I am unalterable in my purposes. Your sister is my
wife. What more would you have? Were she a harlot, you
should have her back and welcome. The fool is virtuous. Devise
some scheme, and take her with you hence — so you rid me of her
I am content."

" Rookwood, you are a villain." And Vavasour spat upon his
brother's cheek.

Sir Reginald's eyes blazed. His sword started from its scab-
bard. "Defend yourself!" he exclaimed, furiously attacking
Vavasour. Pass after pass was exchanged. Fierce thrusts were
made and parried. Feint and appeal, the most desperate and
dexterous, were resorted to. Their swords glanced like lightning
flashes. In the struggle, the blades became entangled. There
was a moment's cessation. Each glanced at the other with deadly,
inextinguishable hate. Both were admirable masters of the art of
defence. Both were so brimful of wrath as to be regardless of
consequences. They tore back their weapons. Vavasour's blade
shivered. He was at the mercy of his adversary — an adversary
who knew no mercy. Sir Reginald passed his rapier through his
brother's body. The hilt struck against his ribs.

Sir Reginald's ire was kindled, not extinguished, by the deed
he had done. Like the tiger, he had tasted blood — like the
tiger, he thirsted for more. He sought his home. He was greeted
by his wife. Terrified by his looks, she yet summoned courage
sufficient to approach him. She embraced his arm — she clasped
his hand. Sir Reginald smiled. His smile was cutting as his
dagger's edge.

Ci What ails you, sweetheart?" said he.

ROOKWOOD. 33

"I know not; your smile frightens me."

" My smile frightens you — fool ! be thankful that I frown not."

" Oh ! do not frown. Be gentle, my Reginald, as you were
when first I knew you. Smile not so coldly, but as you did then,
that I may, for one instant, dream you love me."

" Silly wench ! There — I do smile."

" That smile freezes me. Oh, Reginald, could you but know
what I have endured this morning, on your account. My brother
Lionel has been here."

"Indeed!"

" Nay, look not so. He insisted on knowing the reason of my
altered appearance."

"And no doubt you made him acquainted with the cause.
You told him your version of the story."

" Not a word, as I hope to live."

"A lie!"

" By my truth, no."

" A lie, I say. He avouched it to me himself."

" Impossible ! He could not — would not disobey me."

Sir Reginald laughed bitterly.

" He would not, I am sure, give utterance to any scandal,"
continued Lady Rookwood. " You say this but to try me, do
you not? — ha! what is this? Your hand is bloody. You have
not harmed him? Whose blood is this?"

" Your brother spat upon my cheek. I. have washed out the
stain," replied Sir Reginald, coldly.

" Then it is his blood !" shrieked Lady Rookwood, pressing her
hands shudderingly before her eyes. " Is he dead?"

Sir Reginald turned awav.

" Stay," she cried, exerting her feeble strength to retain him,
and becoming white as ashes, " abide and hear me. You have
killed me, I feel, by your cruelty. I am sinking fast — dying. I,
who loved you, only you ; yes, one beside — my brother, and you
have slain him. Your hands are dripping in his blood, and I
have kissed them — have clasped them ! And now," continued
she, with an energy that shook Sir Reginald, "I hate you — I
renounce you — for ever ! May my dying words ring in your ears
on your death-bed, for that hour will come. You cannot shun that.
Then think o£him! think of me!"

" Away ! " interrupted Sir Reginald, endeavouring to shake
her off.

" I will not away ! I will cling to you — will curse you. My
unborn child shall live to curse you — to requite you — to visit my
wrongs on you and yours. Weak as I am, you shall not cast me
off. You shall learn to fear even me"

" I fear nothing living, much less a frantic woman."

" Fear the dead, then."

There was a struggle — a blow — and the wretched lady sank,

34 ROOKWOOD.

shrieking, upon the floor. Convulsions seized her. A mother's
pains succeeded fierce and fast. She spoke no more, but died
within the hour, giving birth to a female child.

Eleanor Rookwood became her father's idol — her father's bane.
All the love he had to bestow was centred in her. She returned
it not. She fled from his caresses. With all her mother's beautv,
she had all her father's pride. Sir Reginald's every thought was
for his daughter — for her aggrandisement. In vain. She seemed
only to endure him, and while his affection waxed stronger, and
entwined itself round her alone, she withered beneath his embraces
as the shrub withers in the clasping folds of the parasite plant.

She grew towards womanhood. Suitors thronged around her
— gentle and noble ones. Sir Reginald watched them with a
jealous eye. He was wealthy, powerful, high in royal favour; —
and could make his own election. He did so. For the first
time, Eleanor promised obedience to his wishes. They accorded
with her own humour. The day was appointed. It came. But
with it came not the bride. She had lied, with the humblest
and the meanest of the pretenders to her hand — with one upon
whom Sir Reginald supposed she had not deigned to cast her
eyes. He endeavoured to forget her, and, to all outward seem-
ing, was successful in the effort. But he felt that the curse was
upon him; the undying flame scorched his heart.

Once, and once only, they met again, in France, whither she
had wandered. It was a dread encounter — terrible to both ; but
most so to Sir Reginald. He spoke not of her afterwards.

Shortly after the death of his first wife, Sir Reginald had made
proposals to a dowager of distinction, with a handsome jointure,
one of his early attachments, and was, without scruple, accepted.
The power of the family might then be said to be at its zenith ;
and but for certain untoward circumstances, and the growing in-
fluence of his enemies, Sir Reginald would have been elevated to
the peerage. Like most reformed spendthrifts, he had become
proportionately avaricious, and his mind seemed engrossed in
accumulating wealth. In the mean time, his second wife followed
her predecessor, dying, it was said, of vexation and disappoint-
ment.

The propensity to matrimony, always a distinguishing charac-
teristic of the Rookwoods, largely displayed itself in Sir Reginald.
Another dame followed — equally rich, younger, and far more beau-
tiful than her immediate predecessor. She was a prodigious flirt,
and soon set her husband at defiance. Sir Reginald did not con-
descend to expostulate. It was not his way. He effectually pre-
vented any recurrence of her indiscretions. She was removed,
and with her expired Sir Reginald's waning popularity. So strong
was the expression of odium against him, that he thought it
prudent to retire to his mansion in the country, and there alto-
gether seclude himself. One anomaly in Sir Reginald's other-

ROOKWOOD. 35

wise utterly selfish character was uncompromising devotion to the
house of Stuart; and shortly after the abdication of James II.,
he followed that monarch to Saint Germain, having previously
mixed largely in secret political intrigues ; and only returned
from the French court to lay his bones with those of his an-
cestry, in the family vault at Kookwood.

CHAPTER VI.

SIR PIERS ROOKWOOD.

My old master kept a good house, and twenty or thirty tall sword-and-bucklcr
men about him ; and in faith his son differs not much ; he will have metal too ;
though he has no store of cutler's blades, he will have plenty of vintners' pots.
His father kept a good house for honest men, his tenants that brought him in
part ; and his son keeps a bad house with knaves that help to consume all : 'tis
but the change of time : why should any man repine at it ? Crickets, good,
loving, and lucky worms, were wont to feed, sing, and rejoice in the father's
chimney ; and now carrion crows build in the son's kitchen.

Wilkin s : Miseries of Enforced Marriage.

Sir Reginald died, leaving issue three children: a daughter,
the before-mentioned Eleanor (who, entirely discountenanced by the
family, had been seemingly forgotten by all but her father), and
two sons by his third wife. Reginald, the eldest, whose military
tnste had early procured him the command of a company of horse,
and whose politics did not coalesce with those of his sire, fell,
during his father's lifetime, at Killiecrankie, under the banners of
William. Piers, therefore, the second son, succeeded to the title.

A very different character, in many respects, from his father
and brother, holding in supreme dislike courts and courtiers, party
warfare, political intrigue, and all the subtleties of Jesuitical diplo-
macy, neither having any inordinate relish for camps or campaigns,
Sir Piers Rookwood yet displayed in early life one family propen-
sity, viz., unremitting devotion to the sex. Among his other mis-
tresses was the unfortunate Susan Bradley, to whom by some he
was supposed to have been clandestinely united. In early youth,
as has been stated, Sir Piers professed the faith of Rome, but
shortly after the death of his beautiful mistress (or wife, as it might
be), having quarrelled with his father's confessor, Checkley, he
publicly abjured his heresies. Sir Piers subsequently allied him-
self to Maud, only daughter of Sir Thomas D'Aubeny, the last of
a line as proud and intolerant as his own. The tables were then
turned Lady Rookwood usurped sovereign sway over her lord,
and Sir Piers, a cipher in his own house, scarce master of himself,
much less of his dame, endured an existence so miserable, that he

D 2

$6 ROOKWOOD.

was often heard to regret, in his cups, that he had not inherited,
with the estate of his forefathers, the family secret of shaking off
the matrimonial yoke, when found to press too hardly.

At the onset, Sir Piers struggled hard to burst his bondage.
But in vain — he was fast fettered; and only bruised himself, like
the caged lark, against the bars of his prison-house. Abandoning
all further effort at emancipation, he gave himself up to the usual
resource of a weak mind, debauchery; and drank so deeply to
drown his cares, that, in the end, his hale constitution yielded to
his excesses. It was even said, that remorse at his abandonment
of the faith of his fathers had some share in his misery ; and that
his old spiritual, and if report spoke truly, sinful adviser, Father
Checkley, had visited him secretly at the hall. Sir Piers was ob-
served to shudder whenever the priest's name was mentioned.

Sir Piers Rookwood was a good-humoured man in the main,
had little of the old family leaven about him, and was esteemed
by his associates. Of late, however, his temper became soured,
and his friends deserted him ; for, between his domestic annoy-
ances, remorseful feelings, and the inroads already made upon his
constitution by constant inebriety, he grew so desperate and
insane in his revels, and committed such fearful extravagances,
that even his boon companions shrank from his orgies. Fearful
were the scenes between him and Lady Rookwood upon these
occasions — appalling to the witnesses, dreadful to themselves.
And it was, perhaps, their frequent recurrence, that, more than
anything else, banished all decent society from the hall.

At the time of Sir Piers's decease, which brings us down to the
date of our story, his son and successor, Ranulph, was absent on
his travels. Shortly after the completion of his academical edu-
cation, he had departed to make the tour of the Continent, and
had been absent rather better than a year. He had quitted his
father in displeasure, and was destined never again to see his face
while living. The last intelligence received of young Rookwood
was from Bordeaux, whence it was thought he had departed for
the Pyrenees. A special messenger had been despatched in
search of him, with tidings of the melancholy event. But, as it
was deemed improbable by Lady Rookwood that her son could
return within any reasonable space, she gave directions for the
accomplishment of the funeral rites of her husband on the sixth
night after his decease (it being the custom of the Rookwoods
ever to inter their dead at midnight), intrusting their solemnisa-
tion entirely to the care of one of Sir Piers's hangers-on (Dr. Titus
Tyrconnel), for which she was greatly scandalised in the neigh-
bourhood.

Ranulph Rookwood was a youth of goodly promise. The stock
from which he sprang would on neither side warrant such conclu-
sion. But it sometimes happens that from the darkest elements
are compounded the brightest and subtlest substances ■ and so it

KOOKWOOD. 37

occurred in this instance. Fair, frank, and free — generous, open,
unsuspicious — he seemed the very opposite of all his race — their
antagonising principle. Capriciously indulgent, his father had
allowed him ample means, neither curbing nor restraining his
expenditure ; acceding at one moment to every inclination, and
the next irresolutely opposing it. It was impossible, therefore, for
him, in such a state of things, to act decidedly, without incurring
his father's displeasure ; and the only measure he resolved upon,
which was to absent himself for a time, was conjectured to have
brought about the result he had endeavoured to avoid. Other
reasons, however, there were, which secretly influenced him, which
it will be our business in due time to detail.

CHAPTER VII.

THE RETURN.

Flam. How croaks the raven ?

Is our good Duchess dead ?
Loci. Dead. "Webster.

The time of the sad ceremonial drew nigh. The hurrying of
the domestics to and fro : the multifarious arrangements for the
night; the distribution of the melancholy trappings, and the dis-
cussion of the " funeral-baked meats," furnished abundant occu-
pation within doors. Without, there was a constant stream of the
tenantry, thronging down the avenue, mixed with an occasional
horseman, once or twice intercepted by a large lumbering car-
riage, bringing friends of the deceased, some really anxious to pay
the last tribute of regard, but the majority attracted by the anti-
cipated spectacle of a funeral by torchlight. There were others,
indeed, to whom it was not matter of choice; who were compelled,
by a vassal tenure of their lands, held of the house of Rookwood,
to lend a shoulder to the coffin, and a hand to the torch, on the
burial of its lord. Of these there was a plentiful muster collected
in the hall ; they were to be marshalled by Peter Bradley, who
was deemed to be well skilled in the proceedings, having been
present at two solemnities of the kind. That mysterious per-
sonage, however, had not made his appearance — to the great dis-
may of the assemblage. Scouts were sent in search of him, but
they returned with the intelligence that the door of his habitation
was fastened, and its inmate apparently absent. No other tidings
of the truant sexton could be obtained.

It was a sultry August evening. No breeze was stirring in the
garden; no cool dews refreshed the parched and heated earth;

38 ROOKWOOD.

yet from the languishing flowers rich sweets exhaled. The plash
of a fountain fell pleasantly upon the ear, conveying in its sound
a sense of freshness to the fervid air; while deep and drowsy
murmurs hummed heavily beneath the trees, making the twilight
slumberously musical. The westering sun, which filled the atmo-
sphere with flame throughout the day, was now wildly setting ;
and, as he sank behind the hall, its varied and picturesque tracery
became each instant more darkly and distinctly defined against the
-crimson sky.

At this juncture a little gate, communicating with the chase, was
thrown open, and a young man entered the garden, passing through
the shrubbery, and hurrying rapidly forward till he arrived at a
vista opening upon the house. The spot at which the stranger
halted was marked by a little basin, scantily supplied with water,
streaming from a lion's kingly jaws. His dress was travel- soiled,
and dusty ; and his whole appearance betokened great exhaustion
from heat and fatigue. Seating himself upon an adjoining bench,
he threw off his riding-cap, and unclasped his collar, displaying a
finely-turned head and neck ; and a countenance which, besides its
beauty, had that rare nobility of feature which seldom fails to the
lot of the aristocrat, but is never seen in one of an inferior order.
A restless disquietude of manner showed that he was suffering
from over-excitement of mind, as well as from bodily exertion.
His look was wild and hurried ; his black ringlets were dashed
heedlessly over a pallid, lofty brow, upon which care was prema-
turely written; while his large melancholy eyes were bent, with a
look almost of agony, upon the house before him.

After a short pause, and as if struggling against violent emotions,
and some overwhelming remembrance, the youth arose, and plunged
his hand into the basin, applying the moist element to his burning
brow. Apparently becoming more calm, he bent his steps towards
the hall, when two figures, suddenly issuing from an adjoining copse,
arrested his progress; neither saw him. Muttering a hurried fare-
well, one of the figures disappeared within the shrubbery, and the
other, confronting the stranger, displayed the harsh features and
gaunt form of Peter Bradley. Had Peter encountered the dead
Sir Piers in corporeal form, he could not have manifested more
surprise than he exhibited, for an instant or two, as he shrunk back
from the stranger's path.

ROOKWOOD. 39

CHAPTER VIII.

AN IRISH ADVENTURER.

Scapin. A most outrageous, roaring fellow, with a swelled red face inflamed
with brandy. — Cheats of Scapin.

An hour or two prior to the incident just narrated, in a small,
cosy apartment of the hall, nominally devoted to justiciary business
by its late owner, but, in reality, used as a sanctum, snuggery, or
smoking room, a singular trio were assembled, fraught with the
ulterior purpose of attending the obsequies of their deceased patron
and friend, though immediately occupied in the discussion of a
magnum of excellent claret, the bouquet of which perfumed the
air, like the fragrance of a bed of violets.

This little room had been poor Sir Piers's favourite retreat. It
was, in fact, the only room in the house that he could call his own ;
and thither would he often, with pipe and punch, beguile the
flagging hours, secure from interruption. A snug, old-fashioned
apartment it was; wainscoted witli rich black oak; with a fine old
cabinet of the same material, and a line or two of crazy, worm-
eaten bookshelves, laden with sundry dusty, unconsulted law
tomes, and a light sprinkling of the elder divines, equally ne-
glected. The only book, indeed, Sir Piers ever read, was the
u Anatomie of Melancholy ;" and he merely studied Burton be-
cause the quaint, racy style of the learned old hypochondriac
suited his humour at seasons, and gave a zest to his sorrows, such
as the olives lent to his wine.

Four portraits adorned the walls: those of Sir Reginald Rook-
Tvood and his wives. The ladies were attired in the flowing dra-
pery of Charles the Second's day, the snow of their radiant bosoms
being somewhat sullied by over exposure, and the vermeil tinting
of their cheeks darkened by the fumes of tobacco. There was a
shepherdess, with her taper crook, whose large, languishing eyes,
ripe pouting lips, ready to melt into kisses, and air of voluptuous
abandonment, scarcely suited the innocent simplicity of her cos-
tume. She was portrayed tending a flock of downy sheep, with
azure ribands round their necks, accompanied by one of those in-
valuable little dogs, whose length of ear, and siikiness of skin,
evinced him perfect in his breeding ; but whose large-eyed indif-
ference to his charge, proved him to be as much out of character
with his situation, as the refined and luxuriant charms of his mis-
tress were out of keeping with her artless attire. This was Sir
Piers's mother, the third wife, a beautiful woman, answering to

40 ROOKWOOD.

the notion of one who had been somewhat of a flirt in her day.
Next to her was a magnificent dame, with the throat and arm of a
Juno, and a superb bust — (the bust was then what the bustle is
now — a paramount attraction; whether the modification be an
improvement, we leave to the consideration of the lovers of the
beautiful) — this was the dowager. Lastly, there was the lovely
and ill-fated Eleanor. Every gentle grace belonging to this un-
fortunate lady had been stamped in undying beauty on the canvas
by the hand of Lely, breathing a spell on the picture, almost as
powerful as that which had dwelt around the exquisite original.
Over the high carved mantlepiece was suspended the portrait of
Sir Reginald. It had been painted in early youth; the features
were beautiful, disdainful, — with a fierceness breaking through the
courtly air. The eyes wrere very fine, black as midnight, and
piercing as those of Caesar Borgia, as seen in Raphael's wonderful
picture in the Borghese Palace at Rome. They seemed to fasci-
nate the gazer — to rivet his glances — to follow him whithersoever
he went — and to search into his soul, as did the dark orbs of Sir
Reginald in his lifetime. It was the work likewise of Lely, and
had all the fidelity and graceful refinement of that great master ;
nor was the haughty countenance of Sir Reginald unworthy the
patrician painter.

No portrait of Sir Piers was to be met with. But in lieu thereof,
depending from a pair of buck's horns, hung the worthy knight's
stained scarlet coat (the same in which he had ridden forth, with
the intent to hunt, on the eventful occasion detailed by Peter
Bradley), his velvet cap, his buck-handled whip, and the residue
of his equipment for the chase. This attire was reviewed with
melancholy interest and unaffected emotion by the company, as
reminding them forcibly of the departed, of which it seemed a
portion.

The party consisted of the vicar of Rookwood, Dr. Poly-
carp Small; Dr. Titus Tyrconnel, an emigrant, and empirical
professor of medicine, from the sister isle, whose convivial habits
had first introduced him to the hall, and afterwards retained him
there ; and Mr. Codicil Coates, clerk of the peace, attorney-at-law,
bailiff, and receiver. We were wrong in saying that Tyrconnel
was retained. He was an impudent, intrusive fellow, whom,
having once gained a footing in the house, it was impossible to
dislodge. He cared for no insult; perceived no slight; and pro-
fessed, in her presence, the profoundest respect for Lady Rook-
wood : in short, he was ever ready to do anything but depart.

Sir Piers was one of those people who cannot dine alone. He
disliked a solitary repast almost as much as a tete-a-tete with his
lady. He would have been recognised at once as the true Amphi-
tryon, had any one been hardy enough to play the part of Jupiter.
Ever ready to give a dinner, he found a difficulty arise, not usually

ROOKWOOD. 41

experienced on such occasions — there was no one upon whom to
bestow it. He had the best of wine; kept an excellent table; was
himself no niggard host; but his own merits, and those of his
cuisine, were forgotten in the invariable pendant to the feast ; and
the best of wine lost its flavour when the last bottle found its way
to the guest's head. Dine alone Sir Piers would not. And as his
old friends forsook him, he plunged lower in his search of society;
collecting within his house a class of persons whom no one would
have expected to meet at the hall, nor even its owner have chosen
for his companions, had any choice remained to him. He did not
endure this state of things without much outward show of discon-
tent. " Anything for a quiet life," was his constant saying; and,
like the generality of people with whom those words form a fa-
vourite maxim, he led the most uneasy life imaginable. Endu-
rance, to excite commiseration, must be uncomplaining — an axiom
the aggrieved of the gentle sex should remember. Sir Piers en-
dured, but he grumbled lustily, and was on all hands voted a bore ;
domestic grievances, especially if the husband be the plaintiff, being
the most intolerable of all mentionable miseries. No wonder that
his friends deserted him; still there was Titus Tyrconnel; his ears
and lips were ever open to pathos and to punch; so Titus kept his
station. Immediately after her husband's demise, it had been Lady
Rookwood's intention to clear the house of all the " vermin," so
she expressed herself, that had so long infested it; and forcibly to
eject Titus, and one or two other intruders of the same class. But
in consequence of certain hints received from Mr. Coates, who re-
presented the absolute necessity of complying with Sir Piers's tes-
tamentary instructions, which were particular in that respect, she
thought proper to defer her intentions until after the ceremonial
of interment should be completed, and, in the mean time, strange
to say, committed its arrangement to Titus Tyrconnel; who, ever
ready to accommodate, accepted, nothing loth, the charge, and
acquitted himself admirably well in his undertaking : especially,
as he said, " in the aiting and drinking department — the most es-
sential part of it all." He kept open house — open dining-room —
open cellar; resolved that his patron's funeral should emulate as
much as possible an Irish burial on a grand scale, " the finest
sight," in his opinion, " in the whole world."

Inflated with the importance of his office, inflamed with heat,
sat Titus, like a " robustious periwig-pated " alderman after a civic
feast. The natural rubicundity of his countenance was darkened
to a deep purple tint, like that of a full-blown peony, while his
ludicrous dignity was augmented by a shining suit of sables, in
which his portly person was invested.

The first magnum had been discussed in solemn silence ; the
cloud, however, which hung over the conclave, disappeared under
the genial influence of " another and a better " bottle, and gave

42 ROOKWOOD.

place to a denser vapour, occasioned by the introduction of the
pipe and its accompaniments.

Ensconced in a comfortable old chair (it is not every old chair
that is comfortable), with pipe in mouth, and in full unbottomed
ease, his bushy cauliflower wig laid aside, by reason of the heat,
reposed Dr. Small. Small, indeed, was somewhat of a misnomer,
as applied to the worthy doctor, who, besides being no diminutive
specimen of his kind, entertained no insignificant opinion of him-
self. His height was certainly not remarkable; but his width of
shoulder — his sesquipedality of stomach — and obesity of calf —
these were unique ! Of his origin we know nothing; but presume
he must, in some way or other, have been connected with the
numerous family of " the Smalls," who, according to Christopher
North, form the predominant portion of mankind. In appearance,
the doctor was short-necked and puffy, with a sodden, pasty face,
wherein were set eyes, whose obliquity of vision was, in some
measure, redeemed by their expression of humour. He was ac-
counted a man of parts and erudition, and had obtained high ho-
nours at his university. Kigidly orthodox, he abominated the very
names of Papists and Jacobites, amongst which heretical herd he
classed his companion, Mr. Titus Tyrconnel — Ireland being with
him synonymous with superstition and Catholicism — and every
Irishman rebellious and schismatical. On this head he was in-
clined to be disputatious. His prejudices did not prevent him
from passing the claret, nor from laughing, as heartily as a plethoric
asthma and sense of the decorum due to the occasion would permit,
at the quips and quirks of the Irishman, who, he admitted, not-
withstanding his heresies, was a pleasant fellow in the main. And
when, in addition to the flattery, a pipe had been insinuated by
the officious Titus, at the precise moment that Small yearned for
his afternoon's solace, yet scrupled to ask for it ; when the door
had been made fast, and the first whiff exhaled, all his misgivings
vanished, and he surrendered himself to the soft seduction. In
this elysian state we find him.

"Ah! you may say that, Dr. Small," said Titus, in answer to
some observation of the vicar, " that's a most original apophthegm.
We all of us hould our lives by a thrid. Och ! many's the sudden
finale I have seen. Many's the fine fellow's heels tripped up un-
awares, when least expected. Death hangs over our heads by a
single hair, as your reverence says, precisely like the sword of Dan
Maclisc,* the flatterer of Dinnish what-do-you-call-him, ready to
fall at a moment's notice, or no notice at all — eh? — Mr. Coates.
And that brings me back again to Sir Piers — poor gentleman — ah !
we sha'n't soon see the like of him again !"

"Poor Sir Piers!" said Mr. Coates, a small man, in a scratch
wig, with a face red and round as an apple, and almost as diminu-

* Query, Damocles ? — Printer's Devil.

ROOKWOOD. 43

tive. " It is to be regretted that his over-conviviality should so
much have hastened his lamented demise."

"Conviviality!" replied Titus; "no such thing — it was apo-
plexy— extravasation of samm."

" Extra vase-ation of rum-and- water, you mean," replied Coates,
who, like all his tribe, rejoiced in a quibble.

" The squire's ailment," continued Titus, " was a sanguineous
effusion, as we call it — positive determination of blood to the head,
occasioned by a low way he got into, just before his attack — a
confirmed case of hypochondriasis, as that ould book Sir Piers was
so fond of terms the blue devils. He neglected the bottle, which,
in a man who has been a hard drinker all his life, is a bad sign.
The lowering system never answers — never. Doctor, I'll just
trouble you" — for Small, in a fit of absence, had omitted to pass
the bottle, though not to help himself. " Had he stuck to this"
— holding up a glass, ruby bright — " the elixir vita? — the grand
panacea — he might have been hale and hearty at this present
moment, and as well as any of us. But he wouldn't be advised.
To my thinking, as that was the case, he'd have been all the
better for a little of your reverence's sperretual advice; and his
conscience having been relieved by confession and absolution, he
might have opened a fresh account with an aisy heart and chine
breast."

" I trust, sir," said Small, gravely withdrawing his pip" from
his lips, " that Sir Piers Rookwood addressed himself to a higher
source than a sinning creature of clay like himself for remission of
his sins; but, if there was any load of secret guilt that might have
weighed heavy upon his conscience, it is to be regretted that he
refused the last offices of the church, and died incommunicate. I
was denied all admittance to his chamber."

" Exactly my case," said Mr. Coates, pettishly. " I was refused
entrance, though my business was of the utmost importance —
certain dispositions — special bequests — matter connected with his
sister — for though the estate is entailed, yet still there are charges
— you understand me — very strange to refuse to see me. Some
people may regret it — mav live to regret it, I say — that's all. I've
just sent up a package to Lady Rookwood, which was not to be
delivered till after Sir Piers's death. Odd circumstance that —
been in my custody a long while — some reason to think Sir Piers
meant to alter his will — ought to have seen me — sad neglect !"

" More's the pity. But it was none of poor Sir Piers's doing !"
replied Titus; " he had no will of his own, poor fellow, during his
life, and the devil a will was he likely to have after his death. It
was all Lady Rookwood's doing," added he, in a whisper. " I,
his medical adviser and confidential friend, was ordered out of the
room ; and, although I knew it wTas as much as his life was worth
to leave him for a moment in that state, I was forced to comply:
and, would you believe it, as I left the room, I heard high words.

44 ROOKWOOD.

Yes, doctor, as I hope to be saved, words of anger from her at that
awful juncture."

The latter part of this speech was uttered in a low tone, and
very mysterious manner. The speakers drew so closely together,
that the bowls of their pipes formed a common centre, whence the
stems radiated. A momentary silence ensued, during which each
man puffed for very life. Small next knocked the ashes from his
tube, and began to replenish it, coughing significantly. Mr. Coates
expelled a thin, curling stream of vapour from a minute orifice in
the corner of his almost invisible mouth, and arched his eyebrows
in a singular manner, as if he dared not trust the expression of his
thoughts to any other feature. Titus shook his huge head, and,
upon the strength of a bumper which he swallowed, mustered re-
solution enough to unburden his bosom.

" By my sowl," said he, mysteriously, " I've seen enough lately
to frighten any quiet gentleman out of his senses. I'll not get a
wink of sleep, I fear, for a week to come. There must have been
something dreadful upon Sir Piers's mind; sure — nay, there's no
use in mincing the matter with you — in a word, then, some crime
too deep to be divulged."

" Crime!" echoed Coates and Small, in a breath.
" Ay, crime!" repeated Titus. "Whist! not so loud, lest any
one should overhear us. Poor Sir Piers, he's dead now. I'm
sure you both loved him as I did, and pity and pardon him if he
was guilty ; for certain am I that no soul ever took its flight more
heavily laden than did that of our poor friend. Och ! it was a
terrible ending. But you shall hear how he died, and judge for
yourselves. When I returned to his room, after Lady Rookwood's
departure, I found him quite delirious. I knew death was not far
off then. One minute he was in the chase, cheering on the hounds.
1 Halloo ! tallyho !' cried he: ' who clears that fence? — who swims
that stream?' The next, he was drinking, carousing, and hurraing,
at the head of his table. ' Hip ! hip ! hip !' — as mad, and wild, and
frantic as ever he used to be when wine had got the better of him ;
and then all of a sudden, in the midst of his shouting, he stopped,
exclaiming, 'What! here again? — who let her in? — the door is
fast — I locked it myself. Devil ! why did you open it? — you have
betrayed me — she will poison me — and I cannot resist. Ha!
another ! Who — who is that? — her face is white — her hair hangs
about her shoulders. Is she alive again? Susan! Susan! why
that look ? You loved me well — too well. You will not drag me
to perdition ! You will not appear against me ! No, no, no — it is
not in your nature — you whom I doated on, whom I loved — whom
I — but I repented — I sorrowed — I prayed — prayed! Oh! oh!
no prayers would avail. Pray for me, Susan — for ever ! Your
intercession may avail. It is not too late. I will do justice to all.
Bring me pen and ink — paper — I will confess — he shall have all.
Where is my sister? I would speak with her — would tell her —

ROOIHVOOD. 45

tell her. Call Alan Rook\voo<l — I shall die before I can tell it.
Come hither,' said he to me. i There is a dark, dreadful secret on
my mind — it must forth. Tell my sister — no, my senses swim —
Susan is near me — fury is in her eyes — avenging fury — keep her
off. What is this white mass in my arms? what do I hold? is it
the corpse by my side, as it lay that long, long night? It is — it is.
Cold, stiff, stirless as then. White — horribly white — as when the
moon, that would not set, showed all its ghastliness. Ah ! it
moves, embraces me, stifles, suffocates me. Help ! remove the
pillow. I cannot breathe — I choke — oh ! ' And now I am coming
to the strangest part of my story — and, strange as it may sound,
every word is as true as Gospel."

" Ahem !" coughed Small.

" Well, at this moment — this terrible moment — what should I
hear but a tap against the wainscot. Holy Virgin ! how it startled
me. My heart leapt to my mouth in an instant, and then went
thump, thump, against my ribs. But I said nothing, though you
may be sure I kept my ears wide open — and then presently I heard
the tap repeated somewhat louder, and shortly afterwards a third
— I should still have said nothing, but Sir Piers heard the knock,
and raised himself at the summons, as if it had been the last
trumpet. i Come in,' cried he, in a dying voice ; and Heaven for-
give me if I confess that I expected a certain person, whose com-
pany one would rather dispense with upon such an occasion, to
step in. However, though it wasn't the ould gentleman, it was
somebody near akin to him ; for a door I had never seen, and
never even dreamed of, opened in the wall, and in stepped Peter
Bradley — ay, you may well stare, gentlemen; but it was Peter,
looking as stiff" as a crowbar, and as blue as a mattock. Well, he
walked straight up to the bed of the dying man, and bent his
great, diabolical grey eyes upon him — laughing all the while — yes,
laughing — you know the cursed grin he has. To proceed. ' You
have called me,' said he to Sir Piers; CI am here. What would
you with me?' — 'We are not alone,' groaned the dying man.
' Leave us, Mr. Tyrconnel — leave me for five minutes — only
five, mark me.' — ' I'll go,' thinks I, ' but I shall never see you
ai^ain alive.' And true enough it was — I never did see him a^ain
with breath in his body. Without more ado, I left him, and I
had scarcelv reached the corridor when I heard the door bolted
behind me. I then stopped to listen ; and I'm sure you'll not
blame me when I say I clapped my eye to the keyhole; for I sus-
pected something wrong. But, Heaven save us I that crafty
gravedigger had taken his precautions too well. I could neither
see nor hear anything, except, after a few minutes, a wild un-
earthly screech. And then the door was thrown open, and I, not
expecting it, -was precipitated head foremost into the room, to the
great damage of my nose. When I got up, Peter had vanished, I
suppose, as he came; and there was poor Sir Piers leaning back

46 ROOKWOOD.

upon the pillow, with his hands stretched out as if in supplication,
his eyes unclosed and staring, and his limbs stark and stiff!"

A profound silence succeeded this narrative. Mr. Coates
would not venture upon a remark. Dr. Small seemed, for
some minutes, lost in painful reflection ; at length he spoke :
" You have described a shocking scene, Mr. Tyrconnel, and in a
manner that convinces me of its fidelity. But I trust you will
excuse me, as a friend of the late Sir Piers, in requesting you to
maintain silence in future on the subject. Its repetition can be
productive of no good, and may do infinite harm, by giving cur-
rency to unpleasant reports, and harrowing the feelings of the
survivors. Every one acquainted with Sir Piers's history must
be aware, as I dare say you are already, of an occurrence which
cast a shade over his early life, blighted his character, and endan-
gered his personal safety. It was a dreadful accusation. But
I believe, nay, I am sure, it was unfounded. Dark suspicions
attach to a Romish priest of the name of Checkley. He, I believe,
is beyond the reach of human justice. Erring Sir Piers was,
undoubtedly. But I trust he was more weak than sinful. I
have reason to think he was the tool of others, especially of the
wretch I have named. And it is easy to perceive how that in-
comprehensible lunatic, Peter Bradley, has obtained an ascendancy
over him. His daughter, you are aware, was Sir Piers's mistress.
Our friend is now gone, and with him let us bury his offences,
and the remembrance of them. That his soul was heavily laden,
would appear from your account of his last moments; yet I fer-
vently trust that his repentance was sincere, in which case there is
hope of forgiveness for him. ' At what time soever a sinner shall
repent him of his sins, from the bottom of his heart, I will blot
out all his wickedness out of my remembrance, saith the Lord/
Heaven's mercy is greater than man's sins. And there is hope of
salvation even for Sir Piers."

" I trust so, indeed," said Titus, with emotion ; " and as to re-
peating a syllable of what I have just said, devil a word more will
I utter on the subject. My lips shall be shut and sealed, as close
as one of Mr. Coates's bonds, forever and a day : but I thought it
just right to make you acquainted with the circumstances. And
now, having dismissed the bad for ever, I am ready to speak of
Sir Piers's good qualities, and not few they were. What was
there becoming a gentleman that he couldn't do, I'd like to know?
Couldn't he hunt as well as ever a one in the county? and hadn't
he as good a pack of hounds? Couldn't he shoot as well, and fish
as well, and drink as well, or better? — only he couldn't carry his
wine, which was his misfortune, not his fault. And wasn't he
always ready to ask a friend to dinner with him? and didn't he
give him a good dinner when he came, barring the cross-cups
afterwards ? And hadn't he everything agreeable about him,
except his wife ? which was a great drawback. And with all his

EOOKWOOD. 47

peculiarities and humours, wasn't lie as kind-hearted a man as
needs be? and an Irishman at the core? And so, if he wern't
dead, I'd say long life to him ! But as he is, here's peace to his
memory !"

At this juncture, a knocking was heard at the door, which some
one without had vainly tried to open. Titus rose to unclose it,
ushering in an individual known at the hall as Jack Palmer.

CHAPTER IX.

AN ENGLISH ADVENTURER.

Mrs. Peachem. Sure the captain's the finest gentleman on the road.

Beggar's Opera.

Jack Palmer was a good-humoured, good-looking man, with
immense bushy, red whiskers, a freckled, florid complexion, and
sandy hair, rather inclined to scantiness towards the scalp of the
head, which garnished the nape of his neck with a ruff of crisp
little curls, like the ring on a monk's shaven crown. Notwith-
standing this tendency to baldness, Jack could not be more than
thirty, though his looks were some five years in advance. His
face was one of those inexplicable countenances, which appear to
be proper to a peculiar class of men — a regular Newmarket phy-
siognomy— compounded chiefly of cunning and assurance ; not
low cunning, nor vulgar assurance, but crafty sporting subtlety,
careless as to results, indifferent to obstacles, ever on the alert for
the main chance, game and turf all over, eager, yet easy, keen, yet
quiet. He was somewhat showily dressed, in such wise that he
looked half like a fine gentleman of that day, half like a jockey of
our own. His nether man appeared in well-fitting, well-worn
buckskins, and boots with tops, not unconscious of the saddle;
while the airy extravagance of his broad-skirted, sky-blue riding-
coat, the richness of his vest (the pockets of which were beauti-
fully exuberant, according to the mode of 1737), the smart luxu-
riance of his cravat, and a certain curious taste in the size and
style of his buttons, proclaimed that, in his own esteem at least,
his person did not appear altogether unworthy of decoration ;
nor, injustice to Jack, can we allow that he was in error. He
was a model of a man for five feet ten ; square, compact, capitally
built in every particular, excepting that his legs were slightly
imbowed, which defect probably arose from his being almost
constantly on horseback ; a sort of exercise in which Jack greatly
delighted, and was accounted a superb rider. It was, indeed, his
daring horsemanship, upon one particular occasion, when he had

48 KOOKWOOD.

outstripped a whole field, that had procured him the honour of an
invitation to Rookwood. Who he was, or whence he came, was
a question not easily answered — Jack, himself, evading all solu-
tion to the inquiry. Sir Piers never troubled his head about the
matter : he was a " deuced good fellow — rode well, and stood on
no sort of ceremony;" that was enough for him. Nobody else
knew anything about him, save that he was a capital judge of
horseflesh, kept a famous black mare, and attended every hunt in
the West Riding — that he could sing a good song, was a choice
companion, and could drink three bottles without feeling the
worse for them.

Sensible of the indecorum that might attach to his appearance,
Dr. Small had hastily laid down his pipe, and arranged his wig.
But when he saw who was the intruder, with a grunt of defiance
he resumed his occupation, without returning the bow of the
latter, or bestowing further notice upon him. Nothing discom-
posed at the churchman's displeasure, Jack greeted Titus cordially,
and carelessly saluting Mr. Coates, threw himself into a chair. He
next filled a tumbler of claret, and drained it at a draught.

" Have you ridden far, Jack ?" asked Titus, noticing the dusty
state of Palmer's azure attire.

" Some dozen miles," replied Palmer ; " and that, on such a
sultry afternoon as the present, makes one feel thirstyish. I'm as
dry as a sandbed. Famous wine this — beautiful tipple — better
than all your red fustian. Ah, how poor Sir Piers used to like
it ! Well, that's all over — a glass like this might do him good in
his present quarters ! I'm afraid I'm intruding. But the fact is,
I wanted a little information about the order of the procession, and
missing you below, came hither in search of you. You're to be
chief mourner, I suppose, Titus — rehearsing your part, eh?"

"Come, come, Jack, no joking," replied Titus; " the subject's
too serious. I am to be chief mourner — and I expect you to be
a mourner — and everybody else to be mourners. We must all
mourn at the proper time. There'll be a power of people at the
church."

" There are a power of people here already," returned Jack, "if
they all attend."

u And they all will attend, or what is the eating and drinking
to go for? I sha'n't leave a soul in the house."

" Excepting one," said Jack, archly. " Lady Rookwood won't
attend, I think."

" Ay, excepting her ladyship and her ladyship's abigail. All
the rest go with me, and form part of the procession. You go
too." ,

"Of course. At what time do you start?"

" Twelve precisely. As the clock strikes, we set out — all in a
line, and a long line we'll make. I'm waiting for that ould coffin-
faced rascal, Peter Bradley, to arrange the order."

ROOKWOOD. 49

"How long will it all occupy, think you?" asked Jack, care-
lessly.

"That I can't say," returned Titus; "possibly an hour, more or
less. But we shall start to the minute — that is, if we can get all
together, so don't be out of the way. And hark ye, Jack, you
must contrive to change your toggery. That sky-blue coat won't
do. It's not the thing at all, at all."

" Never fear that," replied Palmer. " But who were those in
the carriages?"

"Is it the last carriage you mean? Squire Forester and his
sons. They're dining with the other gentlefolk, in the great room
up-stairs, to be out of the way. Oh, we'll have a grand berriri.
And by St. Patrick ! I must be looking after it."

" Stay a minute," said Jack ; " let's have a cool bottle first.
They are all taking care of themselves below, and Peter Bradley
has not made his appearance, so you need be in no hurry. I'll go
with you presently. Shall I ring for the claret?"
" By all means," replied Titus.

Jack accordingly arose; and a butler answering the summons, a
long-necked bottle was soon placed before them.

" You heard of the affray last night, I presume?" said Jack, re-
newing the conversation.

"With the poachers? To be sure I did. Wasn't I called in

to examine Hugh Badger's wounds the first thing this morning;

and a deep cut there was, just over the eye, besides other bruises."

"Is the wound dangerous?" inquired Palmer.

"Not exactly mortal, if you mean that," replied the Irishman;

" dangerous, certainly."

"Humph!" exclaimed Jack; "they'd a pretty hardish bout of
it, I understand. Anything been heard of the body?"
"What body?" inquired Small, who was half-dozing.
" The body of the drowned poacher," replied Jack; " they were
off to search for it this morning."

"Found it — not they!" exclaimed Titus. "Ha, ha! — I can't
help laughing, for the life and soivl of me ; a capital trick he
played 'em, — capital — ha, ha ! What do you think the fellow
did ? Ha, ha ! — after leading 'em the devil's dance, all round the
park, killing a hound as savage as a wolf, and breaking Hugh
Badger's head, which is as hard and thick as a butcher's block,
what does the fellow do but dive into a pool, with a great rock
hanging over it, and make his way to the other side, through a
subterranean cavern, which nobody knew anything about, till they
came to drag it, thinking him snuo;lv drowned all the while —
ha, ha!" ^

" Ha, ha, ha !" chorussed Jack ; " bravo ! he's a lad of the right
sort — ha, ha!"

" He ! who ?" inquired the attorney.

50 ROOKWOOD.

" Why, the poacher, to be sure," replied Jack; " who else were
we talking about?"

" Beg pardon," returned Coates; " I thought you might have
heard some intelligence. We've got an eye upon him. We know
who it was."

"Indeed !" exclaimed Jack; "and who was it?"

a A fellow known by the name of Luke Bradley."

"Zounds!" cried Titus, "you don't say it was he? Murder
in Irish ! that bates everything; why, he was Sir Piers's "

" Natural son," replied the attorney; " he has not been heard of
for some time — shockingly incorrigible rascal — impossible to do
anything with him."

" You don't say so ?" observed Jack. " I've heard Sir Piers speak
of the lad; and, by his account, he's as fine a fellow as ever crossed
tit's back ; only a little wildish and unreasonable, as the best of us
may be; wants breaking, that's all. Your skittish colt makes the
best horse, and so would he. To speak the truth, I'm glad he
escaped."

" So am I," rejoined Titus; " for, in the first place, I've a foolish
partiality for poachers, and am sorry when any of 'em come to
hurt; and, in the second, I'd be mighty displeased if any ill had
happened to one of Sir Piers's flesh and blood, as this young chap
appears to be."

"Appears to be!" repeated Palmer; "there's no appearing in
the case, I take it. This Bradley's an undoubted offshoot of the
old squire. His mother was a servant-maid at the hall, I rather
think. You, sir," continued he, addressing Coates, " perhaps, can
inform us of the real facts of the case."

" She was something better than a servant," replied the attorney,
with a slight cough and a knowing wink. "I remember her
quite well, though I was but a boy then; a lovely creature, and
so taking, I don't wonder that Sir Piers was smitten with her.
He was mad after the women in those days, and pretty Sue
Bradley above all others. She lived with him quite like his lady."

" So I've heard," returned Jack; "and she remained with him
till her death. Let me see, wasn't there something rather odd in
the way in which she died, rather suddenish and unexpected, — a
noise made about it at the time, eh?"

" Not that I ever heard," replied Coates, shaking his head, and
appearing to be afflicted with an instantaneous ignorance ; while
Titus affected not to hear the remark, but occupied himself with
his wine-glass. Small snored audibly. "I was too young, then,
to pay any attention to idle rumours," continued Coates. " It's a
long time ago. May I ask the reason of your inquiry?"

" Nothing further than simple curiosity," replied Jack, enjoying
the consternation of his companions. "It is, as you say, a long
while since. But it's singular how those sort of things are remem-
bered. One would think people had something else to do than talk

EOOKWOOD. 51

of one's private affairs for ever. For my part, I despise such tattle.
But there are persons in the neighbourhood who still say it was an
awkward business. Amongst others, I've heard that this very
Luke Bradley talks in pretty plain terms about it."

u Does he, indeed?" said Coates. " So much the worse for him.
Let me once lay hands upon him, and I'll put a gag in his mouth
that shall spoil his talking in future."

u That's precisely the point I desire to arrive at," replied Jack;
" and 1 advise you by all means to accomplish that, for the sake of
the family. Nobody likes his friends to be talked about. So I'd
settle the matter amicably, were I you. Just let the fellow go his
way; he won't return here again in a hurry, I'll be bound. As to
clapping him in quod, he might prattle — turn stag."

a Turn stag !" replied Coates, " what the deuce is that? In my
opinion, he has i turned stag' already. At all events, he'll pay deer
for his night's sport, you may depend upon it. What signifies it
what he says? Let me lay hands upon him, that's all."

u Well, well," said Jack, " no oflence. I only meant to offer a
suggestion. I thought the family, young Sir Ranulph, I mean,
mightn't like the story to be revived. As to Lady Ilookwood, she
don't, I suppose, care much about idle reports. Indeed, if I've
been rightly informed, she bears this youngster no particular good-
will to begin with, and has tried hard to get him out of the
country. But, as you say, what does it signify what he says? he
can only talk. Sir Piers is dead and gone."
" Humph!" muttered Coates, peevishly.

" But it does seem a little hard, that a lad should swing for kill-
ing a bit of venison in his own father's park."
" Which he'd a nafral right to do," cried Titus.
" He had no natural right to bruise, violently assault, and en-
danger the life of his father's, or anybody else's gamekeeper," re-
torted Coates. " I tell you, sir, he's committed a capital offence,

and if he's taken "

" No chance of that, I hope," interrupted Jack.
"That's a wish I can't help wishing myself," said Titus: "on
my conscience, these poachers are fine boys, when all's said and
done."

" The finest of all boys," exclaimed Jack, with a kindred en-
thusiasm, " are those birds of the night, and minions of the moon,
whom we call, most unjustly, poachers. They are, after ail, only
professional sportsmen, making a business of what we make a
pleasure; a nightly pursuit of what is to us a daily relaxation;
there's the main distinction. As to the rest, it's all in idea ; they
merely thin an overstocked park,# as you would reduce a plethoric
patient, doctor ; or as you would work a moneyed client, if you got
him into Chancery, Mister Attorney. And then how much more
scientilically and systematically they set to work than we amateurs
do ! how noiselessly they bag a hare, smoke a pheasant, or knock

52 KOOKWOOD.

a buck down with an air-gun ! how independent are they of any
license, except that of a good eye, and a swift pair of legs ! how
unnecessary is it for them to ask permission to shoot over Mr. So-
and-So's grounds, or my Lord That's preserves ! they are free of
every cover, and indifferent to any alteration in the game laws.
I've some thoughts, when everything else fails, of taking to poach-
ing myself. In my opinion, a poacher's a highly respectable cha-
racter. What say you, Mr. Coates?" turning very gravely to
that gentleman.

u Such a question, sir," replied Coates, bridling up, " scarcely
deserves a serious answer. I make no doubt you will next main-
tain that a highwayman is a gentleman."

u Most undoubtedly," replied Palmer, in the same grave tone,
which might have passed for banter, had Jack ever bantered. " I'll
maintain and prove it. I don't see how he can be otherwise. It
is as necessary for a man to be a gentleman before he can turn
highwayman, as it is for a doctor to have his diploma, or an
attorney his certificate. Some of the finest gentlemen of their
day, as Captains Lovelace, Hind, Hannum, and Dudley, were
eminent on the road, and they set the fashion. Ever since their
day a real highwayman would consider himself disgraced, if he
did not conduct himself in every way like a gentleman. Of course,
there are pretenders in this line, as in everything else. But these
are only exceptions, and prove the rule. What are the distin-
guishing characteristics of a fine gentleman? — perfect knowledge
of the world — perfect independence of character — notoriety —
command of cash — and inordinate success with the women. You
grant all these premises? First, then, it is part of a highwayman's
business to be thoroughly acquainted with the world. He is the
easiest and pleasantest fellow going. There is Tom King, for ex-
ample : he is the handsomest man about town, and the best-bred
fellow on the road. Then whose inclinations are so uncontrolled
as the highwayman's, so long as the mopuses last ? who produces
so great an effect by so few words? — < Stand and deliver !' is
sure to arrest attention. Every one is captivated by an address so
taking. As to money, he wins a purse of a hundred guineas as
easily as you would the same sum from the faro table. And
wherein lies the difference? only in the name of the game. Who
so little need of a banker as he ? all he has to apprehend is a check
— all he has to draw is a trigger. As to the women, they dote
upon him: not even your red-coat is so successful. Look at a
highwayman mounted on his flying steed, with his pistols in his
holsters, and his mask upon his face. What can be a more gallant
sight ? The clatter of his horse's heels is like music to his ear — he
is in full quest — he shouts to the fugitive horseman to stay — the
other flies all the faster — what chase can be half so exciting as
that? Suppose he overtakes his prey, which ten to one he will,

ROOKWOOD. 53

how readily his summons to deliver is obeyed ! how satisfactory is
the appropriation of a lusty purse or corpulent pocket-book ! —
getting the brush is nothing to it. How tranquilly he departs,
takes off his hat to his accommodating acquaintance, wishes him a
pleasant journey, and disappears across the heath! England, sir,
has reason to be proud of her highwaymen. They are peculiar to
her clime, and are as much before the brigand of Italy, the con-
trabandist of Spain, or the cut-purse of France — as her sailors are
before all the rest of the world. The day will never come, I hope,
when we shall degenerate into the footpad, and lose our Night
Errantry. Even the French borrow from us — they have only one
highwayman of eminence, and he learnt and practised his art in
England."

" And who was he, may I ask ?" said Coates.

"Claude Du-Val," replied Jack; "and though a Frenchman,
he was a deuced fine fellow in his day — quite a tip-top macaroni
— he could skip and twirl like a figurant, warble like an opera
singer, and play the flageolet better than any man of his day — he
always carried a lute in his pocket, along with his snappers. And
then his dress — it was quite beautiful to see how smartly he was
rigg'd out, all velvet and lace ; and even with his vizard on his
face, the ladies used to cry out to see him. Then he took a purse
with the air and grace of a receiver-general. All the women
adored him — and that, bless their pretty faces ! was the best proot
of his gentility. I wish he'd not been a Mounseer. The women
never mistake. They can always discover the true gentleman,
and they were all, of every degree, from the countess to the
kitchen-maid, over head and ears in love with him."

"But he was taken, I suppose?" asked Coates.

" Ay," responded Jack, u the women were his undoing, as
they've been many a brave fellow's before, and will be again."
Touched by which reflection, Jack became tor once in his life
sentimental, and sighed. " Poor Du-Val ! he was seized at the
Hole-in-the-Wall in Chandos-strect by the bailiff of Westminster,
when dead drunk, his liquor having been drugged by his dells —
and was shortly afterwards hanged at Tyburn."

" It was a thousand pities," said Mr. Coates, with a sneer, u that
so fine a gentleman should come to so ignominious an end !"

" Quite the contrary," returned Jack. " As his biographer,
Doctor Pope, properly remarks, ' Who is there worthy of the name
of man, that would not prefer such a death before a mean, solitary,
inglorious life?' By-the-by, Titus, as we're upon the subject, if
you like I'll sing you a song about highwaymen?"

" I should like it of all things," replied Titus, who entertained
a very favourable opinion of Jack's vocal powers, and was by no
means an indifferent performer ; u only let it be in a minor key."

Jack required no further encouragement, but, disregarding the

54 KOOKWOOD.

Lints and looks of Coates, sang with much unction the following
ballad to a good old tune, then very popular — the merit of which
" nobody can deny."

A CHAPTER OE HIGHWAYMEN.

Of every rascal of every kind,
. The most notorious to my mind,
Was the Cavalier Captain, gay Jemmy Hind !*

Which nobody can dewy.

But the pleasautest coxcomb among them all

Eor lute, coranto, and madrigal,

Was the galliard Frenchman, Claude Du-Val !f

Which nobody can deny.

And Tobygloak never a coach could rob,

Could lighten a pocket, or empty a fob,

With a neater hand than Old Mob, Old Mob \%

Which nobody can deny.

Nor did housebreaker ever deal harder knocks

On the stubborn lid of a good strong box,

Than that prince of good fellows, Tom Cox, .Tom Cox ! §

Which nobody can deny.

A blither fellow on broad highway,
Did never with oath bid traveller stay,
Than devil-may-care Will Holloway ! ||

Which nobody can deny.

And in roguery nought could exceed the tricks
Of Gettings and Grey, and the five or six,
Who trod in the steps of bold Neddy Wicks ! ^|

Which nobody can deny.

* James Hind (the " Prince of Prigs"), a royalist captain of some distinction,
was hanged, drawn, and quartered, in 1652. Some good stories are told of him.
He had the credit of robbing Cromwell, Eradshaw, and Peters. His discourse
to Peters is particularly edifying.

f See Du-Val's life by Doctor Pope, or Leigh Hunt's brilliant sketch of him
in The Indicator.

\ We cannot say much in favour of this worthy, whose name was Thomas
Simpson. The reason of his sobriquet does not appear. He was not particularly
scrupulous as to his mode of appropriation. One of his sayings is, however, on
record. He told a widow whom he robbed, " that the end of a woman's husband
beginsin tears, but the end of her tears is another husband." " Upon which,"
says his chronicler, " the gentlewoman gave him about fifty guineas."

§_ Tom was a sprightly fellow, and carried his sprightliness to the gallows ;
for just before he was turned off he kicked Mr. Smith, the ordinary, and the
hangman out of the cart — a piece of pleasantry which created, as may be sup-
posed, no small sensation.

|| Many agreeable stories arc related of Holloway. His career, however,
closed with a murder. He contrived to break out of Newgate, but returned
to witness the trial of one of his associates ; when, upon the attempt of a turn-
key, one Richard Spurling, to seize him, Will knocked him on the head in the
presence of the whole court. For this offence he suffered the extreme penalty
of the law in 1712.

*[f Wicks's adventures with Madame Toly are highly diverting. It was this

ROOKWOOD. 55

Nor could any so handily break a lock

As Sheppard, who stood on the Newgate dock,

And nicknamed the gaolers around him " his flock !"*

Which nobody can deny.

Nor did highwayman ever before possess

For ease, for security, danger, distress,

Such a mare as Dick Turpin's Black Bess ! Black Bess !

Which nobody can deny.

" A capital song by the powers ! " cried Titus, as Jack's ditty
came to a close. u But your English robbers are nothing at all,
compared with our Tories f and Rapparees — nothing at all. They
were the raal gentlemen — they wTere the boys to cut a throat
aisily"

" Pshaw !" exclaimed Jack, in disgust, " the gentlemen I speak
of never maltreated any one, except in self-defence."

" Maybe not," replied Titus ; " I'll not dispute the point — but
these Rapparees were true brothers of the blade, and gentlemen
every inch. I'll just sing you a song I made about them myself.
But meanwhile don't let's forget the bottle — talking's dry work.
My service to you, doctor !" added he, winking at the somnolent
Small. And tossing off his cflass, Titus delivered himself with
much joviality of the following ballad; the words of which he
adapted to the tune of the Groves of the Pool:

THE BAPPAREES.

Let the Englishman boast of his Turpins and Sheppards, as cocks of the walk,
His Mulsacks, and Cheneys, and Swiftnecks % — it's all botheration and talk ;
Compared with the robbers of Ireland, they don't come within half a mile,
There never were yet any rascals like those of my own native isle !

hero — not Turpin, as lias been erroneously stated — who stopped the celebrated
Lord Mohun. Of Gettings and Grey, and " the five or six," the less said the
better.

* One of Jack's recorded mots. When a Bible was pressed upon his ac-
ceptance by Mr. Wagstaif, the chaplain, Jack refused it, saying, " that in his
situation one file would be worth all the Bibles in the world." A gentleman
who visited Newgate asked him to dinner ; Sheppard replied, " that he would
take an early opportunity of waiting upon him." And we believe he kept his
word.

f The word Tory, as here applied, must not be confounded with the term of
party distinction now in general use in the political world. It simply means a
thief on a grand scale, something more than " a snapper-up of unconsidered
trifles," or petty-larceny rascal. We have classical authority for this : — Tory :
" An advocate for absolute monarchy ; also, an Irish vagabond, robber, or rap-
paree." — Grose's Dictionary.

% A trio of famous High-Tobygloaks. Swiftneck was a captain of Irish
dragoons, by-the-by.

56 KOOKWOOD.

First and foremost comes Redmond O'Hanlon, allowed the first thief of the

world,*
That o'er the broad province of Ulster the Rapparee banner unfnrled ;
Och ! he was an elegant fellow, as ever you saw in your life,
At fingering the blunderbuss trigger, or handling the throat-cutting knife.

And then such a dare-devil squadron as that which composed Redmond's tail I
Meel, Mactigh, Jack Reilly, Shan Bernagh, Phil Galloge, and Arthur O'Neal;
Share never were any boys like 'em, for rows, agitation, and sprees ;
Not a rap did they leave in the country, and hence they were called i&zpparees.f

Next comes Power, the great ToryJ of Munster, a gentleman born every inch,
And strong Jack Macpherson of. Leinster, a horse-shoe who broke at a pinch ;
The last was a fellow so lively, not death e'en his courage could damp,
Tor as he was led to the gallows, he played his own " march* to the camp."§

Paddy Fleming, Dick Balf, and Mulhoni, I think are the next on my list,
All adepts in the beautiful science of giving a pocket a twist ;
Jemmy Carrick must follow his leaders, ould Purney who put in a huff,
By dancing a hornpipe at Tyburn, and bothering the hangman for snuff.

* Redmond O'Hanlon was the Rob Roy of Ireland, and his adventures,
many of which are exceedingly curious, would furnish as rich materials for the
novelist, as they have already done for the ballad-mongers : some of them are,
however, sufficiently well narrated in a pleasant little tome, published at Bel-
fast, entitled, The History of the Rapparees. We are also in possession of a
funeral discourse, preached at the obsequies of the "noble and renowned"
Henry St. John, Esq., who was unfortunately killed by the Tories (the De-
structives of those days), in the induction to which we find some allusion to
Redmond. After describing the thriving condition of the north of Ireland,
about 16S0, the Rev. Lawrence Power, the author of the sermon, says, " One
mischief there was, which indeed in a great measure destroyed all, and that
was, a pack of insolent bloody outlaws, whom they here call Tories. These had
so riveted themselves in these parts, that by the interest they had among the
natives, and some English, too, to their shame be it spoken, they exercise a kind
of separate sovereignty in three or four counties in the north of Ireland.
Redmond O'Hanlon is their chief, and has been these many years ; a cunning,
dangerous fellow, who, though proclaimed an outlaw with the rest of his crew,
and sums of money set upon their heads, yet he reigns still, and keeps all in
subjection, so far that 'tis credibly reported he raises more in a year by contri-
butions a-la-mode de France than the kinr/s land taxes and chimney-money come
to, and thereby is enabled to bribe clerks a?id officers, IE not tiieir masters, (!)
and makes all too much truckle to him" Agitation, it seems, was not confined
to our own days — but the " finest country in the world" has been, and ever will
be, the same. The old game is played under a new colour — the only difference
being, that had Redmond lived in our time, he would, in all probability, not
only have pillaged a county, but represented it in parliament. The spirit of the
Rapparee is still abroad — though we fear there is little of the Tory left about
it. We recommend this note to the serious consideration of the declaimers
against the sufferings of the " six millions."

t Here Titus was slightly in error. He mistook the cause for the effect.
" They were called Rapparces," Mr. Malone says, " from being armed with a
half-pike, called by the Irish a rapparee." — Todd's Johnson.

J Tory, so called from the Irish word Torce, give me your money. — Todd's
Johnson.

§ As he was carried to the gallows, Jack played a fine tune of his own com-
posing on the bagpipe, which retains the name of Macpherson's tune to this
day. — History of the Rapparees.

ROOKWOOD. 57

There's Paul Liddy, the curly-pate Tory, whose noddle was stuck on a spike,
And Billy Delany, the "Songster"* we never shall meet with his like ;
For his neck by a witch was anointed, and warranted safe by her charm,
No hemp that was ever yet twisted his wonderful throttle could harm.

And lastly, there's Caiiir na Capful, the handiest rogue of them all,
Who only need whisper a word, and your horse will trot out of his stall ;
Your tit is not safe in your stable, though you or your groom should be near,
And devil a bit in the paddock, if Caiiir gets hould of his ear.

Then success to the Tories of Ireland, the generous, the gallant, the gay !
With them the best JRitmpadsf of England are not to be named the same day !
And were further proof wanting to show what precedence we take with our

prigs,
Recollect that our robbers are Tories, while those of your country are Wiiigs !

66 Bravissimo !" cried Jack, drumming upon the table.

" Well," said Coates, " we've had enough about the Irish high-
waymen, in all conscience. But there's a rascal on our side of the
Channel, whom you have only incidentally mentioned, and who
makes more noise than them all put together."

" Who's that?" asked Jack, with some curiosity.

" Dick Turpin," replied the attorney : " he seems to me quite
as worthy of mention as any of the Hinds, the Du-Vals, or the
O'llanlons, you have either of you enumerated."

u I did not think of him," replied Palmer, smiling ; u though, if
I had, he scarcely deserves to be ranked with those illustrious
heroes."

"Gads bobs!" cried Titus; "they tell me Turpin keeps the

* "Notwithstanding he was so great a rogue, Delany was a handsome, portly
man, extremely diverting in company, and could behave himself before gentle-
men very agreeably. He had a political genius (not altogether surprising in so
eminent a Tory), and would have made a great proficiency in learning if he had
rightly applied his time. He composed several songs, and put tunes to them ;
and by his skill in music gained the favour of some of the leading musicians in
the country, who endeavoured to get him reprieved." — History of the Rapparees.
The particulars of the Songster's execution are singular : — " When he was
brought into court to receive sentence of death, the judge told him that he was
informed he should say ' that there was not a rope in Ireland sufficient to hang
him. But,' says he, ' I'll try if Kilkenny can't afford one strong enough to do
your business ; and if that will not do, you shall have another, and another.'
Then he ordered the sheriff to choose a rope, and Delany was ordered for exe-
cution the next day. The sheriff having notice of his mother's boasting that
no rope could hang her son (and pursuant to the judge's desire), provided two
ropes, but Delany broke them one after another ! The sheriff was then in a
rage, and went for three bed-cords, which he plaited threefold together, and
they did his business I Yet the sheriff was afraid he was not dead; and in a
passion, to make trial, stabbed him with his sword in the soles of his feet, and
at last cut the rope. After he was cut down, his body was carried into the
court-house, where it remained in the coffin for two days, standing up, till the
judge and all the spectators were fully satisfied that he was stiff and dead, and
then permission was given to his friends to remove the corpse and bury it !" —
History of the Rapparees.

f Highwaymen, as contradistinguished from footpads.

58 ROOKWOOD.

"best nag in the United Kingdom, and can ride faster and further
in a day than any other man in a week."

" So I've heard," said Palmer, with a glance of satisfaction.
" I should like to try a run with him. I warrant me, I'd not be
far behind."

" I should like to get a peep at him," quoth Titus.

" So should I," added Coa tes. « Vastly ! "

" You may both of you be gratified, gentlemen," said Palmer.
" Talking of Dick Turpin, they say, is like speaking of the devil,
he's at your elbow ere the word's well out of your mouth. He
may be within hearing at this moment, for anything we know to
the contrary."

"Body o'me!" ejaculated Coates, "you don't say so? Turpin
in Yorkshire! I thought he confined his exploits to the neigh-
bourhood of the metropolis, and made Epping Forest his head-
quarters."

" So he did," replied Jack, "but the cave is all up now. The
whole of the great North Road, from Tottenham Cross to York
gates, comes within Dick's present range; and Saint Nicholas only
knows in which part of it he is most likely to be found. He
shifts his quarters as often and as readily as a Tartar; and lie who
looks for him, may chance to catch a Tartar — ha! — ha!"

" It's a disgrace to the country that such a rascal should remain
unhanged," returned Coates, peevishly. u Government ought to
look to it. Is the whole kingdom to be kept in a state of agita-
tion by a single highwayman ? — Sir Robert Walpole should take
the affair into his own hands."

" Fudge !" exclaimed Jack, emptying his glass.

" I have already addressed a letter to the editor of the Common
Sense on the subject," said Coates, "in which I have spoken my
mind pretty plainly : and I repeat, it is perfectly disgraceful that
such a rascal should be suffered to remain at large."

" You don't happen to have that letter by you, I suppose?" said
Jack, " or I should beg the favour to hear it. — I am not acquainted
with the newspaper to which you allude; — I read Fog's Journal^

" So I thought," replied Coates, with a sneer ; " that's the reason
you are so easily mystified. But luckily I have the paper in my
pocket; and you are quite welcome to my opinions. Here it is,"
added he, drawing forth a newspaper. " I shall waive my pre-
liminary remarks, and come to the point at once."

" By all means," said Jack.

" c I thank God,' " began Coates, in an authoritative tone,
" 6 that I was born in a country that hath formerly emulated the
Romans in their public spirit ; as is evident from their conquests
abroad, and their struggles for liberty at home.' "

" What has all this got to do with Turpin?" interposed Jack.

" You will hear," replied the attorney — " no interruptions, if
you please. i But this noble principle,' " continued he, with great

ROOK WOOD. 59

emphasis, " i though not utterly lost, I cannot think at present so
active as it ought to be in a nation so jealous of her liberty.' ':

" Good !" exclaimed Jack. " There is more than c common sense9
in that observation, Mr. Coates."

u ' My suspicion/ " proceeded Coates, u 'is founded on a late in-
stance. I mean the flagrant, undisturbed success of the notorious
Turpin, who hath robb'd in a manner scarce ever known before
for several years, and is grown so insolent and impudent as to
threaten particular persons, and become openly dangerous to the
lives as well as fortunes of the people of England.' "

" Better and better," shouted Jack, laughing immoderately.
" Pray go on, sir."

" i That a fellow,' " continued Coates, " i who is known to be a
thief by the whole kingdom, shall for so long a time continue to
rob us, and not only rob us, but make a jest of us ' "

" Ha — ha — ha — capital ! Excuse me, sir," roared Jack, laugh-
ing till the tears ran down his cheeks — " pray, pray, go on."

" I see nothing to laugh at," replied Coates, somewhat offended ;
" however, I will conclude my letter, since I have begun it — i not
only rob us, but make a jest of us, shall defy the laws, and laugh at
justice, argues a want of public spirit, which should make every
particular member of the community sensible of the public cala-
mity, and ambitious of the honour of extirpating such a notorious
highwayman from society, since he owes his long successes to no
other cause than his immoderate impudence, and the sloth and
pusillanimity of those who ought to bring him to justice.' I will
not deny," continued Coates, u that, professing myself, as I do,
to be a stanch new Whig, I had not some covert political object
in penning this epistle* Nevertheless, setting aside my prin-
ciples "

" Right," observed Jack ; u you Whigs, new or old, always set
aside your principles."

" Setting aside any political feeling I may entertain," continued
Coates, disregarding the interruption, " I repeat, I am ambitious
of extirpating this modern Cacus — this Autolycus of the eighteenth
century."

"And what course do you mean to pursue?" asked Jack, "for
1 suppose you do not expect to catch this ' ongkt-to-lick-usj as you
call him, by a line in the newspapers."

" I am in the habit of keeping my own counsel, sir," replied
Coates, pettishly; "and to be plain with you, I hope to finger all
the reward myself."

* Since Mr. Coates here avows himself the writer of this diatribe against
Sir Robert Walpole, attacked under the guise of Turpin in the Common Sense of
July 30, 1737, it is useless to inquire further into its authorship. And it re-
mains only to refer the reader to the Gents. Mag., vol. vii. p. 438, for the article
above quoted ; and for a reply to it from the Daily Gazetteer contained in r>. 499
of the same volume.

60 KOOKWOOD.

" Oons, is there a reward offered for Turpin's apprehension ?"
asked Titus.

" No less than two hundred pounds," answered Coates, " and
that's no trifle, qs you will both admit. Have you not seen the
king's proclamation, Mr. Palmer?"

" Not I," replied Jack, with affected indifference.

" Nor I," added Titus, with some appearance of curiosity ; " do
you happen to have that by you too?"

" I always carry it about with me," replied Coates, " that I may
refer to it in case of emergency. My father, Christopher, or Kit
Coates, as he was familiarly called, was a celebrated thief-taker.
He apprehended Spicket, and Child, and half a dozen others, and
always kept their descriptions in his pocket. I endeavour to tread
in my worthy father's footsteps. I hope to signalise myself by
capturing a highwayman. By-the-by," added he, surveying Jack
more narrowly, "it occurs to me that Turpin must be rather like
you, Mr. Palmer?"

" Like me," said Jack, regarding Coates askance ; " like me —
how am I to understand you, sir, eh?"

"No offence; none whatever, sir. Ah! stay, you won't object
to my comparing the description. That can do no harm. Nobody
would take you for a highwayman — nobody whatever — ha ! ha !
Singular resemblance — he — he. These things do happen some-
times : not very often, though. But here is Turpin's description
in the Gazette, June 28th, A.r>. 1737: — 'It having been repre-
sented to the King that Richard Turpin did, on Wednesday, the
4th of May last, rob on his Majesty's highway Vavasour Mow-
bray, Esq., Major of the 2nd troop of Horse Grenadiers' — (that
Major Mowbray, by-the-by, is a nephew of the late Sir Piers, and
cousin of the present baronet) — c and commit other notorious
felonies and robberies near London, his Majesty is pleased to
promise his most gracious pardon to any of his accomplices, and
a reward of tioo hundred pounds to any person or persons who
shall discover him, so as he may be apprehended and convicted? '

"Odsbodikins !" exclaimed Titus, " a noble reward ! I should
like to lay hands upon Turpin," added he, slapping Palmer's
shoulder: u I wish he were in your place at this moment, Jack."

"Thank you!" replied Palmer, shifting his chair.

" ' Turpin? ' continued Coates, " ' ivas born at Thacksted, in
Essex; is about thirty' — you, sir, I believe, are about thirty?"
added he, addressing Palmer.

" Thereabouts," said Jack, bluffly. " But what has my age to
do with that of Turpin ?"

" Nothing — nothing at all," answered Coates ; " suffer me, how-
ever, to proceed: — 'Is by trade a butcher,7 — you, sir, I believe,
never had any dealings in that line?"

" I have some notion how to dispose of a troublesome calf," re-
turned Jack. " But Turpin, though described as a butcher, is, I

ROOKWOOD. 61

understand, a lineal descendant of a great French archbishop of
the same name."

"Who wrote the chronicles of that royal robber Charlemagne;
I know him," replied Coates — " a terrible liar ! — The modern
Turpin i is about jive feet nine inches high ' — exactly your height,
sir — exactly !"

"I am five feet ten," answered Jack, standing bolt upright.

" You have an inch then in your favour," returned the unper-
turbed attorney, deliberately proceeding with his examination —
" ( he has a brown complexion, marked with the small-pox! "

" My complexion is florid — my face without a seam," quoth
Jack.

" Those whiskers would conceal anything," replied Coates, with
a grin. "Nobody wears whiskers now-a-days, except a highway-
man."

"Sir!" said Jack, sternly. "You are personal."

"I don't mean to be so," replied Coates; "but you must allow
the description tallies with your own in a remarkable manner.
Hear me out. however — i his cheek bones are broad — his face is
thinner towards the bottom — his visage short — pretty upright— and
broad about the shoulders! Now I appeal to Mr. Tyrconnel if all
this does not sound like a portrait of yourself."

" Don't appeal to me," said Titus, hastily, " upon such a deli-
cate point. I can't say that I approve of a gentleman being
likened to a highwayman. But if ever there was a highwayman
I'd wish to resemble, it's either Redmond O'Hanlon or Richard
Turpin; and may the devil burn me if I know which of the two
is the greatest rascal !"

" Well, Mr. Palmer," said Coates, " I repeat, I mean no
offence. Likenesses are unaccountable. I am said to be like my
Lord North; whether I am or not, the Lord knows. But if ever
I meet with Turpin I shall bear you in mind — he — he. Ah ! if
ever I should have the good luck to stumble upon him, I've a
plan for his capture which couldn't fail. Only let me get a
glimpse of him, that's all. You shall see how I'll dispose of him."

"Well, sir, we shall see," observed Palmer. "And for your
own sake, I wish you may never be nearer to him than you are
at this moment. With his friends, they say Dick Turpin can be
as gentle as a lamb; with his foes, especially with a limb of the
law like yourself, he's been found but an ugly customer. I once
saw him at Newmarket, where he was collared by two constable
culls, one on each side. Shaking off one, and dealing the other a
blow in the face with his heavy-handled whip, he stuck spurs into
his mare, and though the whole field gave chase, he distanced
them all, easily."

" And how came you not to try your pace with him, if you
were there, as you boasted a short time ago?" asked Coates.

" So I did, and stuck closer to him than any one else. We

62 KOOKWOOD.

were neck and neck. I was the only person who could have
delivered him to the hands of justice, if I'd felt inclined."

" Zounds!" cried Coates; "if I had a similar opportunity it
should be neck or nothing. Either he or I should reach the
scragging-post first. I'd take him, dead or alive."

" You take Turpin !" cried Jack, with a sneer.

" I'd engage to do it," replied Coates. " I'll bet you a hundred
guineas I take him, if I ever have the same chance."

a Done !" exclaimed Jack, rapping the table at the same time, so
that the glasses danced upon it.

" That's right," cried Titus. " I'll go you halves."

"What's the matter — what's the matter?" exclaimed Small,
awakened from his doze.

" Only a trifling bet about a highwayman," replied Titus.

" A highwayman ! " echoed Small. " Eh ! what ? there are none
in the house, I hope."

" I hope not," answered Coates. " But this gentleman has taken
up the defence of the notorious Dick Turpin in so singular a man-
ner, that "

" Quod factu fcedum est, idem est et Dictu Turpe" returned
Small. " The less said about that rascal the better."

" So I think," replied Jack. " The fact is as you say, sir — were
Dick here, he would, I am sure, take the freedom to hide 'em."

Further discourse was cut short by the sudden opening of the
door, followed by the abrupt entrance of a tall, slender young man,
who hastily advanced towards the table, around which the com-
pany were seated. His appearance excited the utmost astonish-
ment in the whole group: curiosity was exhibited in every coun-
tenance— the magnum remained poised midway in the hand of
Palmer — Doctor Small scorched his thumb in the bowl of his pipe ;
and Mr. Coates was almost choked, by swallowing an inordinate
whiff of vapour.

"Young Sir Ranulph!" ejaculated he, as soon as the syncope
would permit him.

" Sir Ranulph here?" echoed Palmer, rising.

"Angels and ministers!" exclaimed Small.

" Odsbodikins !" cried Titus, with a theatrical start ; " this is
more than I expected."

" Gentlemen," said Ranulph, " do not let my unexpected arrival
here discompose you. Dr. Small, you will excuse the manner of
my greeting ; and you, Mr. Coates. One of the present party, I
believe, was my father's medical attendant, Dr. Tyrconnel."

" I had that honour," replied the Irishman, bowing profoundly
— " I am Dr. Tyrconnel, Sir Ranulph, at your service."

" When, and at what hour, did my father breathe his last, sir?"
inquired Ranulph.

" Poor Sir Piers," answered Titus, again bowing, " departed
this life on Thursday last.

EOOKWOOD. , 63

" The hour ? — the precise minute ?" asked Ranulph, eagerly.

u Troth, Sir Ranulph, as nearly as I can recollect, it might be a
few minutes before midnight."

"The very hour!" exclaimed Ranulph, striding towards the
window. His steps were arrested as his eye fell upon the attire of
his father, which, as we have before noticed, hung at that end of
the room. A slight shudder passed over his frame. There was a
momentary pause, during which Ranulph continued gazing in-
tently at the apparel. " The very dress, too !" muttered he ; then
turning to the assembly, who were watching his movements with
surprise: ec Doctor," said he, addressing Small, " I have something
for your private ear. Gentlemen, will you spare us the room for a
few minutes ?"

a On my conscience," said Tyrconnel to Jack Palmer, as they
quitted the sanctum, "a mighty fine boy is this young Sir
Ranulph ! — and a chip of the ould block ! — he'll be as good
a fellow as his father."

" No doubt," replied Palmer, shutting the door. " But what
the devil brought him back, just in the nick of it?"

CHAPTER, X.

KANULPH EOOKWOOD.

Fer. Yes, Erancisco,

He hath left his curse upon me.
Fran. How?
Fer. His curse ! dost comprehend what that word carries,

Shot from a father's angry breath ? Unless

I tear poor Felisarda from my heart,

He hath pronounced me heir to all his curses.

Shirley : The Brothers.

"There is nothing, I trust, my dear young friend, and
quondam pupil," said Doctor Small, as the door was closed,
" that weighs upon your mind, beyond the sorrow naturally in-
cident to an affliction, severe as the present. Forgive my appre-
hensions if I am wron2\ You know the affectionate interest I
have ever felt for you — an interest which, I assure you, is nowise
diminished, and which will excuse my urging you to unburden
your mind to me ; assuring yourself, that whatever may be your dis-
closure, you wdli have my sincere sympathy and commiseration.
I may be better able to advise with you, should counsel be
necessary, than others, from my knowledge of your character and
temperament. I would not anticipate evil, and am, perhaps, un-
necessarily apprehensive. But I own, I am startled at the in-
coherence of your expressions, coupled with your sudden and

64 ROOKWOOD.

almost mysterious appearance at this distressing conjuncture.
Answer me: has your return been the result of mere accident?
is it to be considered one of those singular circumstances which
almost look like fate, and baffle our comprehension? or were you
nearer home than we expected, and received the news of your
father's demise through some channel unknown to us? Satisfy my
curiosity, I beg of you, upon this point."

" Your curiosity, my dear sir," replied Ranulph, gravely and
sadly, " will not be decreased, when I tell you, that my return has
neither been the work of chance (for I came, fully anticipating
the dread event, which I find realised), nor has it been occasioned
by any intelligence derived from yourself, or others. It was only,
indeed, upon my arrival here that I received full confirmation of
my apprehensions. I had another, a more terrible summons to
return."

" What summons? you perplex me!" exclaimed Small, gazing
with some misgiving into the face of his young friend.

" I am myself perplexed — sorely perplexed," returned Ranulph.
" I have much to relate ; but I pray you bear with me to the end.
I have that on my mind which, like guilt, must be revealed."

" Speak, then, fearlessly to me," said Small, affectionately press*
ing Ranulph's hand, " and assure yourself, beforehand, of my
sympathy."

" It will be necessary," said Ranulph, " to preface my narrative
by some slight allusion to certain painful events (and yet I know
not why I should call them painful, excepting in their conse-
quences) which influenced my conduct in my final interview
between my father and myself — an interview which occasioned
my departure for the Continent — and which was of a character so
dreadful, that I would not even revert to it, were it not a necessary
preliminary to the circumstance I am about to detail.

" When I left Oxford, I passed a few weeks alone, in London.
A college friend, whom I accidentally met, introduced me, during
a promenade in St. James's Park, to some acquaintances of his
own, who were taking an airing in the Mall at the same time — a
family whose name was Mowbray, consisting of a widow lady, her
son, and daughter. This introduction was made in compliance
with my own request. I had been struck by the singular beauty
of the younger lady, whose countenance had a peculiar and inex-
pressible charm to me, from its marked resemblance to the por-
trait of the Lady Eleanor Rookwood, whose charms, and unhappy
fate, I have so often dwelt upon and deplored. The picture is
there," continued Ranulph, pointing to it : " look at it, and you
have the fair creature I speak of before you ; the colour of the
hair — the tenderness of the eyes. No — the expression is not so

sad, except when but no matter ! I recognised her features at

once.

" It struck me, that upon the mention of my name, the party

ROOKWOOD. 65

betrayed some surprise, especially the elder lady. For my own
part, I was so attracted by the beauty of the daughter, the effect
of which upon me seemed rather the fulfilment of a predestined
event, originating in the strange fascination which the family
portrait had wrought in my heart, than the operation of what is
called i love at first sight,' that I was insensible to the agitation' of
the mother. In vain I endeavoured to rally myself; my efforts
at conversation were fruitless ; I could not talk — all I could do was
silently to yield to the soft witchery of those tender eyes ; my ad-
miration increasing each instant that I gazed upon them.

" I accompanied them home. Attracted as by some irresistible
spell, I could not tear myself away ; so that, although I fancied I
could perceive symptoms of displeasure in the looks of both the
mother and the son, yet, regardless of consequences, I ventured,
uninvited, to enter the house. In order to shake off the restraint
which I felt my society imposed, I found it absolutely necessary
to divest myself of bashfulness, and to exert such conversational
powers as I possessed. I succeeded so well that the discourse soon
became lively and animated ; and what chiefly delighted me was,
that she, for whose sake I had committed my present rudeness,
became radiant with smiles. I had been all eagerness to seek for
some explanation of the resemblance to which I have just alluded,
and the fitting moment had, I conceived, arrived. I called atten-
tion to a peculiar expression in the features of Miss Mowbray, and
then instanced the likeness that subsisted between her and my
ancestress. ' It is the more singular,' I said, turning to her
mother, i because there could have been no affinity, that I am
aware of, between them, and yet the likeness is really surprising/
— * It is not so singular as you imagine,' answered Mrs. Mowbray ;
6 there is a close affinity. That Lady Rookwood was my mother.
Eleanor Mowbray does resemble her ill-fated ancestress.'

66 Words cannot paint my astonishment. I gazed at Mrs.
Mowbray, considering whether I had not misconstrued her speech
— whether I had not so shaped the sounds as to suit my own
quick and passionate conceptions. But no ! I read in her calm,
collected countenance — in the downcast glance, and sudden sadness
of Eleanor, as well as in the changed and haughty demeanour of
the brother, that I had heard her rightly. Eleanor Mowbray was
my cousin — the descendant of that hapless creature whose image I
had almost worshipped.

" Recovering from mv surprise, I addressed Mrs. Mowbray,
endeavouring to excuse my ignorance of our relationship, on the
plea that I had not been given to understand that such had been
the name of the gentleman she had espoused. ( Nor was it,'
answered she, ' the name he bore at Rookwood ; circumstances
forbad it then. From the hour I quitted that house until this
moment, excepting one interview with my — with Sir Reginald
Rookwood — I have seen none of my family — have held no com-

66 ROOKWOOD.

munication with them. My brothers have been strangers to me ;
the very name of Rookwood has been unheard, unknown ; nor
would you have been admitted here, had not accident occasioned
it.' I ventured now to interrupt her, and to express a hope that
she would suffer an acquaintance to be kept up, which had so
fortunately commenced, and which might most probably bring
about an entire reconciliation between the families. I was so
earnest in my expostulations, my whole soul being in them, that
she inclined a more friendly ear to me. Eleanor, too, smiled en-
couragement. Love lent me eloquence ; and at length, as a token
of my success, and her own relenting, Mrs. Mowbray held forth
her hand : I clasped it eagerly. It was the happiest moment of
my life.

"I will not trouble you with any lengthened description of
Eleanor Mowbray. I hope, at some period or other, you may
still be enabled to see her, and judge for yourself; for though ad-
verse circumstances have hitherto conspired to separate us, the
time for a renewal of our acquaintance is approaching, I trust, for
I am not yet altogether without hope. But this much I may be
allowed to say, that her rare endowments of person were only
equalled by the graces of her mind.

" Educated abroad, she had all the vivacity of our livelier neigh-
bours, combined with every solid qualification which we claim as
more essentially our own. Her light and frolic manner was
French, certainly ; but her gentle, sincere heart was as surely
English. The foreign accent that dwelt upon her tongue com-
municated an inexpressible charm, even to the language which
she spoke.

u I will not dwell too long upon this theme. I feel ashamed
of my own prolixity. And yet I am sure you will pardon it.
Ah, those bright brief days ! too quickly were they fled ! I
could expatiate upon each minute — recal each word — revive each
look. It may not be. I must hasten on. Darker themes await
me.

u My love made rapid progress — I became each hour more ena-
moured of my new-found cousin. My whole time was passed
near her ; indeed, I could scarcely exist in absence from her side.
Short, however, was destined to be my indulgence in this blissful
state. One happy week was its extent. I received a peremptory
summons from my father to return home.

" Immediately upon commencing this acquaintance, I had writ-
ten to my father, explaining every particular attending it. This I
should have done of my own free will, but I was urged to it by
Mrs. Mowbray. Unaccustomed to disguise, I had expatiated
upon the beauty of Eleanor, and in such terms, I fear, that I ex-
cited some uneasiness in his breast. His letter was laconic. He
made no allusion to the subject upon which I had expatiated when
writing to him. He commanded me to return.

ROOK WOOD. 67

"The bitter hour was at hand. I could not hesitate to comply.
Without my father's sanction, I was assured Mrs. Mowbray would
not permit any continuance of my acquaintance. Of Eleanor's in-
clinations I fancied I had some assurance ; but without her mother's
consent, to whose will she was devoted, I felt, had I even been in-
clined to urge it, that my suit was hopeless. The letter which I
had received from my father made me more than doubt whether I
should not find him utterly adverse to my wishes. Agonised,
therefore, with a thousand apprehensions, I presented myself on
the morning of my departure. It was then I made the declara-
tion of my passion to Eleanor; it was then that every hope was
confirmed, every apprehension realised. I received from her lips
a confirmation of my fondest wishes; yet were those hopes blighted
in the bud, when I heard, at the same time, that their consumma-
tion was dependent on the will of two others, whose assenting
voices, she feared, could never be obtained. From Mrs. Mow-
bray I received a more decided reply. All her haughtiness was
aroused. Her farewell words assured me, that it was indifferent to
her whether we met again as relatives or as strangers. Then was
it that the native tenderness of Eleanor displayed itself, in an out-
break of feeling peculiar to a heart keenly sympathetic as hers.
She saw my suffering — the reserve natural to her sex gave way —
she flung herself into my arms — and so we parted.

" With a heavy foreboding I returned to Rookwood, and, op-
pressed with the gloomiest anticipations, endeavoured to prepare
myself for the worst. I arrived. My reception was such as I had
calculated upon ; and, to increase my distress, my parents had
been at variance. I will not pain you and myself with any recital
of their disagreement. My mother had espoused my cause, chiefly,
I fear, with the view of thwarting my poor father's inclinations.
He was in a terrible mood, exasperated by the fiery stimulants he
had swallowed, which had not, indeed, drowned his reason, but
roused and inflamed every dormant emotion to violence. He was
as one insane. It was evening when I arrived. I would wil-
lingly have postponed the interview till the morrow. It could not
be. He insisted upon seeing me.

u My mother was present. You know the restraint she usually
had over my father, and how she maintained it. On this occasion
she had none. He questioned me as to every particular ; probed
my secret soul; dragged forth every latent feeling, and then thun-
dered out his own determination that Eleanor never should be
bride of mine; nor would he receive, under his roof, her mother,
the discountenanced daughter of his father. I endeavoured to re-
monstrate with him. He was deaf to my entreaties. My mother
added sharp and stinging words to my expostulations. i I had her
consent,' she said; 'what more was needed? The lands were en-
tailed. I should at no distant period be their master, and might

W 2

68 EOOKWOOD

then please myself.' This I mention in order to give you my
father's strange answer.

" ' Have a care, madam,' replied he, 6 and bridle your tongue;
they are entailed, 'tis true, but I need not ask his consent to cut
off that entail. Let him dare to disobey me in this particular, and
I will so divert the channel of my wealth, that no drop shall
reach him. I will — but why threaten? — let him do it, and ap-
prove the consequences.'

" On the morrow I renewed my importunities with no better
success. We were alone.

" ' Ranulph,' said he, c you waste time in seeking to change my
resolution. It is unalterable. I have many motives which in-
fluence me ; they are inexplicable, but imperative. Eleanor
Mowbray never can be yours. Forget her as speedily as may be,
and I pledge myself, upon whomsoever else your choice may fix,
I will offer no obstacle.'

" ' But why,' exclaimed I, with vehemence, ' do you object to
one whom you have never beheld? At least, consent to see her.'

Ui Never!' he replied. 6 The tie is sundered, and cannot be
reunited; my father bound me by an oath never to meet in friend-
ship with my sister; I will not break my vow. I will not violate
its conditions, even in the second degree. We never can meet
again. An idle prophecy which I have heard has said, " that
when a Rookwood shall marry a Rookwood the end of the house
draweih nigh? That I regard not. It may have no meaning, or
it may have much. To me it imports nothing further, than that,
if you wed Eleanor, every acre I possess shall depart from you.
And assure yourself this is no idle threat. I can, and will do it.
My curse shall be your sole inheritance.'

" I could not avoid making some reply, representing to him
how unjustifiable such a procedure was to me, in a case where the
happiness of my life was at stake; and how inconsistent it was
with the charitable precepts of our faith, to allow feelings of
resentment to influence his conduct. My remonstrances, as in the
preceding meeting, were ineffectual. The more I spoke, the more
intemperate he grew. I therefore desisted; but not before he
had ordered me to quit the house. I did not leave the neigh-
bourhood, but saw him again on the same evening.

u Our last interview took place in the garden. I then told him
that I had determined to go abroad for two years, at the expira-
tion of which period I proposed returning to England; trusting
that his resolution might then be changed, and that he would
listen to my request, for the fulfilment of which I could never
cease to hope. Time, I hoped, might befriend me. He approved
of my plan of travelling, requesting me not to see Eleanor before
I set out; adding, in a melancholy tone — ' We may never meet
again, Ranulph, in this life; in that case, farewell for ever. In-
dulge no vain hopes. Eleanor never can be yours, but upon one

ROOKWOOD. 69

condition, and to that you would never consent ! ' — ' Propose it ! ' I
cried; c there is no condition I could not accede to.' — c Rash boy !'
he replied, < you know not what you say ; that pledge you would
never fulfil, were I to propose it to you ; but no — should I survive
till you return, you shall learn it then — and now, farewell.' —
6 Speak now, I beseech you!' I exclaimed; 6 anything, everything
— what you will I' — 'Say no more,' replied he, walking towards
the house; 'when you return we will renew this subject; farewell
— perhaps for ever!' His words were prophetic — that parting
was for ever. I remained in the garden till nightfall. I saw my
mother, but he came not again. I quitted England without be-
holding Eleanor."

" Did you not acquaint her by letter with what had occurred,
and your consequent intentions?" asked Small.

"I did," replied Ranulph; "but I received no reply. My
earliest inquiries will be directed to ascertain whether the family
are still in London. It will be a question for our consideration,
whether I am not justified in departing from my father's expressed
wishes, or whether I should violate his commands in 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 occa-
sion 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 neighbouring 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
chateau, 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 mem-
bers 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 chateau 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

70 KOOKWOOD.

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."

u That account arrived," observed Small.

" One night," continued Ranulph — u '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 re-
flected 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 to-
wards me, and was satisfied that no one besides myself could be in
the garden. The presence of the figure inspired me with an un-
definable awe ! and, I can scarce tell why, but a thrilling presenti-
ment 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 c Return I' 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 re-
ceived? said Small.

ROOKWOOD. 71

"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," re-
turned 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
endeavour 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 XI.

LADY ROOKWOOD.

Fran, de Med. Your unhappy husband

Is dead.
Tit. Cor. Oh, lie's a happy husband !

Now he owes nature nothing.
Jffon. And look upon this creature as his wife.

She comes not like a widow — she conies 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, discoloured 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 sur-
prising in a lady so amiable as she was represented to have been.

72 ROOKWOOD.

Grim-visaged Herod glared from the ghostly woof, with his sha-
dowy legions, executing their murderous purposes, grouped like a
troop of Sabbath-dancing witches around him. Mysterious twi-
light, admitted through the deep, dark, mullioned windows, re-
vealed the antique furniture of the room, which still boasted a
sort of mildewed splendour, 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 crim-
son hangings were embroidered in gold, with the arms and cipher
of Elizabeth, from whom the apartment, having once been occu-
pied by that sovereign, obtained the name of the " Queen's
Room."

The sole tenant of this chamber was a female, in whose coun-
tenance, 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 its lines ; and though each passion was, by turns,
developed, it was evident that all were subordinate to the sin by
which the angels fell. The contour of her face was formed in the
purest Grecian mould, and might have been a model for Medea ;
so well did the gloomy grandeur of the brow, the severe chiselling
of the lip, the rounded beauty of the throat, and the faultless sym-
metry of her full form, accord with the beau ideal of antique per-
fection. Shaded by smooth folds of raven hair, which still
maintained its jetty die, her lofty forehead would have been dis-
played to the greatest advantage, had it not been at this moment
knit and deformed by excess of passion, if that passion can be said
to deform which only calls forth strong and vehement expression.
Her figure, which wanted only height to give it dignity, was
arrayed in the garb of widowhood ; and if she exhibited none of
the desolation of heart which such a bereavement might have been
expected to awaken, she was evidently a prey to feelings scarcely
less harrowing. At the particular time of which we speak, Lady
Rookwood, for she it was, was occupied in the investigation of
the contents of an escritoir. Examining the papers which it con-
tained with great deliberation, she threw each aside, as soon as
she had satisfied herself of its purport, until she arrived at a little
package, carefully tied up with black riband, and sealed. This,
Lady Rookwood hastily broke open, and drew forth a small minia-
ture. It was that of a female, young and beautiful, rudely, yet
faithfully executed — faithfully, we say, for there was an air of
sweetness and simplicity — and, in short, a look of reality and
nature about the picture (it is seldom, indeed, that we mistake a
likeness, even if we are unacquainted with the original), that at-
tested the artist's fidelity. The face was as radiant with smiles as
a bright day with sunbeams. The portrait was set in gold, and
behind it was looped a lock of the darkest and finest hair. Under-

ROOKWOOD. 73

neath the miniature was written, in Sir Piers's hand, the words
u Lady Rookwood" A slip of folded paper was also attached
to it.

Lady Rookwood scornfully scrutinised the features for a few
moments, and then unfolded the paper, at the sight of which she
started, and turned pale. "Thank God!" she cried, "this is in
my possession — while I hold this, we are safe. Were it not better
to destroy this evidence at once? No, no, not now — it shall not
part from me. I will abide Ranulph's return. This document
will give me a power over him such as I could never otherwise
obtain." Placing the marriage certificate, for such it was, within
her breast, and laying the miniature upon the table, she next pro-
ceeded, deliberately, to arrange the disordered contents of the
box.

All outward traces of emotion had, ere this, become so subdued
in Lady Rookwood, that although she had, only a few moments
previously, exhibited the extremity of passionate indignation, she
now, apparently without effort, resumed entire composure, and
might have been supposed to be engaged in a matter of little in-
terest to herself. It was a dread calm, which they who knew her
would have trembled to behold. " From these letters I gather,"
exclaimed she, " that their wretched offspring knows not of his
fortune. So far well. There is no channel whence he can derive
information, and my first care shall be to prevent his obtaining any
clue to the secret of his birth. I am directed to provide for him
— ha ! ha ! I will provide — a grave ! There will I bury him and
his secret. My son's security and my own wrong demand it. I
must choose surer hands — the work must not be half done, as
heretofore. And now I bethink me, he is in the neighbourhood,
connected with a gang of poachers — 'tis as I could wish it."

At this moment a knock at the chamber door broke upon her
meditations. "Agnes, is it you?" demanded Lady RookwTood.

Thus summoned, the old attendant entered the room.

"Why are my orders disobeyed?" asked the lady, in a severe
tone of voice. " Did I not say, when you delivered me this
package from Mr. Coates, which he himself wished to present,
that 1 would not be disturbed?"

" You did, my lady, but "

" Speak out," said Lady Rookwood, somewhat more mildly,
perceiving, from Agnes's manner, that she had something of im-
portance to communicate. " What is it brings you hither?"

" I am sorry," returned Agnes, " to disturb your ladyship, but
_but "

" But what?" interrupted Lady Rookwood, impatiently.

"I could not help it, my lady — he would have ine come; he
said he was resolved to sec your ladyship, whether you would or
not."

Would see me, ha ! is it so ? I guess his errand, and its

74 ROOKWOOD.

object — he lias some suspicion. No, that cannot be ; be would
not dare to tamper with these seals. Agnes, I will not see him."

" But he swears, my lady, that he will not leave the house with-
out seeing you — he would have forced his way into your presence,
if I had not consented to announce him."

" Insolent!" exclaimed Lady Rookwood, with a glance of in-
dignation; " force his way ! I promise you he shall not display
an equal anxiety to repeat the visit. Tell Mr. Coates I will see
him."

u Mr. Coates ! Mercy on us, my lady, it's not he. He'd never
have intruded upon you unasked. No such thing. He knows his
place too well. No, no; it's not Mr. Coates "

"If not he, who is it?"

" Luke Bradley; your ladyship knows whom I mean."

" He here — now? "

" Yes, my lady ; and looking so fierce and strange, I was quite
frightened to see him. He looked so like his — his "

" His father, you would say. Speak out."

u No, my lady, his grandfather — old Sir Reginald. He's the
very image of him. But had not your ladyship better ring the
alarm bell? and when he comes in, I'll run and fetch the servants
— lie's dangerous, I'm sure."

" I have no fears of him. He will see me, you say "

" Ay, will /" exclaimed Luke, as he threw open the door, and
shut it forcibly after him, striding towards Lady Rookwood, " nor
abide longer delay."

It was an instant or two ere Lady Rookwood, thus taken by sur-
prise, could command speech. She fixed her eyes with a look of
keen and angry inquiry upon the bold intruder, who, nothing
daunted, confronted her glances wTith a gaze as stern and steadfast
as her own.

"Who are you, and what seek you?" exclaimed Lady Rook-
wood, after a brief pause, and, in spite of herself, her voice sounded
tremulously. " What would you have, that you venture to appear
before me at this season, and in this fashion?"

"I might have chosen a fitter opportunity," returned Luke,
" were it needed. My business will not brook delay — you must be
pleased to overlook this intrusion on your privacy, at a season of
sorrow like the present. As to the fashion of my visit, you must
be content to excuse it. I cannot help myself. I may amend
hereafter. Who I am, you are able, I doubt not, to divine. What
I seek, you shall hear, when this old woman has left the room, un-
less you would have a witness to a declaration that concerns you
as nearly as myself."

An indefinite feeling of apprehension had, from the first instant
of Luke's entrance, crossed Lady Rookwood's mind. She, how-
ever, answered with some calmness:

" What you can have to say, is of small moment to me — nor

KOOKWOOD. 75

does it signify who may hear it. It shall not, however, be said
that Lady Rookwood feared to be alone, even though she en-
dangered her life."

"I am no assassin," replied Luke, "nor have sought the de-
struction of my deadliest foe — though 'twere but retributive justice
to have done so."

Lady Rookwood started.

"Nay, you need not fear me," replied Luke; " my revenge will
be otherwise accomplished."

" Go," said Lady Rookwood to Agnes ; " yet — stay without, in
the antechamber."

"My lady," said Agnes, scarcely able to articulate, "shall
I "

" Hear me, Lady Rookwood," interrupted Luke. " I repeat, I
intend you no injury. My object here is solely to obtain a private
conference. You can have no reason for denying me this request.
I will not abuse your patience. Mine is no idle mission. Say you
refuse me, and I will at once depart. I will find other means of
communicating with you — less direct, and therefore less desirable.
Make your election. But we must be alone — undisturbed. Sum-
mon your household — let them lay hands upon me, and I will pro-
claim aloud what you would gladly hide, even from yourself."

"Leave us, Agnes," said Lady Rookwood. "I have no fear of
this man. I can deal with him myself, should I see occasion."

"Agnes," said Luke, in a stern, deep whisper, arresting the
ancient handmaiden as she passed him, "stir not from the door
till I come forth. Have you forgotten your former mistress ! — my
mother? Have you forgotten Barbara Lovel, and that nightf

" In Heaven's name, hush !" replied Agnes, with a shudder.

" Let that be fresh in your memory. Move not a footstep, what-
ever you may hear," added he, in the same tone as before.

" I will not — I will not." And Agnes departed.

Luke felt some wTavering in his resolution when he found him-
self alone with the lady, whose calm, collected, yet haughty de-
meanour, as she resumed her seat, prepared for his communication,
could not fail to inspire him with a certain degree of awe. Not
unconscious of her advantage, nor slow to profit by it, Lady
Rookwood remained perfectly silent, with her eyes steadily fixed
upon his face, while his embarrassment momentarily increased.
Summoning at length, courage sufficient to address her, and
ashamed of his want of nerve, he thus broke forth:

"When I entered this room, you asked my name and object.
As to the first, I answer to the same designation as your ladyship.
I have long borne my mother's name. I now claim rny father's.
My object is, the restitution of my rights."

" Soh ! — it is as I suspected," thought Lady Rookwood, in
voluntarily casting her large eyes down. " Do I hear you rightly?
exclaimed she, aloud ; " your name is -"

76 ROOKWOOD.

" Sir Luke Rookwood. As my father's elder born ; by right of
his right to that title."

If a glance could have slain him, Luke had fallen lifeless at the
lady's feet. With a smile of ineffable disdain, she replied, "I
know not why I hesitate to resent this indignity, even for an in-
stant. But I would see how far your audacity will carry you.
The name you bear is Bradley?"

" In ignorance I have done so," replied Luke. " I am the son
of her whose maiden name was Bradley. She was "

" 'Tis false — I will not hear it — she was not" cried Lady Rook-
wood, her vehemence getting the master of her prudence.

" Your ladyship anticipates my meaning," returned Luke.
u Susan Bradlev was the first wife of Sir Piers Rookwood."

" His minion — his mistress if you will; nought else. Is it new
to you, that a village wench, who lends herself to shame, should
be beguiled by such shallow pretences? That she was so duped,
I doubt not. But it is too late now to complain, and I would
counsel you not to repeat your idle boast. It will serve no other
purpose, trust me, than to blazon forth your own — your mother's
dishonour."

" Lady Rookwood," sternly answered Luke, " my mother's fame
is as free from dishonour as your own. I repeat, she was the first
wife of Sir Piers; and that I, her child, am first in the inheritance;
nay, sole heir to the estates and title of Rookwood, to the exclu-
sion of your son. Ponder upon that intelligence. Men say they
fear you, as a thing of ill. i" fear you not. There have been days
when the Rookwoods held their dames in subjection. Discern you
nought of that in me?"

Once or twice during this speech Lady Rookwood's glances had
wandered towards the bell-cord, as if about to summon aid; but
the intention was abandoned almost as soon as formed, probably
from apprehension of the consequences of any such attempt. She
was not without alarm as to the result of the interview, and was
considering how she could bring it to a termination without en-
dangering herself, and, if possible, secure the person of Luke,
when the latter, turning sharply round upon her, and drawing a
pistol, exclaimed,

"Follow me!"

"Whither?" asked she, in alarm.

" To the chamber of death !"

" Why there? what would you do? Villain! I will not trust
my life with you. I will not follow you."

" Hesitate not, as you value your life. Do aught to alarm the
house, and I fire. Your safety depends upon yourself. I would
see my father's body ere it be laid in the grave. I will not leave
you here."

"Go," said Lady Rookwood; "if that be all, I pledge myself
you shall not be interrupted."

ROOKWOOD. 77

" I will not take your pledge ; your presence shall be my surety.
By my mother's unavenged memory, if you play me false, though
all your satellites stand around you, you die upon the spot ! Obey
me, and you are safe. Our way leads to the room by the private
staircase — we shall pass unobserved — you see I know the road.
The room, by your own command, is vacant — save of the dead.
We shall, therefore, be alone. This done, I depart. You will
then be free to act. Disobey me, and your blood be upon your
own head."

" Lead on !" said Lady Rook wood, pressing towards the ante-
chamber.

" The door I mean is there," pointing to another part of the
room — " that panel "

" Ha ! how know you that?"

"No matter; follow."

Luke touched a spring, and the panel flying open, disclosed a
dim recess, into which he entered; and, seizing Lady Rookwood's
hand, dragged her after him.

CHAPTER XII.

THE CHAMBER OF DEATH.

It is the body — I have orders given

That here it should be laid. Be Montfort.

The recess upon which the panel opened had been a small
oratory, and, though entirely disused, still retained its cushions and
its crucifix. There were two other entrances to this place of
prayer, the one communicating with a further bedchamber, the
other leading to the gallery. Through the latter, after closing the
aperture, without relinquishing his grasp, Luke passed.

It was growing rapidly dark, and at the brightest seasons this
gloomy corridor was but imperfectly lighted from narrow, painted,
and wire-protected windows that looked into the old quadrangular
court-yard below ; and as they issued from the oratory a dazzling
flash of lightning (a storm having suddenly arisen) momentarily
illumined the whole length of the passage, disclosing the retreating
figure of a man, wrapped in a large sable cloak, at the other ex-
tremity of the gallery. Lady Rookwood uttered an outcry for
assistance; but the man, whoever he might be, disappeared in the
instantaneously succeeding gloom, leaving her in doubt whether
or not her situation had been perceived. Luke had seen this dark
figure at the same instant; and, not without apprehensions lest his
plans should be defeated, he griped Lady Rookwood's arm still

78 ROOKWOOD.

more strictly, and placing the muzzle of the pistol to her breast,
hurried her rapidly forwards.

All was now in total obscurity; the countenance of neither could
be perceived. as they trod the dark passage; but Luke's unrelaxed
grasp indicated no change in his purposes, nor did the slow,
dignified march of the lady betray any apprehension on her part.
Descending a spiral staircase, which led from the gallery to a lower
story, their way now lay beneath the entrance-hall, a means of
communication little used. ■ Their tread sounded hollowly on the
flagged floor; no other sound was heard. Mounting a staircase,
similar to the one they had just descended, they arrived at another
passage. A few paces brought them to the door. Luke turned
the handle, and they stood within the chamber of the dead.

The room which contained the remains of poor Sir Piers was
arrayed in all that mockery of state which, vainly attempting to
deride death, is itself a bitter derision of the living. It was the
one devoted to the principal meals of the day ; a strange choice, but
convenience had dictated its adoption by those with whom this part
of the ceremonial had originated, and long custom had rendered its
usage, for this purpose, almost prescriptive. This room, which was
of some size, had originally formed part of the great hall, from
which it was divided by a thick screen of black lustrously varnished
oak, enriched with fanciful figures carved in bold relief. The walls
were paneled with the same embrowned material, and sustained
sundry portraits of the members of the family, in every possible
costume, from the steely gear of Sir Ranulph, down to the flowing
attire of Sir Reginald. Most of the race were ranged around the
room ; and, seen in the yellow light shed upon their features by the
flambeaux, they looked like an array of stern and silent witnesses,
gazing upon their departed descendant. The sides of the chamber
were hung with black cloth, and upon a bier in the middle of the
room rested the body. Broad escutcheons, decked out in glowing
colours, pompously set forth the heraldic honours of the departed.
Tall lights burnt at the head and feet, and fragrant perfumes
diffused their odours from silver censers.

The entrance of Luke and his unwilling companion had been
abrupt. The transition from darkness to the glare of light was
almost blinding, and they had advanced far into the room ere Lady
Rookwood perceived a man, whom she took to be one of the mutes,
leaning over the bier. The coffin lid was entirely removed, and
the person, whose back was towards them, appeared to be wrapt
in mournful contemplation of the sad spectacle before him. Sud-
denly bursting from Luke's hold, Lady Rookwood rushed forward
with a scream, and touched the man's shoulder. He started at the
summons, and disclosed the features of her son!

Rapidly as her own act, Luke followed. He levelled a pistol
at her head, but his hand dropped to his side as he encountered

ROOKWOOD. 79

the glance of Ranulph. All three seemed paralysed by surprise.
Ranulph, in astonishment, extended his arm to his mother, who,
placing one arm over his shoulder, pointed with the other to
Luke; the latter stared sternly and inquiringly at both— yet none
Epoke.

CHAPTER XIII.

THE BROTHERS.

"We're sorry
His violent act has e'en drawn blood of honour,
And stained our honours ;
Thrown ink upon the forehead of our fame,
Which envious spirits will dip their pens into
After our death, and blot us in our tombs ;
For that which would seem treason in our lives,
Is laughter when we're dead. Who dares now whisper,
That dares not then speak out ; and even proclaim,
With loud words, and broad pens, our closest shame ?

The Revengers Tragedy.

With that quickness of perception, which at once supplies in-
formation on such an emergency, Luke instantly conjectured who
was before him. Startled as he was, he yet retained his compo-
sure, abiding the result with his arms folded upon his breast.

" Seize him !" cried Lady Rookwood, as soon as she could com-
mand her speech.

" He rushes on his death if he stirs," exclaimed Luke, pointing
his pistol.

" Bethink you where you are, villain I" cried Ranulph ; " you
are entrapped in your own toils. Submit yourself to our mercy
— resistance is vain, and will not secure your safety, while it will
aggravate your offence. Surrender yourself "

"Never!" answered Luke. "Know you whom you ask to
yield?"

"How should I?" answered Ranulph.

" By that instinct which tells me who you are. Ask Lady
Rookwood — she can inform you, if she will."

"Parley not with him — seize him!" cried Lady Rookwood.
" He is a robber, a murderer, who has assailed my life."

" Beware !" said Luke to Ranulph, who was preparing to obey
his mother's commands; " I am no robber — no murderer. Do not
you make me a fratricide."

" Fratricide !" echoed Ranulph.

"Heed him not," ejaculated Lady Rookwood. "It is false —
he dares not harm thee, for his soul. I will call assistance."

80 ROOKWOOD.

"Hold, mother!" exclaimed Ranulph, detaining Lady Rook-
wood; " this man may be what he represents himself. Before we
proceed to extremities, I would question him. I would not have
mentioned it in your hearing could it have been avoided, but my
father had another son."

Lady Rookwood frowned. She would have checked him, but
Luke rejoined —

"You have spoken the truth; he had a son — I am he. I "

"Be silent, I command you!" said Lady Rookwood.

"Death!" cried Luke, in a loud voice. " Why should. I be
silent at your bidding — at yours — who regard no laws, human or
divine; who pursue your own fell purposes, without fear of God
or man? Waste not your frowns on me — I heed them not. Do
you think I am like a tame hound, to be cowed to silence? I
will speak. Ranulph Rookwood, the name you bear is mine, and
by a right as good as is your own. From his loins, who lies a
corpse before us, I sprang. No brand of shame is on my birth. I
am your father's son — his first-born — your elder brother. Hear
me !" cried he, rushing to the bier. " By this body, I swear that
I have avouched the truth — and though to me the dead Sir Piers
Rookwood hath never been what a father should be to a son —
though I have never known his smile, felt his caresses, or received
his blessing, yet now be all forgiven, all forgotten." And he cast
himself with frantic violence upon the coffin.

It is difficult to describe the feelings with which Ranulph heard
Luke's avowal. Amazement and dread predominated. Unable
to stir, he stood crazing: on in silence. Not so Ladv Rookwood,
The moment for action was arrived. Addressing her son in
a low tone, she said, "Your prey is within your power. Se-
cure him."

"Wherefore?" rejoined Ranulph; "if he be my brother, shall
I raise my hand against him?"

"Wherefore not?" returned Lady Rookwood.

" 'Twere an accursed deed," replied Ranulph. " The mystery
is resolved. 'Twas for this that I was summoned home."

"Ha! what say you? summoned! by whom?"

"My father!"

"Your father?" echoed Lady Rookwood, in great surprise.

" Ay, my dead father ! He has appeared to me since his
decease."

" Ranulph, you rave — you are distracted with grief — with as-
tonishment."

"No, mother; but I will not struggle against my destiny."

" Pshaw ! your destiny is Rookwood, its manors, its lands, its
rent-roll, and its title; nor shall you yield it to a base-born churl
like this. Let him prove his rights. Let the law adjudge them
to him, and we will yield — but not till then. I tell thee he has not
the right, nor can he maintain it. He is a deluded dreamer, who,

ROOKWOOD. 81

having heard some idle tale of his birth, believes it, because it
chimes with his wishes. I treated him with the scorn he deserved.
I would have driven him from my presence, but he was armed, as
you see, and forced me hither, perhaps to murder me; a deed he
might have accomplished had it not been for your intervention.
His life is already forfeit, for an attempt of the same sort last
night. Why else came he hither? for what else did he dra"- me
to this spot? Let him answer that!"

" I will answer it," replied Luke, raising himself from the bier.

His face was ghastly as the corpse over which he leaned. u I
had a deed to do, which I wished you to witness. It was a wild
conception. But the means by which I have acquired the in-
formation of my rights were wild. Ranulph, we are both the
slaves of fate. You have received your summons hither — I have
had mine. Your father's ghost called you ; my mother's spectral
hand beckoned me. Both are arrived. One thing more re-
mains, and my mission is completed." Saying which, he drew
forth the skeleton hand ; and having first taken the wedding-
ring from the finger, he placed the withered limb upon the
left breast of his father's body. " Rest there," he cried, u for
ever."

" Will you suffer that?" said Lady Rook wood, tauntingly, to
her son.

"No," replied Ranulph; "such profanation of the dead shall
not be endured, were he ten times my brother. Stand aside,"
added he, advancing towards the bier, and motioning Luke
away. " Withdraw your hand from my father's body, and re-
move what you have placed upon it."

"I will neither remove it, nor suffer it to be removed," re-
turned Luke. " 'Twas for that purpose I came hither. 'Twas to
that hand he was united in life, in death he shall not be divided
from it."

" Such irreverence shall not be !" exclaimed Ranulph, seizing
Luke with one hand, and snatching at the cereclothes with the
other. " Remove it, or by Heaven "

"Leave go your hold," said Luke, in a voice of thunder; "you
strive in vain."

Ranulph ineffectually attempted to push him backwards; and,
shaking away the grasp that was fixed upon his collar, seized his
brother's wrist, so as to prevent the accomplishment of his purpose.
In this unnatural and indecorous strife, the corpse of their father
was reft of its covering, and the hand discovered lying upon the
pallid breast.

And as if the wanton impiety of their conduct called forth an
immediate rebuke, even from the dead, a frown seemed to pass
over Sir Piers' s features, as their angry glances fell in that direc-
tion. This startling effect was occasioned by the approach of

82 ROOKWOOD.

Lady Rookwood, whose shadow, falling over the brow and visage
of the deceased, produced the appearance we have described.
Simultaneously quitting each other, with a deep sense of shame,
mingled with remorse, both remained, their eyes fixed upon the
dead, whose repose they had violated.

Folding the graveclothes decently over the body, Luke pre-
pared to depart.

" Hold !" cried Lady Rookwood ; "you go not hence."

" My brother Ranulph will not oppose my departure," returned
Luke ; " who else shall prevent it ?"

"That will I!" cried a sharp voice behind him ; and, ere he
could turn to ascertain from whom the exclamation proceeded,
Luke felt himself grappled by two nervous assailants, who, snatch-
ing the pistol from his hold, fast pinioned his arms. This was
scarcely the work of a moment, and he was a prisoner before he
could offer any resistance. A strong smile of exultation evinced
Lady Rookwood's satisfaction.

"Bravo, my lads, bravo!" cried Coates, stepping forward, for
he it was under whose skilful superintendence the seizure had been
effected : " famously managed ; my father the thieftaker's runners
couldn't have done it better — hand me that pistol — loaded, I see
— slugs, no doubt — oh, he's a precious rascal — search him — turn
his pockets inside out, while I speak to her ladyship." Saying
which, the brisk attorney, enchanted with the feat he had per-
formed, approached Lady Rookwood with a profound bow, and
an amazing smirk of self-satisfaction. " Just in time to prevent
mischief," said he ; " hope your ladyship does not suffer any in-
convenience from the alarm — beg pardon, annoyance I meant to
say — which this horrible outrage must have occasioned ; exces-
sively disagreeable this sort of thing to a lady at any time, but at
a period like this more than usually provoking. However, we
have the villain safe enough. Very lucky I happened to be in
the way. Perhaps your ladyship would like to know how I dis-
covered "

" Not now," replied Lady Rookwood, checking the volubility
of the man of law. "I thank you, Mr. Coates, for the service
you have rendered me ; you will now add materially to the
obligation by removing the prisoner with all convenient despatch."

" Certainly, if your ladyship wishes it. Shall I detain him a
close prisoner in the hall for the night, or remove him at once to
the lock-up house in the village?"

" Where you please, so you do it quickly," replied Lady
Rookwood, noticing, with great uneasiness, the agitated manner
of her son, and apprehensive lest, in the presence of so many
witnesses, he might say or do something prejudicial to their
interests. Nor were her fears groundless. As Coates was about
to return to the prisoner, he was arrested by the voice of Ranulph,
commanding him to stay.

ROOKWOOD. S

"Mr. Coates," said he, "however appearances may' be against
this man, he is no robber — you must, therefore, release him."
" Eh day, what's that? release him, Sir Ranulph?"
" Yes, sir ; I tell you he came here neither with the intent to
rob nor to offer violence."

"That is false, Ranulph," replied Lady Rookwood. "I was
dragged hither by him at the peril of my life. He is Mr. Coates's
prisoner on another charge."

" Unquestionably, your ladyship is perfectly right ; I have a
warrant against him for assaulting Hugh Badger, the keeper, and
for other misdemeanors."

" I will myself be responsible for his appearance to that charge,*
replied Ranulph. " Now, sir, at once release him."
"At your peril !" exclaimed Lady Rookwood.
" Well, really," muttered the astonished attorney, " this is the
most perplexing proceeding I ever witnessed."

" Ranulph," said Lady Rookwood, sternly, to her son, "beware
how you thwart me I"

" Yes, Sir Ranulph, let me venture to advise you, as a friend,
not to thwart her ladyship," whispered the attorney ; " indeed,
she is in the right." But seeing his advice unheeded, Coates
withdrew to a little distance.

" I will not see injustice done to my father's son," replied Ra-
nulph, in a low tone. "Why would you detain him?"

" Why?" returned she, "our safety demands it — our honour."
" Our honour demands his instant liberation ; each moment he
remains in those bonds sullies its purity. I will free him myself
from his fetters."

" And brave my curse, foolish boy? You incurred your mise-
rable father's anathema for a lighter cause than this. Our honour
cries aloud for his destruction. Have I not been injured in the
nicest point a woman can be injured? Shall I lend my name to
mockery and scorn, by base acknowledgment of such deceit, or
will you? Where would be my honour, then, stripped of my fur
estates — my son — myself — beggars — dependent on the bounty of
an upstart? Docs honour ask you to bear this? It is a phantom
sense of honour, unsubstantial as your father's shade, of which you
just now spoke, that would prompt you to do otherwise."

" Do not evoke his awful spirit, mother," cried Ranulph, with
a shudder ; " do not arouse his wrath."

" Do not arouse my wrath," returned Lady Rookwood. " I am
the more to be feared. Think of Eleanor Mowbray ; the bar be-
tween your nuptials is removed. Would you raise up a greater
impediment ?"

" Enough, mother ; more than enough. You have decided,
though not convinced me. Detain him within the house, if you
will, until the morrow; in the mean time, I will consider over my
line of conduct."

84 ROOKWOOD.

"Is this, then, your resolve?"

" It is. Mr. Coates," said Ranulph, calling the attorney, who
had been an inquisitive spectator, though, luckily, not an auditor
of this interview, " unbind the prisoner, and bring him hither."

"Is it your ladyship's pleasure?" asked Mr. Coates, who re-
gretted exceedingly that he could not please both parties.

Lady Rookwood signified her assent by a slight gesture in the
affirmative.

" Your bidding shall be done, Sir Ranulph," said Coates, bow-
ing and departing.

" Sir Ranulph !" echoed Lady Rookwood, with strong em-
phasis; " marked you that?"

" Body o' me," muttered the attorney, " this is the most extra-
ordinary family, to be sure. Make way, gentlemen, if you please,"
added he, pushing through the crowd, towards the prisoner.

Having described what took place between Lady Rookwood
and her son in one part of the room, we must now briefly narrate
some incidental occurrences in the other. The alarm of a robber
having been taken spread with great celerity through the house,
and almost all its inmates rushed into the room, including Doctor
Small, Titus Tyrconnel, and Jack Palmer.

" Odsbodikins ! are you there, honey?" said Titus, who dis-
.covered his ally ; " the bird's caught, you see."

" Caught be d — d," replied Jack, bluffly ; "so I see ; all his
own fault; infernal folly to come here, at such a time as this.
However, it can't be helped now; he must make the best of it.
And as to that sneaking, gimlet- eyed, parchment-skinned quill-
driver, if I don't serve him out for his officiousness one of these
days, my name's not Jack Palmer."

" Och ! cushlamacree ! did I ever? why, what's the boy to you,
Jack? Fair play's a jewel, and surely Mr. Coates only did his
duty. I'm sorry he's captured, for his relationship to Sir Piers,
and because I think he'll be tucked up for his pains; and, more-
over, I could forgive the poaching ; but as to the breaking into a
house on such an occasion as this, och ! it's a plaguy bad look.
I'm afraid he's worse than I thought him."

A group of the tenantry, many of whom were in a state of in-
toxication, had, in the mean time, formed themselves round the
prisoner. Whatever might be the nature of his thoughts, no
apprehension was visible in Luke's countenance. He stood erect
amidst the assemblage, his tall form towering above them all, and
his eyes fixed upon the movements of Lady Rookwood and her
son. He had perceived the anguish of the latter, and the vehe-
mence of the former, attributing both to their real causes. The
taunts and jeers, threats and insolent inquiries, of the hinds who
thronged around him, passed unheeded ; yet one voice in his ear,
sharp as the sting of a serpent, made him start. It was that of
the sexton.

ROOKWOOD. 85

"You have done well," said Peter, "have you not? Your
fetters are, I hope, to your liking. Well ! a wilful man must
have his own way, and perhaps the next time you will be content
to follow my advice. You must now free yourself, the best way
you can, from these Moabites, and I promise you it will be no
easy matter. Ha, ha "

Peter withdrew into the crowd ; and Luke, vainly endeavour-
ing to discover his retreating figure, caught the eye of Jack
Palmer fixed upon himself, with a peculiar and very significant
expression.

At this moment Mr. Coates made his appearance.

" Bring forward the prisoner," said the man of law to his two
assistants; and Luke was accordingly hurried along, Mr. Coates
using his best efforts to keep back the crowd. It was during the
pressure that Luke heard a voice whisper in his ear, " Never fear;
all's right !" and turning his head, he became aware of the pro-
pinquity of Jack Palmer. The latter elevated his eyebrows with
a gesture of silence, and Luke passed on as if nothing had occurred.
He was presently confronted with Lady Rookwood and her son;
and, notwithstanding the efforts of Mr. Coates, seconded by some
few others, the crowd grew dense around them.

" Remove his fetters," said Ranulph. And his manacles were
removed.

"You will consent to remain here a prisoner till to-morrow?"

" I consent to nothing," replied Luke; " I am in your hands."

" He does not deserve your clemency, Sir Ranulph," interposed
Coates.

u Let him take his own course," said Lady Rookwood ; " he
will reap the benefit of it anon."

" Will you pledge yourself not to depart?" asked Ranulph.

u Of course," cried the attorney ; " to be sure he will. Ha, ha !"

"No," returned Luke, haughtily, "I will not — and you will
detain me at your proper peril."

" Better and better," exclaimed the attorney. " This is the
highest joke I ever heard."

" I shall detain you, then, in custody, until proper inquiries
can he made," said Ranulph. " To your care, Mr. Coates, and to
that of Mr. Tyrconnel, whom I must request to lend you his assist-
ance, I commit the charge; and I must further request, that you
will show him every attention which his situation will permit.
Remove him. We have a sacred duty to the dead to fulfil, to
which even justice to the living must give way. Disperse this
crowd, and let instant preparations be made for the completion of
the ceremonial. You understand me, sir."

" Ranulph Rookwood," said Luke, sternly, as he departed, " you
have another — a more sacred office to perform. Fulfil your duty
to your father's son."

86 ROOKWOOD.

" Away with him !" cried Lady Rookwood. " I am out of all
patience with this trifling. Follow me to my chamber," added
she to her son, passing towards the door. The concourse of spec-
tators^ who had listened to this extraordinary scene in astonish-
ment, made way for her instantly, and she left the room, accom-
panied by Ranulph. The prisoner was led out by the other
door.

" Botheration!" cried Titus to Mr. Coates, as they followed in
the wake, "why did he choose out me? I'll lose the funeral en-
tirely by his arrangement."

" That you will," replied Palmer. " Shall I be your deputy?"

u No, no," returned Coates. " I will have no other than Mr.
Tyrconnel. It was Sir Ranulph's express wish."

"That's the devil of it," returned Titus; "and I, who was to
have been chief mourner, and have made all the preparations, am
to be omitted. I wish Sir Ranulph had stayed till to-morrow
— what could bring him here, to spoil all? — it's cursedly pro-
voking!"

" Cursed provoking!" echoed Jack.

" But then there's no help, so I must make the best of it," re-
turned the good-humoured Irishman.

" Body o' me," said Coates, " there's something in all this that
I can't fathom. As to keeping the prisoner here, that's all moon-
shine. But I suppose we shall know the whole drift of it to-
morrow.

"Ay," replied Jack, with a meaning smile, "to-morrow !"

ROOKWOOD. 87

BOOK II.

THE SEXTON.

Duchess. Thou art very plain.

Bosola. My trade is to flatter the dead — not the living —

I am a tomb-maker. Webster.

CHAPTER I.

THE STORM.

Come, list, and hark ! the bell doth towle,
Eor some bnt now departing sowle !
And was not that some ominous fowlc ?
The bat, the night-crow, or screech-owle ?
To these I hear the wild wolf howle,
In this dark night that seems to scowle ; —
All these my blacke-booke shall enrowle,
For hark ! still hark ! the bell doth towle
Tor some but new-departed sowle !

Haywood : Rape of Lucrece.

The night was wild and stormy. The day had been sultry,
with a lurid, metallic-looking sky, hanging like a vast galvanic
plate over the face of nature. As evening drew on, everything
betokened the coming tempest. Unerring indications of its ap-
proach were noted by the weatherwise at the hall. The swallow
was seen to skim the surface of the pool so closely, that he ruffled
its placid mirror as he passed; and then, sharply darting round
and round, with twittering scream, he winged his rapid flight
to his clay -built home, beneath the barn eaves. The kine that had
herded to the margin of the water, and sought, by splashing, to
relieve themselves from the keen persecution of their myriad insect
tormentors, wended stallwards, undriven, and deeply lowing. The
deer, that at twilight had trooped thither also for refreshment,
suddenly, " with expanded nostrils, snuffed the air," and bounded
off to their coverts, amidst the sheltering fernbrake. The rooks,
"obstreperous of wing, in crowds combined," cawed in away that,
as plainly as words could have done, bespoke their apprehension;
and were seen, some hovering and beating the air with flapping
pinion, others shooting upwards in mid space, as if to reconnoitre
the weather; while others, again, were croaking to their mates, in
loud discordant tone, from the highest branches of the lime-trees;
all, seemingly, as anxious and as busy as mariners before a gale of
wind. At sunset, the hazy vapours, which had obscured the
horizon throughout the day, rose up in spiral volumes, like smoke

88 ROOKWOOD.

from a burning forest, and, becoming gradually condensed, as-
sumed the form of huge, billowy masses, which, reflecting the
sun's light, changed, as the sinking orb declined, from purple to
flame-colour, and thence to ashy, angry grey. Night rushed on-
wards, like a sable steed. There was a dead calm. The stillness
was undisturbed, save by an intermittent, sighing wind, which,
hollow as a murmur from the grave, died as it rose. At once the
grey clouds turned to an inky blackness. A single, sharp, in-
tensely vivid flash, shot from the bosom of the rack, sheer down-
wards, and struck the earth with a report like that of a piece of
ordnance. In ten minutes it was dunnest night, and a rattling
thunderstorm.

The progress of the storm was watched with infinite apprehen-
sion by the crowd of tenantry assembled in the great hall; and
loud and frequent were the ejaculations uttered, as each succeed-
ing peal burst over their heads. There was, however, one amongst
the assemblage who seemed to enjoy the uproar. A kindred ex-
citement 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 unobserved, nor his reputation for unholy
dealing forgotten. To some he was almost as much an object of
^dread as the storm itself.

" Did'st 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 neigh-
bour. " Did'st ever hear of any man that were a Christian laugh-
ing in the very face o' a thunderstorm, 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, neighbour 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

ROOKWOOD. 89

mysteriously, " I happened to pass the house one dark, dismal
night, and there what dost think I sce'd through the window?"

« What— what did'st 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 Burten-
shaw ; " 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 bein"; 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 :io more, not he, than if nothing had happened."

"Don't be too sure of that," replied Burtenshaw; "he may be
scheming summat all tins 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 nobody 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 com-
mand 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
neighbourhood 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,

90 ROOKWOOD.

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 —
endeavouring 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?"

u 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 sympa-
thy 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 hell-fever. Down, down —
buckets and pails, ha, ha!"

There was a pause, during which the sexton, 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, u I have always
thought there was more in Peter Bradley nor appears on the out-
side. 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 sympering? — 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 —

EOOEWOOD. 91

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 tlie
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 fervour of a
half-crazed improvisatore :

THE CORPSE-CANDLE.

Lambere flamma racpos et circum fuiiera 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 grass-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 interr'd 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, Muster Peter," said Toft, as the
sexton 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 vigour in this arm, thou drivellins:
old dotard?" °

92 ROOKWOOD.

Upon which, Toft seized Peter by the throat, with an energy
that, but for the timely intervention of the company, who rushed
to his assistance, the prophet might himself have anticipated the
doom he prognosticated.

Released from the grasp of Toft, who was held back by the by-
standers, Peter as^ain broke forth into his eltrich lau^h: 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."

"That will I," replied Burtenshaw; and he departed in search
of the sexton.

" I'd advise thee to make it up with Peter so soon as thou
canst, neighbour," continued Plant; "he's a bad friend, but a
worse enemy."

" Why, what harm can he do me?" returned Toft, who, how-
ever, was not without some misgivings. " If I must die, I can't
help it — I shall go none the sooner for him, even if he speak the
truth, which I don't think he do; and if I must, I shan't go un-
prepared— only I think as how, if it pleased Providence, I could
have wished to keep my old missus company some few years
longer, and see those bits of lasses of mine grow up into women,
and respectably provided for. But His will be done. I shan't
leave 'em quite penniless, and there's one eye at least, I'm sure,
won't be dry at my departure." Here the stout heart of Toft gave
way, and he shed some few "natural tears;" which, however, he
speedily brushed away. "I'll tell you what, neighbours," con-
tinued he ; " I think we may all as well be thinking of going to
our own homes, for, to my mind, we shall never reach the church-
yard to-night."

"That you never will," exclaimed a voice behind him; and
Toft, turning round, again met the glance of Peter.

" Come, come, Master Peter," cried the good-natured farmer,
"this be ugly jesting — ax pardon for my share of it — sorry for
what I did — so give us thy hand, man, and think no more
about it."

Peter extended his claw, and the parties were, apparently, once
more upon terms of friendship.

ROOKWOOD. 93

CHAPTER II.

THE FUNEKAL ORATION.

In northern customs duty was exprest
To friends departed by their funeral feast ;
Though I've consulted Holingshed and Stow,
I find it very difficult to know,
"Who, to refresh the attendants to the grave,
Burnt claret first, or Naples' biscuit gave.

King : Art of Cookery.

Ceterum priusquam corpus humo injecta. contegatur, defunctus oratione fu-
nebri laudabatur. — Dukand.

A SUPPLY of spirits was here introduced; lights were brought
at the same time, and placed upon a long oak table. The party
gathering round it, ill-humour was speedily dissipated, and even
the storm disregarded, in the copious libations that ensued. At
this juncture, a loiterer appeared in the hall. His movements
were unnoticed by all excepting the sexton, who watched his pro-
ceedings with some curiosity. The person walked to the window,
appearing, so far as could be discovered, to eye the storm with
great impatience. He then paced the hall rapidly backwards and
forwards, and Peter fancied he could detect sounds of disappoint-
ment in his muttered exclamations. Again he returned to the
window, as if to ascertain the probable duration of the shower. It
was a hopeless endeavour; all was pitch-dark without; the light-
ning was now only seen at long intervals, but the rain still audibly
descended in torrents. Apparently seeing the impossibility of
controlling the elements, the person approached the table.

" What think you of the night, Mr. Palmer?" asked the sexton
of Jack, for he was the anxious investigator of the weather.

" Don't know — can't say — set in, I think — cursed unlucky —
for the funeral, I mean — we shall be drowned if we go."

" And drunk if we stay," rejoined Peter. " But never fear, it
will hold up, depend upon it, long before we can start. Where
have they put the prisoner?" asked he, with a sudden change of
manner.

" I know the room, but can't describe it; it's two or three doors
down the lower corridor of the eastern gallery."

u Good. Who are on guard ?'"'

" Titus Tyrconnel, and that swivel-eyed quill-driver, Coates."

" Enough."

" Come, come, Master Peter," roared Toft, " let's have another
stave. Give us one of your odd snatches. No more corpse-
candles, or that sort of thing. Something lively — something jolly
—ha, ha !"

94 ROOKWOOD.

" A good move," shouted Jack. " A lively song from you —
lillibullero from a death's head — ha, ha !"

" My songs are all of a sort," returned Peter ; " I am seldom
asked to sing a second time. However, you are welcome to the
merriest I have." And preparing himself, like certain other ac-
complished vocalists, with a few preliminary hems and haws, he
struck forth the following doleful ditty :

THE OLD OAK COEEIN.

Sic ego componi versus in ossa velim. — Tibullus.

In a churchyard, upon the sward, a coffin there was laid,
And leaning stood, beside the wood, a sexton on his spade.
A coffin old and black it was, and fashioned curiously,
With quaint device of carved oak, in hideous fantasie.

Eor here was wrought the sculptured thought of a tormented face.
With serpents lithe that round it writhe, in folded strict embrace.
Grim visages of grinning fiends were at each corner set,
And emblematic scrolls, mort-heads, and bones together met.

"Ah, well-a-day !" that sexton grey unto himself did cry,
" Beneath that lid much lieth hid — much awful mysterie.
It is an ancient coffin from the abbey that stood here ;
Perchance it holds an abbot's bones, perchance those of a frere.

" In digging deep, where monks do sleep, beneath yon cloister shrined,
That coffin old, within the mould, it was my chance to find ;
The costly carvings of the lid I scraped full carefully,
In hope to get at name or date, yet nothing could I see.

" With pick and spade I've plied my trade for sixty years and more,
Yet never found, beneath the ground, shell strange as that before ;
Eull many coffins have I seen — have seen them deep or flat,
Eantastical in fashion — none fantastical as that."

And saying so, with heavy blow, the lid he shattered wide,
And, pale with fright, a ghastly sight that sexton grey espied ;
A miserable sight it was, that loathsome corpse to see,
The last, last, dreary, darksome stage of fall'n humanity.

Though all was gone, save reeky bone, a green and grisly heap,

With scarce a trace of fleshly face, strange posture did it keep.

The hands were clench'd, the teetli were wrench'd, as if the wretch had risen,

E'en after death had ta'en his breath, to strive and burst his prison.

The neck vras bent, the nails were rent, no limb or joint was straight ;
Together glued, with blood imbued, black and coagulate.
And, as the sexton stooped him down to lift the coffin plank,
His fingers were defiled all o'er with slimy substance dank.

" Ah, well-a-day ! " that sexton grey unto himself did cry,

" Eull well I see how Eate's decree foredoomed this wretch to die ;

A living man, a breathing man, within the coffin thrust,

Alack ! alack ! the agony ere he returned to dust !"

A vision drear did then appear unto that sexton's eyes ;
Like that poor wight before him straight he in a coffin lies.
He lieth in a trance within that coffin close and fast;
Yet though he slecpeth now, he feels he shall awake at last.

ROOKWOOD. 95

The coffin then, by reverend men, is borne with footsteps slow,
Where tapers shine before the shrine, where breathes the requiem low;
And for the dead the prayer is said, for the soul that is not flown —
Then all is drown' d in hollow sound, the earth is o'er him thrown !

He draweth breath — he wakes from death to life more horrible ;
To agony ! such agony ! no living tongue may tell.
Die ! die lie must, that wretched one ! he struggles — strives in vain ;
No more heaven's light, nor sunshine bright, shall he behold again.

" Gramercy, Lord!" the sexton roar'd, awakening suddenly,
" If this be dream, yet doth it seem most dreadful so to die.
Oh, cast my body in the sea ! or hurl it on the shore !
But nail me not in coffin fast — no grave will I dig more."

It was not difficult to discover the effect produced by this song,
in the lengthened faces of the greater part of the audience. Jack
Palmer, however, lauo-hed loud and lon£.

u Bravo, bravo I" cried he; " that suits my humour exactly. I
can't abide the thoughts of a coffin. No deal box for me."

" A gibbet might, perhaps, serve your turn as well," muttered
the sexton; adding aloud, "I am now entitled to call upon you;

ma- ! — a sono- !"

" Ay, a song, Mr. Palmer, a song !" reiterated the hinds.
" Yours will be the rio;ht kind of thing;."

" Say no more," replied Jack. " I'll give you a chant composed
upon Dick Turpin, the highwayman. It's no great shakes, to be
sure, but it's the best I have." And, with a knowing wink at
the sexton, he commenced, in the true nasal whine, the following
strain :

ONE FOOT IN THE STIRRUP ;

OK, TURPIN's PIRST FLIXG.

Cum esset proposita fuga Turju(n)s. — Cicero.

" One foot in the stirrup, one hand in the rein,

And the noose be mv portion, or freedom I'll gain !

Oh ! give me a seat in my saddle once more,

And these bloodhounds shall find that the chase is not o'er !"

Thus muttered Dick Turpin, who found, while he slept,

That the Philistines old on his slumbers had crept ;

Had entrapped him as puss on her form you'd ensnare,

And that gone were his snappers — and gone was his mare.

Hilloah !

How Dick had been captured is readily told,

The pursuit had been hot, though the night had been cold ;

So at daybreak, exhausted, he sought brief repose

Mid the thick of a corn-field, away from his foes.

But in vain was his caution — in vain did his steed,

Ever watchful and wakeful in moments of need,

"With lip and with hoof on her master's cheek press —

He slept on, nor needed the warning of Bess.

Hilloah /

96 ROOKWOOD.

" Zounds ! gem'men !" cried Turpin, "you've found me at fault,

And the highflying highwayman's come to a halt ;

You have turned up a trump (for I weigh well my weight),

And the forty is yours, though the halter's my fate.

Well, come on't what will, you shall own when all's past,

That Dick Turpin, the Dauntless, was game to the last.

But, before we go further, I'll hold you a bet,

That one foot in my stirrup you won't let me set.

Hilloah !

" A hundred to one is the odds I will stand,
A hundred to one is the odds you command ;
Here's a handful of goldfinches ready to fly !
May I venture a foot in my stirrup to try ?"
As he carelessly spoke, Dick directed a glance
At his courser, and motioned her slyly askance : —
You might tell by the singular toss of her head,
And the prick of her ears, that his meaning she read.

Hilloah /

With derision at first was Dick's wager received,
And his error at starting as yet unretrieved ;
But when from his pocket the shiners he drew,
And offered to " make up the hundred to two,"
There were havers in plenty, and each whispered each,
The same thing, though varied in figure of speech,
" Let the fool act his folly — the stirrup of Bess !
He has put his foot in it already we guess !"

Hilloah !

Bess was brought to her master — Dick steadfastly gazed
At the eye of his mare, then his foot quick upraised;
His toe touched the stirrup, his hand grasped the rein —
He was safe on the back of his courser again !
As the clarion, fray-sounding and shrill, was the neigh
Of Black Bess, as she answered his cry " Hark-away !"
" Beset me, ye bloodhounds ! in rear and in van ;
My foot's in the stirrup, and catch me who can \"

Hilloah/

There was riding and gibing mid rabble and rout,
And the old woods re-echoed the Philistines' shout !
There was hurling and whirling o'er brake and o'er brier,
But the course of Dick Turpin was swift as heaven's fire.
Whipping, spurring, and straining, would nothing avail,
Dick laughed at their curses, and scoffed at their wail ;
" My foot's in the stirrup !" — thus rang his last cry ;
" Bess has answered my call ; now her mettle we'll try !"

Hilloah/

Uproarious applause followed Jack's song, when the joviality of
the mourners was interrupted by a summons to attend in the state
room. Silence was at once completely restored ; and, in the best
order they could assume, they followed their leader, Peter Bradley.
Jack Palmer was amongst the last to enter, and remained a not in-
curious spectator of a by no means common scene.

Preparations had been made to give due solemnity to the cere-
monial. The leaden coffin was fastened down, and enclosed in an
outer case of oak, upon the lid of which stood a richly-chased

ROOKWOOD. 97

massive silver flagon, filled with burnt claret, called the grace-cup.
All the lights were removed, save two lofty wax flambeaux, which
were placed to the back, and threw a lurid glare upon the group
immediately about the body, consisting of Ranulph Rookwood and
some other friends of the deceased. Doctor Small stood in
front of the bier ; and, under the directions of Peter Bradley,
the tenantry and household were formed into a wide half-moon
across the chamber. There was a hush of expectation, as Doctor
Small looked gravely round ; and even Jack Palmer, who was as
little likely as any man to yield to an impression of the kind, felt
himself moved by the scene.

The very orthodox Small, as is well known to our readers, held
everything savouring of the superstitions of the Scarlet Woman in
supreme abomination; and, entertaining such opinions, it can
scarcely be supposed that a funeral oration would find much favour
in his eyes, accompanied, as it was, with the accessories of censer,
candle, and cup; all evidently derived from that period when,
under the three-crowned pontiffs sway, the shaven priest pro-
nounced his benediction o'er the dead, and released the penitent's
soul from purgatorial flame?, while he heavily mulcted the price of
his redemption from the possessions of his successor. Small re-
sented the idea of treading in such steps, as an insult to himself
and his cloth. Was he, the intolerant of Papistry, to tolerate this ?
Was he, who could not endure the odour of Catholicism, to have
his nostrils thus polluted — his garments thus defiled by actual con-
tact with it? It was not to be thought of: and he had formally
signified his declination to Mr. Coates, when a little conversation
with that gentleman, and certain weighty considerations therein
held forth (the advowson of the church of Rookwood residing with
the family), and represented by him, as well as the placing in
juxtaposition of penalties to be incurred by refusal, that the scruples
of Small gave way; and, with the best grace he could muster,
very reluctantly promised compliance.

With these feelings, it will be readily conceived that the doctor
was not in the best possible frame of mind for the delivery of his
exhortation. His spirit had been ruffled by a variety of petty
annoyances, amongst the greatest of which was the condition to
which the good cheer had reduced his clerk, Zachariah Trundle-
text, whose reeling eye, pendulous position, and open mouth, pro-
claimed him absolutely incapable of office. Zachariah was, in
consequence, dismissed, and Small commenced his discourse un-
supported. But as our recording it would not probably conduce
to the amusement of our readers, whatever it might to their edifi-
cation, we shall pass it over with very brief mention. Suffice it to
say, that the oration was so thickly interstrewn with lengthy
quotations from the fathers— Chrysostomus, Hieronymus, Ara-
brosius, Basilius, Bernardus, and the rest, with whose recondite
Latinity, notwithstanding the clashing of their opinions with his

98 ROOKWOOD.

own, the doctor was intimately acquainted, and which he moreover
delighted to quote, that his auditors were absolutely mystified and
perplexed, and probably not without design. Countenances of
such amazement were turned towards him, that Small, who had a
keen sense of the ludicrous, could scarcely forbear smiling as he
proceeded ; and if we could suspect so grave a personage of wag-
gery, we should almost think that, by way of retaliation, he had
palmed some abstruse, monkish epicidium upon his astounded au-
ditors.

The oration concluded, biscuits and confectionery were, accord-
ing to old observance, handed to such of the tenantry as chose to
partake of them. The serving of the grace-cup, which ought to
have formed part of the duties of Zachariah, had he been capable
of office, fell to the share of the sexton. The bcwl was kissed, first
by Ranulph, with lips that trembled with emotion, and afterwards
by his surrounding friends; but no drop was tasted — a circum-
stance which did not escape Peter's observation. Proceeding to
the tenantry, the first in order happened to be Farmer Toft. Peter
presented the cup, and as Toft was about to drain a deep draught
of the wine, Peter whispered in his ear, " Take my advice for
once, friend Toft, and don't let a bubble of the liquid pass your
lips. For every drop of the wine you drain Sir Piers will have
one sin the less, and you a load the heavier on your conscience.
Didst never hear of sin swallowing ? For what else was this cus-
tom adopted ? Seest thou not the cup's brim hath not yet been
moistened ? Well, as you will — ha, ha !" And the sexton passed
onwards.

His work being nearly completed, he looked around for Jack
Palmer, whom he had remarked during the oration, but could no-
where discover him. Peter was about to place the flagon, now
almost drained of its contents, upon its former resting-place, when
Small took it from his hands.

" In poculi fundo residuum non relinque, admonisheth Pytha-
goras," said he, returning the empty cup to the sexton.

u My task here is ended," muttered Peter, tc but not elsewhere.
Foul weather or fine, thunder or rain, I must to the church."

Bequeathing his final instructions to certain of the household
who were to form part of the procession, in case it set out, he
opened the hall door, and, the pelting shower dashing heavily in
his face, took his way up the avenue, screaming, as he strode along,
the following congenial rhymes:

EPHIALTES.

I ride alone — I ride by night

Through, the moonless air on a courser white !

Over the dreaming earth I fly,

Here and there — at my fantasy !

ROOKWOOD. 99

My frame is withered, my visage old,
My locks are frore, and my hones ice cold.
The wolf will howl as I pass his lair,
The ban-dog moan, and the screech-owl stare.
For breath, at my coming, the sleeper strains,
And the freezing current forsakes his veins !
Vainly for pity the wretch may sue —
Merciless Mara no prayers subdue !

To his couch 1 jiit —

On his breast I sit !

Astride I astride ! astride!

And one charm alone

{A hollow stone /*)

Can scare me from his side I

A thousand antic shapes I take ;

The stoutest heart at my touch will quake.

The miser dreams of a bag of gold,

Or a ponderous chest on his bosom roll'd.

The drunkard groans 'neath a cask of wine ;

The reveller swclts 'neath a weighty chine.

The recreant turns, by his foes assailed,

To flee ! — but his feet to the ground are nailed.

The goatherd dreams of his mountain-tops,

And, dizzily reeling, downward drops.

The murderer feels at his throat a knife,
And gasps, as his victim gasp'd, for life !
The thief recoils from the scorching brand ;
The mariner drowns in sight of land !
— Thus sinful man have I power to fray,
Torture and rack — but not to slay !
But ever the couch of purity,
With shuddering glance I hurry by.

Then mount ! away !

To horse ! I say,

To horse ! astride / astride !

Fhe fire-drake shoots —

The screech-oicl hoots —

As through the air I glide !

* In reference to this imaginary charm, Sir Thomas Browne observes, in his
'Vulgar Errors:" "What natural effects can reasonably be expected, when,
to prevent the Ephialtes, or Nightmare, we hang a hollow stone in our stables ?"
Grose also states, " that a stone with a hole in it, hung at the bed's head, will
prevent the nightmare, and is therefore called a hag-stone." The belief in this
charm still lingers in some districts, and maintains, like the horseshoe affixed
to the barn-door, a feeble stand against the superstition-destroying "march of
intellect."

100 ROOKWOOD.

CHAPTER III.

THE CHURCHYARD.

Methouglit I walked, about the mid of night,

Into a churchyard. Webster : The White Devil.

Lights streamed through the chancel window as the sexton en-
tered the churchyard, darkly denning all the ramified tracery of
the noble Gothic arch, and illumining the gorgeous dyes of its
richly-stained glass, profusely decorated with the armorial bearings
of the founder of the fane, and the many alliances of his descend-
ants. The sheen of their blazonry gleamed bright in the dark-
ness, as if to herald to his last home another of the line whose
achievements it displayed. Glowing colourings, checkered like
rainbow tints, were shed upon the broken leaves of the adjoining
yew-trees, and upon the rounded grassy tombs.

Opening the gate, as he looked in that direction, Peter became
aware of a dark figure, enveloped in a large black cloak, and
covered with a slouched hat, standing at some distance, between
the window and the tree, and so intervening as to receive the full
influence of the stream of radiance which served to dilate its
almost superhuman stature. The sexton stopped. The figure re-
mained stationary. There was something singular both in the
costume and situation of the person. Peter's curiosity was speedily
aroused, and, familiar with every inch of the churchyard, he deter-
mined to take the nearest cut, and to ascertain to whom the myste-
rious cloak and hat belonged. Making his way over the undu-
lating graves, and instinctively rounding the headstones that
intercepted his path, he quickly drew near the object of his in-
quiry. From the moveless posture it maintained, the figure
appeared to be unconscious of Peter's approach. To his eyes it
seemed to expand as he advanced. He was now almost close
upon it, when his progress was arrested by a violent grasp laid on
his shoulder. He started and uttered an exclamation of alarm.
At this moment a vivid flash of lightning illumined the whole
churchyard, and Peter then thought he beheld, at some distance
from him, two other figures, bearing upon their shoulders a huge
chest, or, it might be, a coffin. The garb of these figures, so far
as it could be discerned through the drenching rain, was fantastical
in the extreme. The foremost seemed to have a lon<>- white beard
descending to his girdle. Little leisure, however, was allowed
Peter for observation. The vision no sooner met his glance than
it disappeared, and nothing was seen but the glimmering tomb-
stones— nothing heard but the whistling wind and the heavily-
descending shower. He rubbed his eyes. The muffled figure

ROOKWOOD. 101

had vanished, and not a trace could be discovered of the mys-
terious coffin-bearers, if such they were.

"What have I seen?" mentally ejaculated Peter: "is this sor-
cery or treachery, or both ? No body-snatchers would visit this
place on a night like this, when the whole neighbourhood is
aroused. Can it be a vision I have seen? Pshaw ! shall I iu^le
myself as I deceive these hinds? It was no bearded demon that I
beheld, but the gipsy patrico, Balthazar. I knew him at once.
But what meant that muffled figure; and whose arm could it have
been that griped my shoulder? Ha! what if Lady Rookwood
should have given orders for the removal of Susan's body. No,
no; that cannot be. Besides, I have the keys of the vault; and
there are hundreds now in the church who would permit no such
desecration. I am perplexed to think what it can mean. But I
will to the vault." Saying which, he hastened to the church
porch, and after wringing the wet from his clothes, as a water-dog
might shake the moisture from his curly hide, and doffing his
broad felt hat, he entered the holy edifice. The interior seemed
one blaze of light to the sexton, in his sudden transition from
outer darkness. Some few persons were assembled, probably such
as were engaged in the preparations ; but there was one group
which immediately caught his attention.

Near the communion-table stood three persons, habited in deep
mourning, apparently occupied in examining the various monu-
mental carvings that enriched the walls. Peter's office led him to
that part of the church. About to descend into the vaults, to
make the last preparations for the reception of the dead, with
lantern in hand, keys, and a crowbar, he approached the party.
Little attention was paid to the sexton's proceedings, till the
harsh grating of the lock attracted their notice.

Peter started as he beheld the face of one of the three, and
relaxing his hold upon the key, the strong bolt shot back in the
lock. There was a whisper amongst the party. A light step was
heard advancing towards him ; and ere the sexton could sufficiently
recover his surprise, or force open the door, a female figure stood
by his side.

The keen, inquiring stare which Peter bestowed upon the coun-
tenance of the young lady so much abashed her, that she hesitated
in her purpose of addressing him, and hastily retired.

"She here!" muttered Peter; "nay, then, I must no longer
withhold the dreaded secret from Luke, or Ranulph may, indeed,
wrest his possessions from him."

Reinforced by her companions, an elderly lady and a tall,
handsome man, whose bearing and deportment bespoke him to be
a soldier, the fair stranger again ventured towards Peter.

"You are the sexton," said she, addressing him in a voice sweet
and musical.

102 ROOKWOOD.

" I am," returned Peter. It was harmony succeeded by dis-
sonance.

" You, perhaps, can tell us, then," said the elderly lady, "whether
the funeral is likely to take place to-night? We thought it pos-
sible that the storm might altogether prevent it."

" The storm is over, as nearly as may be," replied Peter. " The
body will soon be on its way. I am but now arrived from the

hall."

" Indeed !" exclaimed the lady. " None of the family will be
present, I suppose. Who is the chief mourner?"

" Young Sir Ranulph," answered the sexton. " There will be
more of the family than were expected."

" Is Sir Ranulph returned?" asked the young lady, with great
agitation of manner. " I thought he was abroad — that he was not
expected. Are you sure you are rightly informed ?"

" I parted with him at the hall not ten minutes since," replied
Peter. " He returned from France to-night most unexpectedly."

" Oh, mother!" exclaimed the younger lady, "that this should
be — that I should meet him here. Why did we come? — let us

depart."

" Impossible !" replied her mother; " the storm forbids it. This
man's information is so strange, I scarce can credit it. Are you
sure you have asserted the truth ?" said she, addressing Peter.

" I am not accustomed to be doubted," answered he. " Other
things as strange have happened at the hall."

" What mean you?" asked the gentleman, noticing this last
remark.

" You would not need to ask the question of me, had you been
there, amongst the other guests," retorted Peter. " Odd things, I
tell you, have been done there this night, and stranger things may
occur before the morning." .

" You are insolent, sirrah ! I comprehend you not."

" Enough ! I can comprehend you" replied Peter, significantly;
" I know the count of the mourners invited to this ceremonial, and
I am aware that there are three too many."

"Know you this saucy knave, mother?"

" I cannot call him to mind, though I fancy I have seen him
before."

" My recollection serves me better, lady," interposed Peter. " I
remember one who was once the proud heiress of Rookwood — ay,
proud and beautiful. Then the house was rilled with her gallant
suitors. Swords were crossed for her. Hearts bled for her. Yet
she favoured none, until one hapless hour. Sir Reginald Rook-
wood had a daughter; Sir Reginald lost a daughter. Ha ! — I see
I am right. Well, he is dead and buried; and Reginald, his son,
is dead likewise; and Piers is on his road hither; and you are the
last, as in the course of nature you might have been the first.

ROOKWOOD. 103

And, now that they are all gone, you do rightly to bury your
grievances with them."

" Silence, sirrah !" exclaimed the gentleman, "or I will beat
your brains out with your own spade."

"No; let him speak, Vavasour," said the lady, with an expres-
sion of anguish — " he has awakened thoughts of other days."

"I have done," said Peter, "and must to work. Will you
descend with me, madam, into the sepulchre of your ancestry?
All your family lie within — ay, and the Lady Eleanor, your
mother, amongst the number."

Mrs. Mowbray signified her assent, and the party prepared to
follow him.

The sexton held the lantern so as to throw its light upon the
steps as they entered the gloomy receptacle of the departed.
Eleanor half repented having ventured within its dreary limits, so
much did the appearance of the yawning catacombs, surcharged
with mortality, and, above all, the ghostly figure of the grim
knight, affect her with dread, as she looked wistfully around. She
required all the support her brother's arm could afford her ; nor
was Mrs. Mowbray altogether unmoved.

" And all the family are here interred, you say?" inquired the
latter.

" All," replied the sexton.

"Where, then, lies Sir Reginald's younger brother?"

" Who?" exclaimed Peter, starting.

" Alan Rookwoocl."

"What of him?"

" Nothing of moment. But I thought you could, perhaps, in-
form me. He died young."

" He did," replied Peter, in an altered tone — " very young; but
not before he had lived to an old age of wretchedness. Do you
know his story, madam?"

" I have heard it."

" From your father's lips?"

" From Sir Reginald Rookwood's — never. Call him not my
father, sirrah ; even here I will not have him named so to me."

" Your pardon, madam," returned the sexton. " Great cruelty
was shown to the Lady Eleanor, and may well call forth impla-
cable resentment in her child ; vet methinks the wrons: he did his
brother Alan was the foulest stain with which Sir Reginald's black
soul was dyed."

"With what particular wrong dost thou charge Sir Reginald?"
demanded Major Mowbray. " What injury did he inflict upon
his brother Alan?"

" He wronged his brother's honour," replied the sexton ; " he
robbed him of his wife, poisoned his existence, and hurried him
to an untimely grave."

104 ROOKWOOD.

Eleanor shudderingly held back during this horrible narration,
the hearing of which she would willingly have shunned, had it
been possible.

"Can this be true?" asked the major.

" Too true, my son," replied Mrs. Mowbray, sorrowfully.

"And where lies the unfortunate Alan?" asked Major Mow-
bray.

"'Twixt two cross roads. Where else should the suicide lie?"

Evading any further question, Peter hastily traversed the vault,
elevating the light so as to reveal the contents of each cell. One
circumstance filled him with surprise and dismay — he could no-
where perceive the coffin of his daughter. In vain he peered into
every catacomb — they were apparently undisturbed ; and, with
much internal marvelling and misgiving, Peter gave up the search.
" That vision is now explained," muttered he ; the body is re-
moved, but by whom? Death! can I doubt? It must be Lady
Rookwood — who else can have any interest in its removal. She
has acted boldly. But she shall yet have reason to repent her
temerity." As he continued his search, his companions silently-
followed. Suddenly he stopped, and, signifying that all was
finished, they not unwillingly quitted this abode of horror, leaving
him behind them.

" It is a dreadful place," whispered Eleanor to her mother; " nor
would I have visited it, had I conceived anything of its horrors.
And that strange man ! who or what is he?"

"Ay, who is he?" repeated Major Mowbray.

"I recollect him now," replied Mrs. Mowbray; "he is one who
has ever been connected with the family. He had a daughter,
whose beauty was her ruin: it is a sad tale; I cannot tell it now:
you have heard enough of misery and guilt: but that may account
for his bitterness of speech. He was a dependent upon my poor
brother."

"Poor man!" replied Eleanor; "if he has been unfortunate, I
pity him. I am sorry we have been into that dreadful place. I
am very faint: and I. tremble more than ever at the thought of
meeting Ranulph Rookwood again. I can scarcely support my-
self— I am sure I shall not venture to look upon him."

" Had I dreamed of the likelihood of his attending the ceremony,
rest assured, dear Eleanor, we should not have been here: but I
was informed there was no possibility of his return. Compose
yourself, my child. It will be a trying time to both of us; but it
is now inevitable."

At this moment the bell began to toll. " The procession has
started," said Peter, as he passed the Mowbrays. " That bell an-
nounces the setting out."

" See yonder persons hurrying to the door," exclaimed Eleanor,
with eagerness, and trembling violently. "They are coming.
Oh ! I shall never be able to go through with it, dear mother."

EOOKWOOD. 105

Peter hastened to the church door, where he stationed himself,
m company with a host of others, equally curious. Flickering
lights in the distance, shining like stars through the trees, showed
them that the procession was collecting in front of the hall. The
rain had now entirely ceased; the thunder muttered from afar, and
the lightning seemed only to lick the moisture from the trees. The
bell continued to toll, and its loud booming awoke the drowsy
echoes of the valley. On the sudden, a solitary, startling concus-
sion of thunder was heard; and presently a man rushed down
from the belfry, with the tidings that he had seen a ball of fire
fall from a cloud right over the hall. Every ear was on the alert
for the next sound ; none was heard. It was the crisis of the
storm. Still the funeral procession advanced not. The strong
sheen of the torchlight was still visible from the bottom of the
avenue, now disappearing, now brightly glimmering, as if the
bearers were hurrying to and fro amongst the trees. It was evi-
dent that much confusion prevailed, and that some misadventure
had occurred. Each man muttered to his neighbour, and few
were there who had not in a measure surmised the cause of the
delay. At this juncture, a person without his hat, breathless with
haste and almost palsied with fright, rushed through the midst of
them, and, stumbling over the threshold, fell headlong into the
church.

"What's the matter, Master Plant? What has happened?
Tell us ! Tell us !" exclaimed several voices simultaneously.

"Lord have mercy upon us!" cried Plant, gasping for utter-
ance, and not attempting to raise himself. " It's horrible ! dread-
ful! oh!— oh!"

"What has happened?" inquired Peter, approaching the fallen
man.

" And dost thou need to ask, Peter Bradley? thou, who foretold
it all? but I will not say what I think, though my tongue itches
to tell thee the truth. Be satisfied, thy wizard's lore has served
thee right — he is dead."

" Who? , Ranulph Rookwood ! Has anything befallen him, or
the prisoner, Luke Bradley?" asked the sexton, with eagerness.

A scream here burst forth from one who was standing behind
the group ; and, in spite of the efforts of her mother to withhold
her, Eleanor Mowbray rushed forward.

"Has aught happened to Sir Ranulph?" asked she.

" Noa — noa — not to Sir Ranulph — he be with the body."

"Heaven be thanked for that!" exclaimed Eleanor. And
then, as if ashamed of her own vehemence, and, it might seem,
apparent indifference to another's fate, she inquired who was
hurt?

" It be poor neighbour Toft, that be killed by a thunderbolt,
ma'am," replied Plant.

Exclamations of horror burst from all around.

106 EOOKWOOD.

No one was more surprised at this intelligence than the sexton.
Like many other seers, he had not, in all probability, calculated
upon the fulfilment of his predictions, and he now stared aghast at
the extent of his own foreknowledge.

" I tell'ee what, Master Peter," said Plant, shaking his bullet-
head; "it be well for thee thou didn't live in my grandfather's
time, or thou'dst ha' been ducked in a blanket: or mav be burnt
at the stake, like Ridley and Latimer, as we read on — but how-
ever that may be, ye shall hear how poor Toft's death came to
pass, and nobody can tell'ee better nor I, seeing I were near to
him, poor fellow, at the time. Well, we thought as how the storm
were all over — and had all got into order of march, and were just
beginning to step up the avenue, the coffin-bearers pushing lustily
along, and the torches shining grandly, when poor Simon Toft,
who could never travel well in liquor in his life, reeled to one side,
and staggering against the first huge lime-tree, sat himself down
beneath it — thou knowest the tree I mean."

"The tree of fate," returned Peter. "I ought, methinks, to
know it."

" Well, I were just stepping aside to pick him up, when all at
once there comes such a crack of thunder, and, whizzing through
the trees, flashed a great globe of red fire, so bright and dazzlin',
it nearly blinded me; and when I opened my eyes, winkin' and
waterin', 1 see'd that which blinded me more even than the flash —
that which had just afore been poor Simon, but which was now a
mass o' black smouldering ashes, clean consumed and destroyed —
his clothes rent to a thousand tatters — the earth and stones tossed
up, and scattered all about, and a great splinter of the tree lying
beside him."

" Heaven's will be done !" said the sexton ; " this is an awful
judgment."

"And Sathan cast down; for this is a spice o' his handiwork,"
muttered Plant; adding, as he slunk away, "If ever Peter Brad-
ley do come to the blanket, dang me if I don't lend a helpin'
hand."

EOOKTTOOD. 107

CHAPTER IV.

THE FUNERAL.

How like a silent stream, shaded by night,
And gliding softly with our windy sighs,
Moves the whole frame of this solemnity !
Tears, sighs, and blacks, filling the simile !
Whilst I, the only murmur in this grove
Of death, thus hollowly break forth.

The Fatal Dowry.

Word being given that the funeral train was fast approaching,
the church door was thrown open, and the assemblage divided
in two lines, to allow it admission.

Meanwhile, a striking change had taken place, even in this
brief period, in the appearance of the night. The sky, heretofore
curtained with darkness, was now illumined by a serene, soft
moon, which, floating in a watery halo, tinged with silvery radi-
ance the edges of a few ghostly clouds that hurried along the deep
and starlit skies. The suddenness of the change could not fail to
excite surprise and admiration, mingled with regret that the pro-
cession had not been delayed until the present time.

Slowly and mournfully the train was seen to approach the
churchyard, winding, two by two, with melancholy step, around
the corner of the road. First came Doctor Small; then the mutes,
with their sable panoply ; next, the torch-bearers ; next, those who
sustained the coffin, bending beneath their ponderous burden, fol-
lowed by Sir Ranulph and a long line of attendants, all plainly
to be distinguished by the flashing torchlight. There was a slight
halt at the gate, and the coffin changed supporters.

"Ill luck betide them !" ejaculated Peter; "could they find no
other place except that to halt at? Must Sir Piers be gatekeeper
till next Yule? No," added he, seeing what followed; "it will
be poor Toft, after all."

Following close upon the coffin came a rude shell, containing,
as Peter rightly conjectured, the miserable remains of Simon Toft,
who had met his fate in the manner described by Plant. The
bolt of death glanced from the tree which it first struck, and re-
duced the unfortunate farmer to a heap of dust. Universal con-
sternation prevailed, and doubts were entertained as to what course
should be pursued. It was judged best by Doctor Small to re-
move the remains at once to the charnel-house. Thus aun-
anointed, unaneled, with all his imperfections on his head," was
poor Simon Toft, in one brief second, in the twinkling of an eye,
plunged from the height of festivity to the darkness of the grave,

108 ROOKWOOD.

and so horribly disfigured, that scarce a vestige of humanity was
discernible in the mutilated mass that remained of him. Truly
may we be said to walk in blindness, and amidst deep pitfalls.

The churchyard was thronged by the mournful train. The long
array of dusky figures — the waving torchlight gleaming ruddily
in the white moonshine — now glistening upon the sombre habili-
ments of the bearers, and on their shrouded load, now reflected
upon the jagged branches of the yew-trees, or falling upon the
ivied buttresses of the ancient church, constituted no unimpressive
picture. Over all, like a lamp hung in the still sky, shone the
moon, shedding a soothing, spiritual lustre over the scene.

The organ broke into a solemn strain as the coffin was borne
along the mid-aisle — the mourners following, with reverent step,
and slow. It was deposited near the mouth of the vault, the
whole assemblage circling around it. Doctor Small proceeded
with the performance of that magnificent service appointed for the
burial of the dead, in a tone as remarkable for its sadness as for its
force and fervour. There was a tear in every eye — a cloud on
every brow.

Brightly illumined as was the whole building, there were still
some recesses which, owing to the intervention of heavy pillars,
were thrown into shade; and in one of these, supported by her
mother and brother, stood Eleanor, a weeping witness of the
scene. She beheld the coffin silently borne along; she saw one
dark figure slowly following; she knew those pale features — oh,
how pale they were ! A year had wrought a fearful alteration ; she
could scarce credit what she beheld. He must, indeed, have suf-
fered— deeply suffered ; and her heart told her that his sorrows
had been for her.

Many a wistful look, besides, was directed to the principal
figure in this ceremonial, Ranulph Rookwood. He was a prey to
unutterable anguish of soul; his heart bled inwardly for the father
he had lost. Mechanically following the body down the aisle, he
had taken his station near it, gazing with confused vision upon the
bystanders; had listened, with a sad composure, to the expressive
delivery of Small, until he read — " For man icalketh in a vain
shadow, and disquietcth himself in vain ; he heapeth up riches, and
cannot tell who shall gather them?

"Verily!" exclaimed a deep voice; and Ranulph, looking
round, met the eyes of Peter Bradley fixed full upon him. But
it was evidently not the sexton who had spoken.

Small continued the service. He arrived at this verse : u Thou
hast set our misdeeds before thee ; and our secret sins in the light of
thy countenance?

"Even so!" exclaimed the voice; and as Ranulph raised his
eyes in the direction of the sound, he thought he saw a dark figure,
muffled in a cloak, disappear behind one of the pillars. He be-
stowed, however, at the moment, little thought upon this incident.

ROOKWOOD. 109

His heart melted within him; and leaning his face upon his hand,
he wept aloud.

" Command yourself, I entreat of you, my dear Sir Ranulph,"
said Doctor Small, as soon as the service was finished, " and suffer
this melancholy ceremonial to be completed." Saying which, he
gently withdrew Ranulph from his support, and the coffin was
lowered into the vault.

Ranulph remained for some time in the extremity of sorrow.
When he in part recovered, the crowd had dispersed, and few
persons were remaining within the church; yet near him stood
three apparent loiterers. They advanced towards him. An ex-
clamation of surprise and joy burst from his lips.

"Eleanor!"

"Ranulph!"

"Is it possible? Do I indeed behold you, Eleanor?"

No other word was spoken. They rushed into each other's
arms. Oh ! sad — sad is the lover's parting — no pang so keen; but
if life hath a zest more exquisite than others — if felicity hath one
drop more racy than the rest in her honeyed cup, it is the happi-
ness enjoyed in such a union as the present. To say that he was
as one raised from the depths of misery by some angel comforter,
were a feeble comparison of the transport of Ranulph. To paint
the thrilling delight of Eleanor — the trembling tenderness — the
fond abandonment which vanquished all her maiden scruples,
would be impossible. Reluctantly yielding — fearing, yet comply-
ing, her lips were sealed in one long, loving kiss, the sanctifying
pledge of their tried affection.

"Eleanor, dear Eleanor," exclaimed Ranulph, "though I hold
you within my arms — though each nerve within my frame assures
me of your presence — though I look into those eyes, which seem
fraught with irreater endearment than ever I have known them
wear — though I see and feel, and know all this, so sudden, so un-
looked for is the happiness, that I could almost doubt its reality.
Say to what blessed circumstance I am indebted for this unlooked-
for happiness."

" We are staying not far hence, with friends, dear Ranulph; and
my mother, hearing of Sir Piers Rook wood's death, and wishing
to bury all animosity with him, resolved to be present at the sad
ceremony. We were told vou could not be here."

" And would my presence have prevented your attendance,
Eleanor?"

"Nof that, dear Ranulph; but "

"But what?"

At this moment the advance of Mrs. Mowbray offered an inter-
ruption to their further discourse.

" My son and I appear to be secondary in your regards, Sir
Ranulph," said she, gravely.

" Sir Ranulph !" mentally echoed the young man. " What

110 ROOKWOOD.

will she think, when she knows that that title is not mine? I
dread to tell her. He then added aloud, with a melancholy
smile, "I crave your pardon, madam; the delight of a meeting so
unexpected with your daughter must plead my apology."

"None is wanting, Sir Ranulph," said Major Mowbray. "I
who have known what separation from my sister is, can readily
excuse your feelings. But you look ill."

" I have, indeed, experienced much mental anxiety," said Ra-
nulph, looking at Eleanor; " it is now past, and I would fain hope
that a brighter day is dawning." His heart answered, 'twas but a
hope.

a You were unlooked for here to-night, Sir Ranulph," said
Mrs. Mowbray; "by us, at least: we were told you were abroad."

"You were rightly informed madam," replied Ranulph. "I
only arrived this evening from Bordeaux."

" I am glad you are returned. We are at present on a visit
with your neighbours, the Davenhams, at Braybrook, and trust we
shall see you there."

"I will ride over to-morrow," replied Ranulph; "there is much
on which I would consult you all. I would have ventured to re-
quest the favour of your company at Rookwood, had the occasion
been other than the present."

"And I would willingly have accepted your invitation," re-
turned Mrs. Mowbray; "I should like to see the old house once
more. During your father's lifetime I could not approach it.
You are lord of broad lands, Sir Ranulph — a goodly inheritance."

"Madam!"

" And 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 foi^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, nought 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 Ra-
nulph ; " you shall know all to-morrow."

"Ay, to-morrow, dear Ranulph," said Eleanor; "and whatever

ROOKWOOD. Ill

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 grey dawn. Mrs. Mow-
bray's carriage stood at the door. The party entered it; and
accompanied by Doctor Small, whom he found within in the
vestry, Ranulph walked towards the hall, where a fresh surprise
awaited him.

CHAPTER V.

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 Fevers ham.

Guarded by the two young farmers who had displayed so
much address in seizing him, Luke, meanwhile, had been con-
veyed 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
wTell 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 ex-
amined, 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 sio-h as he echoed the word.

112 EOOKWOOD

He felt anything but comfortable. His heart was with the body
all the while. He thought of the splendour 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 such like 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 pro-
spective solace.

"And what are they about now, Tim?" asked Titus.

" All as jolly as can be," answered the domestic; " Doctor 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
— its the height of barbarity. Tim, this rum of yours is poorstulf
— there's no punch worth the trouble of drinking, except whisky-
punch. A glass of right potheen, straw-colour, peat-flavour, 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'llvtry the bin
your honour 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 nought 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, ex-
hausted 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

ROOK WOOD. 113

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, any how — 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?"

u Not ten seconds. I shall report you, if you stir from your
post."

Here the door was opened, and Tim entered with the whisky.

" Arrah ! by my soul, Tim, and here you are at last — uncork it,
man, and give us a thimble-full — blob ! there goes the stopper —
here's a glass" — smacking his lips — " whist, Tim, another drop —
stuff like this will never hurt a body. Mr. Coates, try it — no — I
thought you'd be a man of more taste."

u I must limit you to a certain quantity," replied Coates, u or
you will not be fit to keep guard — another glass must be the extent
of your allowance."

" Another glass ! and do you think I'll submit to any such ini-
quitous proposition?"

" Beg pardon, gentlemen," said Tim, u but her ladyship desires
me to tell you both, that she trusts you will keep the strictest
watch upon the prisoner. I have the same message also from Sir
Ranulph."

" Do you hear that?" said Coates.

" And what are they all about now, Tim ?" groaned Titus.

" Just starting, sir," returned Tim ; " and, indeed, I must not
lose my time gossiping here, for I be wanted below. You must be
pleased to take care of yourselves, gentlemen, for an hour or so,
for there will be only a few women-kind left in the house. The
storm's just over, and the men are all lighting their torches. Oh,
it's a grand sight !" And off set Tim.

u Bad luck to myself, any how," ejaculated Titus; " this is more
than I can bear — I've had enough of this watch and ward business
■ — if the prisoner stirs, shoot him, if you think proper — I'll be back
in an hour."

" I tell you what, Mr. Tyrconnel," said Coates, coolly taking up
the pistol from the table, " I'm a man of few words, but those few
arc, I hope, to the purpose, and I'd have you to know if you stir
from that chair, or attempt to leave the room, damme but I'll
send a brace of bullets after you. I'm serious, I assure you."
And he cocked the pistol.

By way of reply to this menace, Titus deliberately filled a stiff
glass of whisky-and-water.

114 ROOKWOOD.

" That s your last glass," said the inexorable Coates.

To return once more to Luke. He slept uneasily for some short
space, and was awakened by a sound which reached his dreaming
ears, and connected itself with the visions that slumber was weaving
around him. It was some moments before he could distinctly re-
member where he was. He would not venture to sleep again,
though he felt overwhelmed by drowsiness — there was a fixed pain
at his heart, as if circulation were suspended. Changing his pos-
ture, he raised himself upon one arm ; he then became aware of a
scratching noise, somewhat similar to the sound he had heard in
his dream, and perceived a light gleaming through a crevice in the
oaken partition. His attention was immediately arrested, and
placing his eye close to the chink, distinctly saw a dark lantern
burning, and by its light a man filing some implement of house-
breaking. The light fell before the hard features of the man, with
whose countenance Luke was familiar ; and although only one
person came within the scope of his view, Luke could make out,
from a muttered conversation that was carried on, that he had a
companion. The parties were near to him, and though speaking
in a low tone,, Luke's quick ear caught the following :

" What keeps Jack Palmer, I wonder?" said he of the file.
" We're all ready for the fakement — pops primed — and I tell you
what, Rob Rust, I've made my clasp-knife as sharp as a razor, and
damme, if Lady Rookwood offers any resistance, I'll spoil her
talking in future, I promise you."

Suppressed laughter from Rust followed this speech. That
laugh made Luke's blood run cold within his veins.

"Harkee, Dick Wilder, you're a reg'lar out-and-outer, and stops
at nothing, and curse me if I'd think any more of it than yourself.
But Jack's as squeamish of bloodshed as young Miss that cries at
her cut finger. It's the safer plan. Say what you will, nothing
but that will stop a woman's tongue."

" I shall make short work with her ladyship to-night, any how.
Hist ! here Jack comes."

A footstep crossed in the room, and, presently afterwards, ex-
clamations of surprise and smothered laughter were heard from the
parties.

" Bravo, Jack ! famous ! that disguise would deceive the devil
himself."

"And now, my lads," said the new comer, " is all right?"

" Right and tight." '

u Nothing forgotten?"

" Nothing."

" Then off with your stamps, and on with your list slippers; not
a word. Follow me, and, for your lives, don't move a step but as
I direct you. The word must be, i Sir Piers Rookwood calls'
We'll overhaul the swag here. This crack may make us all
for life ; and if you'll follow my directions implicitly, we'll do

KOOKWOOD. 115

the trick in style. This slum must be our rendezvous when all's
over ; for hark ye, my lads, I'll not budge an inch till Luke
Bradley be set free. He's an old friend, and I always stick
by old friends. I'd do the same for one of you if you were in
the same scrape, so, damn you, no flinching; besides, I owe that
spider-shanked, snivelling split-cause Coates, who stands sentry,
a grudge, and I'll pay him offj as Paul did the Ephesians. You
may crop his ears, or slit his tongue as you would a magpie's,
or any other chattering varmint ; make him sign his own testa-
ment, or treat him with a touch of your Habeas Corpus Act, if
you think proper, or give him a taste of blue plumb. One thing
only I stipulate, that you don't hurt that fat, mutton-headed Bro-
ganeer, whatever he may say or do ; he's a devilish good fellow.
And now to business."

Saying which, they noiselessly departed. But carefully as the
door was closed, Luke's ear could detect the sound. His blood
boiled with indignation ; and he experienced what all must have
felt who have been similarly situated, with the will, but not the
power, to assist another — a sensation almost approaching to tor-
ture. At this moment a distant scream burst upon his ears —
another — he hesitated no longer. With all his force, he thundered
at the door.

"What do you want, rascal?" cried Coates, from without.
" There are robbers in the house."

" Thank you for the information. There is one I know of
already."

"Fool, they are in Lady Rookwood's room. Run to her assist-
ance."

" A likely story, and leave you here."
" Do you hear that scream?"
" Eh, what — what's that ? I do hear something."
Here Luke dashed with all his force against the door. It
yielded to the blow, and he stood before the astonished attorney.

u Advance a footstep, villain," exclaimed Coates, presenting
both his pistols, " and I lodge a brace of balls in your head."

" Listen to me," said Luke ; " the robbers are in Lady Rook-
wood's chamber — they will plunder the place of everything — per-
haps murder her. Fly to her assistance, I will accompany you —
assist you — it is your only chance."

" My only chance — -your only chance. Do you take me for a
greenhorn? This is a poor subterfuge ; could you not have vamped
up something better? Get back to your own room, or I shall
make no more of shooting you than I would of snuffing that
candle."

"Be advised, sir," continued Luke. "There are three of them
— give me a pistol, and fear nothing."

" Give you a pistol ! Ha, ha ! — to be its mark myself. You
are an amusing rascal, I will say."

116 ROOKWOOD.

" Sir, I tell you not a moment is to be lost. Is life nothing ?
Lady Rook wood may be murdered."

" I tell you, once for all, it won't do. Go back to your room,
or take the consequences."

" By the powers ! but it shall do, any how," exclaimed Titus,
flinging himself upon the attorney, and holding both his arms;
u you've bullied me long enough. I'm sure the lad's in the
right."

Luke snatched the pistols from the hands of Coates.

" Very well, Mr. Tyrconnel ; very well, sir," cried the attorney,
boiling with wrath, and spluttering out his words. u Extremely
well, sir. You are not perhaps aware, sir, what you have done ;
but you will repent this, sir — repent, I say — repent was my word,
Mr. Tyrconnel."

"Poh! — poh!" replied Titus. "I shall never repent a good-
natured action."

" Follow me," cried Luke ; u settle your disputes hereafter.
Quick, or we shall be too late."

Coates bustled after him, and Titus, putting the neck of the for-
bidden whisky bottle to his lips, and gulping down a hasty
mouthful, snatched up a rusty poker, and followed the party with
more alacrity than might have been expected from so portly a
personage.

CHAPTER VI.

THE APPARITION.

Gibbet. "Well, gentlemen, 'tis a fine night for our enterprise.

Hounslow. Dark as hell.

Bagshot. And blows like the devil.

Boniface. You'll have no creature to deal with but the ladies.

Gibbet. And I can assure you, friend, there's a great deal of address, and
good manners, in robbing a lady. I am the most of a gentleman, that way,
that ever travelled the road. Beaux Stratagem.

Accompanied by her son, Lady Rookwood, on quitting the
chamber of the dead, returned to her own room. She then re-
newed all her arguments; had recourse to passionate supplications — -
to violent threats, but without effect. Ranulph maintained pro-
found silence. Passion, as it ever doth, defeated its own ends i
and Lady Rookwood. seeing the ill effect her anger -would pro-
bably produce, gradually softened the asperity of her manner, and
suffered him to depart.

Left to herself, and to the communings of her own troubled
spirit, her fortitude, in a measure, forsook her, under the pressure

ROOK WOOD 117

of the difficulties by which she was environed. There was no plan
she could devise — no scheme adopt, unattended with peril. She
must act alone — with promptitude and secrecy. To win her son
over was her chief desire, and that, at all hazards, she was resolved
to do. But how? She knew of only one point on which he was
vulnerable — his love for Eleanor Mowbray. By raising doubts in
his mind, and placing fresh difficulties in his path, she might
compel him to acquiesce in her machinations, as a necessary means
of accomplishing his own object. This she hoped to effect. Still
there was a depth of resolution in the placid stream of Ranulph's
character which she had often noticed with apprehension. Aware
of his firmness, she dreaded lest his sense of justice should be
stronger than his passion.

As she wove these webs of darkness, fear, hitherto unknown,
took possession of her soul. She listened to the howling of the
wind — to the vibration of the rafters — to the thunder's roar, and
to the hissing rain — till she, who never trembled at the thought
of danger, became filled with vaixue uneasiness. Lights were
ordered ; and when her old attendant returned, Lady Rookwood
fixed a look so wistful upon her, that Agnes ventured to address
her.

" Bless you, my lady," said the ancient handmaiden, trembling,
" you look very pale, and no wonder. I feel sick at heart, too.
Oh ! I shall be glad when they return from the church, and hap-
pier still when the morning dawns. I can't sleep a wink — can't
close mv eves, but I think of him."

"0f7/?*w?"

" Of Sir Piers, my lady; for though he's dead, I don't think
he's gone."

"How?"

u Why, my lady, the corruptible part of him's gone, sure enough.
But the incorruptible, as Doctor Small calls it — the spcrrit, my
lady. It might be my fancy, your ladyship ; but as I'm standing
here, when 1 went back into the room just now for the lights, as I
hope to live, I thought I saw Sir Piers in the room."

" You are crazed, Agnes."

" No, my lady, I'm not crazed ; it was mere fancy, no doubt.
Oh, it's a blessed thing to live with an easy conscience — a thrice
blessed thing to die with an easy one, and that's what I never
shall, I'm afeard. Poor Sir Piers ! I'd mumble a prayer for him,
if I durst."

" Leave me," said Lady Rookwood, impatiently.

And Agnes quitted the room.

" What if the dead can return?" thought Lady Rookwood.
Ci All men doubt it, yet all men believe it. I would not believe
it, were there not a creeping horror that overmasters me, when I
think of the state beyond the grave — that intermediate state, for
such it must be, when the body lieth mouldering in the ground,

118 ROOKWOOD.

and the soul survives, to wander, unconfined, until the hour
of doom. And doth the soul survive when disenthralled? Is
it dependent on the body ? Does it perish with the body ?
These are doubts I cannot resolve. But if I deemed there was
no future state, this hand should at once liberate me from my
own weaknesses — my fears — my life. There is but one path
to acquire that knowledge, which, once taken, can never be re-
traced. I am content to live — while living, to be feared — it
may be, hated ; when dead, to be contemned — yet still remem-
bered. Ha! what sound was that? A stifled scream! Agnes!
— without there ! She is full of fears. I am not free from
them myself, but I will shake them off. This will divert their
channel," continued she, drawing from her bosom the marriage
certificate. u This will arouse the torpid current of my blood —
6 Piers Rookwood to Susan Bradley? And by whom was it so-
lemnised ? The name is Checkley — Richard Checkley. Ha ! I
bethink me — a papist priest — a recusant — who was for some time
an inmate of the hall. I have heard of this man — he was after-
wards imprisoned, but escaped — he is either dead or in a foreign
land. No witnesses — 'tis well ! Methinks Sir Piers Rookwood
did wrell to preserve this. It shall light his funeral pyre. Would
he could now behold me, as I consume it !"

She held the paper in the direction of the candle ; but, ere it
could touch the flame, it dropped from her hand. As if her hor-
rible wish had been granted, before her stood the figure of her
husband ! Lady Rookwood started not. No sign of trepidation
or alarm, save the sudden stiffening of her form, was betrayed.
Her bosom ceased to palpitate — her respiration stopped — her eyes
were fixed upon the apparition.

The figure appeared to regard her sternly. It was at some
little distance, within the shade cast by the lofty bedstead. Still
she could distinctly discern it. There was no ocular deception ;
it was attired in the costume Sir Piers was wont to wear — a hunt-
ing dress. All that her son had told her rushed to her recollection.
The phantom advanced. Its countenance was pale, and wore a
gloomy frown.

"What would you destroy?" demanded the apparition, in a
hollow tone.

u The evidence of "

" What?"

" Your marriage."

" With yourself, accursed woman?"

" With Susan Bradley."

" What's that I hear?" shouted the figure, in an altered tone.
" Married to her ! then Luke is legitimate, and heir to this estate !"
Whereupon the apparition rushed to the table, and laid a very
substantial grasp upon the document. " A marriage certificate!"
ejaculated the spectre; u here's a piece of luck! It ain't often in

ROOKWOOD. 119

our lottery life we draw a prize like this. One way or the other,
it must turn up a few cool thousands."

" Restore that paper, villain," exclaimed Lady Rookwood, re-
covering all the audacity natural to her character the instant she
discovered the earthly nature of the intruder — u restore it, or. by
Heaven, you shall rue your temerity."

" Softly, softly," replied the pseudo-phantom, witli one hand
pushing back the lady, while the other conveyed the precious
document to the custody of his nether man — " softly," said he,
giving the buckskin pocket a slap — "two words to that, my lady.
I know its value as well as yourself, and must make my market.
The highest offer has me, your ladyship ; he's but a poor auctioneer
that knocks down his ware when only one bidder is present..
Luke Bradley, or, as I find lie now is, Sir Luke Rookwood, may
come down more handsomely."

" Who are you, ruffian, and to what end is this masquerade as-
sumed? If lor the purpose of terrifying me into compliance with
the schemes of that madman, Luke Bradley, whom I presume to
be your confederate, your labour is misspent — your stolen disguise
has no more weight with me than his forged claims."

" Forged claims ! Egad, he must be a clever hand to have forged
that certificate. Your ladyship, however, is in error. Sir Luke
Rookwood is no associate of mine; I am his late father's friend.
But I have no time to bandy talk. What money have you in the
house? Be alive."

a You are a robber, then?"

"Not I. I'm a tax-gatherer — a collector of Rich-Rates — ha!
ha! What plate have you got? Nay, don't be alarmed — take it
quietly — these things can't be helped — better make up your mind
to it without more ado — much the best plan — no screaming, it
may injure your lungs, and can alarm nobody. Your maids have
done as much before — it's beneath your dignity to make so much
noise. So, you will not heed me? As you will." Saying which,
he deliberately cut the bell-cord, and drew out a brace of pistols
at the same time.

"Agnes !" shrieked Lady Rookwood, now seriously alarmed.

" I must caution your ladyship to be silent," said the robber,
who, as our readers will no doubt have already conjectured, was no
other than the redoubted Jack Palmer. " Agnes is already dis-
posed of," said he, cocking a pistol. " However like your de-
ceased ' lord and master' I may appear, you will find you have
got a very different spirit from that of Sir Piers to deal with. I
am naturally the politest man breathing — have been accounted the
best-bred man on the road by every lady whom I have had the
honour of addressing ; and I should be sorry to sully my well-
earned reputation by anything like rudeness. I must use a little
force, of the gentlest kind. Perhaps, you will permit me to hand
you to a chair. Bless me ! what a wrist your ladyship has got

120 ROOKWOOD.

Excuse me if I hurt you, but you are so devilish strong. What
ho ! i Sir Piers Rookwood calls ' "

" Ready," cried a voice.

" That's the word," rejoined another; "ready," and immediately
two men, their features entirely hidden by a shroud of black crape,
accoutred in rough attire, and each armed with pistols, rushed into
the room.

" Lend a hand," said Jack.

Even in this perilous extremity, Lady Rookwood's courage did
not desert her. Anticipating their purpose, ere her assailants
could reach her she extricated herself from Palmer's grasp, and
rushed upon the foremost so unexpectedly, that, before the man
could seize her she snatched a pistol from his hand, and presented
it at the group with an aspect like that of a tigress at bay — her eye
wandering from one to the other, as if selecting a mark.

There was a pause of a few seconds, in which the men glanced
at the lady, and then at their leader. Jack looked blank.

" Hem ! " said he, coolly ; " this is something new — disarmed —
defied by a petticoat. Hark ye, Rob Rust, the disgrace rests with
you. Clear your character, by securing her at once. What !
afraid of a woman?"

" A woman !" repeated Rust, in a surly tone ; " devilish like
a woman, indeed. Few men could do what she has done. Give
the word, and I fire. As to seizing her, that's more than I'll engage
to do."

(i You are a coward," cried Jack. " I will steer clear of blood
- — if I can help it. Come, madam, surrender, like the more sensible
part of your sex, at discretion. You will find resistance of no
avail." And he stepped boldly towards her.

Lady Rookwood pulled the trigger. The pistol flashed in the
pan. She flung away the useless weapon without a word.

u Ha, ha !" said Jack, as he leisurely stooped to pick up the pistol,
and approached her ladyship; " the bullet is not yet cast that is to
be my billet. Here," added he, dealing Rust a heavy thump upon
the shoulder with the butt-end of the piece, " take back your
snapper, and look you prick the touchhole, or your barking-iron
will never bite for you. And now, madam, I must take the liberty
of again handing you to a seat. Dick Wilder, the cord — quick.
It distresses me to proceed to such lengths with your ladyship —
bat safe bind, safe find, as Mr. Coates would say." *

" You will not bind me, ruffian."

" Your ladyship is very much mistaken — I have no alternative
— your ladyship's wrist is far too dexterous to be at liberty. I must
furthermore request of your ladyship to be less vociferous — you in-
terrupt business, which should be transacted with silence and de-
liberation."

Lady Rookwood's rage and vexation at this indignity were be-
yond all bounds. Resistance, however, was useless, and she sub-

Q terror GriarCS I ■

<hX6£

i : ^/i&f ' ^?

RE3CUE OF LADY ROOEWOOD.

P. 121.

EOOKWOOD. 121

mitted in silence. The cord was passed tightly round her arms,
when it flashed upon her recollection for the first time that Coates
and Tyrconnel, who were in charge of her captive in the lower
corridor, might be summoned to her assistance. This idea no
sooner crossed her mind than she uttered a loud and prolonged
scream.

"'Sdeath !" cried Jack; "civility is wasted here. Give me the
gag, Rob."

" Better slit her squeaking-pipe at once," replied Rust, drawing
his clasped knife; "she'll thwart everything."

" The gag, I say, not that."

" I can't find the gag," exclaimed Wilder, savagely. "Leave
Rob Rust to manage her — he'll silence her, I warrant you, while
you and I rummage the room."

"Ay, leave her to me," said the other miscreant. "Go about
your business, and take no heed. Her hands are fast — she can't
scratch — I'll do it with a single gash — send her to join her lord,
whom she loved so well, before he's under ground. They'll have
something to see when they come home from the master's funeral
— their mistress cut and dry for another. Ho, ho !"

"Mercy, mercy!" shrieked Lady Rookwood.

" Ay, ay, I'll be merciful," said Rust, brandishing his knife be-
fore her eyes. " I'll not be long about it. Leave her to me — I'll
give her a taste of Sir Sydney."

" No, no, Rust; no bloodshed," said Jack, authoritatively ; " I'll
find some other way to gag the jade."

At this moment, a noise of rapid footsteps was heard within the
passage.

" Assistance comes," screamed Lady Rookwood. " Help ! help !"

" To the door !" cried Jack. The words were scarcely out of his
mouth before Luke dashed into the room, followed by Coates and
Tyrconnel.

Palmer and his companions levelled their pistols at the intruders,
and the latter would have fired, but Jack's keen eye having dis-
cerned Luke amongst the foremost, checked further hostilities for
the present. Lady Rookwood, meanwhile, finding herself free
from restraint, rushed towards her deliverers, and crouched beneath
Luke's protecting arms, which were extended, pistol in hand, over
her head. Behind them stood Titus Tyrconnel, flourishing the
poker, and Mr. Coates, who, upon the sight of so much warlike
preparation, began somewhat to repent having rushed so precipi-
tately into the lion's den.

" Luke Bradley !" exclaimed Palmer, stepping forward.

" Luke Bradley !" echoed Lady Rookwood, recoiling and staring
into his face.

" Fear nothing, madam," cried Luke. " I am here to assist you
— I will defend you with my life."

" You defend me!" exclaimed Lady Rookwood, doubtfully.

122 ROOKWOOD.

" Even I" cried Luke, " strange as it may sound.'

" Holy powers protect me!" ejaculated Titus. "As I live, it
is Sir Piers himself."

" Sir Piers !" echoed Coates, catching the infection of terror, as
he perceived Palmer more distinctly. " What ! is the dead come
to life again ? A ghost, a ghost ! "

" By my soul," cried Titus, " it's the first ghost I ever heard of
that committed a burglary in its own house, and on the night of
the body's burial, too. But who the devil are these? maybe
they're ghosts likewise."

" They are," said Palmer, in a hollow tone, mimicking the voice
of Sir Piers, "attendant spirits. We are come for this woman;
her time is out ; so no more palavering, Titus. Lend a hand to
take her to the churchyard, and be hanged to you."

" Upon my conscience, Mr. Coates," cried Titus, " it's either the
devil, or Sir Piers. We'll be only in the way here. He's only
just settling his old scores with his lady. I thought it would come
to this lon^ ae;o. We'd best beat a retreat."

Jack took advantage of the momentary confusion created by
this incidental alarm at his disguise to direct Rust towards the
door by which the new comers had entered ; and, this being ac-
complished, he burst into a loud laugh.

" What ! not know me?" cried he — "not know your old friend
with a new face, Luke? Nor you, Titus? Nor you, who can see
through a millstone, Lawyer Coates, don't you recognise "

" Jack Palmer, as I'm a sinner !" cried Titus. " Why, this beats
Banaghan. Arrah ! Jack, honey, what does this mean? Is it
yourself I see in such company? You're not robbing in earnest?"

"Indeed but I am, friend Titus," exclaimed Jack; "and it is
my own self you see. I just took the liberty of borrowing Sir
Piers's old hunting-coat from the justice-room. You said my tog-
gery wouldn't do for the funeral. I'm no other than plain Jack
Palmer, after all."

" With half a dozen aliases at your back, I dare say," cried
Coates. " / suspected you all along. All your praise of highway-
men wras not lost upon me. No, no ; I can see into a millstone,
be it ever so thick."

" Well," replied Jack, " I'm sorry to see you here, friend Titus.
Keep quiet, and you shall come to no harm. As to you, Luke
Bradley, you have anticipated my intention by half an hour ; I
meant to set you free. For you, Mr. Coates, you may commit all
future care of your affairs to your executors, administrators, and
assigns. You will have no further need to trouble yourself with
worldly concerns," added he, levelling a pistol at the attorney,
who, however, shielded himself, in an agony of apprehension, be-
hind Luke's person. " Stand aside, Luke."

" I stir not," replied Luke. " I thank you for your good in-

ROOKWOOD. 123

tention, and will not injure you — that is, if you do not force me
to do so. I am here to defend her ladyship."

"What's that you say?" returned Jack, in surprise — " defend
her ladyship?"

" With my life," replied Luke. " Let me counsel you to de-
part."

" Are you mad? Defend her — Lady Rookwood — your enemy
— who would hang you? Tut, tut! Stand aside, I say, Luke
Bradley, or look to yourself."

"You had better consider well ere you proceed," said Luke.
u You know me of old. I have taken odds as great, and not come
off the vanquished."

" The odds are even," cried Titus, " if Mr. Coates will but show
fight. I'll stand by you to the last, my dear joy. You're the
right son of your father, though on the wrong side. Och ! Jack
Palmer, my jewel, no wonder you resemble Dick Turpin."

"You hear this?" cried Luke.

"Hot-headed fool!" muttered Jack.

" Why don't you shoot him on the spot?" said Wilder.

" And mar my own chance," thought Jack. " No, that will
never do ; his life is not to be thrown away. Be quiet," said he,
in a whisper to Wilder; "I've another card to play, which shall
serve us better than all the plunder here. No harm must come
to that youngster; his life is worth thousands to us." Then, turn-
ing to Luke, he continued, " I'm loth to hurt you; yet what can
I do? You must have the worst of it if we come to a pitched
battle. I therefore advise you, as a friend, to draw off your forces.
We are three to three, it is true ; but two of your party are un-
armed."

" Unarmed ! " interrupted Titus. " Devil burn me ! this iron
shillelah shall convince you to the contrary, Jack, or any of your
friends."

" Make ready then, my lads," cried Palmer.

" Stop a minute," exclaimed Coates; "this gets serious; it will
end in homicide — in murder. We shall all have our throats cut
to a certainty ; and though these rascals will as certainly be hanged
for it, that will be poor satisfaction to the sufferers. Had we not
better refer the matter to arbitration ?"

" I'm for fighting it out," said Titus, whisking the poker round
his head like a flail in action. " My blood's up. Come on, Jack
Palmer, I'm for you."

" I should vote for retreating," chattered the attorney, " if that
cursed fellow had not placed a ne exeat at the door."

" Give the word, captain," cried Rust, impatiently,

" Ay, ay," echoed Wilder.

" A skilful general always parleys," said Jack. " A word in
your ear, Luke, ere that be done which cannot be undone."

124 KOOKWOOD.

"You mean me no treachery?" returned Luke.
Jack made no answer, but uncocking his pistols, deposited them
within his pockets.

" Shoot him as he advances," whispered Coates; "he is in your
power now."

" Scoundrel !" replied Luke, " do you think me as base as your-
self?"

" Hush, hush ! for God's sake don't expose me," said Coates.
Lady Rookwood had apparently listened to this singular con-
ference with sullen composure, though in reality she was racked
with anxiety as to its results; and, now apprehending that Palmer
was about to make an immediate disclosure to Luke, she accosted
him as he passed her.

" Unbind me !" cried she, " and what you wish shall be yours —

money — jewels "

"Ha! may I depend?"
" I pledge my word."

Palmer untied the cord, and Lady Rookwood, approaching a
table whereon stood the escritoir, touched a spring, and a secret
drawer flew open.

" You do this of your own free will?" asked Luke. " Speak, if
it be otherwise."

" I do," returned the lady, hastily.

Palmer's eyes glistened at the treasures exposed to his view.
" They are jewels of countless price. Take them, and rid me,"
she added in a whisper, " of him"
"Luke Bradley?"
"Ay."

" Give them to me."
" They are yours freely on those terms."

"You hear that, Luke," cried he, aloud; "you hear it, Titus;
this is no robbery. Mr. Coates — i Know all men by these presents'
— I call you to witness, Lady Rookwood gives me these pretty
things."

" 1 do," returned she ; adding, in a whisper, " on the terms
which I proposed."

"Must it be done at once?"
" Without an instant's delay."
"Before your own eyes?"

" I fear not to look on. Each moment is precious. He is off
his guard now. You do it, you know, in self-defence."
"And you?"
" For the same cause."
"Yet he came here to aid you?"
"What of that?"

"He would have risked his life for yours?"
" I cannot pay back the obligation. He must die !"
"The document?"

ROOKWOOD. 125

" Will be useless then."

"Will not that suffice; why aim at life?"

u You trifle with me. You fear to do it."

" Fear /"

"About it, then; you shall have more gold."

" I will about it," cried Jack, throwing the casket to Wilder,
and seizing Lady llookwood's hands. " I am no Italian bravo,
madam — no assassin — no remorseless cut-throat. What are you
— devil or woman — who ask me to do this? Luke Bradley, I

say."

"Would you betray me?" cried Lady Rookwood.

" You have betrayed yourself, madam. Nay, nay, Luke, hands
off. See, Lady Rookwood, how you would treat a friend. This
strange fellow would blow out my brains for laying a finger upon
your ladyship."

" I will suffer no injury to be done to her," said Luke; "release
her."

"Your ladyship hears him," said Jack. "And you, Luke,
shall learn the value set upon your generosity. You will not have
her injured. This instant she has proposed, nay, paid for your
assassination."

"How?" exclaimed Luke, recoiling.

" A lie, as black as hell," cried Lady Rookwood.

" A truth, as clear as heaven," returned Jack. " I will speedily
convince you of the fact." Then, turning to Lady Rookwood, he
whispered, "Shall I give him the marriage document?"

" Beware !" said Lady Rookwood.

"Do I avouch the truth, then?"

She was silent.

" I am answered," said Luke.

" Then leave her to her fate," cried Jack.

" No," replied Luke ; " she is still a woman, and I will not
abandon her to ruffianly violence. Set her free."

" You are a fool," said Jack.

" Hurrah, hurrah !" vociferated Coates, who had rushed to the
window. " Rescue, rescue ! they are returning from the church ;
I see the torchlight in the avenue; we are saved !"

" Hell and the devil !" cried Jack; " not an instant is to be lost.
Alive, lads ; bring off all the plunder you can ; be handy !"

" Lady Rookwood, I bid you farewell," said Luke, in a tone
in which scorn and sorrow were blended. " We shall meet a^ain."

" We have not parted yet," returned she ; " will you let this
man pass? A thousand pounds for his life."

"Upon the nail?" asked Rust.

"By the living God, if any of you attempt to touch him, I
will blow his brains out upon the spot, be he friend or foe," cried
Jack. "Luke Bradley, we shall meet again. You shall hear from

me."

126 EOOKWOOD.

" Lady Rookwood," said Luke, as he departed, " I shall not
fomet this night."

"Is all ready?" asked Palmer of his comrades.

« All."

" Then bud^e."

" Stay !" cried Lady Rookwood, in a whisper to him. " What
will purchase that document?"

"Hem!"

a A thousand pounds ?"

" Double it."

" It shall be doubled."

" I will turn it over."

ct Resolve me now."

" You shall hear from me."

"In what manner?"

u I will find speedy means."

" Your name is Palmer?"

"Palmer is the name he goes by, your ladyship," replied
Coates, " but it is the fashion with these rascals to have an alias."

" Ha ! ha !" said Jack, thrusting the ramrod into his pistol-
barrel, "are you there, Mr. Coates? Pay your wager, sir."

"What wager?"

" The hundred we bet that you would take me if ever you had
the chance."

" Take you ! — it was Dick Turpin I betted to take."

"Jam Dick Turpin — that's my alias!" replied Jack.

" Dick Turpin ! then I'll have a snap at you at all hazards,"
cried Coates, springing suddenly towards him.

"And I at you," said Turpin, discharging his pistol right in the
face of the rash attorney; " there's a quittance in full."

ROOKWOOD. 127

BOOK III.

THE GIPSY.

Lay a garland on my hearse

Of the dismal yew ;
Maidens, willow branches bear,

Say I died true.
My love was false, but I was firm

From my hour of birth ;
Upon my buried body lie

Lightly, gentle earth.

Beaumont and Fletcher.

CHAPTER I.

A MORNING RIDE.

I had a sister, who among the race
Of gipsies was the fairest. Fair she was
In gentle blood, and gesture to her beauty. Brome.

On quitting Lady Rookwood's chamber, Luke speeded along
the gloomy corridor, descended the spiral stairs, and, swiftly tra-
versing sundry other dark passages, issued from a door at the back
of the house. Day was just beginning to break. His first object
had been to furnish himself with means to expedite his flight;
and, perceiving no one in the yard, he directed his hasty steps to-
wards the stable. The door was fortunately unfastened; and,
entering, he found a strong roan horse, which he knew, from
description, had been his father's favourite* hunter, and to the use
of which he now considered himself fully entitled. The animal
roused himself as he approached, shook his glossy coat, and
neighed] as if he recognised the footsteps and voice.

" Thou art mistaken, old fellow," said Luke; " I am not he thou
thinkest; nevertheless, I am glad thy instinct would have it so. If
thou bearest my father's son as thou hast borne thy old master, o'er
many a held for many a day, he need not fear the best mounted
of his pursuers. Soho ! come hither, Rook."

Ihe noble steed turned at the call. Luke hastily saddled him,
vaulted upon his back, and, disregarding every impediment in the
shape of fence or ditch, shaped his course across the field towards
the sexton's cottage, which he reached just as its owner was in the
act of unlocking his door. Peter testified his delight and surprise
at the escape of his grandson, by a greeting of chuckling laughter.

"How? — escaped!" exclaimed he. "Who has delivered you

128 ROOKWOOD.

from the hands of the Moabites? Ha, ha ! But why do I ask?
Who could it have been but Jack Palmer?"

"My own hands have set me free," returned Luke. "I am in-
debted to no man for liberty; still less to him. But I cannot
tarry here; each moment is precious. I came to request you to
accompany me to the gipsy encampment. Will you go, or not?"

"And mount behind you?" replied Peter; "I like not the
manner of conveyance."

"Farewell, then." And Luke turned to depart.

" Stay ; that is Sir Piers' s horse, old Rook. I care not if I do
ride him."

" Quick, then ; mount."

"I will not delay you a moment," rejoined the sexton, opening
his door, and throwing his implements into the cottage. " Back,
Mole; back, sir," cried he, as the dog rushed out to greet him.
" Bring your steed nigh this stone, grandson Luke — there — a
little nearer — all's right." And away they galloped.

The sexton's first inquiries were directed to ascertain how Luke
had accomplished his escape; and, having satisfied himself in this
particular, he was content to remain silent; musing, it might be,
on the incidents detailed to him.

The road Luke chose was a rough, unfrequented lane, that
skirted, for nearly a mile, the moss-grown palings of the park. It
then diverged to the right, and seemed to bear towards a range of
hills rising in the distance. High hedges impeded the view on
either hand; but there were occasional gaps, affording glimpses of
the tract of country through which he was riding. Meadows
were seen steaming with heavy dews, intersected by a deep chan-
nelled stream, whose course was marked by a hanging cloud of
vapour, as well as by a row of melancholy pollard-willows, that
stood like stripped, shivering urchins by the river side. Other
fields succeeded, yellow with golden grain, or bright with flower-
ing clover (the autumnal crop), coloured with every shade, from
the light green of the turnip to the darker verdure of the bean, the
various products of the teeming land. The whole was backed by
round drowsy masses of trees.

Luke spoke not, nor abated his furious course, till the road
began to climb a steep ascent. He then drew in the rein, and
from the heights of the acclivity surveyed the plain over which he
had passed.

It was a rich agricultural district, with little picturesque beauty,
but much of true EnMish endearing loveliness to recommend it.
Such a quiet, pleasing landscape, in short, as one views, at such a
season of the year, from every eminence in every county of our
merry isle. The picture was made up of a tract of land filled with
corn ripe for the sickle, or studded with sheaves of the same golden
produce, enlivened with green meadows, so deeply luxuriant as to
claim the scythe for the second time ; each divided from the other

ROOKWOOD. 129

by thick hedgerows, the uniformity of which was broken ever
and anon by some towering elm, tall poplar, or wide-branching
oak. Many old farm-houses, with their broad barns and crowded
haystacks (forming little villages in themselves), ornamented the
landscape at different points, and by their substantial look evi-
denced the fertility of the soil, and the thriving condition of its
inhabitants. Some three miles distant might be seen the scattered
hamlet of Rookwood; the dark russet thatch of its houses scarcely
perceptible amidst the embrowned foliage of the surrounding
timber. The site of the village was, however, pointed out by the
square tower of the antique church, that crested the summit of the
adjoining hill; and although the hall was entirely hidden from
view, Luke readily traced out its locality amidst the depths of the
dark grove in which it was embosomed.

This goodly prospect had other claims to attention in Luke's
eyes besides its agricultural or pictorial merit. It was, or he
deemed it was, his own. Far as his eye ranged, yea, even beyond
the line of vision, the estates of Rookwood extended.

" Do you see that house below us in the valley?" asked Peter
of his companion.

" I do," replied Luke ; " a snug old house — a model of a farm.
Everything looks comfortable and well to do about it. There are
a dozen lusty haystacks, or thereabouts; and the great barn, wit-h
its roof yellowed like gold, looks built for a granary ; and there are
stables, kine-houses, orchards, dovecots, and fishponds, and an old
circular garden, with wrall-fruit in abundance. He should be a
happy man, and a wealthy one, who dwells therein."

" He dwells therein no longer," returned Peter; "he died last
night."

"How know you that? None are stirring in the house as
yet."

" The owner of that house, Simon Toft," replied Peter, " was
last night struck by a thunderbolt. He was one of the coffin-
bearers at your father's funeral. They are sleeping within the
house, you say. 'Tis well. Let them sleep on — they will awaken
too soon, wake when they may — ha, ha!"

"Peace!" cried Luke; "you blight everything — even this
smiling landscape you would turn to gloom. Does not this morn
awaken a happier train of thoughts within your mind? With me
it makes amends for want of sleep, effaces resentment, and banishes
every black misgiving. 'Tis a joyous thing thus to scour the
country at earliest dawn; to catch all the spirit and freshness of
the morning ; to be abroad before the lazy world is half awake ; to
make the most of a brief existence ; and to have spent a day of
keen enjoyment, almost before the day begins with some. I like
to anticipate the rising of the glorious luminary; to watch every
line of light changing, as at this moment, from shuddering grey to
blushing rose! See how the heavens are dyed! Who would

130 ROOKWOOD.

exchange yon gorgeous spectacle," continued he, pointing towards
the east, and again urging his horse to full speed down the hill,
endangering the sexton's seat, and threatening to impale him upon
the crupper of the saddle — " who would exchange that sight, and
the exhilarating feeling of this fresh morn, for a couch of eider-
down, and a headache in reversion?"

" I for one," returned the sexton, sharply, a would willingly
exchange it for that, or any other couch, provided it rid me of
this accursed crupper, which galls me sorely. Moderate your
pace, grandson Luke, or I must throw myself off the horse in self-
defence."

Luke slackened his charger's pace, in compliance with the sex-
ton's wish.

" Ah ! well," continued Peter, restored in a measure to comfort ;
" now I can contemplate the sunrise, which you laud, somewhat at
mine ease. 'Tis a fine sight, I doubt not, to the eyes of youth ;
and, to the sanguine soul of him upon whom life itself is dawning,
s, 1 dare say, inspiriting: but when the heyday of existence is
past; when the blood flows sluggishly in the veins; when one has
known the desolating storms which the brightest sunrise has pre-
ceded, the seared heart refuses to trust its false glitter; and, like
the experienced sailor, sees oft in the brightest skies a forecast of
the tempest. To such a one, there can be no new dawn of the
heart; no sun can gild its cold and cheerless horizon; no breeze
can revive pulses that have long since ceased to throb with any
chance emotion. I am too old to feel freshness in this nipping
air. It chills me more than the damps of night, to which I am
accustomed. Night — midnight ! is my season of delight. Nature
is instinct then with secrets dark and dread. There is a language
which he who sleepeth not, but will wake, and watch, may haply
learn. Strange organs of speech hath the invisible world; strange
lane-uasje doth it talk; strange communion hold with him who
would pry into its mysteries. It talks by bat and owl — by the
grave-worm, and by each crawling thing — by the dust of graves,,
as well as by those that rot therein — but ever doth it discourse by
night, and 'specially when the moon is at the full. 'Tis the lore I
have then learnt that makes that season dear to me. Like your
cat, mine eye expands in darkness. I blink at the sunshine, like
your owl."

" Cease this forbidding strain," returned Luke; "it sounds as
harshly as your own screech-owl's cry. Let your thoughts take a
more sprightly turn, more in unison with my own and the fair
aspect of nature."

" Shall I direct them to the gipsies' camp, then?" said Peter,
with a sneer. " Do your own thoughts tend thither?"

u You are not altogether in the wrong," replied Luke. " I ivas
thinking of the gipsies' camp, and of one who dwells amongst its
tents."

ROOKWOOD. 131

" I knew it," replied Peter. "Did you hope to deceive mo by
attributing all your joyousness of heart to the dawn? Your
thoughts have been wandering all this while upon one who hath,
I will engage, a pair of sloe-black eyes, an olive skin, and yet
withal a clear one — i black, yet comely, as the tents of Kedar, ;is
the curtains of Solomon' — a mesh of jetty hair, that hath en-
tangled you in its network — ripe lips, and a cunning tongue — one
of the plagues of Egypt. — Ha, ha!"

" You have guessed shrewdly," replied Luke; u I care not to
own that my thoughts were so occupied."

(t I was assured of it," replied the sexton. " And what may be
the name of her towards whom your imagination was straying?"

" Sibila Perez," replied Luke. " Her father was a Spanish
Gitano. She is known amongst her people by her mother's name
of Lovel"

" She is beautiful, of course?"

" Ay, very beautiful ! — but no matter ! You shall judge of her
charms anon."

u I will take your word for them," returned the sexton; u and
you love her ? "

" Passionately."

" You are not married?" asked Peter, hastily.

u Not as yet," replied Luke; " but my faith is plighted."

" Heaven be praised ! The mischief is not then irreparable. I
would have you married — though not to a gipsy girl."

"And whom would you select?"

" One before whom Sybil's beauty would pale as stars at day's
approach."

" There lives not such a one."

" Trust me there does. Eleanor Mowbray is lovely beyond
parallel. I was merely speculating upon a possibility when I
wished her yours — it is scarcely likely she would cast her eyes
upon you."

" I shall not heed her neglect. Graced with my title, I doubt
not, were it my pleasure to seek a bride amongst those of gentle
blood, I should not find all indifferent to my suit."

" Possibly not. Yet what might weigh with others, would not
weigh with her. There are qualities you lack which she has dis-
covered in another."

" In whom?"

" In Ranulph Rookwood."

" Is he her suitor?"

" I have reason to think so."

a And you would have me abandon my own betrothed love, to
beguile from my brother his destined bride? That were to imi-
tate the conduct of my grandsire, the terrible Sir Reginald, towards
his brother Alan."

The sexton answered not, and Luke fancied he could perceive a

132 ROOKWOOD.

quivering in the hands that grasped his body for support. There
was a brief pause in their conversation.

"And who is Eleanor Mowbray?" asked Luke, breaking the
silence.

" Your cousin. On the mother's side a Rookwood. "lis there-
fore I would urge your union with her. There is a prophecy re-
lating to your house, which seems as though it would be fulfilled
in your person and in hers :

OTljen tfte strap Book sfjall percl) on tje topmost fcougj),

Wbm stall be clamour anti screaming, 31 trofo ;

•HJut of rt'gfit, anfc of rule, of tfje ancient nest,

^6e Sfcooft tfmt toitfi Booft mates sfjall fiollJ f)im possest."

{i I place no faith in such fantasies," replied Luke ; " and yet
the lines bear strangely upon my present situation."

" Their application to yourself and Eleanor Mowbray is un-
questionable," replied the sexton.

" It would seem so, indeed," rejoined Luke; and he again sank
into abstraction, from which the sexton did not care to arouse him.

The aspect of the country had materially changed since their
descent of the hill. In place of the richly-cultivated district which
lay on the other side, a broad brown tract of waste land spread
out before them, covered with scattered patches of gorse, stunted
fern, and low brushwood, presenting an unvaried surface of un-
baked turf. The shallow coat of sod was manifested by the stones
that clattered under the horse's hoofs as he rapidly traversed the
arid soil, clearing with ease to himself, though not without dis-
comfort to the sexton, every gravelly trench, natural chasm, or
other inequality of ground that occurred in his course. Clinging
to his grandson with the tenacity of a bird of prey, Peter for some
time kept his station in security; but, unluckily, at one dike
rather wider than the rest, the horse, owing possibly to the mis-
management, intentional or otherwise, of Luke, swerved; and the
sexton, dislodged from his " high estate," fell at the edge of the
trench, and rolled incontinently to the bottom.

Luke drew in the rein to inquire if any bones were broken ; and
Peter presently upreared his dusty person from the abyss, and
without condescending to make any reply, yet muttering curses,
" not loud, but deep," accepted his grandson's proffered hand, and
remounted.

While thus occupied, Luke fancied he heard a distant shout,
and noting whence the sound proceeded — the same quarter by
which he had approached the heath — he beheld a single horseman
spurring in their direction at the top of his speed; and to judge
from the rate at which he advanced, it was evident he was any-
thing but indifferently mounted. Apprehensive of pursuit, Luke

ROOKWOOD. 133

expedited the sexton's ascent; and that accomplished, without be-
stowing further regard upon the object of his solicitude, he re-
sumed his headlong flight. He now thought it necessary to
bestow more attention to his choice of road, and, perfectly ac-
quainted with the heath, avoided all unnecessary hazardous passes.
In spite of his knowledge of the ground, and the excellence of his
horse, the stranger sensibly gained upon him. The danger, how-
ever, was no longer imminent.

" We are safe," cried Luke ; " the limits of Hardchase are past.
In a few seconds we shall enter Davenham Wood. I will turn
the horse loose, and we will betake ourselves to flight amongst the
trees. I will show you a place of concealment. He cannot follow
us on horseback, and on foot I defy him."

" Stay," cried the sexton. " He is not in pursuit — he takes
another course — he wheels to the right. By Heaven ! it is the
-Fiend himself upon a black horse, come for Bow-legged Ben. See,
he is there already."

The horseman had turned, as the sexton stated, careering to-
wards a revolting object at some little distance on the right hand.
It was a gibbet, with its grisly burden. He rode swiftly towards
it, and, reining in his horse, took off his hat, bowing profoundly
to the carcase that swung in the morning breeze. Just at that
moment a gust of air catching the fleshless skeleton, its arms
seemed to be waved in reply to the salutation. A solitary crow
winged its flight over the horseman's head as he paused. After a
moment's halt, he wheeled about, and again shouted to Luke,
waving his hat.

" As I live," said the latter, " it is Jack Palmer."
u Dick Turpin, you mean," rejoined the sexton. " He lias been
paying his respects to a brother blade. Ha, ha! Dick will never
have the honour of a gibbet; he is too tender of the knife. Did
you mark the crow? But here he comes." And in another instant
Turpin was by their side.

CHAPTER II.

A GIPSY ENCAMPMENT.

I see a column of slow-rising smoke
O'ertop the lofty wood, that skirts the wild.

Cowpee : The Task.

" The top of the morning to you, gem'men," said Turpin, as he
rode up at an easy canter. " Did you not hear my halloo ? I
caught a glimpse of you on the hill yonder. I knew you both,
two miles off; and so, having a word or two to say to you, Luke

134 ROOKWOOD.

Bradley, before I leave this part of the country, I put Bess to it,
and she soon brought me within hail. Bless her black skin,"
added he, affectionately patting his horse's neck, " there's not her
match in these parts, or in any other ; she wants no coaxing to do
her work — no bleeders for her. I should have been up with you
before this had I not taken a cross cut to look at poor Ben.

One night, when mounted on my mare,
To Bagshot Heath I did repair,
And saw Will Davies hanging there,
Upon the gibbet bleak and bare,

With a rustified, /testified, mustified air.

Excuse my singing. The sight of a gibbet always puts me in
mind of the Golden Farmer. May I ask whither you are bound,
comrades?"

" Comrades!" whispered the sexton to Luke; "you see he does
not so easily forget his old friends."

" I have business that will not admit of delay," rejoined Luke;
" and to speak plainly "

" You want not my society," returned Turpin ; " I guessed as
much. Natural enough ! You have got an inkling of your good
fortune. You have found out you are a rich man's heir, not a
poor wench's bastard. No offence ; I'm a plain spoken man, as you
will find, if you know it not already. I have no objection to your
playing these fine tricks on others, though it won't answer your
turn to do so with me."

" Sir!" exclaimed Luke, sharply.

" Sir to you," replied Turpin — " Sir Luke — as I suppose you
would now choose to be addressed. I am aware of all. A nod is
as good as a wink to me. Last night I learnt the fact of Sir
Piers's marriage from Lady Rookwood — ay, from her ladyship.
You stare — and old Peter, there, opens his ogles now. She let it
out by accident ; and I am in possession of what can alone sub-
stantiate your father's first marriage, and establish your claims to
the property."

"The devil!" cried the sexton; adding, in a whisper to Luke,
" You had better not be precipitate in dropping so obliging an ac-
quaintance."

" You are jesting," said Luke to Turpin.

" It is ill jesting before breakfast," returned Dick ; " I am seldom
in the mood for a joke so early. What if a certain marriage cer-
tificate had fallen into my hand?"

" A marriage certificate ! " echoed Luke and the sexton simul-
taneously.

"The only existing proof of the union of Sir Piers Rookwood
with Susan Bradley," continued Turpin. " What if I had stum-
bled upon such a document — nay more, if I knew where to direct
you to it?"

ROOKWOOD. 135

" Peace !" cried Luke to liis tormentor ; and then addressing
Turpin, " If what you say be true, my quest is at an end. All
that I need, you appear to possess. Other proofs are secondary to
this. I know with whom I have to deal. What do you demand
for that certificate?"

" We will talk about the matter after breakfast," said Turpin.
" I wish to treat with you as friend with friend. Meet me on
those terms, and I am your man; reject my offer, and I turn my
mare's head, and ride back to Rookwood. With me now rests all
your hopes. I have dealt fairly with you, and I expect to be fairly
dealt with in return. It were idle to say, now I have an oppor-
tunity, that I should not turn this luck to my account. I were a
fool to do otherwise. You cannot expect it. And then I have
Rust and Wilder to settle with. Though I have left them behind,
they know my destination. We have been old associates. I like
your spirit — I care not for your haughtiness; but I will not help
you up the ladder to be kicked down myself. Now you under-
stand me. Whither are you bound?"

" To Davcnham Priory, the gipsy camp."

"The gipsies arc your friends?"

" They are."

" I am alone."

" You are safe."

" You pledge your word that all shall be on the square. You
will not mention to one of that Canting Crew what I have told
you?"

" With one exception, you may rely upon my secrecy."

"Whom do you except?"

" A woman."

" Bad ! never trust a petticoat."

" I will answer for her with my life."

"And for your granddad there?"

" Pie will answer for himself," said Peter. " You need not fear
treachery in me. Honour among thieves, you know."

"Or where else should you seek it?" rejoined Turpin; "for it
has left all other classes of society. Your highwayman is your
only man of honour. I will trust you both; and you shall find
you may trust me. After breakfast, as I said before, we will bring
the matter to a conclusion. Tip us your daddle, Sir Luke, and I
am satisfied. You shall rule in Rookwood, I'll engage, ere a week

be flown ; and then But so much parleying is dull work ; let's

make the best of our way to breakfast."

And away they cantered.

A narrow bridle-road conducted them singly through the defiles
of a thick wood. Their route lay in the shade, and the air felt
chilly amidst the trees, the sun not having attained sufficient alti-
tude to penetrate its depths, while overhead all was warmth and
light. Quivering on the tops of the timber, the horizontal sun-

136 ROOKWOOD.

beams created, in their refraction, brilliant prismatic colourings,
and filled the air with, motes like golden dust. Our horsemen
heeded not the sunshine or the shade. Occupied each with, his
own train of thought, they silently rode on.

Davenham Wood, through which they urged their course, had,
in the olden time, been a forest of some extent. It was then an
appendage to the domains of Rookwood, but had passed from the
hands of that family to those of a wealthy adjoining landowner
and lawyer, Sir Edward Davenham, in the keeping of whose de-
scendants it had ever after continued. A noble wood it was, and
numbered many patriarchal trees. Ancient oaks, with broad,
gnarled limbs, which the storms of five hundred years had vainly
striven to uproot, and which were now sternly decaying ; gigantic
beech-trees, with silvery stems shooting smoothly upwards, sus-
taining branches of such size, that each, dissevered, would in
itself have formed a tree, populous with leaves, and variegated
with rich autumnal tints; the sprightly sycamore, the dark ches-
nut, the weird wych-elm, the majestic elm itself, festooned with
ivy, every variety of wood, dark, dense, and intricate, composed
the forest through which they rode; and so multitudinous was the
timber, so closely planted, so entirely filled up with a thick matted
vegetation, which had been allowed to collect beneath, that little
view was afforded, had any been desired by the parties, into the
labyrinth of the grove. Tree after tree, clad in the glowing livery
of the season, was passed, and as rapidly succeeded by others.
Occasionally a bough projected over their path, compelling the
riders to incline their heads as they passed ; but, heedless of such
difficulties, they pressed on. Now the road grew lighter, and they
became at once sensible of the genial influence of the sun. The
transition was as agreeable as instantaneous. They had opened
upon an extensive plantation of full-grown pines, whose tall, branch-
less stems grew up like a forest of masts, and freely admitted the
pleasant sunshine. Beneath those trees, the soil was sandy and
destitute of all undergrowth, though covered with brown, hair-
like fibres and dry cones, shed by the pines. The agile squirrel,
that freest denizen of the grove, starting from the ground as the
horsemen galloped on, sprang up the nearest tree, and might be
seen angrily gazing at the disturbers of his haunts, beating the
branches with his fore feet, in expression of displeasure; the rabbit
darted across their path ; the jays flew screaming amongst the
foliage; the blue cushat, scared at the clatter of the horses' hoofs,
sped on swift wing into quarters secure from their approach ; while
the particoloured pies, like curious village gossips, congregated to
peer at the strangers, expressing their astonishment by loud and
continuous chattering. Though so gentle of ascent as to be almost
imperceptible, it was still evident that the path they were pursuing
gradually mounted a hill-side; and when at length they reached
an opening, the view disclosed the eminence they had insensibly

ROOKWOOD. 137

won. Pausing for a moment upon the brow of the hill, Luke
pointed to a stream that wound through the valley, and, tracing
its course, indicated a particular spot amongst the trees. There
was no appearance of a dwelling-house — no cottage roof, no white
canvas shed, to point out the tents of the wandering tribe whose
abode they were seeking. The only circumstance betokening that
it had once been the haunt of man, were a few grey monastic ruins,
scarce distinguishable from the stony barrier by which they were
surrounded ; and the sole evidence that it was still frequented by
human beings was a thin column of pale blue smoke, that arose
in curling wreaths from out the brake, the light-coloured vapour
beautifully contrasting with the green umbrage whence it issued,

" Our destination is yonder," exclaimed Luke, pointing in the
direction of the vapour.

" I am glad to hear it," cried Turpin, u as well as to perceive
there is some one awake. That smoke holds out a prospect of
breakfast. No smoke without lire, as old Lady Scanmag said ; and
I'll wager a trifle that fire was not lighted for the fayter fellows to
count their fingers by. We shall find three sticks, and a black
pot with a kid seething in it, I'll engage. These gipsies have
picked out a prettyish spot to quarter in — quite picturesque, as
one may say — and but for that tell-tale smoke, which looks for all
the world like a Dutch skipper blowing his morning cloud, no one
need know of their vicinity. A pretty place, upon my soul."

The spot, in sooth, merited Tur pin's culogium. It was a little
valley, in the midst of wooded hills, so secluded, that not a single
habitation appeared in view. Clothed with timber to the very
summits, excepting on the side where the party stood, which
verged upon the declivity, these mountainous ridges presented a
broken outline of foliage, variegated with tinted masses of bright
orange, umber, and deepest green. Four hills hemmed in the
valley. Here and there a grey slab of rock might be discerned
amongst the wood, and a mountain-ash figured conspicuously upon
a jutting crag immediately below them. Deep sunken in the
ravine, and concealed in part from view by the wild herbage and
dwarf shrubs, ran a range of precipitous rocks, severed, it would
seem, by some diluvial convulsion, from the opposite mountain
side, as a corresponding rift was there visible, in which the same
clip of strata might be observed, together with certain ribbed cavi-
ties, matching huge bolts of rock which had once locked these
stony walls together. Washing this cliif, swept a clear stream,
well known and well regarded, as it waxed in width, by the honest
brethren of the angle, who seldom, however, tracked it to its rise
amongst these hills. The stream found its way into the valley
through a chasm far to the left, and rushed thundering down the
inountain side in a boiling cascade. The valley was approached
in this direction from Rookwood by an unfrequented carriage-
road, which Luke had, from prudential reason?, avoided. All

138 EOOKWOOD.

seemed consecrated to silence — to solitude — to the hush of nature ;
yet this quiet scene was the chosen retreat of lawless depredators,
and had erstwhile been the theatre of feudal oppression. We have
said that no habitation was visible; that no dwelling tenanted by
man could be seen ; but following the spur of the furthest moun-
tain hill, some traces of a stone wall might be discovered; and
upon a natural platform of rock stood a stern square tower, which
had once been the donjon of the castle, the lords of which had
called the four hills their own. A watch-tower then had crowned
each eminence, every vestige of which had, however, long since
disappeared. Sequestered in the vale stood the Priory before al-
luded to (a Monastery of Grey Friars, of the Order of St. Francis),
some of the venerable walls of which were still remaining; and
if they had not reverted to the bat and owl, as is wont to be
the fate of such sacred structures, their cloistered shrines were de-
voted to beings whose natures partook, in some measure, of the
instincts of those creatures of the night — a people whose deeds
were of darkness, and whose eyes shunned the light. Here the
gipsies had pitched their tent ; and though the place was often, in
part, deserted by the vagrant horde, yet certain of the tribe, who
had grown into years (over whom Barbara Lovel held queenly
sway), made it their haunt, and were suffered, by the authorities
of the neighbourhood, to remain unmolested — a lenient piece of
policy, which, in our infinite regard for the weal of the tawny
tribe, we recommend to the adoption of all other justices and
knights of the shire.

Bidding his grandsire have regard to his seat, Luke leaped a
high bank; and, followed by Turpin, began to descend the hill.
Peter, however, took care to provide for himself. The descent
was so perilous, and the footing so insecure, that he chose rather
to trust to such conveyance as nature had furnished him with,
than to hazard his neck by any false step of the horse. He con-
trived, therefore, to slide off from behind, shaping his own course
in a more secure direction.

He who has wandered amidst the Alps must have often had
occasion to witness the wonderful surefootedness of that mountain
pilot, the mule. He must have remarked how, with tenacious
hoof, he will claw the rock, and drag himself from one impending
fragment to another, with perfect security to his rider; how he
will breast the roaring currents of air, and stand unshrinking at
the verge of almost unfathomable ravines. But it is not so with
the horse : fleet on the plain, careful over rugged ground, he is
timid and uncertain on the hill-side, and the risk incurred by Luke
and Turpin, in their descent of the almost perpendicular sides of
the clifTJ was tremendous. Peter watched them in their descent
with some admiration, and with much contempt.

"He will break his neck, of a surety," said he; "but what
matters it? As well now as hereafter."

IIOOKWOOD. 139

So saying, he approached the verge of the precipice, where he
could see them more distinctly.

The passage along which Luke rode had never before been tra-
versed by horse's hoof. Cut in the rock, it presented a steep zig-
zag path amongst the cliffs, without any defence for the foot tra-
veller, except such as was afforded by a casual clinging shrub, and
no protection whatever existed for a horseman ; the possibility of
any one attempting the passage not having, in all probability,
entered into the calculation of those who framed it. Added to
this, the steps were of such unequal heights, and withal so narrow,
that the danger was proportionately increased.

"Ten thousand devils!" cried Turpin, staring downwards; "is
this the best road you have got?"

" You will find one more easy," replied Luke, " if you ride for
a quarter of a mile down the wood, and then return by the brook
side. You will meet me at the priory."

" No," answered the highwayman, boldly ; " if you go, I go too.
It shall never be said that Dick Turpin was afraid to follow where
another would lead. Proceed."

Luke gave his horse the bridle, and the animal slowly and
steadily commenced the descent, fixing his fore legs upon the
steps, and drawing his hinder limbs carefully after him. Here it
was that the lightness and steadiness of Turpin's mare was com-
pletely shown. No Alpine mule could have borne its rider with
more apparent ease and safety. Turpin encouraged her by hand
and word; but she needed it not. The sexton saw them, and,
tracking their giddy descent, he became more interested than he
anticipated. His attention was suddenly drawn towards Luke.

" He is gone," cried Peter. " He falls — he sinks — my plans are
all defeated — the last link is snapped. No," added he, recovering
his wonted composure, " his end is not so fated."

Rook had missed his footing. He rolled stumbling down the
precipice a few yards. Luke's fate seemed inevitable. His feet
were entangled in the stirrup, he could not free himself. A
birch- tree, growing in a chink of the precipice, arrested his
further fall. But for this timely aid all had been over. Here
Luke was enabled to extricate himself from the stirrup and to re-
gain his feet ; seizing the bridle, he dragged his faulty steed back
again to the road.

" You have had a narrow escape, by Jove," said Turpin, who
had been thunderstruck with the whole proceeding. " Those big
cattle are always clumsy; devilish lucky it's no Avorse."

It was now comparatively smooth travelling ; but they had not
as yet reached the valley, and it seemed to be Luke's object to take
a circuitous path. This was so evident, that Turpin could not
help commenting upon it.

Luke evaded the question. " The crag is steep there," said he ;
" besides, to tell you the truth, I want to surprise them."

140 ROOKWOOD.

" Ho, ho !" laughed Dick. " Surprise them, eh? What a pity
the birch-tree was in the way; you would have done it properly
then. Egad, here's another surprise."

Dick's last exclamation was caused by his having suddenly come
upon a wide gully in the rock, through which dashed a headlong
torrent, crossed by a single plank.

" You must be mad to have taken this road," cried Turpin,
gazing down into the roaring depths in which the waterfall raged,
and measuring the distance of the pass with his eye. u So, so,
Bess ! — Ay, look at it, wench. Curse me, Luke, if I think your
horse will do it, and, therefore, turn him loose."

But Dick might as well have bidden the cataract to flow back-
wards. Luke struck his heels into his horse's sides. The steed
galloped to the brink, snorted, and refused the leap.

61 1 told you so — he can't do it," said Turpin. " Well, if you
are obstinate, a wilful man must have his way. Stand aside, while
I try it for you." Patting Bess, he put her to a gallop. She
cleared the gulf bravely, landing her rider safely upon the oppo-
site rock.

" Now then," cried Turpin, from the other side of the chasm.

Luke again urged his steed. Encouraged by what he had seen,
this time the horse sprang across without hesitation. The next
instant they were in the valley.

For some time they rode along the banks of the stream in
silence. A sound at length caught the quick ears of the high-
wayman.

" Hist I" cried he; u some one sings. Do you hear it?"

" I do," replied Luke, the blood rushing to his cheeks.

" And could give a guess at the singer, no doubt," said Turpin,
with a knowing look. " Was it to hear yon woodlark that you
nearly broke your own neck, and put mine in jeopardy?"

" Prithee be silent," whispered Luke.

" I am dumb," replied Turpin; " I like a sweet voice as well as
another."

Clear as the note of a bird, yet melancholy as the distant dole
of a vesper-bell, arose the sound of that sweet voice from the wood.
A fragment of a Spanish gipsy song it warbled : Luke knew it
well. Thus ran the romance :

LA G1TANILLA.*

By the Guadalquivir,

Ere the sun be flown,
By that glorious river

Sits a maid alone.
Like the sunset splendour

Of that current bright,
Shone her dark eyes tender

As its witching light ; i

* Set to music by Mr. F. Komcr and Lady Stracey.

ROOKWOOD. ]41

Like the ripple flowing,

Tinged with purple sheen,
Darkly, richly glowing,
Is her warm cheek seen.
'Tis the Gitanilla

By the stream doth linger,
In the hope that eve
Will her lover bring her.

See, the sun is sinking ;

All grows dim, and dies ;
See, the waves are drinking

Glories of the skies.
Day's last lustre playeth
On that current dark ;
Yet no speck betrayeth

His long lookcd-for bark.
'Tis the hour of meeting !
Nay, the hour is past ;
Swift the time is fleeting !
Fleeteth hope as fast.
Still the Gitanilla

By the stream doth linger,
In the hope that night
Will her lover bring her.

The tender trembling of a guitar was heard in accompaniment
of the ravishing melodist.

The song ceased.

" Where is the bird?" asked Turpin.

" Move on in silence, and you shall see," said Luke ; and keep-
ing upon the turf, so that his horse's tread became inaudible, lie
presently arrived at a spot where, through the boughs, the object
of his investigation could plainly be distinguished, though he him-
self was concealed from view.

Upon a platform of rock, rising to the height of the trees, nearly
perpendicularly from the river's bed, appeared the figure of the
gipsy maid. Her footstep rested on the extreme edge of the
abrupt cliff, at whose base the water boiled in a deep whirlpool,
and the bounding chamois could not have been more lightly
poised. One small hand rested upon her guitar, the other pressed
her brow. Braided hair, of the jettiest dye and sleekest texture,
was twined around her brow in endless twisted folds:

Bowled it was in many a curious fret,
Much like a rich and curious coronet,-
Upon whose arches twenty Cupids lay,
And were as tied, or loth to fly away.*

And so exuberant was this rarest feminine ornament, that, after
encompassing her brow, it was passed behind, and hung down in
long thick plaits almost to her feet. Sparkling, as the sunbeams

* Brown's Pastorals.

142 riOOKWOOD.

that played upon her dark yet radiant features, were the large,
black, Oriental eyes of the maiden, and shaded with lashes long
and silken. Hers was a Moorish countenance, in which the mag-
nificence of the eyes eclipses the face, be it ever so beautiful (an
effect to be observed in the angelic pictures of Murillo), and the
lovely contour is scarcely noticed in the gaze which those long,
languid, luminous orbs attract. Sybil's features were exquisite,
yet you looked only at her eyes — they were the loadstars of her
countenance. Her costume was singular, and partook, like herself,
of other climes. Like the Andalusian dame, her choice of colour
inclined towards black, as the material of most of her dress was of
that sombre hue. A bodice of embroidered velvet restrained her
delicate bosom's swell ; a rich girdle, from which depended a silver
chain, sustaining a short poniard, bound her waist; around her
slender throat was twined a costly kerchief; and the rest of her
dress was calculated to display her slight, yet faultless, figure to
the fullest advantage.

Unconscious that she was the object of regard, she raised her
guitar, and essayed to touch the chords. She struck a few notes,
and resumed her romance:

Swift that stream flows on,

Swift the night is wearing, —
Yet she is not gone,

Though with heart despairing.

Her song died away. Her hand was needed to brush off the
tears that were gathering in her large dark eyes. At once her
attitude was changed. The hare could not have started more
suddenly from her form. She heard accents well known con-
cluding the melody :

Dips an oar-plash — hark ! —

Gently on the river ;
'Tis her lover's bark,

On the Guadalquivir.
Hark ! a song she hears !

Every note she snatches ;
As the singer ncars,

Her own name she catches.
Now the Gitanilla

Stays not by the water,
For the midnight hour

Hath her lover brought her.

It was her lover's voice. She caught the sound at once, and,
starting, as the roe would arouse herself at the hunter's approach,
bounded down the crag, and ere he had finished the refrain, was
by his side.

Flinging the bridle to Turpin, Luke sprang to her, and caught
her in his arms. Disengaging herself from his ardent embrace,
Sybil drew back, abashed at the sight of the highwayman.

EOOKWOOD. 143

" Heed him not," said Luke ; " it is a friend."

" He is welcome here then," replied Sybil. " But where have
you tarried so long, dear Luke?" continued she, as they walked to
a little distance from the highwayman. " What hath detained
you? The hours have passed wearily since you departed. You
bring good news?"

" Good news, my girl; so good, that I falter even in the telling
of it. You shall know all anon. And see, our friend yonder
grows impatient. Are there any stirring? We must bestow a
meal upon him, and that forthwith : he is one of those who brook
not much delay."

" I came not to spoil a love meeting," said Turpin, who had
good-humouredly witnessed the scene; "but, in sober seriousness,
if there is a stray capon to be met with in the land of Egypt, I
shall be glad to make his acquaintance. Methinks I scent a stew
afar off."

"Follow me," said Sybil; "your wants shall be supplied."

" Stay," said Luke ; " there is one other of our party whose
coming we must abide."

" He is here," said Sybil, observing the sexton at a distance.
" Who is that old man ?"

" My grandsire, Peter Bradley."

"Is that Peter Bradley?" asked Sybil.

" Ay, you may well ask whether that old dried-up otomy, who
ought to grin jn a glass case for folks to stare at, be kith and kin
of such a bang-up cove as your fancy man, Luke," said Turpin,
laughing — "but i'faith he is."

" Though he is your grandsire, Luke," said Sybil, " I like him
not. His glance resembles that of the Evil Eye."

And, in fact, the look which Peter fixed upon her was such as
the rattlesnake casts upon its victim, and Sybil felt like a poor
fluttering bird under the fascination of that venomous reptile.
She could not remove her eyes from his, though she trembled as
she gazed. We have said that Peter's orbs were like those of the
toad. Age had not dimmed their brilliancy. In his harsh features
you could only read bitter scorn or withering hate ; but in his eyes
resided a magnetic influence of attraction or repulsion. Sybil un-
derwent the former feeling in a disagreeable degree. She was
drawn to him as by the motion of a whirlpool, and involuntarily
clung to her lover.

"It is the Evil Eye, dear Luke."

" Tut, tut, clear Sybil ; I tell you it is my grandsire."

"The girl says rightly, however," rejoined Turpin; "Peter has
a confounded ugly look about the ogles, and stares enough to put
a modest wench out of countenance. Come, come, my old earth-
worm, crawl along, we have waited for you long enough. Is this
the first time you have seen a pretty lass, eh?"

" It is the first time I have seen one so beautiful," said Peter ;

144 ROOKWOOD.

" and I crave her pardon if my freedom has offended her. I won-
der not at your enchantment, grandson Luke, now I behold the
object of it. But there is one piece of counsel I would give to
this fair maid. The next time she trusts you from her sight,
I would advise her to await you at the hill-top, otherwise the
chances are shrewdly against your reaching the ground with neck
nnbroken."

There was something, notwithstanding the satirical manner
in which Peter delivered this speech, calculated to make a more
favourable impression upon Sybil than his previous conduct had
inspired her with ; and, having ascertained from Luke to what his
speech referred, she extended her hand to him, yet not without a
shudder, as it was enclosed in his skinny grasp. It was like the
fingers of Venus in the grasp of a skeleton.

" This is a little hand," said Peter, " and I have some skill my-
self in palmistry. Shall I peruse its lines?"

" Not now, in the devil's name !" said Turpin, stamping impa-
tiently. " We shall have Old Rufrln himself amongst us pre-
sently, if Peter Bradley grows gallant."

Leading their horses, the party took their way through the
trees. A few minutes' walking brought them in sight of the
gipsy encampment, the spot selected for which might be termed
the Eden of the valley. It was a small green plain, smooth as a
well-shorn lawn, kept ever verdant (save in the spots where the fre-
quent fires had scorched its surface) by the flowing stream that
rushed past it, and surrounded by an amphitheatre of wooded
hills. Here might be seen the canvas tent with its patches of
varied colouring; the rude-fashioned hut of primitive construc-
tion; the kettle slung

Between two poles, upon a stick transverse ;

the tethered beasts of burden, the horses, asses, dogs, carts, cara-
vans, wains, blocks, and other movables and immovables belonging
to the wandering tribe. Glimmering through the trees, at the ex-
tremity of the plain, appeared the ivy-mantled walls of Davenham
Priory. Though much had gone to decay, enough remained to
recal the pristine state of this once majestic pile, and the long,
though broken line of Saxon arches, that still marked the cloister
wall; the piers that yet supported the dormitory; the enormous
horse-shoe arch that spanned the court; and, above all, the great
marigold, or circular window, which terminated the chapel, and
which, though now despoiled of its painted honours, retained, like
the skeleton leaf, its fibrous intricacies entire, — all eloquently
spoke of the glories of the past, while they awakened reverence
and admiration for the still-enduring beauty of the present.

Towards these ruins Sybil conducted the party.

"Do you dwell therein?" asked Peter, pointing towards the
priory.

ROOKWOOD. 145

" That is my dwelling," said Sybil.

" It is one I should covet more than a modern mansion,
returned the sexton.

" I love those old walls better than any house that was ever
fashioned," replied Sybil.

As they entered the Prior's Close, as it was called, several
swarthy figures made their appearance from the tents. Many a
greeting was bestowed upon Luke, in the wild jargon of the tribe.
At length an uncouth dwarfish figure, with a shock head of black
hair, hopped towards them. He seemed to acknowledge Luke as
his master.

" What ho ! Grasshopper," said Luke, " take these horses, and
see that they lack neither dressing nor provender."

" And hark ye, Grasshopper," added Turpin ; " I give you a
special charge about this mare. Neither dress nor feed her till I
see both done myself. Just walk her for ten minutes, and if you
have a glass of ale in the place, let her sip it."

" Your bidding shall be done," chirped the human insect, as he
fluttered away with his charges.

A motley assemblage of tawny-skinned varlets, dark-eyed women
and children, whose dusky limbs betrayed their lineage, in strange
costume, and of wild deportment, checked the path, muttering
welcome upon welcome into the ear of Luke as he passed. As it
was evident he was in no mood for converse, Sybil, who seemed
to exercise considerable authority over the crew, with a word dis-
persed them, and they herded back to their respective habitations.

A low door admitted Luke and his companions into what had
once been the garden, in which some old moss-encrusted apple
and walnut-trees were still standing, bearing a look of antiquity
almost as venerable as that of the adioininfr fabric.

Another open door gave them entrance to a spacious chamber,
formerly the eating-room or refectory of the holy brotherhood,
and a goodly room it had been, though now its slender lanceolated
windows were stuffed witli hay to keep out the air. Large holes
told where huge oaken rafters had once crossed the roof, and a
yawning aperture marked the place where a cheering fire had for-
merly blazed. As regarded this latter spot, the good old custom
was not, even now, totally abrogated. An iron plate, covered
with crackling wood, sustained a ponderous black caldron, the
rich steam from which gratefully affected the olfactory organs oi
the highwayman.

" That augurs well," said he, rubbing his hands.

" Still hungering after the fleshpots of Egypt," said the sexton,
with a ghastly smile.

" We will see what that kettle contains," said Luke.

"Handassah— Grace!" exclaimed Sybil, calling.

Her summons was answered by two maidens, habited, not un-
becomingly, in gipsy gear.

146 ROOKWOOD.

" Bring the best our larder can furnish," said Sybil, u and use
despatch. You have appetites to provide for, sharpened by a long
ride in the open air."

" And by a night's fasting," said Luke, " and solitary confine-
ment to boot."

u And a night of business," added Turpin — " and plaguy per-
plexing business into the bargain."

u And the night of a funeral too," doled Peter ; u and that
funeral a father's. Let us have breakfast speedily, by all means.
We have rare appetites."

An old oaken table (it might have been the self-same upon
which the holy friars had broken their morning fast) stood in the
middle of the room. The ample board soon groaned beneath the
weight of the savoury caldron, the unctuous contents of which
proved to be a couple of dismembered pheasants, an equal propor-
tion of poultry, great gouts of ham, mushrooms, onions, and other
piquant condiments, so satisfactory to Dick Turpin, that, upon
tasting a mouthful, he absolutely shed tears of delight. The dish
was indeed the triumph of gipsy cookery; and so sedulously did
Dick apply himself to his mess, and so complete was his abstrac-
tion, that he perceived not he was left alone. It was only when
about to wash down the last drumstick of the last fowl with a can
of excellent ale that he made this discovery.

" What ! all gone? And Peter Bradley, too? What the devil
does this mean?" mused he. "I must not muddle my brain with
any more Pharaoh, though I have feasted like a king of Egypt.
That will never do. Caution, Dick, caution. Suppose I shift yon
brick from the wall, and place this precious document beneath it.
Pshaw ! Luke would never play me false. And now for Bess !
Bless her black skin ! she'll wonder where I've been so long. It's
not my way to leave her to shift for herself, though she can do
that on a pinch."

Soliloquising thus, he arose and walked towards the door.

ROOKWOOD. 147

CHAPTER III.

SYBIL.

The wiving vine, that round the friendly elm
Twines her soft limbs, and weaves a leafy mantle
For her supporting lover, dares not venture
To mix her humble boughs with the embraces
Of the more lofty cedar.

Glapthorne : Albert 'us Wallemtein.

Beneath a mouldering wall, whither they had strayed, to be
free from interruption, and upon a carpet of the greenest moss, sat
Sybil and her lover.

With eager curiosity she listened to his talc. He recounted all
that had befallen him since his departure. Pie told her of the
awful revelations of the tomb ; of the ring that, like a talisman,
had conjured up a thousand brilliant prospects; of his subsequent
perils; his escapes; his rencontre with Lady Rookwood; his visit
to his father's body; and his meeting with his brother. All this
she heard with a cheek now flushed with expectation, now made
pale with apprehension; with palpitating bosom, and suppressed
breath. But when taking a softer tone, love, affection, happiness
inspired the theme, and Luke sought to paint the bliss that should
be theirs in his new estate ; when he would throw his fortune into
her lap, his titles at her feet, and bid her wear the;n with him;
when, with ennobled hand and unchanged heart, he would fulfil
the troth plighted in his outcast days; in lieu of tender, grateful
acquiescence, the features of Sybil became overcast, the soft smile
faded away, and, as spring sunshine is succeeded by the sudden
shower, the light that dwelt in her sunny orbs grew dim with
tears.

"Why — why is this, dear Sybil?" said Luke, gazing upon her
in astonishment, not unmingled with displeasure. " To what am
I to attribute these tears? You do not, surely, regret my good
fortune ?"

"Not on your own account, dear Luke," returned she, sadly.
" The tears I shed were for myself — the first, the only tears that I
have ever shed for such cause; and," added she, raising her head
like a flower surcharged with moisture, " they shall be the last."

" This is inexplicable, dear Sybil. Why should you lament for
yourself, if not for me? Does not the sunshine of prosperity that
now shines upon me gild you with the same beam? Did I not
even now affirm that the day that saw me enter the hall oc my
forefathers should dawn upon our espousals?"

148 ROOKWOOD.

" True ; but the sun that shines upon you, to me wears a threat-
ening aspect. The day of those espousals will never dawn. You
cannot make me the lady of Rookwood."

"What do I hear?" exclaimed Luke, surprised at this avowal
of his mistress, sadly and deliberately delivered. u Not wed you !
And wherefore not? Is it the rank I have acquired, or hope to
acquire, that displeases you? Speak, that I may waste no further
time in thus pursuing the shadows of happiness, while the reality
fleets from me."

"And are they shadows; and is this the reality, dear Luke?
Question your secret soul, and you will find it otherwise. You
could not forego your triumph ; it is not likely. You have dwelt
too much upon the proud title which will be yours to yield it to
another, when it may be won so easily. And, above all, when
your mother's reputation, and your own stained name, may be
cleared by one word, breathed aloud, would you fail to utter it?
No, dear Luke, I read your heart; you would not."

" And if I could not forego this, wherefore is it that you re-
fuse to be a sharer in my triumph ? Why will you render my
honours valueless when I have acquired them? You love me
not."

"Not love you, Luke?"

" Approve it, then."

" I do approve it. Bear witness the sacrifice I am about to
make of all my hopes, at the shrine of my idolatry to you. Bear
witness the agony of this hour. Bear witness the horror of the
avowal, that I never can be yours. As Luke Bradley, I would
joyfully — oh, how joyfully! — have been your bride. As Sir
Luke Rookwood" — and she shuddered as she pronounced the
name — " I never can be so."

" Then, by Heaven ! Luke Bradley will I remain. But where-
fore— wherefore not as Sir Luke Rookwood?"

" Because," replied Sybil, with reluctance — " because I am no
longer your equal. The gipsy's low-born daughter is no mate for
Sir Luke Rookwood. Love cannot blind me, dear Luke. It
cannot make me other than I am ; it cannot exalt me in my own
esteem, nor in that of the world, with which you, alas ! too soon
will mingle, and which will regard even me as — no matter what !
— it shall not scorn me as your bride. I will not bring shame
and reproach upon you. Oh! if for me, dear Luke, the proud
ones of the earth were to treat you with contumely, this heart
would break with agony. For myself, I have pride sufficient —
perchance too much. Perchance 'tis pride that actuates me now.
I know not. But for you I am all weakness. As you were
heretofore, I would have been to you the tenderest and truest wife
that ever breathed ; as you are now "

" Hear me, Sybil."

H Hear me out, dear Luke. One other motive there is that

EOOKWOOD. 149

determines my present conduct, which, were all else surmounted,
would in itself suffice. Ask me not what that is. I cannot explain
it. For your own sake, I implore you, be satisfied with my re-
fusal."

" What a destiny is mine !" exclaimed Luke, striking his fore-
head with his clenched hand. " No choice is left me. Either
way I destroy my own happiness. On the one hand stands love
— on the other ambition; yet neither will conjoin."

u Pursue, then, ambition," said Sybil, energetically, " if you
can hesitate. Forget that I have ever existed ; forget you have
ever loved ; forget that such a passion dwells within the human
heart, and you may still be happy, though you are great."

u And do you deem," replied Luke, with frantic impatience,
" that I can accomplish this; that I can forget that I have loved
you; that I can forget you? Cost what it will, the effort shall
be made. Yet by our former love, I charge you tell me what has
wrought this change in you? Why do you now refuse me?"

" 1 have said you are Sir Luke Rookwood," returned Sybil,
with painful emotion. " Does that name import nothing?"

"Imports it aught of ill?"

"To me, everything of ill. It is a fated house. Its line ara
all predestined."

"To what?" demanded Luke.

" To murder /" replied Sybil, with solemn emphasis. " To the
murder of their wives. Forgive me, Luke, if I have dared to
utter this. Yourself compelled me to it."

Amazement, horror, Avrath, kept Luke silent for a few mo-
ments. Starting to his feet, lie cried :

" And can you suspect me of a crime so foul ? Think you,
because I shall assume the name, that I shall put on the nature
likewise of my race? Do you believe me capable of aught so
horrible?"

" Oh, no, I believe it not. I am sure you would not do it.
Your soul would reject with horror such a deed. But if Fate
should guide your hand, if the avenging spirit of your murdered
ancestress should point to the steel, you could not shun it then."

u In Heaven's name! to what do you allude?"

u To a tradition of your house," replied Sybil. u Listen to
me, and you shall hear the legend." And with a pathos that
produced a thrilling effect upon Luke, she sang the following
ballad:

THE LEGEND OF THE LADY OF ROOKWOOD.

Grim Ranulph home hath at midnight come, from the long wars of the Roses,
And the sqnire, who waits at his ancient gates, a secret dark discloses ;
To that varlet's words no response accords his lord, but his visage stern
Grows ghastly white in the wan moonlight, and his eyes like the lean wolf's burn.

150 KOOKYVOOD.

Tc his lady's bower, at that lonesome hour, unannounced, is Sir Ranulph gone;
Through the dim corridor, through, the hidden door, he glides— she is all alone !
Full of holy zeal doth his young dame kneel at the meek Madonna's feet,
Her hands are pressed on her gentle breast, and upturned is her aspect sweet.

Beats Eanulph's heart with a joyful start, as he looks on her guiltless face;
And the raging fire of his jealous ire is subdued by the words of grace ;
His own name shares her murmured prayers — more freely can he breathe ;
But 2 a ! that look ! Why doth he pluck his poniard from its sheath ?

On fi footstool thrown lies a costly gown of saye and of minevere

(A mantle fair for the dainty wear of a migniard cavalier),

Ani on it flung, to a bracelet hung, a picture meets his eye ;

"Joy my father's head !" grim Ranulph. said, "false wife, thy end draws nigh."

From off its chain hath the fierce knight ta'en that fond and fatal pledge ;
His dark eyes blaze, no word he says, thrice gleams his dagger's edge, !
Her blood it drinks, and, as she sinks, his victim hears his cry,
" lor kiss impure of paramour, adult'ress, dost thou die !"

Silent he stood, with hands embrued in gore, and glance of flame,
As thus her plaint, in accents faint, made his ill-fated dame :
e* Kind Heaven can tell, that all too well, I've loved thee, cruel lord ;
But now with hate commensurate, assassin, thou'rt abhorred.

" I've loved thee long, through doubt and wrong ; I've loved thee and no other ;
And my love was pure for my paramour, for alas ! he was my brother !
The Red, Red Rose, on thy banner glows, on his pennon gleams the White,
And the bitter feud, that ye both have rued, forbids ye to unite.

"My bower ho sought, what time he thought thy jealous vassals slept,
Of joy we dreamed, and never deemed that watch those vassals kept ;
An hour flew by, too speedily ! — that picture was his boon :
Ah ! little thrift to me that gift : he left me all too soon !

"Wo worth the hour ! dark fates did lower, when our hands were first united,
For my heart's firm truth, 'mid tears and ruth, with death hast thou requited :
In prayer sincere, full many a year of my wretched life I've spent ;
But to hell's control would I give my soul to work thy chastisement !"

These wild words said, low drooped her head, and Ranulph's life-blood froze,
For the earth did gape, as an awful shape from out its depths arose :
" Thy prayer is heard, Hell hath concurred," cried the fiend, " thy soul is mine !
Like fate may dread each dame shall wed with Ranulph or his line !"

Within the tomb to await her doom is that hapless lady sleeping,
And another bride by Ranulph's side through the livelong night is weeping.
This dame declines — a third repines, and fades, like the rest, away ;
Her lot she rues, whom a Rookwood woos — cursed is her Wedding Day !

a And this is the legend of my ancestress ?•" said Luke, as Sybil's
strains were ended.

u It is," replied she.

" An idle tale," observed Luke, moodily.

" Not so," answered Sybil. " Has not the curse of blood clung
to all your line? Has it not attached to your father — to Sir
Reginald — Sir Ralph — Sir Ranulph — to all ? Which of them
has escaped it? And when I tell you this, dear Luke; when I

ROOK WOOD, 151

find you bear the name of this accursed race, can you wonder if I
shudder at adding to the list of the victims of that ruthless spirit,
and that I tremble for you? I would die for you willingly — but
not by your hand. I would not that my blood, which I would
now pour out for you as freely as water, should rise up in judg-
ment against you. For myself I have no fears — for you, a thou-
sand. My mother, upon her death-bed, told me I should never be
yours. I believed her not, for I was happy then. She said that
we never should be united ; or, if united "

" What, in Heaven's name?"

u That you would be my destroyer. How could I credit her
words then? How can I doubt them now, when I find you are
a Rookwood? And think not, dear Luke, that I am ruled by
selfish fears in this resolution. To renounce you may cost me my
life; but the deed will be my own. You may call me super-
stitious, credulous : I have been nurtured in credulity. It is the
faith of my fathers. There are those, methinks, who have an in-
sight into futurity; and such boding words have been spoken,
that, be they true or false, I will not risk their fulfilment in my
person. I may be credulous; I may be weak; I may be erring;
but I am steadfast in this. Bid me perish at your feet, and I will
do it. I will not be your Fate. I will not be the wretched in-
strument of your perdition. I will love, worship, watch, serve,
perish for you — but I will not wed you."

Exhausted by the vehemence of her emotion, she would have
sunk upon the ground, had not Luke caught her in his arms.
Pressing her to his bosom, he renewed his passionate protestations.
Every argument was unavailing. Sybil appeared inflexible.

" You love me as you have ever loved me?" said she, at length.

"A thousand-fold more fervently," replied Luke; "put it to
the test."

"How if I dared to do so? Consider well: I may ask too
much."

" Name it. If it be not to surrender you, by my mother's body
I will obey you."

" I would propose an oath."

"Ha!"

' A solemn, binding oath, that, if you wed me not, you will
not wed another. Ha ! do you start? Have I appalled you?;'

" I start? I will take it. Hear me— by "

• Hold!" exclaimed a voice behind them. " Do not forswear
yourself." And immediately afterwards the sexton made his
appearance. There was a malignant smile upon his countenance.
The lovers started at the ominous interruption.

" Begone !" cried Luke.

" Take not that oath," said Peter, " and I leave you. Remem-
ber the counsel I gave you on our way hither."

152 ROOKWOOD.

" What counsel did he give you, Luke?" inquired Sybil,
eagerly, of her lover.

" We spoke of you, fond girl," replied Peter. " I cautioned
him against the match. I knew not your sentiments, or I had
spared myself the trouble. You have judged wisely. Were he
to wed you, ill would come of it. But he must wed another."

" Must !" cried Sybil, her eyes absolutely emitting sparkles of
indignation from their night-like depths; and, unsheathing as she
spoke the short poniard which she wore at her girdle, she rushed
towards Peter, raising her hand to strike.

" Must wed another ! And dare you counsel this?"

u Put up your dagger, fair maiden," said Peter, calmly. " Had
I been younger, your eyes might have had more terrors for me
than your weapon; as it is, I am proof against both. You would
not strike an old man like myself, and of your lover's kin?"

Sybil's uplifted hand fell to her side.

" 'Tis true," continued the sexton, " I dared to give him this
advice; and when you have heard me out, you will not, I am
persuaded, think me so unreasonable as, at first, I may appear to
be. I have been an unseen listener to your converse; not that I
desire to pry into your secrets — far from it; I overheard you by
accident. I applaud your resolution; but if you are inclined to
sacrifice all for your lover's weal, do not let the work be incom-
plete. Bind him not by oaths which he will regard as spiders'
webs, to be burst through at pleasure. You see, as well as I do,
that he is bent on being lord of Rookwood ; and, in truth, to an
aspiring mind, such a desire is natural, is praiseworthy. It will be
pleasant, as well as honourable, to efface the stain cast upon his
birth. It will be an act of filial duty in him to restore his mother's
good name ; and I, her father, laud his anxiety on that score ;
though, to speak truth, fair maid, I am not so rigid as your nice
moralists in my view of human nature, and can allow a latitude
to love which their nicer scruples will not admit. It will be a
proud thing to triumph over his implacable foe; and this he may
accomplish "

" Without marriage," interrupted Sybil, angrily.
" True," returned Peter; " yet not maintain it. May win it,
but not wear it. You have said truly, the house of Rookwood is
a lilted house; and it hath been said likewise, that if he wed not
one of his own kindred — that if Rook mate not with Rook, his
possessions shall pass away from his hands. Listen to this pro-
phetic quatrain:

OTfjen t&e stray Hloou sljall pcrcj) on tfte topmost i)ouc$,

W)m sjjall be clamour anct screening, 1 trotu ;

23ut of ricrJjt to, anU rule of tlje ancient nest,

^6e Hook tjjat foit!) Hook mates sjjall jjolct Ijiux possest.

ROOKWOOD. 153

You hear what these quaint rhymes say. Luke is, doubtless, the
stray rook, and a fledgling hath flown hither from a distant coun
try. lie must take her to his mate, or relinquish her and 'the
aneient nest' to his brother. For my own part, I disregard such
sayings. I have little faith in prophecy and divination. I know
not what Eleanor Mowbray, for so she is called, can have to do
with the tenure of the estates of Rookwood. But if Luke Rook-
wood, after he has lorded it for awhile in splendour, be cast forth
again in rags and wretchedness, let him not blame his grandsire
for his own want of caution."

"Luke, I implore you, tell me," said Sybil, who had listened,
horror-stricken, to the sexton, shuddering, as it were, beneath the
chilly influence of his malevolent glance, "is this true? Docs
your fate depend upon Eleanor Mowbray? Who is she? What
has she to do with Rookwood? Have you seen her? Do you
love her?"

" I have never seen her," replied Luke.

" Thank Heaven for that!" cried Sybil. " Then you love her
not?"

" How were that possible?" returned Luke. " Do I not say 1
have not seen her?"
"Who is she, then?"

" This old man tells me she is my cousin. She is betrothed to
my brother Ranulph."

" How?" ejaculated Sybil. "And would you snatch his be-
trothed from your brother's arms? Would you do him this
grievous wrong? Is it not enough that you must wrest from him
that which he has long deemed his own? And if he has falsely
deemed it so, it will not make his loss the less bitter. If you do
thus wrong your brother, do not look for happiness; do not look
for respect; for neither will be your portion. Even this stony-
hearted old man shrinks aghast at such a deed. His snake-like
eves are buried on the ground. See, I have moved even him"
And in truth Peter did appear, for an instant, strangely moved.
" 'Tis nothing," returned he, mastering his emotion by a strong
effort. "What is all this to me? I never had a brother. I
never had aught — wife, child, or relative, that loved me. And I
love not the world, nor the things of the world, nor those that in-
habit the world. But I know what sways the world and its inha-
bitants; and that is, self ! and self-interest ! Let Luke re-
flect on this. The key to Rookwood is Eleanor Mowbray. The
hand that grasps hers, grasps those lands: thus saith the pro-
phecy."

" It is a lying prophecy."

" It was uttered by one of your race."

"By whom?"

" By Barbara Lovel," said Peter, with a sneer of triumph.

154 ROOKWOOD.

"Ha!"

" Heed him not," exclaimed Luke, as Sybil recoiled at this in-
telligence. " I am yours."

" Not mine ! not mine !" shrieked she; " but, oh ! not hers ."'

" Whither go you?" cried Luke, as Sybil, half bewildered, tore
herself from him.

" To Barbara Lovel."

" I will go with you."

" No ! let me go alone. I have much to ask her; yet tarry not
with this old man, dear Luke, or close your ears to his crafty talk.
Avoid him. Oh, I am sick at heart. Follow me not; I implore
you, follow me not."

And with distracted air she darted amongst the mouldering
cloisters, leaving Luke stupified with anguish and surprise. The
sexton maintained a stern and stoical composure.

" She is a woman, after all," muttered he; "all her high-flown
resolves melt like snow in the sunshine at the thought of a rival.
I congratulate you, grandson Luke ; you are free from your
fetters."

" Free !" echoed Luke. " Quit my sight; I loathe to look upon
you. You have broken the truest heart that ever beat in woman's
bosom."

u Tut, tut," returned Peter ; " it is not broken yet. Wait till
we hear what old Barbara has got to say; and, meanwhile, we
must arrange with Dick Turpin the price of that certificate. The
knave knows its value well. Come, be a man. This is worse
than womanish."

And at length he succeeded, half by force and half by persua-
sion, in dragging Luke away with him.

CHAPTER IV.

BARBARA LOVEL.

Los Gitanos son encantadores, adivinos, magos, chyromanticos, que diceii por
las ray as de las manos lo Future, que ellos llamau Buenaventura, y gencralmentc
son dados a toda supersticion. Doctor Sanciio de Moncada.

Discurso sobre Espulsioti de los Gitanos.

Like a dove escaped from the talons of the falcon, Sybil iled
from the clutches of the sexton. Her brain was in a whirl, her
blood on fire. She had no distinct perception of external objects;
no definite notion of what she herself was about to do, and glided
more like a flitting spirit than a living woman along the ruined
ambulatory. Her hair had fallen in disorder over her face. She

EOOKWOOD. 155

stayed not to adjust it, but tossed aside the blinding locks with
frantic impatience. She felt as one may feel who tries to strain
his nerves, shattered by illness, to the endurance of some dreadful,
yet necessary pain.

Sybil loved her granddame, old Barbara; but it was with a
love tempered by fear. Barbara was not a person to inspire esteem
or to claim affection. She Avas regarded by the wild tribe which
she ruled as their queen-elect, with some such feeling of inex-
plicable awe as is entertained by the African slave for the Obeali
woman. They acknowledged her power, unhesitatingly obeyed
her commands, and shrank with terror from her anathema, which
was indeed seldom pronounced; but when uttered, was considered
as doom. Her tribe she looked upon as her flock, and stretched
her maternal hand over all, ready alike to cherish or chastise ; and
having already survived a generation, that which succeeded, having
from infancy imbibed a superstitious veneration for the " cunning
woman," as she was called, the sentiment could never be wdiolly
effaced.

Winding her way, she knew not how, through roofless halls, over
disjointed fragments of fallen pillars, Sybil reached a flight of
.steps. A door, studded with iron nails, stayed her progress; it
was an old strong oaken frame, surmounted by a Gothic arch, in
the keystone of which leered one of those grotesque demoniacal
faces with which the fathers of the church delighted to adorn their
shrines. Sybil looked up — her glance encountered the fantastical
visage. It recalled the features of the sexton, and seemed to mock
her — to revile her. Her fortitude at once deserted her. Her
fingers were upon the handle of the door. She hesitated: she
even drew back, with the intention of departing, for she felt then
that she dared not face Barbara. It was too late — she had moved
the handle. A deep voice from within called to her by name.
She dared not disobey that call — she entered.

The room in which Sybil found herself was the only entire
apartment now existing in the priory. It had survived the ravages
oi time; it had escaped the devastation of man, whose ravages
outstrip those of time. Octagonal, lofty, yet narrow, you saw at
once that it formed the interior of a turret. It was lighted by a
small oriel window, commanding a lovely view of the scenery
around, and paneled with oak, richly wrought in ribs and groins ;
and from overhead depended a moulded ceiling of honeycomb
plaster-work. This room had something, even now, in the days
of its desecration, of monastic beauty about it. Where the odour
of sanctity had breathed forth, the fumes of idolatry prevailed;
but imagination, ever on the wing, flew back to that period (and a
tradition to that effect warranted the supposition) when, perchance,
it had been die sanctuary and the privacy of the prior's self.

Wrapped in a cloak composed of the skins of various animals,
upon a low pallet, covered with stained scarlet cloth, sat Barbara.

15G EOOKWOOD.

Around her head was coifFed, in folds like those of an Asiatic
turban, a rich, though faded shawl, and her waist was encircled
with the magic zodiacal zone — proper to the sorceress — the Mago
Cineo of the Cingara (whence the name Zingaro, according to
Moncada), which Barbara had brought from Spain. From her
ears depended long golden drops, of curious antique fashioning ;
and upon her withered fingers, which looked like a coil of lizards,
were hooped a multitude of silver rings, of the purest and simplest
manufacture. They seemed almost of massive unwrought metal.
Her skin was yellow as the body of a toad; corrugated as its back.
She might have been steeped in saffron from her finger tips, the
nails of which were of the same hue, to such portions of her neck.
as were visible, and which was puckered up like the throat of a
turtle. To look at her, one might have thought the embalmer had
experimented her art upon herself. So dead, so bloodless, so
blackened seemed the flesh, where flesh remained, leather could
scarce be tougher than her skin. She seemed like an animated
mummy. A frame, so tanned, appeared calculated to endure for
ages; and, perhaps, might have done so. But, alas ! the soul can-
not be embalmed. No oil can re-illumine that precious lamp !
And that Barbara's vital spark was fast waning, was evident, from
her heavy, bloodshot eyes, once of a swimming black, and lengthy
as a witch's, which were now sinister and sunken.

The atmosphere of the room was as strongly impregnated as a
museum with volatile odours, emitted from the stores of drugs
with which the shelves were loaded, as well as from various stuffed
specimens of birds and wild animals. Barbara's only living com-
panion was a monstrous owl, which, perched over the old gipsy's
head, hissed a token of recognition as Sybil advanced. From a
hook, placed in the plaster roof, was suspended a globe of crystal
glass, about the size and shape of a large gourd, filled with a pure
pellucid liquid, in which a small snake, the Egyptian aspic, de-
scribed perpetual gyrations.

Dim were the eyes of Barbara, yet not altogether sightless. The
troubled demeanour of her grandchild struck her as she entered.
She felt the hot drops upon her hand as Sybil stooped to kiss it;
she heard her vainly-stifled sobs.

" What ails you, child?" said Barbara, in a voice that rattled in
her throat, and hollow as the articulation of a phantom. " Have
you heard tidings of Luke Bradley? Has any ill befallen him?
I said you would either hear of him or see him this morning. He
is not returned, I see. What have you heard?"

" He is returned," replied Sybil, faintly ; " and no ill hath hap-
pened to him."

" He is returned, and you are here," echoed Barbara. " No ill
hath happened to him, thou sayest — am I to understand there is

to ?jou?"

Sybil answered not. She could not answer.

KOOKTVOOD. 157

" I see, I see," said Barbara, more gently, her head and hand
shaking with paralytic affection: "a quarrel, a lovers' quarrel.
Old as I am, I have not forgotten my feelings as a girl. What
woman ever does, if she be woman ? and you, like your poor
mother, are a true-hearted wench. She loved her husband, as a
husband should be loved, Sybil; and though she loved me well,
she loved him better, as was right. Ah ! it was a bitter day when
she left me for Spain; for though, to one of our wandering race,
all countries are alike, yet the soil of our birth is dear to us, and
the presence of our kindred dearer. Well, well, I will not think
of that. She is gone. Nay, take it not so to heart, wench. Luke
has a hasty temper. 'Tis not the first time I have told you so.
He will not bear rebuke, and you have questioned him too shrewdly
touching his absence. Is it not so? Heed it not. Trust me, you
will have him seek your forgiveness ere the shadows shorten 'neath
the noontide sun."

"Alas! alas!" said Sybil, sadly, "this is no lovers' quarrel,
which may, at once, be forgotten and forgiven — would it were
so !"

" What is it, then?" asked Barbara; and without waiting Sybil's
answer, she continued, with vehemence, "has he wronged you?
Tell me, girl, in what way? Speak, that I may avenge you, if
your wrong requires revenge. Are you blood of mine, and think
I will not do this for you, girl? None of the blood of Barbara
Lovel were ever unrcvenged. When Richard Cooper stabbed my
first-born, Francis, he fled to Flanders to escape my wrath. But
he did not escape it. I pursued him thither. I hunted him out;
drove him back to his own country, and brought him to the gal-
lows. It took a power of gold. AVhat matter? Revenue is
dearer than gold. And as it was with Richard Cooper, so it shall
be with Luke Bradley. I wTill catch him, though he run. I will
trip him, though he leap. I will reach him, though he flee afar.
I will drag him hither by the hair of his head," added she, with a
. livid smile, and clutching at the air with her hands, as if in the
act of pulling some one towards her. " He shall wed you within
the hour, if you will have it, or if your honour need that it should
be so. My power is not departed from me. My people are yet
at my command. I am still their queen, and woe to him that
offendeth me !"

" Mother ! mother \" cried Sybil, affrighted at the storm she had
unwittingly aroused, "he has not injured me. 'Tis I alone who
am to blame, not Luke."

" You speak in mysteries," said Barbara.

" Sir Piers Rookwood is dead."

"Dead!" echoed Barbara, letting fall her hazel rod. " Sir
Piers dead !"'

" And Luke Bradley ;'

"Ha!"

158 ROOKWOOD.

u Is his successor."

"Who told you that?" asked Barbara, with increased astonish-
ment.

" Luke himself. All is disclosed." And Sybil hastily recounted
Luke's adventures. u He is now Sir Luke Rookwood."

"This is news, in truth," said Barbara; "yet not news to weep
for. You should rejoice, not lament. Well, well, I foresaw it. I
shall live to see all accomplished; to see my Agatha's child en-
nobled; to see her wedded; ay, to see her well wedded."

"Dearest mother!"

" I can endow you, and I will do it. You shall bring your hus-
band not alone beauty, you shall bring him wealth."

" But, mother— — " '

" My Agatha's daughter shall be Lady Rookwood."

" Never ! It cannot be."

" What cannot be ?"

" The match you now propose."

"What mean you, silly wench? Ha ! I perceive the meaning
of those tears. The truth flashes upon me. He has discarded
you."

" No, by the Heaven of Heavens, he is still the same — unaltered
in affection."

" If so, your tears are out of place."

" Mother, it is not fitting that I, a gipsy born, should wed with
him."

" Not fitting ! Ha ! and you my child ! Not fitting ! Get up,
or I will spurn you. Not fitting ! This from you to me ! I tell
you it is fitting; you shall have a dower as ample as that of any
lady in the land. Not fitting ! Do you say so, because you think
that he derives himself from a proud and ancient line — ancient and
proud — ha, ha ! I tell you, girl, that for his one ancestor I can
number twenty; for the years in which his lineage hath flourished,
my race can boast centuries, and was a people — a kingdom ! — ere
the land in which he dwells was known. What! if, by the curse»
of Heaven, we were driven forth, the curse of hell rests upon his
house."

" I know it," said Sybil; " a dreadful curse, which, if I wed him,
will alight on me."

" No ; not on you ; you shall avoid that curse. I know a means
to satisfy the avenger. Leave that to me."

" I dare not, as it never can be; yet, tell me — you saw the body
of Luke's ill-fated mother. Was she poisoned? Nay, you may
speak. Sir Piers's death releases you from your oath. How died
she?"

"By strangulation," said the old gipsy, raising her palsied hand
to her throat.

" Oh !" cried Sybil, gasping with horror. " Was there a ring
upon her finger when you embalmed the body?"

ROOKWOOD. 159

" A ring — a weddin^-rin^ ! TJic finder was crookencd. Listen,
girl. I could have told Luke the secret of his birth lom>- airo, but
the oath imposed by Sir Piers sealed fast my lips. His mother
was wedded to Sir Piers; his mother was murdered by Sir Piers.
Luke was entrusted to my care by his father. I have brought him
up with you. I have affianced you together; and I shall live to
see you united. He is now Sir Luke. He is your husband."

u Do not deceive yourself, mother," said Sybil, with a fearful
earnestness. " He is not yet Sir Piers Rookwood; would he had
no claim to be so ! The fortune that has hitherto been so propi-
tious may yet desert him. Bethink you of a prophecy you
uttered."

" A prophecy ? Ha !"

And with slow enunciation Sybil pronounced the mystic words
which she had heard repeated by the sexton.

As she spoke, a gloom, like that of a thunder-cloud, began to
gather over the brow of the old gipsy. The orbs of her sunken
eyes expanded, and wrath supplied her frame with vigour. She
arose.

"Who told you that?" cried Barbara.

" Luke's grandsire, Peter Bradley."

"How learnt he it?" said Barbara. "It was to one who hath
long been in his grave I told it; so long ago, it had passed from
my memory. 'Tis strange ! old Sir Reginald had a brother, I
know. But there is no other of the house."

" There is a cousin, EleaiiQr Mowbray."

" Ha ! I see ; a daughter of that Eleanor Rookwood who lied
from her father's roof. Fool, fool. Am I caught in my own
toils? Those words were words of truth and power, and compel
the future and c the will be ' as with chains of brass. They must
be fulfilled, yet not by Ranulph. Pie shall never wed Eleanor.

"Whom then shall she wed?"

" His elder brother."

"Mother!" shrieked Sybil. "Do you say so? Oh! recal your
words."

" I may not; it is spoken. Luke shall wed her."

" Oh God, support me !" exclaimed Sybil.

■' Silly wench, be firm. It must be as I say. He shall wed her
—yet shall he wed her not. The nuptial torch shall be quenched
as soon as lighted; the curse of the avenger shall fall — yet not on
thee." ° J

" Mother," said Sybil, "if sin must fall upon some innocent head,
let it be on mine — not upon hers. I love him. I would gladly
die lor him. She is young — unoffending — perhaps happy. Oh !
do not let her perish."

m "Peace, I say !" cried Barbara, "and mark me. This is your
birthday.^ Eighteen summers have flown over }Tour young head —
eighty winters have sown their snows on mine. You have yet to

160 ROOKWOOD.

learn. Years have brought wrinkles — they have brought wisdom
likewise. To struggle with Fate, I tell you, is to wrestle with
Omnipotence. We may foresee, but not avert our destiny. What *
will be, shall be. This is your eighteenth birthday, Sybil : it is a
day of fate to you; in it occurs your planetary hour — an hour of
good or ill, according to your actions. I have cast your horoscope.
I have watched your natal star; it is under the baleful influence
of Scorpion, and fiery Saturn sheds his lurid glance upon it. Let
me see your hand. The line of life is drawn out distinct and clear
— it runs — ha! what means that intersection? Beware — beware,
my Sybil. Act as I tell you, and you are safe. I will make an-
other trial, by the crystal bowl. Attend."

Muttering some strange words, sounding like a spell, Barbara,
with the bifurcate hazel staff which she used as a divining-rod,
described a circle upon the floor. Within this circle she drew
other lines, from angle to angle, forming seven triangles, the basis
of which constituted the sides of a septilateral figure. This figure
she studied intently for a few moments. She then raised her wand
and touched the owl with it. The bird unfolded its wings, and
arose in flight; then slowly circled round the pendulous globe.
Each time it drew nearer, until at length it touched the <*lassv
bowl with its flapping pinions.

"Enough!" ejaculated Barbara. And at another motion from
her rod the bird stayed its flight and returned to its perch.

Barbara arose. She struck the globe with her staff. The pure
lymph became instantly tinged with crimson, as if blood had been
commingled with it. The little serpent could be seen within,
coiled up and knotted, as in the struggles of death.

"Again I say, beware!" ejaculated Barbara, solemnly. "This
is ominous of ill."

Sybil had sunk, from faintness, on the pallet. A knock was
heard at the door.

" Who is without?" cried Barbara.

" 'Tis I, Balthazar," replied a voice.

"Thou mayest enter," answered Barbara; and an old man
with a lono: beard, white as snow, reaching to his girdle, and a
costume which might be said to resemble the raiment of a Jew-
ish high priest, made his appearance. This venerable personage
was no other than the patrico, or hierophant of the Canting
Crew.

" I come to tell you that there are strangers — ladies — within the
priory," said the patrico, gravely. " I have searched for you in
vain," continued he, addressing Sybil; "the younger of them
seems to need your assistance."

" Whence come they?" exclaimed Barbara.

" They have ridden, I understand, from Rookwood," answered
the patrico. " They were on their way to Davenham, when they
were prevented."

•jj^jtlSu^W^

'aJawfaz/JZc-

ROOKWOOD. 161

" From Rookwood?" echoed Sybil. " Their names — did you
hear their names?"

"Mowbray is the name of both; they are a mother and a
daughter; the younger is called "

" Eleanor?" asked Sybil, -with an acute foreboding of cala-
mity.

" Eleanor is the name, assuredly," replied the patrico, somewhat
surprised. " I heard the elder, whom I guess to be her mother, so
address her."

" Gracious God! She here!" exclaimed Sybil.

" Here ! Eleanor Mowbray here," cried Barbara; "within my
power. Not a moment is to be lost. Balthazar, hasten round the
tents — not a man must leave his place — above all, Luke Bradley.
See that these Mowbrays are detained within the abbey. Let the
bell be sounded. Quick, quick; leave this wench to me; she is
not well. I have much to do. Away wTith thee, man, and let me
know when thou hast done it." And as Balthazar departed on his
mission, with a glance of triumph in her eyes, Barbara exclaimed,
" Soh, no sooner hath the thought possessed me, than the means of
accomplishment appear. It shall be done at once. I will tie the
knot. I will untie, and then retie it. This weak wench must be
nerved to the task," added she, regarding the senseless form of
Sybil. " Here is that will stimulate her," opening the cupboard,
and taking a small phial; "this will fortify her; and this," con-
tinued she, with a ghastly smile, laying her hand upon another
vessel, "this shall remove her rival when all is fulfilled; this
liquid shall constrain her lover to be her titled, landed husband.
Ha, ha !"

162 ROOK WOOD.

CHAPTER V.

THE INAUGURATION.

Beggar. Concert, sir ! we have musicians, too, among us. True, merry
beggars, indeed, that, being within the reach of the lash for singing libellous
songs at London, were fain to fly into one cover, and here they sing all our
poets' ditties. They can sing anything, most tuneably, sir, but psalms. What
they may do hereafter, under a triple tree, is much expected; but they live
very civilly and genteelly among us.

Spring. But what is here — that solemn old fellow, that neither speaks of
himself, or any for him ?

Beggar. O, sir, the rarest man of all : he is a prophet. See how he holds up
his prognosticating nose. He is divining now.

Spring. How, a prophet ?

Beggar. Yes, sir ; a cunning man, and a fortune-teller ; a very ancient stroller
all the' world over, and has travelled with gipsies : and is a patrico.

Tlie Merry Beggars.

In consequence of some few words which the sexton let fall, in
the presence of the attendants, during breakfast, more perhaps by
design than accident, it was speedily rumoured throughout the
camp that the redoubted Richard Turpin was for the time 'its
inmate. This intelligence produced some such sensation as is ex-
perienced by the inhabitants of a petty town on the sudden arrival
of a prince of the blood, a commander-in-chief, or other illustrious
and distinguished personage, whose fame has been vaunted abroad
amongst his fellow-men by Rumour, "and her thousand tongues;"
and who, like our highwayman, has rendered himself sufficiently
notorious to be an object of admiration and emulation amongst
his contemporaries.

All started up at the news. The upright man, the chief of the
crew, arose from his chair, donned his gown of state, a very
ancient brocade dressing-gown, filched, most probably, from the
wardrobe of some strolling player, grasped his baton of office, a
stout oaken truncheon, and sallied forth. The ruffler, who found
his representative in a very magnificently equipped, and by no
means ill-favoured knave, whose chin was decorated with a beard
as lengthy and as black as Sultan Mahmoud's, together with the
dexterous hooker, issued forth from the hovel which they termed
their boozing ken, eager to catch a glimpse of the prince of the
high-tobygloaks. The limping palliard tore the bandages from
his mock wounds, shouldered his crutch, and trudged hastily after
them. The whip-jack unbuckled his strap, threw away his timber
leg, and " leapt exulting, like the bounding roe." " With such a
sail in sight," he said, & he must heave to, like the rest." The
dummerar, whose tongue had been cut out by the Algerines, sud-

EOOKWOOD. 163

denly found the use of it, and made the welkin ring with his
shouts. Wonderful were the miracles Dick's advent wrought.
The lame became suddenly active, the blind saw, the dumb
spoke; nay, if truth must be told, absolutely gave utterance to
" most vernacular execrations." Morts, autem morts, walking
morts, dells, doxies, kindling morts, and their coes, with all the
shades and grades of the Canting Crew, were assembled. There
were, to use the words of Brome —

Stark, errant, downright beggars. Ay,

Without equivocation, statute beggars,

Couchant and passant, guardant, rampant beggars ;

Current and vagrant, stockant, whippant beggars !*

Each sunburnt varlet started from his shed; each dusky dame,
with her brown, half-naked urchins, followed at his heels; each
" ripe young maiden, with the glossy eye," lingered but to sleek
her raven tresses, and to arrange her straw bonnet, and then over-
took the others; each wrinkled beldame hobbled as quickly after
as her stiffened joints would permit; while the ancient patrico, the
priest of the crew (who joined the couples together by the hedge-
side, u with the nice custom of dead horse between"f), brought up
the rear; all bent on one grand object, that of having a peep at
the u foremost man of all this prigging world !"

Dick Turpin, at the period of which we treat, was in the zenith
of his reputation. His deeds were full blown; his exploits were
in every man's mouth ; and a heavy price was set upon his head.
That he should show himself thus openly, where he might be so
easily betrayed, excited no little surprise among the craftiest of
the crew, and augured an excess of temerity on his part. Rash
daring was the main feature of Turpin's character. Like our
great Nelson, he knew fear only by name; and when he thus
trusted himself in the hands of strangers, confident in himself and
in his own resources, he felt perfectly easy as to the result. He
relied also in the continuance of his good fortune, which had as yet
never deserted him. Possessed of the belief that his hour was not
yet come, he cared little or nothing for any risk he might incur;
and though he might, undoubtedly, have some presentiment of the
probable termination of his career, he never suffered it to militate
against his present enjoyment, which proved that he was no despi-
cable philosopher.

Turpin was the ultimus Romanorum, the last of a race, which
(we were almost about to say we regret) is now altogether ex-

* The Merry Beggars.

| The parties to be wedded find out a dead horse, or any other beast, and
standing one on the one side, and the other on the other, the patrico bids them
live together till death do them part; and so shaking hands, the wedding dinner
is kepi at the next aleJioase they stumble into, where the union is nothing but
knocking of Cannes, and the sauce, none but drunken brawles. — Dekkie.

M 2

164 ROOKWOOD.

tinct. Several successors lie had, it is true, but no name worthy
to be recorded after his own. With him expired the chivalrous
spirit which animated successively the bosoms of so many knights
of the road; with him died away that passionate love of enter-
prise, that high spirit of devotion to the fair sex, which was first
breathed upon the highway by the gay, gallant Claude Du-Val,
the Bayard of the road — Le filou sans peur et sans reprocke — but
which was extinguished at last by the cord that tied the heroic
Turpin to the remorseless tree. It were a subject well worthy of
inquiry, to trace this decline and fall of the empire of the tobymen
to its remoter causes; to ascertain the why and the wherefore, that
with so many half-pay captains; so many poor curates; so many
lieutenants, of both services, without hopes of promotion; so many
penny-a-liners, and fashionable novelists ; so many damned drama-
tists, and damning critics; so many Edinburgh and Quarterly
Reviewers ; so many detrimental brothers, and younger sons ;
when there are horses to be hired, pistols to be borrowed, purses
to be taken, and mails are as plentiful as partridges — it were
worth serious investigation, we repeat, to ascertain why, with the
best material imaginable for a new race of highwaymen, we have
none, not even an amateur. Why do not some of these choice
spirits quit the salons of Pail-Mall, and take to the road ? the air
of the heath is more bracing and wholesome, we should conceive,
than that of any "hell" whatever, and the chances of success
incomparably greater. We throw out this hint, without a doubt
of seeing it followed up. Probably the solution of our inquiry
may be, that the supply is greater than the demand; that, in the
present state of things, embryo highwaymen may be more abun-
dant than purses; and then, have we not the horse-patrol? With
such an admirably-organised system of conservation, it is vain to
anticipate a change. The highwaymen, we fear, like their Irish
brothers, the Rapparees, went out with the Tories. They were
averse to reform, and eschewed emancipation.

Lest any one should think we have overrated the pleasures of
the highwayman's existence, they shall hear what " the right
villanous" Jack Hall, a celebrated tobyman of his day, has got
to say on the subject. " His life (the highwayman's) has, gene-
rally, the most mirth and the least care in it of any man's breath-
ing, and all he deals for is clear profit: he has that point of good
conscience, that lie always sells as he buys, a good pennyworth,
which is something rare, since he trades with so small a stock.
The fence* and he are like the devil and the doctor, they live by
one another; and, like traitors, 'tis best to keep each other's coun-
sel. He has this point of honesty, that he never robs the house
he frequents" (Turpin had the same scruples respecting the Hall
of Rookwood in Sir Piers's lifetime); " and perhaps pays his debts

* Receiver.

ROOKWOOD. 165

better than some others, for he holds it below the dignity of his
employment to commit so ungenteel a crime as insolvency, and
loves to pay nobly. He has another quality, not much amiss,
that he takes no more than he has occasion for" (Jack, we think,
was a little mistaken here); " which he verifies this way : he craves
no more while that lasts. He is a less nuisance in a common-
wealth than a miser, because the money he engrosses all circulates
again, which the other hoards as though 'twere only to be found
again at the day of judgment. He is the tithe-pig of his family,,
which the gallows, instead of the parson, claims as its due. lie
has reason enough to be bold in his undertakings, for, though all
the world threaten him, he stands in fear of but one man in it,
and that's the hangman; and with him, too, he is generally in
fee: however, I cannot affirm he is so valiant that he dares look
any man in the face, for in that point he is now and then a little
modest. Newgate may be said to be his country-house, where he
frequently lives so many months in the year; and he is not so
much concerned to be carried thither for a small matter, if 'twere
only for the benefit of renewing his acquaintance there. He holds
a petit larceny as light as a nun does auricular confession, though
the priest has a more compassionate character than the hangman.
Every man in this community is esteemed according to his par-
ticular quality, of which there are several degrees, though it is
contrary often to public government; for here a man shall be
valued purely for his merit, and rise by it too, though it be but to
a halter, in which there is a great deal of glory in dying like a
hero, and making a decent figure in the cart to the last two staves
of the fifty-first psalm."*

This, we repeat, is the plain statement of a practical man, and
again we throw out the hint for adoption. All we regret is, that
we are now degenerated from the grand tobyman to the cracksman
and the sneak, about whom there are no redeeming features. How
much lower the next generation of thieves will dive it boots not to
conjecture:

iEtas parentum pejor avis tulit,
Nos nequiores ; mox daturos,
Progeniem vitiosiorem.

" Cervantes laughed Spain's chivalry away," sang Byron ; and
if Gay did not extinguish the failing flame of our night errantry
(unlike the " Robbers" of Schiller, which is said to have inflamed
the Saxon youth with an irrepressible mania for brigandage), the
" Beggar's Opera" helped not to fan the dying fire. That laugh
was fatal, as laughs generally are. Macheath gave the highway-
man his coup de grace.

* Memoirs of the right villanous John Hall, the famous and notorious
Robber, penned from his Month some Time before his Death, 1708.

166 ROOKWOOD.

The last of this race (for we must persist in maintaining that he
was the last), Turpin, like the setting sun, threw up some parting
rays of glory, and tinged the far highways with a lustre that may
yet be traced like a cloud of dust raised by his horse's retreating
heels. Unequalled in the command of his steed, the most singular
feat that the whole race of the annals of horsemanship has to record,
and of which we may have more to say hereafter, was achieved by
him. So perfect was his jockey ship, so clever his management of
the animal he mounted, so intimately acquainted was he with every
cross-road in the neighbourhood of the metropolis (a book of which
he constructed, and carried constantly about his person), as well as
with many other parts of England, particularly the counties of
Chester, York, and Lancaster, that he outstripped every pursuer,
and baffled all attempts at capture. His reckless daring, his rest-
less rapidity (for so suddenly did he change his ground, and renew
his attacks in other quarters, that he seemed to be endowed with
ubiquity), his bravery, his resolution, and, above all, his generosity,
won for him a high reputation amongst his compatriots, and
even elicited applauses from those upon whom he levied his con-
tributions.

Beyond dispute, he ruled as master of the road. His hands were,
as yet, unstained with blood; he was ever prompt to check the dis-
position to outrage, and to prevent, as much as lay in his power, the
commission of violence by his associates. Of late, since he had
possessed himself of his favourite mare, Black Bess, his robberies
had been perpetrated with a suddenness of succession, and at dis-
tances so apparently impracticable, that the idea of all having been
executed by one man, was rejected as an impossibility; and the
only way of reconciling the description of the horse and rider,
which tallied in each instance, was the supposition that these attacks
were performed by confederates similarly mounted and similarly
accoutred.

There was, in all this, as much of the u fames sacra fames" as
of the "auri" of the hungering after distinction, as well as of
the appetite of gain. Enamoured of his vocation, Turpin delighted
to hear himself designated as the Flying Highwayman ; and it was
with rapturous triumph that he found his single-handed feats attri-
buted to a band of marauders. But this state of things could not
long endure; his secret was blown; the vigilance of the police
was aroused ; he was tracked to his haunts ; and, after a number of
hair-breadth 'scapes, which he only effected by miracle, or by the
aid of his wonder-working mare, he reluctantly quitted the heathy
hills of Bagshot, the Pampas plains of Hounslow (over which, like
an archetype of the galloping Sir Francis Head, he had so often
scoured), the gorsy commons of Highgate, Hampstead, and Finch-
ley, the marshy fields of Battersea, almost all of which he had been
known to visit in a single night, and leaving these beaten tracks
to the occupation of younger and less practised hands, he be-

EOOKWOOD. 167

queathcd to them, at the same time, his own reversionary in-
terest in the gibbets thereupon erected, and betook himself to the
country.

After a journey of more or less success, our adventurer found
himself at Rookwood, whither he had been invited after a grand
field-day by its hospitable and by no means inquisitive owner.
Breach of faith and good fellowship formed no part of Turpin's
character; he had his lights as well as his shades; and as long as
Sir Piers lived, his purse and coffers would have been free from
molestation, except " so far," Dick said, " as a cog or two of dice
went. My dice, you know, are longs for odd and even, a bale of
bar'd cinque deuces," a pattern of which he always carried with
him; beyond this, excepting a take-in at a steeple-chase, Rook-
wood church being the mark, a u do" at a leap, or some such trifle,
to which the most scrupulous could not raise an objection, Dick
was all fair and aboveboard. But when poor Sir Piers had u put
on his wooden surtout," to use Dick's own expressive metaphor,
his conscientious scruples evaporated into thin air. Lady Rook-
wood was nothing to him ; there was excellent booty to be appro-
priated—

The wise convey it call.

He began to look about for hands; and having accidentally en-
countered his old comrades, Rust and Wilder, they were let into
the business, which was imperfectly accomplished in the manner
heretofore described.

To return from this digression. When Turpin presented him-
self at the threshold of the door, on his way to inquire after his
mare, to his astonishment he found it closely invested. A cheer-
ing shout from the tawny throng, succeeded by a general clapping
of hands, and attended by a buzzing susurration of applause, such
as welcomes the entrance of a popular actor upon the stage, greeted
the appearance of the highwayman. At the first sight of the
crowd he was a little startled, and involuntarily sought for his
pistols. But the demonstrations of admiration were too unequi-
vocal to be for a moment mistaken; his hand was drawn from his
pocket to raise his hat from his brow.

Thunders of applause.

Turpin's external man, we have before said, was singularly pre-
possessing. It was especially so in the eyes of the sex (fair we cer-
tainly cannot say upon the present occasion), amongst whom not a
single dissentient voice was to he heard. All concurred in think-
ing him a fine fellow; could plainly read his high courage in his
bearing; his good breeding in his debonnaire deportment; and his
manly beauty in his extravagant red whiskers. Dick saw the
effect that he produced. He was at home in a moment. Your
true highwayman has ever a passion for effect. This does not de-
sert him at the gallows; it rises superior to death itself, and has

168 ROOKWOOD.

been known to influence the manner of his dangling from the
gibbet ! To hear some one cry, " There goes a proper handsome
man," saith our previously quoted authority, Jack Hall, " some-
what ameliorates the terrible thoughts of the meagre tyrant death ;
and to go in a dirty shirt were enough to save the hangman a
labour, and make a man die with grief and shame at being in that
deplorable condition." With a gracious smile of condescension,
like a popular orator — with a look of blarney like that of O'Connell,
and of assurance like that of Hume — he surveyed the male portion
of the spectators, tipped a knowing wink at the prettiest brunettes
he could select, and finally cut a sort of fling with his well-booted
legs, that brought down another peal of rapturous applause.

"A rank scamp!"* cried the upright man; and this exclama-
tion, however equivocal it may sound, was intended, on his part,
to be highly complimentary.

" I believe ye," returned the ruffler, stroking his chin — " one
may see that he's no half swell by the care with which he culti-
vates the best gifts of nature, his whiskers. He's a rank nib."f

" Togged out to the ruffian, no doubt," said the palliard, who
was incomparably the shabbiest rascal in the corps. " Though a
needy mizzler mysel, I likes to see a cove vot's vel dressed. Jist
twig his swell kickseys and pipes; J if they ain't the thing, I'm
done. Lame Harry can't dance better nor he — no, nor Jerry
Juniper neither."

"I'm dumb founded," roared the dummerar, "if he can't
patter romany§ as vel as the best on us ! He looks like a rum
'un."

" And a rum 'un he be, take my word for it," returned the
whip-jack, or sham sailor. " Look at his rigging — see how he
flashes his sticks|| — those are the tools to rake a three-decker. He's
as clever a craft as I've seen this many a day, or I'm no judge."

The women were equally enchanted — equally eloquent in the
expression of their admiration.

" What ogles !" cried a mort.

"What pins!" said an autem mort, or married woman.

" Sharp as needles," said a dark-eyed dell, who had encountered
one of the free and frolicsome glances which our highwayman
distributed so liberally among the petticoats.

It was at this crisis Dick took off his hat. Caesar betrayed his
baldness.

" A thousand pities !" cried the men, compassionating his thinly
covered skull, and twisting their own ringlets, glossy and luxuriant,
though unconscious of Macassar. " A thousand pities that so fine
a fellow should have a sconce like a cocoa-nut!"

" But then his red whiskers," rejoined the women, tired of the

* A famous liighwayman. t A- rea^ gentleman.

X Breeches and boots. § Gipsy flash. || How he exposes his pistols.

JERRY JUNIPER.

P. 168.

ROOKWOOD. 169

uniformity of thick black heads of hair ; u what a warmth of
colouring they impart to his face; and then only look how beauti-
fully bushy they make his cheeks appear !"

La Fosseuse and the court of the Queen of Navarre were not
more smitten with the Sieur de Croix's jolly pair of whiskers.

The hawk's eye of Turpin ranged over the whole assemblage.
Amidst that throng of dark faces there was not one familiar to
him.

Before him stood the upright man, Zoroaster (so was he called),
a sturdy, stalwart rogue, whose superior strength and stature (as
has not unfrequently been the case in the infancy of governments
that have risen to more importance than is likely to be the case
with that of Lesser Egypt) had been the means of his elevation to
his present dignified position. Zoroaster literally fougkt his way
upwards, and had at first to maintain his situation by the strong
arm; but he now was enabled to repose upon his hard- won laurels,
to smoke "the calumet of peace," and quaff his tipple with impu-
nity. For one of gipsy blood, he presented an unusually jovial,
liquor-loving countenance: his eye wTas mirthful; his lip moist, as
if from oft potations; his cheek mellow as an Orleans plum, which
fruit, in colour and texture, it mightily resembled. Strange to
say, also, for one of that lithe race, his person was heavy and
hebetudinous ; the consequence, no doubt, of habitual intem-
perance. Like Cribb, he waxed obese upon the championship.
There was a kind of mock state in his carriage, as he placed him-
self before Turpin, and with his left hand twisted up the tail of his
dressing-gown, while the right thrust his truncheon into his hip,
which was infinitely diverting to the highwayman.

Turpin's attention, however, was chiefly directed towards his
neighbour, the ruffler, in whom he recognised a famous impostor
of the day, with whose history he was sufficiently well, acquainted
to be able at once to identify the individual. We have before
stated, that a magnificent coal-black beard decorated the chin of
this worthy; but this was not all — his costume was in perfect
keeping with his beard, and consisted of a very theatrical-looking
tunic, upon the breast of which was embroidered, in golden wire,
the Maltese cross; while over his shoulders were thrown the folds
of an ample cloak of Tyrian hue. To his side was girt a long and
doughty sword, which he termed, in his knightly phrase, Excali-
bur; and upon his profuse hair rested a hat as broad in the brim
as a Spanish sombrero.

Exaggerated as this description may appear, we can assure our
readers that it is not overdrawn; and that a counterpart of the
sketch we have given of the ruffler certainly " strutted his hour"
upon the stage of human life, and that the very ancient and dis-
criminating city of Canterbury (to which be all honour) was his
theatre of action. His history is so far curious, that it exemplifies,
more strongly than a thousand discourses could do, how prone we

170 EOOKWOOD.

are to be governed by appearances, and how easily we may be made
the dupes of a plausible impostor. Be it remembered, however,
that we treat of the eighteenth century, before the march of intel-
lect had commenced ; we are much too knowing to be similarly
practised upon in these enlightened times. But we will let the
knight of Malta, for such was the title assumed by the ruffler, tell
his own story in his own way hereafter ; contenting ourselves with
the moral precepts we have already deduced from it.

Next to the knight of Malta stood the whip-jack, habited in his
sailor gear — striped shirt and dirty canvas trousers; and. adjoining
him was the palliard, a loathsome tatterdemalion, his dress one
heap of rags, and his discoloured skin one mass of artificial leprosy
and imposthumes.

As Turpin' s eye shifted from one to another of these figures he
chanced upon an individual who had been long endeavouring to
arrest his attention. This personage was completely in the back*
ground. All that Dick could discern of him was a brown curly
head of hair, carelessly arranged in the modern mode; a handsome,
impudent, sun-freckled face, with one eye closed, and the other
occupied by a broken bottle-neck, through which, as a substitute
for a lorgnette, the individual reconnoitred him. A cocked hat
was placed in a very degagee manner under his arm, and he held
an ebony cane in his hand, very much in the style of a "fassion-
able" as the French have it, of the present day. This glimpse was
sufficient to satisfy Turpin. He recognised in this whimsical per-
sonage an acquaintance.

Jerry Juniper was what the classical Captain Grose would de-
signate a "gentleman with three outs;" and, although he was not
entirely without wit, nor, his associates avouched, without money,
nor, certainly, in his own opinion, had that been asked, without
manners; yet was he assuredly without shoes, without stockings,
without shirt. This latter deficiency was made up by a voluminous
cravat, tied with proportionately large bows. A jaunty pair of
yellow breeches, somewhat faded; a waistcoat of silver brocade,
richly embroidered, somewhat tarnished and lack-lustre ; a murrey-
coloured velvet coat, somewhat chafed, completed the costume of
this beggar Brummell, this mendicant macaroni !

Jerry Juniper was a character well known at the time, as a
constant frequenter of all races, fairs, regattas, ship-launches, bull-
baits, and prize-fights, all of which he attended, and to which he
transported himself with an expedition little less remarkable than
that of Turpin. You met him at Epsom, at Ascot, at Newmarket,
at Doncaster, at the Roodee of Chester, at the Curragh of Kildare.
The most remote as well as the most adjacent meeting attracted
him. The cock-pit was his constant haunt, and in more senses
than one was he a leg. No opera-dancer could be more agile,
more nimble; scarcely, indeed, more graceful, than was Jerry,

ROOKWOOD. 171

with his shoeless and stockingless feet ; and the manner in which
he executed a pirouette, or a pas, before a line of carriages, seldom
failed to procure him " golden opinions from all sorts of dames."
With the ladies, it must be owned, Jerry was rather upon too easy
terms; but then, perhaps, the ladies were upon too easy terms with
Jerry; and if a bright-eyed fair one condescended to jest with him,
what marvel if he should sometimes slightly transgress the laws of
decorum. These aberrations, however, were trifling: altogether
he was so well known, and knew everybody else so well, that he
seldom committed himself; and, singular to say, could on occa-
sions even be serious. In addition to his other faculties, no one cut
a sly joke, or trolled a merry ditty, better than Jerry. His pecu-
liarities, in short, were on the pleasant side, and he was a general
favourite in consequence.

No sooner did Jerry perceive that he was recognised, than, after
kissing his hand, with the air of a peiit-maltre, to the highwayman,
he strove to edge his way through the crowd. All his efforts were
fruitless; and, tired of a situation in the rear rank, so inconsistent,
he conceived, with his own importance, he had recourse to an ex-
pedient often practised with success in harlequinades, and not
unfrequently in real life, where a flying leap is occasionally taken
over our heads. He ran back a lew yards to give himself an
impetus, returned, and, placing his hands upon the shoulders of a
stalwart vagabond near to him, threw a summerset upon the broad
cap of a palliarcl, who was so jammed in the midst that he could
not have stirred to avoid the shock; thence, without pausing, he
vaulted forwards, and dropped lightly upon the ground in front of
Zoroaster, and immediately before the highwayman.

Dick laughed immoderately at Jerry's manoeuvre. He shook
his old chum cordially by the hand, saying, in a whisper, " What
the devil brings you here, Jerry?"

u I might retort, and ask you that question, Captain Turpin,"
replied Jerry, sotto voce. " It is odd to see me here, certainly —
quite out of my element — lost amongst this canaille — this Canting
Crew — all the fault of a pair of gipsy eyes, bright as a diamond,
dark as a sloe. You comprehend — a little affair, ha ! Liable to
these things. Bring your ear closer, my boy; be upon your guard
— keep a sharp look out — there's a devil of a reward upon your
head — I won't answer for all those rascals."

"Thank you for the hint, Jerry," replied Dick, in the same
tone. " I calculated my chances pretty nicely when I came here.
But if I should perceive any symptoms of foul play — any attempt
to snitch or nose, amongst this pack of pedlers — I have a friend or
two at hand, who won't be silent upon the occasion, llest assured
I shall have my eye upon the gnarling scoundrels. I won't be sold
for nothing."

u Trust you for that," returned Juniper, with a wink. " Stay,"

172 ROOKWOOD.

added he; "a thought strikes me. I have a scheme in petto
which may, perhaps, afford you some fun, and will, at all events,
insure your safety during your stay."

"What is it?" asked Dick.

"Just amuse yourself with a flirtation for a moment or two
with that pretty damsel, who has been casting her ogles at you for
the last five minutes without success, while I effect a master-
stroke."

And as Turpin, nothing loth, followed his advice, Jerry
addressed himself to Zoroaster. After a little conference, accom-
panied by that worthy and the knight of Malta, the trio stepped
forward from the line, and approached Dick, when Juniper,
assuming some such attitude as our admirable Jones, the come-
dian, is wont to display, delivered himself of the following address.
Turpin listened with the gravity of one of the distinguished per-
sons alluded to, at the commencement of the present chapter, upon
their receiving the freedom of a city at the hands of a mayor and
corporation. Thus spoke Jerry:

" Highest of High-Tobymen ! rummest of rum Padders, and
most scampish of Scampsmen ! We, in the name of Barbara, our
most tawny queen; in the name of Zoroaster, our Upright Man,
Dimber Damber, or Olli Campolli, by all which titles his excel-
lency is distinguished ; in our own respective names, as High Pads
and Low Pads, Rum Gills and Queer Gills, Patricos, Palliards,
Priggers, Whip-Jacks, and Jarkmen, from the Arch Rogue to
the Needy Mizzler, fully sensible of the honour you have conferred
upon us in gracing Stop-Hole Abbey with your presence; and
conceiving that we can in no way evince our sense of your con-
descension so entirely as by offering you the freedom of our crew,
together with the privileges of an Upright Man,# which you may
be aware are considerable, and by creating you an honorary mem-
ber of the Vagrant Club, which we have recently established ; and
in so doing, we would fain express the sentiments of gratification
and pride which we experience in enrolling among our members
one who has extended the glory of roguery so widely over the
land, and who has kicked up such a dust upon the highways of
England, as most effectually to blind the natives — one, who is in
himself a legion — of highwaymen ! Awaiting, with respectful
deference, the acquiescence of Captain Richard Turpin, we beg to
tender him the freedom of our crew."

66 Really, gentlemen," said Turpin, who did not exactly see the
drift of this harangue, " you do me a vast deal of honour. I am
quite at a loss to conceive how I can possibly have merited so
much attention at your hands; and, indeed, I feel myself so un-
worthy " Here Dick received an expressive wink from

* For an account of these, see Grose. They are much too gross to be set
down here.

ROOKWOOD. 173

Juniper, and therefore thought it prudent to alter his expression.
" Could I suppose myself at all deserving of so much distinction,"
continued the modest speaker, " I should at once accept your very
obliging offer; hut "

" None so worthy," said the upright man.

" Can't hear of a refusal," said the knight of Malta.

" Refusal — impossible!" reiterated Juniper.

" No: no refusal," exclaimed a chorus of voices. " Dick Turpin
must be one of us. He shall be our dimber damber."

" Well, gentlemen, since you are so pressing," replied Turpin,
"even so be it. I will be your dimber damber."

" Bravo! bravo!" cried the mob, not " of gentlemen."

"About it pals at once," said the knight of Malta, flourishing
excalibur. " By St. Thomas a Becker, we'll have as fine a scene
as I myself ever furnished to the Canterbury lieges."

"About what?" asked Dick.

" Your matriculation," replied Jerry. " There are certain forms
to be gone through, with an oath to be taken, merely a trifle.
We'll have a jolly boose when all's over. Come bing avast, my
merry pals; to the green, to the green: a Turpin! a Turpin ! a
new brother !"

" A Turpin ! a Turpin ! a new brother !" echoed the crew.

" I've brought you through," said Jerry, taking advantage of
the uproar that ensued to whisper to his chum ; " none of them
will dare to lift a finger against you now. They are all your
friends for life."

"Nevertheless," returned Turpin, " I should be glad to know
what has become of Bess."

" If it's your prancer you are wanting," chirped a fluttering
creature, whom Turpin recognised as Luke's groom, Grasshopper,
" I gave her a fresh loaf and a stoup of stingo, as you bade me,
and there she be, under yon tree, as quiet as a lamb."

"I see her," replied Turpin; "just tighten her girths, Grass-
hopper, and bring her after me, and thou shalt have wherewithal
to chirp over thy cups at supper."

Away bounded the elfin dwarf to execute his behest.

A loud shout now rent the skies, and presently afterwards was
heard the vile scraping of a fiddle, accompanied by the tattoo of a
drum. Approaching Turpin, a host of gipsies elevated the high-
wayman upon their shoulders, and in this way he was carried to
the centre of the c;reen, where the lone: oaken table, which had
once served the Franciscans for refection, was now destined for the
stage of the pageant.

Upon this table three drums were placed; and Turpin was re-
quested to seat himself on the central one. A solemn prelude,
more unearthly than the incantation in the Freyschiitz, was played
by the orchestra of the band, conducted by the Paganini of the
place, who elicited the most marvellous notes from his shell. A

174 ROOKWOOD.

couple of shawms* emitted sepulchral sounds, while the hollow
rolling of the drum broke ever and anon upon the ear. The effect
was prodigiously fine. During this overture the patrico and the
upright man had ascended the rostrum, each taking their places;
the former on the right hand of Turpin, the latter upon his left.
Below them stood the knight of Malta, with excalibur drawn in
his hand, and gleaming in the sunshine. On the whole, Dick was
amused with what he saw, and with the novel situation in which
he found himself placed. Around the table were congregated a
compact mass of heads; so compact, indeed, that they looked like
one creature — an Argus, with each eye upturned upon the high-
wayman. The idea struck Turpin that the restless mass of parti-
coloured shreds and patches, of vivid hues and varied tintings,
singularly, though accidentally disposed to produce such an effect,
resembled an immense tiger-moth, or it might be a Turkey carpet,
spread out upon the grass !

The scene was a joyous one. It was a brilliant sunshiny morn-
ing. Freshened and purified by the storm of the preceding
night, the air breathed a balm upon the nerves and senses of the
robber. The wooded hills were glittering in light; the brook was
flowing swiftly past the edge of the verdant slope, glancing like a
wreathed snake in the sunshine — its "quiet song" lost in the rude
harmony of the mummers, as were the thousand twitterings of
the rejoicing birds; the rocks bared their bosoms to the sun, or
were buried in deep-cast gloom ; the shadows of the pillars and
arches of the old walls of the priory were projected afar, while the
rose-like ramifications of the magnificent marigold window were
traced, as if by a pencil, upon the verdant tablet of the sod.

The overture was finished. With the appearance of the prin-
cipal figures in this strange picture the reader is already familiar.
It remains only to give him some idea of the patrico. Imagine,
then, an old superannuated goat, reared upon its hind legs, and
clad in a white sheet, disposed in folds like those of a simar about
its limbs, and you will have some idea of Balthazar, the patrico.
This resemblance to the animal before mentioned was rendered
the more striking by his huge hanging, goat-like under-lip, his
lengthy white beard, and a sort of cap, covering his head, which
was ornamented with a pair of horns, such as are to be seen in
Michael Angelo's tremendous statue of Moses. Balthazar, besides
being the patrico of the tribe, was its principal professor of divi-
nation, and had been the long-tried and faithful minister of
Barbara Lovel, from whose secret instructions he was supposed. to
have derived much of his magical skill.

Placing a pair of spectacles upon his " prognosticating nose,"

* " The shalm, or shawm, was a wind instrument, like a pipe, with a swelling
protuberance in the middle." — Earl of Northumberland* s Household Book.

•i
1

Deorft G-n^o-f^sKoiAvtCc^

P >^^ Qy/?z^^/?s?&Wy-

ROOKWOOD. 1 75

and unrolling a vellum skin, upon which strange characters were
written, Balthazar, turning to Turpin, thus commenced in a
solemn voice:

Thou who wouldst our brother be,
Say how we shall enter thee ?
Name the name that thou wilt bear
Ere our livery thou wear ?

" I see no reason why I should alter my designation," replied
the noviciate; "but as popes change their titles on their creation,
there can be no objection to a scampsman following so excellent
an example. Let me be known as the Night Hawk."

" The Night Hawk — good," returned the hierophant, proceed-
ing to register the name upon the parchment. u Kneel down,"
continued he.

After some hesitation, Turpin complied.

" You must repeat the ' salamon,' or oath of our creed, after my
dictation," said the patrico; and Turpin, signifying his assent by
a nod, Balthazar propounded the following abjuration:

OATH OF THE CANTING CHEW.

I, Crank-Cuffin, swear to be

True to this fraternity ;

That I will in all obey

Ride and order of the lay.

Never blow the gab, or squeak ;

Never snitch to bum or beak ;

But religiously maintain

Authority of those who reign

Over Stop-Hole Abbey Green,

Be they tawny king, or queen.

In their cause alone will light ;

Think what they think, wrong or right;

Serve them truly, and no other,

And be faithful to my brother ;

Suffer none, from far or near,

With their rights to interfere ;

No strange Abram, ruffler crack,

Hooker of another pack,

Rogue or rascal, frater, maunderer,

Irish to vie, or other wanderer;

No climber clamber, angler, dancer,

Prig of cackler, prig of prancer ;

No swigman, swaddler, clapperdudgeon ;

Cadgc-gloak, curtai, or curmudgeon;

No whip-jack, palliard, patrico ;

No jarkman, be he high or low ;

No dummerar, or romany ;

No member of "the Family ;"

No ballad-basket, bouncing buffer,

Nor any other, will I suffer ;

176 ROOKWOOD.

But stall-off now and for ever,
All outliers whatsoever :
And as I keep to the foregone.
So may help me Salanion !*

"So help me Salamon!" repeated Turpin, with emphasis.

" Zoroaster," said the patrico to the upright man, " do thy part
of this ceremonial."

Zoroaster obeyed; and, taking excalibur from the knight 01
Malta, bestowed a hearty thwack with the blade upon the shoul-
ders of the kneeling highwayman, assisting him afterwards to
arise.

The inauguration was complete.

" Well," exclaimed Dick, " I'm glad it's all over. My leg feels
a little stiffish. I'm not much given to kneeling. I must dance
it off;" saying which, he began to shuffle upon the boards. " I
tell you what," continued he, " most reverend patrico, that same
' salmon ' of yours has a cursed long tail. I could scarce swallow
it all, and it's strange if it don't give me an indigestion. As to you,
sage Zory, from the dexterity with which you flourish your sword,
I should say you had practised at court. His majesty could scarce
do the thing better, when, slapping some fat alderman upon the
shoulder, he bids him arise Sir Richard. And now, pals," added
he, glancing round, " as I am one of you, let's have a boose to-
gether ere I depart, for I don't think my stay will be long in the
land of Egypt."

This suggestion of Turpin was so entirely consonant to the

* Perhaps the most whimsical laws that were ever prescribed to a gang of
thieves were those framed by William Holliday, one of the prigging community,
who was hanged in 1695 :

Art. I. directs — That none of his company should presume to wear shirts,
upon pain of being cashiered.

II. — That none should lie in any other places than stables, empty houses, or
other bulks.

III. — That they should eat nothing but what they begged, and that they
should give away all the money they got by cleaning boots among one another,
for the good of the fraternity.

IV. — That they should neither learn to read nor write, that he may have
them the better under command.

V. — That they should appear every morning by nine, on the parade, to re-
ceive necessary orders.

VI. — That none should presume to follow the scent but such as he ordered
on that party.

VII. — That if any one gave them shoes or stockings, they should convert them
into money to play.

VIII. — That they should steal nothing they could not come at, for fear of
bringing a scandal upon the company.

IX. — That they should cant better than the Newgate birds, pick pockets
without bungling, outlie a Quaker, outswear a lord at a gaming-table, and
brazen out all their villanies beyond an Irishman.

ROOKWOOD. 177

wishes of the assemblage, that it met with universal approbation;
and upon a sign from Zoroaster, some of his followers departed in
search of supplies for the carousal. Zoroaster leaped from the
table, and his example was followed by Turpin, and more leisurely
by the patrico.

It was rather early in the day for a drinking bout. But the
Canting Crew were not remarkably particular. The chairs were
removed, and the jingling of glasses announced the arrival of the
preliminaries of the matutine symposion. Poles, canvas, and cords
were next brought; and in almost as short space of time as one
scene is substituted for another in a theatrical representation, a tent
was erected. Benches, stools, and chairs appeared with equal
celerity, and the interior soon presented an appearance like that of
a booth at a fair. A keg of brandy was broached, and the health
of the new brother quaffed in brimmers.

Our highwayman returned thanks. Zoroaster was in the chair,
the knight of Malta acting as croupier. A second toast was pro-
posed— the tawny queen. This was drunk with a like enthusiasm,
and with a like allowance of the potent spirit ; but as bumpers of
brandy are not to be repeated with impunity, it became evident to
the president of the board that he must not repeat his toasts quite
so expeditiously. To create a temporary diversion, therefore, he
called for a sono\

The dulcet notes of the fiddle now broke through the clamour;
and, in answer to the call, Jerry Juniper volunteered the fol-
lowing:

JERRY JUNIPER'S CHANT *

In a box (1) of the stone jug (2) I was born,
Of a hempen widow (3) the kid forlorn,

Fake away.
And my father, as I've heard say,

Fake away,
"Was a merchant of capers (4) gay,
Who cnt his last fling with great applause,

(5) Nix my doll pals, fake away.

Who cut his last fling with great applause (6),
To the tune of a "hearty choke with caper sauce."

Fake away.
The knucks in quod (7) did my schoolmen play,

Fake away,

* Set to music by Mr. Rodwell.

(1) Cell. (2) Newgate.

(3) A woman whose husband has been hanged. (i) A dancing-master.

(5) "Nothing, comrades ; on, on," supposed to be addressed by a thief to
his confederates.

(6) Thus Victor Hugo, in "Le Dernier Jour d'un Condamne," makes an
imprisoned felon sing :

" J'le ferai danser nne danse
Ou il n'y a pas de plancher."

(7) Thieves in prison.

178 EOOKWOOD.

And put me up to the time of day ;
Until at last there was none so knowing,

Nix my doll pals, fake away*

Until at last there was none so knowing,

No such sneaksman (8) or buzgloak (9) going.

Fake away.
Eogles (10) and fawnies (11) soon went their way,

Fake away,
To the spont (12) with the sneezers (13) in grand array.
No dummy hunter (14) had forks (15) so fly ;

Nix my doll pals, fake away.

No dummy hunter had forks so fly,

No knuckler (16) so deftly could fake a cly, (17)

Fake away.
No slour'd hoxter (18) my snipes (19) could stay,

Fake aicay.
None knap a reader (20) like me in the lay.
Soon then I mounted in swell-street high.

Nix my doll pals, fake away.

Soon then I mounted in swell-street high,
And sported my flashiest toggery, (21)

Fake away.
Firmly resolved I would make my hay,

Fake away,
While Mercury's star shed a single ray ;
And ne'er was there seen such a dashing prig, (22)

Nix my doll pals, fake away.

And ne'er was there seen such a dashing prig,
With my strummel faked in the newest twig. (23)

Fake away.
With my fawnied famms, (21) and my onions gay, (25)

Fake away ;
My thimble of ridge, (26) and my driz kemesa; (27)
All my togs were so niblike (28) and splash,

Nix my doll pals, fake away.

All my togs were so niblike and splash,

Readily the queer screens I then could smash ; (29)

Fake away.
But my nuttiest blowen, (30) one fine day,

Fake aicay,
To the beaks (31) did her fancy man betray,
And thus was I bowled out at last. (32)

Nix my doll pals, fake away.

(8) Shoplifter. (9) Pickpocket. (10) Handkerchiefs.

(11) Rings. (12) To the pawnbroker. (13) Snuff-boxes.

(14) Pickpockets. (15) The two forefingers used in picking a pocket.

(16) Pickpocket. (17) Pick a pocket.

(18) No inside coat-pocket, buttoned up. (19) Scissors.

(20) Steal a pocket-book. (21) Best-made clothes.

(22) Thief. (23) With my hair dressed in the first fashion.

(24) With several rings on my hands. (25) Seals.

(26) Gold watch. (27) Laced shirt. (28) Gentlemanlike.

(29) Easily than forged notes could I pass. (30) Favourite mistress.

(31) Police. (32) Taken at length.

ROOKWOOD. 179

And thus was I bowled out at last,
And into the jug for a lag was cast ; (33)

Fake away.
But I slipped my darbies (34) one morn in May,

Fake a way,
And gave to the dubsman (35) a holiday.
And here I am, pals, merry and free,
A regular rollicking romany. (36)

Nix my doll pah, fake aicay.

Much laughter and applause rewarded Jerry's attempt to please;
and though the meaning of his chant, even with the aid of the
numerous notes appended to it, may not be quite obvious to our
readers, we can assure them that it was perfectly intelligible to the
Canting Crew. Jerry was now entitled to a call ; and happening,
at the moment, to meet the fine dark eyes of a sentimental gipsy,
one of that better class of mendicants who wandered about the
country with a guitar at his back, his election fell upon him. The
youth, without prelude, struck up a

GIPSY SERENADE *

Merry maid, merry maid, wilt thou wander with me ?
We will roam through the forest, the meadow, and lea ;
We will haunt the sunny bowers, and when day begins to flee,
Our couch shall be the ferny brake, our canopy the tree.

Merry maid, merry maid, come and wander with me !

No life like the gipsy's, so joyous and free!

Merry maid, merry maid, though a roving life be ours,

We will laugh away the laughing and quickly fleeting hours ;

Our hearts are free, as is the free and open sky above,

And we know what tamer souls know not, how lovers ought to love.

Merry maid, merry maid, come and wander with me >

No life like the gipsy's, so joyotis and free!

Zoroaster now removed the pipe from his upright lips to inti-
mate his intention of proposing a toast.

An universal knocking of knuckles by the knucklersf was fol-
lowed by profound silence. The sage spoke:

" The city of Canterbury, pals," said he ; u and may it never
want a knight of Malta."

The toast was pledged with much laughter, and in many
bumpers.

The knight, upon whom all eyes were turned, rose, "with
stately bearing and majestic motion," to return thanks.

u I return you an infinitude of thanks, brother pals," said he,
glancing round the assemblage ; and bowing to the president, u and

(33) Cast for transportation. (34) Fetters.

(35) Turnkey. (36) Gipsy.

* Set to music by Mr. Alexander Roche. f Pickpockets.

180 ROOKWOOD.

to you, most upright Zory, for the honour yon have done me in
associating my name with that city. Believe me, I sincerely ap-
preciate the compliment, and echo the sentiment from the bottom
of my soul. I trust it never will want a knight of Malta. In
return for your consideration, but a poor one you will say, you
shall have a ditty, which I composed upon the occasion of my pil-
grimage to that city, and which I have thought proper to name
after myself."

THE KNIGHT OF MALTA. '

A Canterbury Tale.*

Come list to me, and you shall have, without a hem or haw, sirs,
A Canterbury pilgrimage, much better than old Chaucer's.
'Tis of a hoax I once played off upon that city clever,
The memory of which, 1 hope, will stick to it for ever.

With my coal-black beard, and purple cloak,
jack- boots, and broad-brimmed castor,

Hey -ho ! for the knight of Malta !

* This song describes pretty accurately the career of an extraordinary indi-
vidual, who, in the lucid intervals of a half-crazed understanding, imposed him-
self upon the credulous inhabitants of Canterbury, in the year 1832, as a certain
"Sir William Percy Honeywood Courtenay, Knight or Malta;" and
contrived — for there was considerable "method in his madness" — to support
the deception during a long period. The anachronism of Ins character in a
tale (the date of which is nearly a century back) will, perhaps, be overlooked,
when it is considered of how much value, in the illustration of " wise saws,"
are " modern instances?' Imposture and credulity are of all ages ; and the
Courtenays of the nineteenth are rivalled by the Tofts and Andres of the
eighteenth century. The subjoined account of the soi-disant Sir William
Courtenay is extracted from " An Essay on his Character, and Reflections on
his Trial," published at the theatre of his exploits : " About Michaelmas last it
was rumoured that an extraordinary man was staying at the Rose Inn of this
city (Canterbury), who passed under the name of Count Rothschild, but had
been recently known in London by the name of Thompson ! This would hav&
been sufficient to excite attention, had not other incidents materially added to
the excitement. His costume and countenance denoted foreign extraction,
while his language and conversation showed that he was well acquainted with
almost every part of this kingdom. He was said to live with singular frugality,
notwithstanding abundant samples of wealth, and professions of an almost un-
limited command of money. He appeared to study retirement, if not conceal-
ment, although subsequent events have proved that society of every grade,
beneath the middle class, is the element in which he most freely breathes. He
often decked his person with a fine suit of ^Italian clothing, and sometimes icith the
more gay and imposing costume of the Eastern nations ; yet these foreign habits
were for months scarcely visible beyond the limits of the inn of his abode, and the
chapel not far from it, in which he was accustomed to offer his Sabbath devotions.
This place was the first to which he made a public and frequent resort ; and
though he did not always attempt to advance towards the uppermost seat in
the synagogue, he attracted attention from the mere singularity of his appear-
ance.

" Such was the eccentric, incongruous individual who surprised our city by
proposing himself as a third candidate for its representation, and who created
an entertaining contest for the honour, long after the sitting candidates had

ROOKWOOD. 181

To execute my purpose, in the first place, you must know, sirs,
My locks I let hang down my neck — my beard and whiskers grow, sirs ;
A purple cloak I next clapped on, a sword tagged to my side, sirs,
And mounted on a charger black, I to the town did ride, sirs.

With my coal-black beard, fyc.

composed themselves to the delightful vision of an ^inexpensive and unopposed
return. The notion of representing the city originated beyond all doubt in the
fertile brain of the man himself. It would seem to have been almost as sudden
a thought in his mind, as it was a sudden and surprising movement in the view
of the city ; nor have we been able to ascertain whether his sojourn at the Rose
was the cause or the effect of his offering to advocate our interests in Parlia-
ment— whether he came to the city with that high-minded purpose, or subse-
quently formed the notion, when he saw, or thought he saw, an opening for a
stranger of enterprise like himself.

/fr yfc yfc yfc yfc "^

"As the county election drew on, we believe between the nomination on
Barham Downs and the voting in the cattle market of the city, the draught of
a certain handbill was sent to a printer of this city, with a request that he
would publish it without delay. Our readers will not be surprised that he in-
stantly declined the task ; but as we have obtained possession of the copy, and
its publication can now do no injury to any one, we entertain them with a sight
of this delectable sample of Courtenay prudence and politeness.

" ' 0 yes ! 0 yes ! 0 yes ! I, Lord Viscount William Courtenay, of Powder-
ham Castle, Devon, do hereby proclaim Sir Thomas Tylden, Sir Brook Brydges,
Sir Edward Knatchbull, and Sir William Cosway, four cowards, unfit to repre-
sent, or to assist in returning members of Parliament to serve the brave men of
Kent.

" ' Percy Honeywood Courtenay, of Hales and Evington Place, Kent, and
Knight of Malta.

" ' Any gentleman desiring to know the reasons why Lord Courtenay so
publicly exposes backbiters, any man of honour shall have satisfaction at his
hands, and in a public way, according to the laws of our land — trial by combat ;
when the Almighty God, the Lord of Hosts is his name, can decide the "truth,"
whether it is a libel or not. I worship truth as my God, and will die for it—
and upon this we will see who is strongest, God or man.'

" It is a coincidence too curious to be overlooked, that this doughty champion
of truth should so soon have removed himself from public life by an act of de-
liberate and wanton perjury. We never read any of his rhapsodies, periodical
or occasional, till the publication of this essay imposed the self-denying task
upon us ; but now we find that they abound in strong and solemn appeals to
the truth; in bold proclamations that truth is his palladium ; in evidences that
he writes and raves, that he draws his sword and clenches his fist, that he ex-
pends his property and the property of others committed to his hands, in no
cause but that of truth/ His famous periodical contains much vehement de-
clamation in defence of certain doctrines of religion, which he terms the truth
of the sublime system of Christianity, and for which alone he is content to live,
and also willing to die. All who deviate from his standard of truth, whether
theological or moral, philosophical or political, he appears to consider as neither
fit for life nor death. Now it is a little strange, his warmest followers being
witness, that such an advocate of truth should have become the willing victim
of falsehood, the ready and eager martyr of the worst form of falsehood — perjury.

" The decline of his influence between the city and county elections has been
partly attributed, and not without reason, to the sudden change in his appear-
ance from comparative youth to advancing, if not extreme age. On the hustings
of the city he shone forth in all the dazzling lustre of an Oriental chief ; and such
was the effect of gay clothing on the meridian of life, that his admirers, especially
of the weaker sex, would insist upon it that he had not passed the beautiful sjpring-

182 ROOKWOOD.

Two pages were there by my side, upon two little ponies,
Decked out in scarlet uniform, as spruce as macaronies;
Caparisoned my charger was, as grandly as his master,
And o'er my long and curly locks I wore a broad-brimmed castor.

With my coal-black beard, Sfc.

The people all nocked forth, amazed to see a man so hairy,
Oh ! such a sight had ne'er before been seen in Canterbury !
My flowing robe, my flowing beard, my horse with flowing mane, sirs !
They stared — the days of chivalry, they thought, were come again, sirs !

With my coal-black beard, 8fc.

I told them a long rigmarole romance, that did not halt a

Jot, that they beheld in me a real knight of Malta !

Tom a Becket had I sworn I was, that saint and martyr hallowed,

I doubt not just as readily the bait they would have swallowed.

With my coal-black beard, fyc.

I rode about, and speechified, and everybody gullied,

The tavern-keepers diddled, and the magistracy bullied ;

Like puppets were the townsfolk led in that show they call a raree ;

The Gotham sages were a joke to those of Canterbury.

With my coal-black beard, 8fc.

The theatre I next engaged, where I addressed the crowd, sirs,
And on retrenchment and reform I spouted long and loud, sirs ;
On tithes and on taxation I enlarged with skill and zeal, sirs,
Who so able as a Malta knight, the malt tax to repeal, sirs.

With my coal-black beard, 8fC

As a candidate I then stepped forth to represent their city,
And my non-election to that place was certainly a pity ;
For surely I the fittest was, and very proper, very,
To represent the wisdom and the wit of Canterbury.

With my coal-black beard, fyc.

time of May. There were, indeed, some suspicious appearances of a near approach
to forty, if not two or three years beyond it ; but these were fondly ascribed to his
foreign travels in distant and insalubrious climes ; he had acquired his duskiness
of complexion, and his strength of feature and violence of gesture, and his pro-
fusion of beard, in Egypt and Syria, in exploring the catacombs of the one country,
and bowing at the shrines of the other. On the other hand, the brilliancy of his
eye, the melody of his voice, and the elasticity of his muscles and limbs, were suffi-
cient arguments in favour of his having scarcely passed the limit that separates
manhood from youth.

"All doubts on these points were removed, when the crowd of his fair ad-
mirers visited him at the retirement of his inn, and the intervals of his polling.
These sub-Rosa interviews — we allude to the name of the inn, and not to any-
thing like privacy there, which the very place and number of the visitors alto-
gether precluded — convinced them that he was even a younger and lovelier
man than his rather boisterous behaviour in the hall would allow them to hope,
in fact, he was now installed by acclamation Knight of Canterbury as well as
Malta, and King of Kent as well as Jerusalem ! It became dangerous then to
whisper a syllable of suspicion against his wealth or rank, his wisdom or beauty ;
and all who would not bow down before this golden image were deemed worthy
of no better fate than Shadrach, Meshech, and Abednego — to be cast into a
burning fiery furnace."

As a sequel to the above story, it may be added, that the knight of Malta
became the inmate of a lunatic asylum ; and on his liberation was shot at the
head of a band of Kentish hinds, whom he had persuaded that he was the
Messiah !

KOOKWOOD. 183

At the trial of some smugglers next, one thing I rather queer did,
And the justices upon the bench T literally bearded;
For I swore that I some casks did see, though proved as clear as day, sirs,
That I happened at the time to be some fifty miles away, sirs.

With my coal-black beard, $rc.

This last assertion, I must own, was somewhat of a blunder,
And for perjury indicted they compelled me to knock under;
To my prosperous career this slight error put a stop, sirs,
And thus crossed, the knight of Malta was at length obliged to hop sirs.

With his coal-black beard, and purple cloak,
jack-boots, and broad-brimmed castor,
Good-by to the knight of Malta.

The knight sat down amidst the general plaudits of the com-
pany.

The party, meanwhile, had been increased by the arrival of Luke
and the sexton. The former, who was in no mood for revelry,
refused to comply with his grandsire's solicitation to enter, and re-
mained sullenly at the door, with his arms folded, and his eyes
fixed upon Turpin, whose movements he commanded through the
canvas aperture. The sexton walked up to Dick, who was seated
at the post of honour, and, clapping him upon the shoulder, con-
gratulated him upon the comfortable position in which he found
him.

" Ha, ha ! Are you there, my old death's head on a mop-stick?'*
said Turpin, with a laugh. "Ain't we merry mumpers, eh?
Keeping it up in style. Sit down, old Noah — make yourself com-
fortable, Methusalem."

u What say you to a drop of as fine Nantz as you ever tasted in
your life, old cove?" said Zoroaster.

" I have no sort of objection to it," returned Peter, " provided
you will all pledge my toast."

" That I will, were it old Ruffin himself," shouted Turpin-
" Here's to the three-legged mare," cried Peter. u To the tree
that bears fruit all the year round, and yet has neither bark nor
branch. You won't refuse that toast, Captain Turpin?"

u Not I," answered Dick ; u I owe the gallows no grudge. If,
as Jerry's song says, I must have a * hearty choke and caper sauce'
for my breakfast one of these fine mornings, it shall never be said
that I fell to my meal without appetite, or neglected saying grace
before it. Gentlemen, here's Peter Bradley's toast, 'The scrag-
ging post — the three-legged mare,' with three times three."

Appropriate as this sentiment was, it did not appear to be so in-
viting to the party as might have been anticipated, and the shouts
soon died away.

"They like not the thoughts of the gallows," said Turpin to
Peter. u More fools they. A mere bugbear to frighten children,
believe me; and never yet alarmed a brave man. The gallows,
pshaw ! One can but die once, and what signifies it how, so that

184 ROOKWOOD.

it be over quickly. I think no more of the last leap into eternity
than clearing a five-barred gate. A rope's end for it ! So let us
be merry, and make the most of our time, and that's true philo-
sophy. I know you can throw off a rum chant," added he, turn-
ing to Peter. " I heard you sing last night at the hall. Troll us
a stave, my antediluvian file, and, in the mean time, tip me a gage
of fogus,* Jerry; and if that's a bowl of huckle-my-butt"f" you are
brewing, Sir William," added he, addressing the knight of Malta,
"you may send me a jorum at your convenience."

Jerry handed the highwayman a pipe, together with a tumbler
of the beverage which the knight had prepared, which he pro-
nounced excellent; and while the huge bowl was passed round to
the company, a prelude of shawms announced that Peter was ready
to break into song.

Accordingly, after the symphony was ended, accompanied at
intervals by a single instrument, Peter began his melody, in a key
so high, that the utmost exertions of the shawm-blower failed to
approach its altitudes. The burden of his minstrelsy was —

THE MANDRAKE.!

Ma>Xu Se \iiv KaXtovari Oeol, xa^€7Tou de r opixrcreiu

Avdpdcri ye 6vr\To\ai 6eo\, de re Travra dvvavrai.

H0MEEUS.

The mandrake grows 'neath the gallows-tree,
And rank and green are its leaves to see ;
Green and rank, as the grass that waves
Over the nnctuous earth of graves ;
And though all around it be bleak and bare,
Freely the mandrake flourisheth there.

Maranatha — Anathema !
Bread is the curse of mandragora !

Euthanasy !

* A pipe of tobacco. f A drink composed of beer, eggs, and brandy.

X The supposed malignant influence of this plant is frequently alluded to by
•our elder dramatists ; and with one of the greatest of them, Webster (as might
be expected from a muse revelling like a ghoul in graves and sepulchres), it is
an especial favourite. But none have plunged so deeply into the subject as Sir
Thomas Browne. He tears up the fable root and branch. Concerning the danger
ensuing from eradication of the mandrake, the learned physician thus writes :
" The last assertion is, that there follows a hazard of life to them that pull it up,
that some evil fate pursues them, and that they live not very long hereafter.
Therefore the attempt hereof among the ancients was not in ordinary way; but,
as Pliny informeth, when they intended to take up the root of this plant, they
took the wind thereof, and with a sword describing three circles about it, they
digged it up, looking toward the west. A conceit not only injurious unto truth
and confutable by daily experience, but somewhat derogatory unto the provi-
dence of God ; that is, not only to impose so destructive a quality on any plant,
but to conceive a vegetable whose parts are so useful unto many, should, in the
only taking up, prove mortal unto any. This were to introduce a second for-
bidden fruit, and enhance the first malediction, making it not only mortal for
Adam . to taste the one, but capital for his posterity to eradicate or dig up the
other." — Vulgar Errors, book ii. c. vi.

KOOKWOOD. 185

At the foot of the gibbet the mandrake springs ;

Just where the creaking carcase swings ;

Some have thought it engendered

From the fat that drops from the bones of the dead ;

Some have thought it a human tiling ;

But this is a vain imagining.

Maranatha — Anathema !
Dread is the curse of mandragora !

Euthanasy I
A charncl leaf doth the mandrake wear,
A charnel fruit doth the mandrake bear ;
Yet none like the mandrake hath such great power,
Such virtue resides not in herb or flower ;
Aconite, hemlock, or moonshade, I ween,
None hath a poison so subtle and keen.

Maranatha — Anathema /
Bread is the curse of mandragora !

Euthanasy I
And whether the mandrake be create
Flesh with the power incorporate,
I know not ; yet, if from the earth 'tis rent,
Shrieks and groans from the root are sent ;
Shrieks and groans, and a sweat like gore
Oozes and drops from the clammy core.

Maranatha — Anathema !
Dread is the curse of mandragora !

Euthanasy !

Whoso gathereth the mandrake shall surely die ;
Blood for blood is his destiny.
Some who have plucked it have died with groans,
Like to the mandrake's expiring moans ;
Some have died raving, and some beside—
With penitent prayers — but all have died.

Jesu ! save us by night and day !
From the terrible death of mandragora !

Euthanasy I

" A queer chant that," said Zoroaster, coughing loudly, in token
of disapprobation.

" Not much to my taste," quoth the knight of Malta. u We
like something more sprightly in Canterbury."

" Nor to mine," added Jerry; " don't think its likely to have an
encore. 'Pon my soul, Dick, you must give us something your-
self, or we shall never cry Euthanasy at the Triple Tree."

" With all my heart," replied Turpin. " You shall have — but
what do I see, my friend Sir Luke ? Devil take my tongue, Luke
Bradley, I mean. What, ho ! Luke — nay, nay, man, no shrink-
ing— stand forward ; I've a word or two to say to you. We must
have a hob-a-nob glass together for old acquaintance sake. Nay,
no airs, man; damme you're not a lord yet, nor a baronet either,
though I do hold your title in my pocket; never look glum at me.
It won't pay. I'm one of the Canting Crew now; no man shall
sneer at me with impunity, eh, Zory? Ha, ha! here's a glass of
Nantz; we'll have a bottle of black strap when you are master of
your own. Make ready there, you gut-scrapers, you shawm-

186 ROOKWOOD.

shavers; I'll put your lungs in play for you presently. In the
mean time — charge, pals, charge — a toast, a toast ! Health and
prosperity to Sir Luke Rookwood ! I see you are surprised — this,
gemmen, is Sir Luke Rookwood, somewhile Luke Bradley, heir
to the house of that name, not ten miles distant from this. Say,
shall we not drink a bumper to his health?"

Astonishment prevailed amongst the crew. Luke himself had
been taken by surprise. When Turpin discovered him at the door
of the tent, and summoned him to appear, he reluctantly complied
with the request; but when, in a half-bantering vein, Dick began
to rally him upon his pretensions, he would most gladly have re-
treated, had it been in his power. It was then too late. He felt
he must stand the ordeal. Every eye was fixed upon him with a
look of inquiry.

Zoroaster took his everlasting pipe from his mouth.

" This ain't true, surely ?" asked the perplexed Magus.

" He has said it," replied Luke ; " 1 may not deny it."

This was sufficient. There was a wild hubbub of delight amongst
the crew, for Luke was a favourite with all.

" Sir Luke Rookwood !" cried Jerry Juniper, who liked a title
as much as Tommy Moore is said to dote upon a lord. a Upon
my soul I sincerely congratulate you; devilish fortunate fellow.
Always cursed unlucky myself. I could never find out my own
father, unless it were one Monsieur des Capriolles, a French
dancing-master, and he never left anything behind him that I could
hear of, except a broken kit and a hempen widow. Sir Luke
Rookwood, we shall do ourselves the pleasure of drinking your
health and prosperity."

Fresh bumpers and immense cheering.

Silence being in a measure restored, Zoroaster claimed Turpin's
promise of a song.

u True, true," replied Dick ; " I have not forgotten it. Stand
to your bows, my hearties."

THE GAME OE HIGH TOBY.

Now Oliver (1) puts his black nightcap on,

And every star its glim (2) is hiding,
And forth to the heath is the scampsinan (3) gone,

His matchless cherry-black (4) prancer riding ;
Merrily over the common lie flies,

East and free as the rush of rocket,
His crape-covered vizard drawn over his eyes,

His tol (5) by his side, and his pops (6) in his pocket.

CHORUS.
Then who can name
So merry a game,
As the game of all games — high toby? (7)

(1) The moon. (2) Light. (3) Highwayman.

(4) " Cherry-coloured — black ; there being black cherries as well as red." —
Grose. (5) Sword. (6) Pistols. (7) Highway robbery.

EOOKWOOD. 187

The traveller hears him, away ! away !

Over the wide wide heath he scurries ;
He heeds not the thunderbolt summons to stay,

But ever the faster and taster he hurries.
But what daisy-cutter can match that black tit ?

He is caught — he must " stand and deliver;"
Then out with the dummy, (8) and off with the bit, (9)

Oh ! the game of high toby for ever !

CHORUS.

Then who can name

So merry a game,

As the game of all games— high toby ?

Believe me, there is not a game, my brave boys,

To compare with the game of high toby ;
No rapture can equal the tobyman's joys,

To blue devils, blue plumbs (10) give the go-by;
And what if, at length, boys, he come to the crap ! (11)

Even rack punch lias some bitter in it,
Eor the mare-with-three-legs, (12) boys, I care not a rap,

'Twill be over in less than a minute !

GRAND CHORUS.

Then hip, hurrah !

Fling care away!

Hurrah for the game of high toby !

a And now, pals," said Dick, who began to feel the influence of
these morning cups, u I vote that we adjourn. Believe me I shall
always bear in mind that I am a brother of your band. Sir Luke
and I must have a little chat together ere I take my leave.
Adieu!"

And taking Luke by the arm, he walked out of the tent. Peter
Bradley rose, and followed them.

At the door they found the dwarfish Grasshopper with Black
Bess. Rewarding the urchin for his trouble, and slipping the
bridle of his mare over his hand, Turpin continued his walk over
the green. For a few minutes he seemed to be lost in rumi-
nation.

"I tell you what, Sir Luke," said he; "I should like to do a
generous thing, anct make you a present of this bit of paper. But
one ought not to throw away one's luck, you know — there is a
tide in the affairs of thieves, as the player coves' say, which must

be taken at the flood, or else no matter ! Your old dad, Sir

Piers (God help him !), had the gingerbread, that I know; he was,
as we say, a regular rhino-cerical cull. You won't feel a few
thousands, especially at starting ; and besides, there are two others,
Rust and Wilder, who row in the same boat with me, and must
therefore come in for their share of the res'lars. All this COn-

(S) Pocket-book. (9) Money. (10) Bullets.

(11) The gallows. (12) Ditto.

188 ROOKWOOD.

sidered, you can't complain, I think, if I ask five thousand for it.
That old harridan, Lady Rookwood, offered me nearly as much."

" I will not talk to you of fairness," said Luke; u I will not say
that document belongs of right to me. It fell by accident into
your hands. Having possessed yourself of it, I blame you not that
you dispose of it to the best advantage. I must, perforce, agree to
your terms."

" Oh no," replied Dick, " it's quite optional ; Lady Rookwood
will give as much, and make no mouths about it. Soho, lass!
What makes Bess prick her ears in that fashion? — Ha! carriage-
wheels in the distance ! that jade knows the sound as well as I do.
I'll just see what it's like! — you will have ten minutes for re-
flection. Who knows if I may not have come in for a good thing
here?"

At that instant the carriage passed the angle of a rock some
three hundred yards distant, and was seen slowly ascending the
hill- side. Eager as a hawk after his quarry, Turpin dashed
after it.

In vain the sexton, whom he nearly overthrew in his career,
called after him to halt. He sped like a bolt from the bow.

"May the devil break his neck!" cried Peter, as he saw him
dash through the brook; "could he not let them alone?"

"This must not be," said Luke; "know you whose carriage
it is?"

" It is a shrine that holds the jewel that should be dearest in
your eyes," returned Peter; " haste, and arrest the spoiler's hand.

" Whom do you mean?" asked Luke.

" Eleanor Mowbray," replied Peter. " She is there. To the
rescue — away."

" Eleanor Mowbray !" echoed Luke — " and Sybil ! "

At this instant a pistol-shot was heard.

" Will you let murder be done, and upon your cousin?" cried
Peter, with a bitter look. " You are not what I took you for."

Luke answered not, but, swift as the hound freed from the
]eash, darted in the direction of the carriage.

ROOKWOOD. 139

CHAPTER VI.

ELEANCIt MOWBRAY.

Mischiefs

Are like the visits of Franciscan friars,
They never come to prey npon us single.

Devils' Law Case.

The course of our tale returns now to Eleanor Mowbray.
After she had parted from Ranulph Rookwood, and had watched
him disappear beneath the arches of the church porch, her heart
sank, and, drawing herself back within the carriage, she became a
prey to the most poignant affliction. In vain she endeavoured to
shake off this feeling of desolation. It would not be. Despair
had taken possession of her; the magic fabric of delight melted
away, or only gleamed to tantalise, at an unreachable distance. A
presentiment that Ranulph would never be hers had taken root in
her imagination, and overshadowed all the rest.

While Eleanor pursued this train of reflection, the time insen-
sibly wore away, until the sudden stoppage of the carriage aroused
the party from their meditation. Major Mowbray perceived that
the occasion of the halt was the rapid advance of a horseman,
who was nearing them at full speed. The appearance of the rider
was somewhat singular, and might have created some uneasiness as
to the nature of his approach, had not the major immediately re-
cognised a friend; he was, nevertheless, greatly surprised to see
him, and turned to Mrs. Mowbray to inform her that Father
Ambrose, to his infinite astonishment, was coming to meet them,
and appeared, from his manner, to be the bearer of unwelcome
tidings.

Father Ambrose was, perhaps, the only being whom Eleanor
disliked. She had felt an unaccountable antipathy towards him,
which she could neither extirpate nor control, during their long
and close intimacy. It may be necessary to mention that her reli-
gious culture had been in accordance with the tenets of the Romish
Church, in whose faith (the faith of her ancestry) her mother had
continued; and that Father Ambrose, with whom she had first be-
come acquainted during the residence of the family near Bordeaux,
was her ghostly adviser and confessor. An Englishman by birth,
he had been appointed pastor to the diocese in which they dwelt,
and was, consequently, a frequent visitor, almost a constant inmate,
of the chateau; yet though duty and respect would have prompted
her to regard the father with affection, Eleanor could never con-
quer the feelings of dislike and distrust which she had at first

190 ROOKWOOD.

entertained towards him; a dislike which was increased by the
strange control in which he seemed to hold her mother, who
regarded him with a veneration approaching to infatuation. It
was, therefore, with satisfaction that she bade him adieu. He had,
however, followed his friends to England under a feigned name
as (being a recusant Romish priest, and supposed to have been
engaged in certain Jesuitical plots, his return to his own country-
was attended with considerable risk), and had now remained do-
mesticated with them for some months. That he had been in some
way, in early life, connected with a branch of the house of Rook-
wood, Eleanor was aware (she fancied he might have been engaged
in political intrigue with Sir Reginald, which would have well ac-
corded with his ardent, ambitious temperament), and the know-
ledge of this circumstance made her doubly apprehensive lest the
nature of his present communication should have reference to her
lover, towards whose cause the father had never been favourable,
and respecting whose situation he might have made some discovery,
which she feared he might use to Ranulph's disadvantage.

Wrapped in a long black cloak, with a broad-brimmed hat
drawn closely over his brows, it was impossible to distinguish
further of the priest's figure and features beyond the circumstance
of his height, which was remarkable, until he had reached the car-
riage window, when, raising his hat, he disclosed a head that Titian
might have painted, and which, arising from the dark drapery,
looked not unlike the visage of some grave and saturnine Venetian.
There was a venerable expanse of forehead, thinly scattered with
hair, towering over black pent-house-like brows, which, in their
turn, shadowed keen penetrating eyes; the temples were hollow,
and blue veins might be traced beneath the sallow skin; the cheek-
bones were high, and there was something in the face that spoke
of self-mortification; while the thin livid lips, closely compressed,
and the austere and sinister expression of his countenance, showed
that his self-abasement, if he had ever practised it, had scarcely
prostrated the demon of pride, whose dominion might still be
traced in the lines and furrows of his haughty physiognomy. The
father looked at Mrs. Mowbray, and then glanced suspiciously at
Eleanor. The former appeared to understand him.

" You would say a word to me in private," said Mrs. Mowbray;
"shall I descend?"

The priest bowed assent.

a It is not to you alone that my mission extends," said he,
gravely ; " you are all in part concerned ; your son had better
alight with you."

" Instantly," replied the major. " If you will give your horse
in charge to the postilion, we will attend you at once."

With a feeling of renewed apprehension, connected, she knew
not why, with Ranulph, Eleanor beheld her relatives descend from
the carriage ; and, in the hope of gaining some clue from their

ROOKWOOD. 191

gestures to the subject of their conversation, she watched their mo-
tions as narrowly as her situation permitted. From the earnest
manner of the priest, and the interest his narrative seemed to
excite in his hearers, it was evident that his communication was
of importance.

Presently, accompanied by Father Ambrose, Mrs. Mowbray
returned to the carriage, while the major, mounting the priest's
horse, after bidding a hasty adieu to his sister, adding, with a look
that belied the consolation intended to be conveyed by his words,
that " all .was well," but without staying to offer her any explana-
tion of the cause of his sudden departure, rode back the way they
had just traversed, and in the direction of Rookwood. Bereft of
the only person to whom she could have applied for information,
though dying with curiosity and anxiety to know the meaning of
this singular interview, and of the sudden change of plans which
she felt so intimately concerned herself, Eleanor was constrained
to preserve silence, as, after their entrance into the carriage, her
mother again seemed lost in painful reflection, and heeded her not ;
and the father, drawing from his pocket a small volume, appeared
intently occupied in its perusal.

" Dear mother," said Eleanor, at length, turning to Mrs. Mow-
bray, a my brother is gone "

" To Rookwood," said Mrs. Mowbray, in a tone calculated to
check further inquiry ; but Eleanor was too anxious to notice it.

"And wherefore, mother?" said she. "May I not be in-
formed?"

" Not as yet, my child — not as yet," replied Mrs. Mowbray.
" You will learn all sufficiently early."

The priest raised his cat-like eyes from the book to watch the
effect of this speech, and dropped them instantly as Eleanor turned
towards him. She had been about to appeal to him, but having
witnessed this look, she relinquished her scarce-formed purpose, and
endeavoured to divert her tristful thoughts by gazing through the
glimmering medium of her tears upon the soothing aspect of ex-
ternal nature — that aspect which, in sunshine or in storm, has ever
relief in store for a heart embittered by the stormy coldness of the
world.

The road, meanwhile, led them through a long woody valley,
and was now climbing the sides of a steep hill. They were soon
in the vicinity of the priory, and of the gipsies' encampment. The
priest leaned forward, and whispered something in Mrs. Mowbray's
ear, who looked towards the ruined shrine, part of the mouldering
walls being visible from the road.

At the moment the clatter of a horse's hoofs, and the sound of a
loud voice, commanding the postilion, in a menacing tone, to stop,
accompanied by a volley of imprecations, interrupted the confer-
ence, and bespoke the approach of an unwelcome intruder, and
one whom all, too truly, feared would not be readily dismissed.

192 RGOKWOOD.

The postilion did his best to rid them of the assailant. Perceiving
a masked horseman behind him, approaching at a furious rate, he
had little doubt as to his intentions, and Turpin, for it was our
highwayman, soon made his doubts certainties. He hallooed to
him to stop ; but the fellow paid no attention to his command, and
disregarded even the pistol which he saw, in a casual glimpse over
his near side, presented at his person. Clapping spurs into his
horse's flanks, he sought succour in flight. Turpin was by his
side in an instant. As the highwayman endeavoured to catch his
reins, the lad suddenly wheeled the carriage right upon him, and
but for the dexterity of Turpin, and the clever conduct of his mare,
would inevitably have crushed him against the roadside. As it
was, his left leg was slightly grazed. Irritated at this, Turpin
fired over the man's head, and with the butt-end of the pistol felled
him from his seat. Startled by the sound, and no longer under
the governance of their rider, the horses rushed with frantic vio-
lence towards a ditch, that bounded the other side of the highway,
down which the carriage was precipitated, and at once overturned.
Turpin's first act, after he had ascertained that no mischief had
been occasioned to those within, beyond the alarm incident to the
shock, was to compel the postilion, who had by this time gained
his legs, to release the horses from their traces. This done, with
the best grace he could assume, and, adjusting his mask, he opened
the carriage, and proceeded to liberate the captives.

" Beg pardon, ma'am," said he, as soon as lie had released Mrs.
Mowbray; "excessively sorry, upon my soul, to have been the
cause of so much unnecessary alarm to you — all the fault, I assure
you, of that rascal of a postilion ; had the fellow only pulled up
when I commanded him, this botheration might have been avoided.
You will remember that, when you pay him — all his fault, I assure
you, ma'am."

Receiving no reply, he proceeded to extricate Eleanor, with
whose beauty the inflammable highwayman was instantly smitten.
Leaving the father to shift for himself, he turned to address some
observation of coarse gallantry to her: but she eluded his grasp,
and flew to her mother's side.

" it is useless, sir," said Mrs. Mowbray, as Turpin drew near
them, " to affect ignorance of your intentions. You have already
occasioned us serious alarm ; much delay and inconvenience. I
trust, therefore, that beyond our purses, to which, though scantily
supplied, you are welcome, we shall sustain no molestation. You
seem to have less of the ruffian about you than the rest of your
lawless race, and are not, I should hope, destitute of common
humanity."

" Common humanity !" replied Turpin : " bless you, ma'am, I'm
the most humane creature breathing — would not hurt a fly, much
less a lady. Incivility was never laid to my charge. This busi-
ness may be managed in a few seconds; and as soon as we have

ROOKWOOD. 193

settled the matter, I'll lend your stupid jack-boy a hand to put the
horses to the carriage again, and get the wheels out of the ditch.
You have a banker, ma'am, I suppose, in town — perhaps in the
country; but I don't like country bankers; besides, I want a little
ready cash in Rumville — beg pardon, ma'am, London I mean.
My ears have been so stunned with those Romany patterers, I
almost think in flash. Just draw me a check; I've pen and ink
always ready : a check for fifty pounds, ma'am — only fifty. What's
your banker's name? I've blank checks of all the best houses in
my pocket; that and a kiss from the pretty lips of that cherry -
cheek'd maid," winking to Eleanor, " will fully content me. You
see you have neither an exorbitant nor uncivil personage to deal
with."

Eleanor shrank closer towards her mother. Exhausted by pre-
vious agitation of the night, greatly frightened by the shock which
she had just sustained, and still more alarmed by the words and
gestures of the highwayman, she felt that she was momentarily in
danger of fainting, and with difficulty prevented herself from fall-
ing. The priest, who had succeeded in freeing himself from the
carriage, now placed himself between Turpin and the ladies.

u Be satisfied, misguided man," said the father, in a stern voice,
offering a purse, which Mrs. Mowbray hastily extended towards
him, " with the crime you have already committed, and seek not
to peril your soul by deeper guilt; be content with the plunder
you now obtain, and depart; for, by my holy calling, I affirm to
you, that if you advance one footstep towards the further molesta-
tion of these ladies, it shall be at the hazard of your life."

"Bravo!" exclaimed Turpin. "Now this is what I like; who
would have thought the old autem-bawler had so much pluck in
him? Sir, I commend you for your courage, but you are mis-
taken. I am the quietest man breathing, and never harm a human
being; in proof of which, only look at your rascal of a postilion,
whom any one of my friends would have sent post-haste to the
devil for half the trouble he gave me. Easy as I am, I never
choose to be balked in my humours. I must have the fifty and
the buss, and then I'm off, as soon as you like; and I may as well
have the kiss while the old lady signs the check, and then we shall
have the seal as well as the signature. Poh — poh — no nonsense !
Many a pretty lass has thought it an honour to be kissed by
JLurpin.

Eleanor recoiled with deepest disgust, as she saw the highway-
man thrust aside the useless opposition of the priest, and approach
her. He had removed his mask; his face, flushed with insolent
triumph, was turned towards her. Despite the loathing, which
curdled the blood within her veins, she could not avert her eyes.
He drew near her; she uttered a shrill scream. At that moment
a powerful grasp was laid upon Turpin's shoulder; he turned and
beheld Luke.

194 KOOKWOOD.

" Save me ! save me !" cried Eleanor, addressing the new
comer.

"Damnation!" said the highwayman, "what has brought you
here? one would think you were turned assistant to all distressed
damsels. Quit your hold, or, by the God above us, you will
repent it."

"Fool!" exclaimed Luke, "talk thus to one who heeds you."
And as he spoke he hurled Turpin backwards with so much
force that, staggering a few yards, the highwayman fell to the
ground.

The priest stood like one stunned with surprise at Luke's
sudden appearance and subsequent daring action.

Luke, meanwhile, approached Eleanor. He gazed upon her
with curiosity mixed with admiration, for his heart told him she
was very fair. A deathlike paleness had spread over her cheeks;
yet still, despite the want of colour, she looked exquisitely beautiful,
and her large blue eyes eloquently thanked her deliverer for her
rescue. The words she wanted were supplied by Mrs. Mowbray,
who thanked him in appropriate terms, when they were inter-
rupted by Turpin, who had by this time picked himself up, and
was drawing near them. His countenance wore a fierce expres-
sion.

" I tell you what," said he, " Luke Bradley, or Luke Rookwood,
or whatever else you may call yourself, you have taken a damned
unfair advantage of me in this matter, and deserve nothing better
at my hands than that I should call you to instant account for it —
and curse me, if I don't too."

"Luke Bradley!" interrupted Mrs. Mowbray — "are you that
individual?"

" I have been so called, madam," replied Luke.

"Father Ambrose, is this the person of whom you spoke?"
eagerly asked the lady.

" So I conclude," returned the priest, evasively.

"Did he not call you Luke Rookwood?" eagerly demanded
Eleanor. "Is that also your name?"

" Rookwood is my name, fair cousin," replied Luke, " if I may
venture to call you so."

" And Ranulph Rookwood is "

"My brother."

" I never heard he had a brother," rejoined Eleanor, with some
agitation. " How can that be?"

" I am his brother, nevertheless," replied Luke, moodily — " his

ELDER BROTHER !"

Eleanor turned to her mother and the priest with a look of
imploring anguish ; she saw a confirmation of the truth of this
statement in their glances. No contradiction was offered by either
to his statement ; both, indeed, appeared in some mysterious

EOOKWOOD. 195

manner prepared for it. This, then, was the dreaded secret. This
was the cause of her brother's sudden departure. The truth flashed
with lightning swiftness across her brain.

Chagrined and mortified, Luke remarked that glance of inquiry,
His pride was hurt at the preference thus naturally shown towards
his brother. He had been struck, deeply struck, with her beauty.
He acknowledged the truth of Peter's words. Eleanor's loveli-
ness was without parallel. He had seen nought so fair, and the
instant he beheld her, he felt that for Iter alone could he cancel
his vows to Sybil. The spirit of rivalry and jealousy was instantly
aroused by Eleanor's exclamations.

"His elder brother!" echoed Eleanor, dwelling upon his words,
and addressing Luke — " then you must be — but no, you are not,
you cannot be — it is Ranulph's title — it is not yours — you are
not "

"I am Sir Luke Rookwood," replied Luke, proudly.

Ere the words were uttered Eleanor had fainted.

"Assistance is at hand, madam, if you will accept it, and follow
me," said Luke, raising the insensible girl in his arms, and bearing
her down the hill towards the encampment, whither he was fol-
lowed by Mrs. Mowbray and the priest, between whom, during
the hurried dialogue we have detailed, very significant glances had
been exchanged. Turpin, who, as it may be supposed, had not
been an incurious observer of the scene passing, burst into his
usual loud laugh on seeing Luke bear away his lovely burden.

"Cousin! Ha, ha!" said he. "So the wench is his cousin.
Damme, I half suspect he has fallen in love with his new-found
cousin; and if so, Miss Sybil, or I'm mistaken, will look as yellow
as a guinea. If that little Spanish devil gets it into her pretty
jealous pate that he is about to bring home a new mistress, we
shall have a tragedy-scene in the twinkling of a bed-post. How-
ever, I sha'n't lose sight of Sir Luke until I have settled my
accounts with him. Hark ye, boy," continued he, addressing the
postilion; "remain where you are; you won't be wanted yet
awhile, I imagine. There's a guinea for you, to drink Dick
Turpin's health."

Upon which he mounted his mare, and walked her easily down
the hill.

" And so that be Dick Turpin, folks talk so much about," soli-
loquised the lad, looking curiously after him; "well, he's as civil-
speaking a chap as need be, blow my boots if he ain't! and if I'd
had a notion it were he, I'd have pulled up at first call, without
more ado. Nothing like experience — I shall know better another
time," added lie, pocketing the douceur.

Rushing swiftly down the hill, Luke tarried at the river's brink,
to sprinkle some of the cool element upon the pale brow of Eleanor.
As he held her in his arms, thoughts which he fain would have

O 2

106 EOOKWOOD.

stifled in their birth took possession of his heart. "Would she
were mine ! " murmured he. " Yet no ! the wish is unworthy."
But that wish returned unbidden.

Eleanor opened her eyes. She was still too weak to walk
without support, and Luke, raising her once more in his arms,
and motioning Mrs. Mowbray to follow, crossed the brook by
means of stepping-stones, and- conducted his charge along a by-
path towards the priory, so as to avoid meeting with the crew
assembled upon the green.

They had gained one of the roofless halls, when he encountered
Balthazar. Astonished at the sight of the party, the patrico was
about to address the priest as an acquaintance, when his more or-
thodox brother raised his finger to his lips, in token of caution.
The action passed unobserved.

" Hie thee to Sybil," said Luke to the patrico. " Bid her haste
hither. Say that this maiden — that Miss Mowbray is here, and
requires her aid. Fly ! 1 will bear her to the refectory."

As Balthazar passed the priest, he pointed with a significant
glance towards a chasm in the wall, which seemed to be an open-
ing to some subterraneous chamber. The father again made a
gesture of silence, and Balthazar hastened upon his mission.

Luke led them to the refectory. He brought a chair for Elea-
nor's support; but so far from reviving, after such attention as
could be afforded her, she appeared to become weaker. He was
about to issue forth in search of Sybil, when to his surprise
he found the door fastened.

" You cannot pass this way," said a voice, which Luke instantly
recognised as that of the knight of Malta.

"Not pass !" echoed Luke. " What does this mean?"

u Our orders are from the queen," returned the knight.

At this instant the low tone of a muffled bell was heard.

"Ha!" exclaimed Luke; "some danger is at hand."

His heart smote him as he thought of Sybil, and he looked
anxiously towards Eleanor.

Balthazar rushed into the room.

" Where is Sybil?" cried Luke. " Will she not come?"

" She will be here anon," answered the patrico.

"I will seek her myself, then," said Luke. "The door by
which you entered is free."

" It is not free," replied Balthazar. " Remain where you are."

"Who will prevent my going forth?" demanded Luke, sternly.

" I will," said Barbara Level, as she suddenly appeared in the
doorway. " You stir not, excepting at my pleasure. Where is
the maiden?" continued she, looking around with a grim smile
of satisfaction at the consternation produced by her appearance.
"Ha! I see; she faints. Here is a cordial that shall revive her.
Mrs. Mowbray, you are welcome to the gipsies' dwelling — you and
your daughter. And you. Sir Luke Rookwood, I congratulate

ROOKWOOD. 197

you upon your accession of dignity." Turning to the priest, who
was evidently overwhelmed with confusion, she exclaimed, "And
you too, sir, think you I recognise you not? We have met ere
this, at Kookwood. Know you not Barbara Lovel? Ha, ha! It
is long since my poor dwelling has been so highly honoured. But
I must not delay the remedy. Let her drink of this," said she,
handing a phial to Mrs. Mowbray. " It will instantly restore her."

" It is poison," cried Luke. " She shall not drink it."

"Poison!" reiterated Barbara. "Behold!" and she drank of
the liquid. " I would not poison your bride," added she, turning
to Luke.

" My bride !" echoed Luke.

" Ay, your bride," repeated Barbara.

Luke recoiled in amazement. Mrs. Mowbray almost felt in-
clined to believe she was a dreamer, so visionary did the whole
scene appear. A dense crowd of witnesses stood at the entrance.
Foremost amongst them was the sexton. Suddenly a shriek was
heard, and the crowd opening to allow her passage, Sybil rushed
forward.

CHAPTER VII.

M R S. MOWBRAY.

Well, go thy ways, old Nick Machiavel, there will never be the peer of thee
for -wholesome policy and good counsel : thou took'st pains to chalk men out
the dark paths and hidden plots of murther and deceit, and no man has the
grace to follow thee. The age is unthankful, thy principles are quite forsaken,
and worn out of memory. Shakerley Maraiion's Atitiqiwy.

Sybil's sudden entrance filled the group that surrounded Miss
Mowbray with new dismay. But she saw them not. Her soul
seemed riveted by Eleanor, towards whom she rushed ; and while
her eye wandered over her beauty, she raised the braided hair
from her brow, revealing the clear, polished forehead. Wonder,
awe, devotion, pity, usurped the place of hatred. The fierce ex-
pression that had lit up her dark orbs was succeeded by tender
commiseration. She looked an imploring appeal at Barbara.

" Ay, ay," returned the old gipsy, extending at the same time
the phial; "I understand. Here is that will bring the blood once
more into her pallid cheeks, and kindle the fire within her eyes.
Give her of this."

The effect of the potion was almost instantaneous, amply attest-
ing Barbara's skill in its concoction. Stifled respiration first pro-
claimed Eleanor's recovery. She opened her large and languid

198 ROOKWOOD.

eyes; her bosom heaved almost to bursting; her pulses throbbed
quickly and feverishly; and as the stimulant operated, the wild
lustre of excitement blazed in her eyes.

Sybil took her hand to chafe it. The eyes of the two maidens
met. They gazed upon each other steadfastly and in silence.
Eleanor knew not whom she regarded, but she could not mistake
that look of sympathy; she couid not mistake the tremulous pres-
sure of her hand; she felt the silent trickling tears. She returned
the sympathising glance, and gazed with equal wonder upon the
ministering fairy, for such she almost seemed, that knelt before
her. As her looks wandered from the kindly glance of Sybil to
the withered and inauspicious aspect of the gipsy queen, and
shifted thence 'to the dusky figures of her attendants, filled with
renewed apprehension, she exclaimed, " Who are these, and where
am I ?"

u You are in safety," replied Luke. " This is the ruined priory
of St. Francis; and those strange personages are a horde of gip-
sies. You need fear no injury from them."

" My deliverer!" murmured Eleanor; when all at once the re-
collection that he had avowed himself a Rookwood, and the elder
brother of Ranulph, flashed across her memory. " Gipsies ! did
you not say these people were gipsies? Your own attire is the
same as theirs. You are not, cannot be, the brother of Ranulph."

"I do not boast the same mother," returned Luke, proudly;
" but my father was Sir Piers Rookwood, and I am his elder
born."

He turned away. Dark thoughts swept across his brain. Mad-
dened by the beauty of Eleanor, stung by her slights, and insen-
sible to the silent agony of Sybil, who sought in vain to catch his
eye, he thought of nothing but of revenge, and the accomplish-
ment of his purposes. All within was a wild and fearful turmoil.
His better principles were stifled by the promptings of evil. " Me-
thinks," cried he, half aloud, " if the Tempter were near to offer
that maiden to me, even at the peril of my soul's welfare, I could
not resist it."

The Tempter was at hand. He is seldom absent on occasions
like the present. The sexton stood beside his grandson. Luke
started. He eyed Peter from head to foot, almost expecting to
find the cloven foot, supposed to be proper to the fiend. Peter
grinned in ghastly derision.

" Soh ! you would summon hell to your aid; and lo ! the devil
is at your elbow. Well, she is yours."

u Make good your words," cried Luke, impatiently.

" Softly — softly," returned Peter. " Moderate yourself, and
your wishes shall be accomplished. Your own desires chime with
these of others ; nay, with those of Barbara. She would wed you
to Miss Mowbray. You stare. But it is so. This is a cover for
some deeper plot; no matter. It shall go hard, despite her cun-

ROOKWOOD. 199

ning, if I foil her not at her own weapons. There is more mischief
in that old woman's brain than was ever hatched within the croco-
dile's egg; yet she shall find her match. Do not thwart her; leave
all to me. She is about it now," added he, noticing Barbara and
Mrs. Mowbray in conference together. " Be patient — I will watch
her." And he quitted his grandson for the purpose of scanning
more closely the manoeuvres of the old gipsy.

Barbara, meanwhile, had not remained inactive.

"You need fear no relapse in your daughter; I will answer for
that," said the old gipsy to Mrs. Mowbray; " Sybil will tend her.
Quit not the maiden's side," continued she, addressing her grand-
child, adding, in a whisper, " Be cautious — alarm her not — mine
eye will be upon you — drop not a word."

So saying, she shuffled to a little distance with Mrs. Mowbray,
keeping Sybil in view, and watching every motion, as the panther
watches the gambols of a fawn.

" Know you who speaks to you?" said the old crone, in the pe-
culiar low and confidential tone assumed by her tribe to strangers.
" Have you forgotten the name of Barbara Lovel ?"

"I have no distinct remembrance of it," returned Mrs. Mow-
bray.

"Think again," said Barbara; "and though years are flown,
you may perchance recal the black gipsy woman, who, when you
were surrounded with gay gallants, with dancing plumes, perused
your palm, and whispered in your ear the favoured suitor's name.
Bide with me a moment, madam," said Barbara, seeing that Mrs.
Mowbray shrank from the recollection thus conjured up; "I am
old — very old; I have survived the shows of flattery, and being-
vested with a powTer over my people, am apt, perchance, to take
too much upon myself with others." The old gipsy paused here,
and then, assuming a more familiar tone, exclaimed, " The estates
of Rookwood are ample "

" Woman, what mean you?"

" They should have been yours, lady, and would have been, but
for that marriage. You would have beseemed them bravely. Sir
Reginald was wilful, and erased the daughter's name to substitute
that of his son. Pity it is that so fair a creature as Miss Mowbray
should lack the dower her beauty and her birth entitle her to
expect. Pity that Ranulph Rookwood should lose his title, at the
moment when he deemed it was dropping into his possession.
Pity that those broad lands should pass away from you and your
children, as they will do, if Ranulph and Eleanor are united."

" They never shall 'be united," replied Mrs. Mowbray, hastily.

"'Twcrc indeed to wed your child to beggary," said Barbara.

Mrs. Mowbray sighed deeply.

" There is a way," continued the old crone, in a deep whisper,
" by which the estates might still be hers and yours",

"Indeed!" said Mrs. Mowbray, eagerly.

200 ROOKWOOD.

" Sir Piers Rookwood had two sons."
"Ha!"

" The elder is here."

"Luke — Sir Luke. He brought us hither."
" He loves your daughter. I saw his gaze of passion just now.
I am old now, but I have some skill in lovers' glances. Why not
wed her to him? I read hands — read hearts, you know. They
were born for each other. Now, madam, do you understand me?"
" But," returned Mrs. Mowbray, with hesitation, " though I
might wish for — though I might sanction this, Eleanor is betrothed
to Ranulph — she loves him."

"Think not of her, if you are satisfied. She cannot judge so
well for herself as you can for her. She is a child, and knows not
what she loves. Her affection will soon be Luke's. He is a noble
youth — the image of his grandfather, your father, Sir Reginald ;
and if your daughter be betrothed to any one, 'twas to the heir of
Rookwood. That was an essential part of the contract. Why
should the marriage not take place at once, and here?"
"Here! How were that possible?"

" You are within sacred walls. I will take you where an altar
stands. There is no lack of holy priest to join their hands toge-
ther. Your companion, Father Ambrose, as you call him, will do
the office fittingly. He has essayed his clerkly skill already on
others of your house."

" To what do you allude, mysterious woman ?" asked Mrs. Mow-
bray, with anxiety.

"To Sir Piers and Susan Bradley," returned Barbara. "That
priest united them."

" Indeed ! He never told me this."

"He dared not do so; he had an oath which bound him to con-
cealment. The time is coming when greater mysteries will be
revealed."

" 'Tis strange I should not have heard of this before," said Mrs.
Mowbray, musingly; "and yet I might have guessed as much
from his obscure hints respecting Ranulph. I see it all now. I
see the gulf into which I might have been plunged; but I am
warned in time. Father Ambrose," continued she, to the priest,
who was pacing the chamber at some little distance from them,
"is it true that my brother was wedded by you to Susan Brad-
ley?"

Ere the priest could reply the sexton presented himself.
" Ha, the very father of the girl !" said Mrs. Mowbray, " whom
I met within our family vault, and who was so strangely moved
when I spoke to him of Alan Rookwood. Is he here likewise?"

" Alan Rookwood !" echoed Barbara, upon whom a light seemed
suddenly to break ; " ha ! what said he of him ?"

" Ill-boding raven," interposed Peter, fiercely, " be content with

ROOKWOOD. 201

what thou knowest of the living, and trouble not the repose of the
dead. Let them rest in their infamy."

" The dead!" echoed Barbara, with a chuckling laugh: "ha!
ha ! he is dead, then ; and what became of his fair wife — his
brother's minion? 'Twas a foul deed, I grant, and yet there was
expiation. Blood flowed — blood "

" Silence, thou night hag," thundered Peter, " or I will have
thee burned at the stake for the sorcery thou practisest. Beware,"
added he, in a deep tone — " I am thy friend."

Barbara's withered countenance exhibited for an instant the
deepest indignation at the sexton's threat. The malediction trem-
bled on her tongue; she raised her staff to smite him, but she
checked the action. In the same tone, and with a sharp, suspicious
look, she replied, " My friend, sayest thou? See that it prove so,
or beware of me"

And, with a malignant scowl, the gipsy queen slowly shuffled
towards her satellites, who were stationed at the door.

CHAPTER VIII.

THE PARTING.

No marriage I esteem it, where the friends

Force love upon their children ; where the virgin

Is not so truly given as betrayed.

I would not have betrothed people (for

I can by no means call them lovers) make

Their rites no wedlock, but a sacrifice.

Combat of Love and Friend ship.

Eleanor Mowbray had witnessed her mother's withdrawal
from her side with much uneasiness, and was with difficulty pre-
vented by Sybil from breaking upon her conference with the
gipsy queen. Barbara's dark eye was fixed upon them during the
whole of the interview, and communicated an indefinite sense of
dread to Eleanor.

"Who — who is that old woman?" asked Eleanor, under her
breath. " Never, even in my wildest dreams, have I seen aught
so terrible. Why docs she look so at us? She terrifies me; and
yet she cannot mean me ill, or my mother — we have never injured
her?"

"Alas!" sighed Sybil.

"You sigh I" exclaimed Eleanor, in alarm. " Is there any real
danger, then? Help us to avoid it. Quick,- warn my mother;
she seems agitated. Oh, let me go to her."

202 ROOKWOOD.

" Husli !" whispered Sybil, maintaining an unmoved demeanour
under the lynx-like gaze of Barbara. " Stir not, as you value your
life; you know not where you are, or what may befal you. Your
safety depends upon your composure. Your life is not in danger;
but what is dearer than life, your love, is threatened with a fatal
blow. There is a dark design to wed you to another."
"Heavens!" ejaculated Eleanor, "and to whom?"
"To Sir Luke Rookwood."

" I would die sooner ! Marry him ? They shall kill me ere
they force me to it !"

"Could you not love him?"

"Love him ! I have only seen him within this hour. I knew
not of his existence. He rescued me from peril. I would thank
him. I would love him, if I could, for Ranulph's sake; and yet
for Ranulph's sake I hate him."

" Speak not of him thus to me," said Sybil, angrily. " If you
love him not, /love him. Oh ! forgive me, lady; pardon my im-
patience— my heart is breaking, yet it has not ceased to beat for
him. You say you will die sooner than consent to this forced
union. Your faith shall not be so cruelly attested. If there must
be a victim, I will be the sacrifice. God grant I may be the only
one. Be happy ! as happy as I am wretched. You shall see what
the love of a gipsy can do."

As she spoke, Sybil burst into a flood of passionate tears.
Eleanor regarded her with the deepest commiseration; but the
feeling was transient; for Barbara, now advancing, exclaimed,
"Hence to your mother. The bridegroom is waiting: to your
mother, girl!" And she motioned Eleanor fiercely away. "What
means this?" continued the old gipsy. "What have you said to
that girl? Did I not caution you against speech with her? and
you have dared to disobey me. You, my grandchild — the daugh-
ter of my Agatha, with whom my slightest wish was law. I
abandon you ! I curse you !"

"Oh, curse me not!" cried Sybil. "Add not to my despair."

"Then follow my advice implicitly. Cast off this weakness;
all is in readiness. Luke shall descend into the vaulted chapel,
the ceremony shall there take place — there also shall Eleanor die
— and there again shall you be wedded. Take this phial, place it
within the folds of your girdle. When all is over, I will tell you
how to use it? Are you prepared? Shall we set out?"

"I am prepared," replied Sybil, in accents hollow as despair;
" but let me speak with Luke before we go."

" Be brief, then — each moment is precious. Keep a guard upon
your tongue. I will to Mrs. Mowbray. You have placed the
phial in safety. A drop will free you from your troubles."

" 'Tis in that hope I guard it," replied Sybil, as she departed in
the direction of Luke. Barbara watched her join him, and then
turned shortly towards Mrs. Mowbray and her daughter.

ROOKWOOD. 203

" You are ill, clear Luke," said Sybil, who had silently approached
her faithless lover; "very ill."

"111!" echoed Luke, breaking into frantic laughter. "111!
Ha, ha ! — upon my wedding-day. No, I am well — well. Your
eyes are jaundiced by jealousy."

"Luke, dear Luke, laugh not thus. It terrifies me. I shall
think you insane. There, you are calmer — you are more like
yourself — more human. You looked just now — oh God! that I
should say it of you — as if you were possessed by demons."

"And if I were possessed, what then?"

"Horrible! hint not at it. You almost make me credit the
dreadful tales I have heard, that on their wedding-day the Hook-
woods are subject to the power of the c Evil One.'"

"Upon their wedding-day — and /look thus?"

" You do — you do. Oh ! cast this frenzy from you."

" She is mine — she is mine ! I care not though fiends possess me,
if it is my wedding-day, and Eleanor is my bride. And you say
I look like a Rookwood. Ha, ha!"

" That wild laughter again. Luke, I implore you, hear me one
word — my last "

" I will not bear reproaches."

" I mean not to reproach you. I come to bless you — to forgive
you — to bid you farewell. Will you not say farewell?"

" Farewell."

"Not so — not so. Mercy! my God! compassionate him and
me! My heart will break with agony. Luke, if you would not
kill me, recal that word. Let not the guilt of my death be yours.
'Tis to save you from that remorse that I die !"

" Sybil, you have said rightly, I am not myself. I know not
what demons have possession of my soul, that I can behold your
agonies without remorse ; that your matchless affection should
awaken no return. Yet so it is. Since the fatal moment when I
beheld yon maid, I have loved her."

" No more. Now I can part with you. Farewell!"

" Stay, stay ! wretch that I am. Stay, Sybil ! If we must part —
and that it must be so I feel — let me receive your pardon, if you can
bestow it. Let me clasp you once more within my arms. May
you live to happier days — may you "

"Oh, to die thus!" sobbed Sybil, disengaging herself from his
embrace. " Live to happier days, said you? When have /given
you reason to doubt, for an instant, the sincerity of my love, that
you should insult me thus?"

" Then live with me — live for me."

" If you can love me still, I will live as your slave, your minion,
your wife; aught you will have me be. You have raised me from
wretchedness. Oh!" continued she, in an altered tone, "have I
mistaken your meaning ! Did you utter those words in false com-
passion for my sufferings? — Speak, it is not yet too late — all may

204 EOOKWOOD.

be well. My fate — my life is in your hands. If you love me yet
— if you can forsake Eleanor, speak — if not, be silent."

Luke averted his head.

"Enough!" continued Sybil, in a voice of agony; " I under-
stand. May God forgive you ! Fare you well ! We shall meet
no more."

"Do we part for ever?" asked Luke, without daring to regard
her.

"For ever!" answered Sybil.

Before her lover could reply, she shot from his side, and plung-
ing amidst the dark and dense assemblage near the door, disap-
peared from view. An instant after, she emerged into the open
air. She stood within the roofless hall. It was filled with sun-
shine— with the fresh breath of morn. The ivied ruins, the '
grassy floor, the blue vault of heaven, seemed to greet her with a
benignant smile. All was riant and rejoicing — all, save her heart.
Amid such brightness, her sorrow seemed harsh and unnatural;
and as she felt the glad influence of day, she was scarcely able to
refrain from tears. It was terrible to leave this beautiful world,
that blue sky, that sunshine, and all she loved — so young, so soon.

Entering a low arch that yawned within the wall, she vanished
like a ghost at the approach of morn.

CHAPTER IX.

THE PHILTER.

Thou hast practised on her with foul charms-
Abused her delicate youth with drugs and minerals.

Shakspeare: Othello.

To return to Eleanor Mowbray. In a state of mind bordering
upon distraction, she rushed to her mother, and, flinging her
arms wildly round her neck, besought her to protect her. Mrs.
Mowbray gazed anxiously upon the altered countenance of her
daughter, but a few moments relieved her from much of her
uneasiness. The expression of pain gradually subsided, and the
look of vacuity was succeeded by one of frenzied excitement. A
film had, for an instant or two, dimmed her eyes; they now
gleamed with unnatural lustre. She smiled — the smile was sin-
gular; it was not the playful, pleasurable lighting up of the face
that it used to be; but it teas a smile, and the mother's heart was
satisfied.

Mrs. Mowbray knew not to what circumstance she could attri-
bute this wondrous change. She looked at the priest. He was

ROOKWOOD. 205

more apt in divining the probable cause of the sudden alteration
in Eleanor's manner.

" What if she has swallowed a love-powder?" said he, approach-
ing Mrs. Mowbray, and speaking in a whisper. " I have heard of
such abominable mixtures; indeed, the holy St. Jerome himself
relates an instance of similar sorcery, in his life of Hilarius; and
these people are said to compound them."

"It may be so," replied Mrs. Mowbray, in the same tone. " I
think that the peculiar softness in the eye is more than natural."

" I will at least hazard an experiment, to attest the truth or
fallacy of my supposition," returned the father. " Do you see
your destined bridegroom yonder?" continued he, addressing
Eleanor.

She followed with her eyes in the direction which Father Am-
brose pointed. She beheld Luke. We know not how to describe
the sensations which now possessed her. She thought not of Ra-
nulph; or, if she did, it was with vague indifference. Wrapped
in a kind of mental trance, she yielded to the pleasurable impulse
that directed her unsettled fancies towards Luke. For some mo-
ments she did not take her eyes from him. The priest and Mrs.
Mowbray watched her in silence.

Nothing passed between the party till Luke joined them.
Eleanor continued gazing at him, and the seeming tenderness of
her glance emboldened Luke to advance towards her. The soft
fire that dwelt in those orbs was, however, cold as the shining
win^ of the luciola.

Luke approached her; he took her hand — she withdrew it not.
He kissed it. Still she withdrew it not, but gazed at him with
gently-glimmering eyes.

"My daughter is yours, Sir Luke Rookwood," exclaimed Mrs.
Mowbray.

"What says the maid herself?" asked Luke.

Eleanor answered not. Her eyes were still fixed on him.

" She will not refuse me her hand," said Luke.

The victim resisted not.

"To the subterranean shrine," cried Barbara. And she gave
the preconcerted signal to the band.

The signal was repeated by the gipsy crew. We may here
casually note, that the crew had been by no means uninterested or
silent spectators of passing events, but had, on the contrary, in-
dulged themselves in a variety of conjectures as to their probable
issue. Several bets were pending as to whether it would be a
match or not after all. Zoroaster took long odds that the match
was off — oilering a bean to half-a-quid (in other words, a guinea
to a half-guinea) that Sybil would, be the bride. His offer was
taken at once by Jerry Juniper, and backed by the knight of
Malta.

206 KOOKWOOD.

"Ha! there's the signal," cried the knight; " I'll trouble you
for the bean."

"And I," added Jerry Juniper, "for another."

"See 'em fairly spliced first," replied the Magus; "that's vot
I betted."

" Veil, veil, a few minutes will settle that. Come, pals, to the
autem ken. Avay. Mind and obey orders."

" Ay, ay," answered the crew.

" Here's a torch for the altar of Hymen," said the knight, flash-
ing his torch in the eyes of the patrico as he passed him.

"For the halter of Haman, you might say," returned Balthazar,
sulkily. " It's well if some of us don't swing for it."

"You don't say," rejoined the perplexed Magus, " swing ! Egad,
I fear it's a ticklish business. But there's no righting shy, I fear,
with Barbara present; and then there's that infernal autem-bawler ;
it will be so cursedly regular. If you had done the job, Baity, it
would not have signified a brass farden. Luckily there will be no
vitnesses to snitch upon us. There will be no one in the vault be-
sides ourselves."

"There will be a silent and a solemn witness," returned Bal-
thazar, " and one whom you expect not."

" Eh ! Vot's that you say ? a spy ? "

But the patrico was gone.

" Make way there — make way, pals, for the bride and bride-
groom," cried the knight of Malta, drawing excalibur, and pre-
paring to lead the way to the vault.

The train began to move. Eleanor leaned upon the arm of her
mother. Beside them stalked Barbara, with an aspect of triumph.
Luke followed with the priest. One by one the assemblage quitted
the apartment.

The sexton alone lingered. " The moment is at hand," said he,
musingly, " when all shall be consummated."

A few steps brought him into the court. The crowd was there
still. A brief delay had taken place. The knight of Malta then
entered the mouth of the vault. He held his torch so as to reveal
a broken flight of steps, conducting, it would seem, to regions of
perpetual night. So thought Eleanor, as she shudderingly gazed
into the abyss. She hesitated; she trembled; she refused. But
her mother's entreaties, and Barbara's threatening looks, induced,
in the end, reluctant compliance. At length the place was empty.
Peter was about to follow, when the sound of a horse's hoofs broke
upon his ear. He tarried for an instant, and the mounted figure
of the highwayman burst within the limits of the court.

"Ha, ha! old earthworm," cried Dick, "my Nestor of the
churchyard, alone! Where the devil are all the folks gone?
Where's Sir Luke and his newT-found cousin, eh?"
Peter hastily explained.

EOOKTVOOD. 207

" A wedding under ground? famous! the thing of all others I
should like to see. I'll hang Bess to this ivy tod, and grub my
way with you thither, old mole."

" You must stay here, and keep guard," returned Peter,

" May I be hanged if I do, when such fun is going on."

"Hanged, in all probability, you will be," returned Peter;
"but I should not, were I you, desire to anticipate my destiny
Stay here you must, and shall — that's peremptory. You will be
the gainer by it. Sir Luke will reward you nobly. I will answer
for him. You can serve him most effectually. Ranulph Hook-
wood and Major Mowbray are expected here."

" The devil they are. But how, or why "

" I have not time to explain. In case of a surprise, discharge a
pistol; they must not enter the vault. Have you a whistle? for
you must play a double part, and we may need your assistance
below."

" Sir Luke may command me. Here's a pipe as shrill as the
devil's own cat-call."

" If it will summon you to our assistance below, 'tis all I need.
May we rely on you?"

"When did Dick Turpin desert his friends? Anywhere on
this side the Styx the sound of that whistle will reach me. I'll
ride about the court, and stand sentry."

" Enough" replied the sexton, as he dived under ground.

" Take care of your shins," shouted Dick. " That's a cursed
ugly turn, but he's used to the dark. A surprise, eh! I'll just
give a look to my snappers — flints all safe. Nov/ I'm ready for
them, come when they like." And, having made the circuit of
the place, he halted near the mouth of the subterranean chapel, to
be within hearing of Peter's whistle, and, throwing his right leg
lazily over his saddle, proceeded coolly to light a short pipe (the
luxury of the cigar being then unknown), humming the while
snatches of a ballad, the theme of which was his own calling.

THE SCAMPSMAJS.

Quis vere rex.

Seneca.

Chere is not a king, should you search the world round,
So blithe as the king of the road to be found ;
pistol's his sceptre, his saddle's his throne,
V> her.ee ne levies supplies, or enforces a loan.

Deny duicn.

To this monarch the highway presents a wide field,
Where each passing subject a tribute must yield;
His palace (the tavern !) receives him at night,
T\ here sweet lips and sound liquor crown all with delight.

Deny down.

208 ROOKWOOD.

The soldier and sailor, both robbers by trade,
Pull soon on the shelf, if disabled, are laid ;
The one gets a patch, and the other a peg,
But, while luck lasts, the highwayman shakes a loose leg !

Derry down.

Most fowl rise at dawn, but the owl wakes at e'en,
And a jollier bird can there nowhere be seen ;
Like the owl, our snug scampsman his snooze takes by day,
And, when night draws her curtain, scuds after his prey !

Derry down.

As the highwayman's life is the fullest of zest,

So the highwayman's death is the briefest and best ;

He dies not as other men die, by degrees !

But at once ! without wincing, and quite at his ease !

Derry down.

And thus, for the present, we leave him. O rare Dick Turpin !

CHAPTER X.

saint cyprian's cell.

Lasciate ogni speranza voi ch' entrate.

Dante.

Cyprian de Mulverton, fifth prior of the monastery of Saint
Francis, a prelate of singular sanctity, being afflicted, in his latter
days, with a despondency so deep that neither penance nor fasting
could remove it, vowed never again to behold, with earthly eyes,
the blessed light of heaven, nor to dwell longer with his fellow-
men ; but, relinquishing his spiritual dignity, u the world forget-
ting, by the world forgot," to immure himself, while living, within
the tomb.

He kept his vow. Out of the living rock that sustained the
saintly structure, beneath the chapel of the monastery, was another
chapel wrought, and thither, after bidding an eternal farewell to
the world, and bestowing his benediction upon his flock, whom he
committed to the care of his successor, the holy man retired.

Never, save at midnight, and then only during the performance
of masses for his soul's repose, did he ascend from his cpII: and as
the sole licrlit allowed within the dismal dungeon of his cnoioe vrs.f
that of a sepulchral lamp, as none spoke with him when in his re-
treat, save in muttered syllables, what eiFect must the lustre ema-
nating from a thousand tapers, the warm and pungent odours of
the incense-breathing shrine, contrasted with the earthy vapours of
his prison-house, and the solemn swell of the Sanctus, have had

EOOKWOOD. 209

upon his excited senses? Surely they must have seemed like a
foretaste of the heaven lie sought to gain !

Ascetic to the severest point to which nature's endurance could
be stretched, Cyprian even denied himself repose. He sought not
sleep, and knew it only when it stole on him unawares. His
couch was the flinty rock; and long afterwards, when the zealous
resorted to the sainted prior's cell, and were shown those sharp and
jagged stones, they marvelled how one like unto themselves could
rest, or even recline upon their points without anguish, until it
was explained to them that, doubtless, Pie who tempereth the
wind to the shorn lamb had made that flinty couch soft to the
holy sufferer as a bed of down. His limbs were clothed in a garb
of horsehair of the coarsest fabric; his drink was the dank drops
that oozed from the porous walls of his cell; and his sustenance,
such morsels as were bestowed upon him by the poor — the only
strangers permitted to approach him. No fire was suffered, where
perpetual winter reigned. None were admitted to his nightly
vigils; none witnessed any act of penance; nor were any groans
heard to issue from that dreary cave; but the knotted, blood-stained
thong, discovered near his couch, too plainly betrayed in what
manner those long lone nights were spent. Thus did a year roll
on. Traces of his sufferings were visible in his failing strength.
He could scarcely crawl; but he meekly declined assistance. He
appeared not, as had been his wont, at the midnight mass; the
door of his cell was thrown open at that hour; the light streamed
down like a glory upon his reverend head; he heard the distant
reverberations of the deep Miserere; and breathed odours as if
waited from Paradise.

One morn it chanced that they who sought his cell found him
with his head upon his bosom, kneeling before the image of the
virgin patroness of his shrine. Fearing to disturb his devotions,
they stood reverently looking on ; and thus silently did they tarry
for an hour ; but, as in that space he had shown no signs of mo-
tion, fearing the worst, they ventured to approach him. He was
cold as the marble before which he knelt. In the act of humblest in-
tercession— it may be, in the hope of grace — had Cyprian's spirit
fled.

" Blessed are they who die in the Lord," exclaimed his brethren,
regarding his remains with deepest awe. On being touched, the
body fell to the ground. It was little more than a skeleton.

Under the cloisters of the holy pile were his bones interred,
with a degree of pomp and ostentation that little accorded with
the lowliness and self-abasement of this man of many sorrows.

This chapel, at the time of which we treat, was pretty much in
the same condition as it existed in the days of its holy inmate.
Hewn out of the entrails of the rock, the roof, the vaults, the floor,
were of solid granite. Three huge cylindrical pillars, carved out
of the native rock, rough as the stems of gnarled oak-trees, lent

210 ROOKWOOD.

support to the ceiling. Support, however, was unneeded; an
earthquake would scarce have shaken down those solid rafters.
Only in one corner, where the water welled through a crevice of
the rock, in drops that fell like tears, was decay manifest. Here
the stone, worn by the constant dripping, had, in some places,
given way. In shape, the vault was circular. The interval
between each massive pillar formed a pointed arch. Again, from
each pillar sprang other archesr which, crossed by diagonal, ogive
branches, weaving one into the other, and radiating from the
centre, formed those beautifully intricate combinations upon which
the eye of the architectural enthusiast loves to linger. Within the
ring formed by these triple columns, in which again the pillars had
their own web of arches, was placed an altar of stone, and beside
it a crucifix of the same rude material. Here also stood the
sainted image of her who had filled the prior with holy aspira-
tions, now a shapeless stone. The dim lamp, that, like a star
struggling with the thick gloom of tx wintry cell, had shed its
slender radiance over the brow of the Virgin Thecla, was gone.
But around the keystone of the central arches, whence a chain
had once depended, might be traced in ancient characters, half
effaced by time, the inscription :

One outlet only was there from the chapel — that which led by
winding steps to the monastery ; one only recess — the prior's cell.
The former faced the altar; the latter yawned like the mouth of a
tomb at its back. Altogether it was a dreary place. Dumb were
its walls as when they refused to return the murmured orisons of
the anchorite. One uniform sad colouring prevailed throughout.
The grey granite was grown hoar with age, and had a ghostly
look; the columns were ponderous, and projected heavy shadows.
Sorrow and superstition had their tale, and a moral gloom
deepened the darkness of the spot. Despair, which had inspired
its construction, seemed to brood therein. Hope shunned its in-
exorable recesses.

Alone, within this dismal sanctuary, with hands outstretched
towards the desecrated image of its tutelar saint, knelt Sybil. All
was darkness. Neither the heavy vapours that surrounded her,
nor the shrine before which she bent, were visible; but, familiar
with the dreary spot, she knew that she had placed herself aright.
Her touch had satisfied her that she bowed before the altar of
stone; that her benighted vision was turned towards the broken
image of the saint, though now involved in gloom the most pro-
found; and with clasped hands and streaming eyes, in low and
mournful tones, she addressed herself in the following hymn to the
tutelar saint of the spot :

ROOKWOOD. 211

HYMN TO SAINT THECLA *

In my trouble, in my anguish,

In the depths of my despair,
As in grief and pain I languish,

Unto thee I raise my prayer.
Sainted virgin ! martyr'd maiden!

Let thy countenance incline
Upon one with woes o'erladen,

Kneeling lowly at thy shrine ;
That in agony, in terror,

In her blind perplexity,
Wandering weak in doubt and error,

Calleth feebly upon thee.
Sinful thoughts, sweet saint, oppress me,

Thoughts that will not be dismissed ;
Temptations dark possess me,

Which my strength may not resist.
1 am full of pain, and weary

Of my life ; I fain would" die :
Unto me the world is dreary ;

To the grave for rest I fly.
For rest ! — oh ! could I borrow

Thy bright wings, celestial Dove !
They should waft me from my sorrow,

Where Peace dwells in bowers above.
Upon one with woes o'erladen,

Kneeling lowly at thy shrine;
Sainted virgin ! martyr'd maiden !
Let thy countenance incline !
Mei miserere Virgo,

Requiem cetemam dona I

By thy loveliness, thy purity,

Unpolluted, imdefiled,
That in serene security

Upon earth's temptations smiled; —
By the fetters that constrain' d thee,

By thy flame-attested faith,
By the fervour that sustain'd thee,
By thine angel-ushered death; —
By thy soul's divine elation,

'Mid thine agonies assuring
Of thy sanctified translation
To beatitude enduring ; —
By the mystic interfusion

Of thy spirit with the rays,
That in ever-bright profusion

Bound the Throne Eternal blaze ; —
Bj thy portion now partaken,

With the pain-perfected just ;
Look on one of hope forsaken,
Prom the gates of mercy thrust.

Upon one with woes o'erladen,
Kneeling lowly at thy shrine,
Sainted virgin ! martyr'd maiden !
Let thv countenance incline !

Ora pro me mortis hora !
Sancta Virgo, cro te !

Kyrie Eleison I

* Set to music by Mr. F. Bonier.
p2

212 ROOKWOOD.

The sweet, sad voice of the singer died faintly away. The
sharpness of her sorrow was assuaged. Seldom, indeed, is it that
fervent supplication fails to call down solace to the afflicted. Sybil
became more composed. She still, however, trembled at the
thoughts of what remained to be done.

" They will be here ere my prayer is finished," murmured she
— " ere the end is accomplished for which I came hither alone.
Let me, oh ! let me make my peace with my Creator, ere I sur-
render my being to his hands, and then let them deal with me as
they will." And she bowed her head in lowly prayer.

Again raising her hands, and casting her eyes towards the black
ceiling, she implored, in song, the intercession of the saintly man
who had bequeathed his name to the cell.

HYMN TO SAINT CYPRIAN.

Hear ! oli ! hear me, sufferer holy,

Who didst make thine habitation
'Mid these rocks, devoting wholly

Life to one long expiation
Of thy guiltiness, and solely

By severe mortification
Didst deliver thee. Oh ! hear me !

In my dying moments cheer me.

By thy penance, self-denial,
Aid me in the hour of trial.

May, through thee, my prayers prevailing

On the Majesty of Heaven,
O'er the hosts of hell, assailing

My soul, in this dark hour be driven !
So my spirit, when exhaling,

May of sinfulness be shriven,
And His gift unto the Giver

May be rendered pure as ever !

By thy own dark, dread possession,
Aid me with thine intercession !

Scarcely had she concluded this hymn, when the torch of the
knight of Malta in part dissipated the gloom that hung around the
chapel.

ROOKWOOD. 213

CHAPTER XI.

THE BllIDAL.

Cart. I will not die ; I must not. I am contracted

To a young gentleman.
Executioner. Here's your wedding-ring. Duchess ofMalfy.

Slowly did the train descend; solemnly and in silence, as if
the rites at which they were about to assist had been those of
funereal, and not of nuptial, solemnisation. Indeed, to look upon
those wild and fierce faces by the ruddily-flashing torchlight,
which lent to each a stern and savage expression; to see those
scowling visages surrounding a bride from whose pallid cheeks
every vestige of colour, and almost of animation, had fled; and a
bridegroom, with a countenance yet more haggard, and demeanour
yet more distracted — the beholder must have imagined that the
soectacle was some horrible ceremonial, practised by demons rather
than human beings. The arched vault, the pillars, the torchlight,
the deep shadows, and the wild figures, formed a picture worthy
of Rembrandt or Salvator.

"Is Sybil within the chapel?" asked Barbara.
"I am here," returned a voice from the altar.
"Why do we tarry?" said the gipsy queen. "We are all as-
sembled. To the altar."

"To the altar!" shrieked Eleanor. "Oh! no — no "

" Remember my threat, and obey," muttered Barbara. " You
are in my power now."

A convulsive sob was all the answer Eleanor could make.
" Our number is not complete," said the priest, who had looked
in vain for the sexton. " Peter Bradley is not with us."

" Ha !" exclaimed Barbara. " Let him be sought for in-
stantly."

" Their search need not extend beyond this spot," said Peter,
stepping forward.

The knight of Malta advanced towards the altar. The torch-
light reddened upon the huge stone pillars. It fell upon the
shrine, and upon the ghastly countenance of Sybil, who stood be-
side it. Suddenly, as the light approached her, an object, hitherto
hidden from view, was revealed. Sybil uttered a prolonged and
fearful shriek; the knight recoiled likewise in horror; and a simul-
taneous cry of astonishment burst from the lips of the foremost of
the group. All crowded forwards, and universal consternation
prevailed amongst the assemblage. Each one gazed at his neigh-
bour, anxious to learn the' occasion of this tumult, and vague

214 ROOKWOOD.

fears were communicated to those behind, from the terrified
glances, which were the only answers returned by their comrades
in front.

" Who has dared to bring that body here?" demanded Barbara,
in a tone in which anger struggled with apprehension, pointing at
the same time to the ghastly corpse of a female, with streaming
hair, at the altar's feet. " Who has dared to do this, I say?
Quick! remove it. What do you stare at? Cravens! is this the
first time you have looked upon a corpse, that you should shrink
aghast — that you tremble before it? It is a clod — ay, less than a
clod. Awav with it! away, I say."

" Touch it not," cried Luke, lifting a cloud of black hair from
off the features ; " it is my mother's body."

u My daughter I" exclaimed the sexton.

"What!" vociferated Barbara, "is that your daughter — is that
the first Lady Rookwood ? Are the dead arisen to do honour to
these nuptials? Speak! you can, perchance, explain how she
came hither."

" I know not," returned Peter, glancing fiercely at Barbara ; u I
may, anon, demand that question of you. How came this body
here?"

" Ask of Richard Checkley," said Barbara, turning to the priest.
" He can, perchance, inform you. Priest," added she, in a low
voice, " this is your handiwork."

" Checkley !" screamed Peter. " Is that Richard Checkley? is
that "

"Peace!" thundered Barbara; "will none remove the body?
Once more I ask you, do you fear the dead?"

A murmur arose. Balthazar alone ventured to approach the
corpse.

Luke started to his feet as he advanced, his eyes glaring with
tiger fury.

" Back, old man," cried he, " and dare not, any of you, to lay a
sacrilegious finger on her corse, or I will stretch him that advances
as lowly as lies my mother's head. When or how it came hither
matters not. Here, at the altar, has it been placed, and none shall
move it hence. The dead shall witness my nuptials. Fate has
ordained it — my fate! o'er which the dead preside. Her ring
shall link me to my bride. I knew not, when I snatched it from
her death-cold finger, to what end I preserved it. I learn it now.
It is here." And he held forth a ring.

" 'Tis a fatal boon, that twice-used ring," cried Sybil ; " such a
ring my mother, on her death-bed, said should be mine. Such a

ring she said should wed me "

"Unto whom?" fiercely demanded Luke. «
"Unto Death !" she solemnly rejoined.

Luke's countenance fell. lie turned aside, deeply abashed, un-
able further to brook her gaze; while, in accents of such wildly-

ROOKWOOD. 215

touching pathos as sank into the hearts of eacli who heard her —
hearts, few of them framed of penetrable stuff — the despairing
maiden burst into the following strain :

THE TWICE-USED RING*

"Beware thy bridal day!"

On her death-bed sighed my mother;
"Beware, beware, I say,

Death shall wed thee, and no other.
Cold the hand shall grasp thee,
Cold the arms shall clasp thee,
Colder lips thy kiss shall smother !
Beware thy bridal kiss !

" Thy wedding-ring shall be

Erom a clay-cold linger taken;
Erom one that, like to thee,
Was by her love forsaken.
Eor a twice-used ring
Is a fatal thing ;
Her griefs who wore it are partaken —
Beware that fatal ring !

" The altar and the grave

Many steps are not asunder;
Bright banners o'er thee wave,
Shrouded horror lieth under.
Blithe mav sound the bell,
Yet 'twill "toll thy knell;
Scathed thy chaplct by the thunder —

Beware that blighted wreath !"

Beware my bridal day !

Dying lips my doom have spoken ;
Deep tones call me away ;

Erom the grave is sent a token.
Cold, cold fingers bring
That ill-omen'd ring ;
Soon will a second heart be broken !
This is my bridal day

There was a deep, profound silence as the last melancholy
cadence died away, and many a rugged heart was melted, even to
tears.. Eleanor, meanwhile, remained in a state of passive stupe-
faction, vacantly gazing at Sybil, upon whom alone her eyes were
fixed, and appearing indistinctly to apprehend the meaning of her
song.

" This is my bridal day," murmured she, in a low tone, when
Sybil had finished. " Said not that sweet voice so? I know 'tis
my bridal day. What a church you have chosen, mother! A
tomb — a sepulchre — but 'tis meet for such nuptials as mine — and
what wedding guests ! Was that pale woman in her shroud-like
dress invited here by you? Tell me that, mother."

* Set to music by Mr. F. Homer.

£16 HOOK.WOOD.

" My God, her senses are gone !" cried Mrs. Mowbray. " Why
did I venture into tins horrible place !"

" Ask not why now, madam," rejoined the priest. u The hour
for consideration is past. We must act. Let the marriage pro-
ceed, at all hazards; we will then take means to extricate ourselves
from this accursed place."

"Remove that horrible object," said Mrs. Mowbray; "it fasci-
nates the vision of my child."

"Lend me your hand, Richard Checkley," said Peter, sternly
regarding the priest.

"No, no," replied the priest, shuddering; "I will not, cannot
touch it. Do you alone remove it."

Peter approached Luke. The latter now offered no further
opposition, and the body was taken away. The eyes of Eleanor
followed it into the dark recesses of the vault ; and when she could
no longer distinguish the white flutter of the cereclothes, her
labouring bosom seemed, torn asunder with the profound sigh that
burst from it, and her head declined upon her shoulder.

" Let me see that ring," said the priest, addressing Luke, who
still held the wedding-ring between his fingers.

"I am not naturally superstitious," said Mrs. Mowbray; "whe-
ther my mind be affected with the horrors of this place, I know
not ; but I have a dread of that ring. She shall not use it."

" Where no other can be found," said the priest, with a signifi-
cant and peculiar look at Mrs. Mowbray, " I see no reason why
this should be rejected. I should not have suspected you, madam,
of such weakness. Grant there were evil spell, or charm, at-
tached to it, which, trust me, there is not — as how should there be,
to a harmless piece of gold ? — my benediction, and aspersion with
holy lymph, will have sufficient power to exorcise and expel it.
To remove your fears it shall be done at once."

A cup containing water was brought, together with a plate of
salt (which condiment the devil is said to abhor, and which is held
to be a symbol of immortality and of eternity; in that, being
itself incorruptible, it preserves all else from corruption), and, with
the customary Romish formula of prayer and exorcism, the priest
thrice mingled the crystal particles with the pure fluid ; after
which, taking the ring in his hand with much solemnity, he
sprinkled it with a few drops of the water which he had blessed;
made the sign of the cross upon the golden circlet ; uttered another
and more potent exorcism to eradicate and expel every device of
Satan, and delivered it back to Luke.

" She may wear it now in safety," said the sexton, with strong
contempt. " Were the snake himself coiled round that consecrated
bauble, the prayers of the devout Father Checkley would unclasp
his lithest folds. But wherefore do we tarry now? Nought lies
between us and the altar. The path is clear. The bridegroom
grows impatient."

S^§c<

THE MARRIAGE.

P. 217.

ROOKWOOD. 217

"And the bride?" asked Barbara.

" Is ready," replied the priest. " Madam, delay not longer.
Daughter, your hand."

Eleanor gave her hand. It was clammy and cold. Supported
by her mother, she moved slowly towards the altar, which was but
a few steps from where they stood. She offered no resistance, but
did not raise her head. Luke was by her side. Then for the first
time did the enormity of the cruel, dishonourable act he was about
to commit, strike him with its full force. He saw it in its darkest
colours. It was one of those terrible moments when the headlons:
wheel of passion stands suddenly still.

" There is yet time," groaned he. " Oh ! let me not damn
myself perpetually ! Let me save her; save Sybil; save myself."

They were at the altar — that wild wedding train. High over
head the torch was raised. The red li^ht flashed on bridegroom
and on bride, giving to the pale features of each an almost livid
look; it fell upon the gaunt aspect of the sexton, and lit up the
smile of triumphant malice that played upon his face; it fell upon
the fantastical habiliments of Barbara, and upon the haughty but
perturbed physiognomy of Mrs. Mowbray; it fell upon the salient
points of the Gothic arches; upon one moulded pillar; upon the
marble image of the virgin Thecla; and on the scarcely less marble
countenance of Sybil, who stood behind the altar, silent, statue-
like, immovable. The effect of light and shade on other parts of
the scene, upon the wild drapery, and harsh lineaments of many of
the group, was also eminently striking.

•Just as the priest was about to commence the marriage service,
a yelling chorus, which the gipsies were accustomed to sing at the
celebration of the nuptials of one of their own tribe, burst forth.
Nothing could be more horribly discordant than their song.

WEDDING CHORUS OF GIPSIES.

Scrape the catgut ! pass the liquor !
Let your quick feet move the quicker.

Ta-ra-la !

Dance and sing in jolly chorus,
Bride and bridegroom are before us,
And the patrico stands o'er us.

Ta-ra-la !

To unite their hands he's ready ;
Eor a moment, pals, be steady ;

Cease your quaffing,

Dancing, laughing ;

Leave oif riot,

And be quiet,

218 KOOKWOOD.

While 'tis doing.

"lis begun,
All is over !
Two are one !
The patrico has link'd 'era ;
Daddy Hymen's torch has blink'd 'em.
Amen !
To 't again !
Now for quaffing,
Now for laughing,
Stocking-throwing,
Liquor flowing ;
For our bridals are no bridles, and our altars never alter ;
Prom the flagon never flinch we, in the jig we never falter.
No ! that's not our way, for we
Are staunch lads of Romany.
For our wedding, then, hurrah !
Hurrah ! hurrah ! hurrah !

This uncouth chorus ended, the marriage proceeded. Sybil had
disappeared. Had she fled? No! she was by the bride. Eleanor
mechanically took her place. A faint voice syllabled the responses.
You could scarcely have seen Miss Mowbray's lips move. But the
answers were given, and the priest was satisfied.

He took the ring, and sprinkled it once again with the holy
water, in the form of the cross. He pronounced the prayer:
"Benedic, Dorniney annulum hunc, quern nos in tuo nomine benedi-
cimus, ut qua? eum gestaverit, jidelitatem integrant suo sponso lenens,
in pace et voluntate tud permaneat atque in mutud charitate semper
vivatP

He was about to return the ring to Luke, when the torch, held
by the knight of Malta, was dashed to the ground by some unseen
hand, and instantly extinguished. The wild pageant vanished as
suddenly as the figures cast by a magic-lantern upon a wall disap-
pear when the glass is removed. A wild hubbub succeeded.
Hoarsely above the clamour arose the voice of Barbara.

" To the door, quickly ! — to the door ! Let no one pass. I will
find out the author of this mishap anon. Away !"

She was obeyed. Several of the crew stationed themselves at
the door.

" Proceed now with the ceremony," continued Barbara. " By
darkness, or by light, the match shall be completed."

The ring was then placed upon the finger of the bride; and as
Luke touched it, he shuddered. It was cold as that of the corpse
which he had clasped but now. The prayer was said, the blessing
given, the marriage was complete.

Suddenly there issued from the darkness deep dirge-like tones,
and a voice solemnly chanted a strain, which all knew to be the
death-song of their race, hymned by wailing women over an ex-
piring sister. The music seemed to float in the air.

Cc-ot-q^ Gtou-W ?Kan4jx.

ROOKWOOD. 219

THE SOUL-BELL*

East the sand of life is failing,
East her latest sigh exhaling,

Fast, fast, is she dying.

With death's chills her linibs are Shivering,
With death's gasp the lips are quivering,

East her soul away is Hying.

O'er the mountain-top it fleeteth,
And the skyey wonders greeteth,
Singing loud as stars it meeteth
On its way.

Hark ! the sullen Soul-bell tolling,
Hollowly in echoes rolling,

Seems to say —

" She will ope her eyes — oh, never !
Quenched their dark light — gone for ever !
She is dead."

The marriage group yet lingered near the altar, awaiting, it
would seem, permission from the gipsy queen to quit the cell.
Luke stirred not. Clasped in his own, the cold hand of his bride
detained him; and when he would have moved, her tightened
grasp prevented his departure.

Mrs. Mowbray's patience was exhausted by the delay. She was
not altogether free from apprehension. u Why do we linger
here?" she whispered to the priest. "Do you, father, lead the
way."

"The crowd is dense," replied Checkley. "They resist my
effort."

" Are we prisoners here?" asked Mrs. Mowbray, in alarm.

" Let me make the attempt," cried Luke, with fiery impatience.
" I will force a passage out."

" Quit not your bride," whispered Peter, " as you value her
safety. Heed not aught else. She alone is in danger. Suffer her
not to be withdrawn from your hand, if you would not lose her.
Remain here. I will bring the matter to a speedy issue."

"Enough," replied Luke; "I stir not hence." And he drew
his bride closer towards him. He stooped to imprint a kiss upon
her lips. A cold shudder ran through her frame as he touched
them, but she resisted not his embrace.

Peter's attempt to effect an egress was as unsuccessful as that of
the priest. Presenting excalibur at his bosom, the knight of Malta
challenged him to stand.

" You cannot pass," exclaimed the knight ; " our orders are pe-
remptory."

" What am I to understand by this ?" said Peter, angrily.
" Why are we detained?"

* Set to music by Mr. E. Romer.

220 ROOKWOOD.

" You will learn all anon," returned Barbara. " In tlie mean
time, you are my prisoners — or, if you like not the phrase, my
wedding guests."

"The wedding is complete," returned the sexton; "the bride
and bridegroom are impatient to depart, and we, the guests —
albeit some of us may be no foes to darkness — desire not to hold
our nuptial revels here."

"Sybil's wedding has not taken place," said Barbara; "you
must tarry for that."

" Ha ! now it comes," thought Peter. " And who, may I ask,"
said he, aloud, " amongst this goodly company, is to be her bride-
groom?"

" The best amongst them," returned Barbara — " Sir Luke Rook-
w?ood"

"He has a bride already," replied Peter.

" She may be removed" said Barbara, with bitter and peculiar
emphasis. "Dost understand my meaning now?"

" I will not understand it," said Peter. " You cannot mean to
destroy her who now stands at the altar?"

" She who now stands at the altar must make way for a suc-
cessor. She who grasps the bridegroom's hand shall die. I swear
it by the oath of my tribe."

" And think you, you will be allowed to execute your murderous
intention with impunity?" shrieked Mrs. Mowbray, in an agony
of terror. "Think you that I will stand by and see my child
slaughtered before my face; that my friends will suffer it? Think
you that even your own tribe will dare to execute your horrible
purpose? They will not. They will side with us. Even now
they murmur. What can you hope to gain by an act so wild and
dreadful? What object can you have?"

"The same as your own," reiterated Barbara — " the advance-
ment of my child. Sybil is as dear to me as Eleanor is to you. She
is my child's child, the daughter of my best beloved daughter. I
have sworn to marry her to Sir Luke Rookwood. The means are
in my power. I will keep my vow; I will wed her to him. You
did not hesitate to tear your daughter from the man she loved, to
give her to the man she hated; and for what? For gold — for
power — for rank. I have the same motive. I love my child, and
she loves Sir Luke — has loved him long and truly; therefore shall
she have him. What to me is your child, or your feelings, except
they are subservient to my wishes? She stands in my way. I
remove her."

"Who placed her in your path?" asked the sexton. "Did you
not lend a helping hand to create that obstacle yourself?"

"I did," replied Barbara. "Would you know wherefore? I
will tell you. I had a double motive for it. There is a curse upon
the house of Rookwood, that kills the first fair bride each genera-
tion leads to the altar. Have you never heard of it?"

EOOKTTOOD. 221

"I have ! And did that idle legend sway you?"

"And do you call it idle? You! Well — I had another motive
— a prophecy."

"By yourself uttered," replied Peter.

"Even so," replied Barbara. "The prophecy is fulfilled. The
stray rook is found. The rook hath with rook mated. Lukehttth
wedded Eleanor. He will hold possession of his lands. The pro-
phecy is fulfilled."

"But how f" asked Peter; " will your art tell you how and why
he shall now hold possession? Can you tell me that?"

" My art goes not so far. I have predicted the event. It hns
come to pass. I am satisfied. He has wedded her. Be it mine
to free him from that yoke." And Barbara laughed exultingly.

The sexton approached the old crone, and laid his hand with
violence upon her shoulder.

"Hear me" cried he, "and I will tell you that which your jug-
gling art refuses to reveal. Eleanor Mowbrav is heir to the lands
of Kookwood ! The estates are hers ! They were bequeathed to
her by her grandsire, Sir Reginald."

" She was unborn when he died," cried Mrs. Mowbray.

"True," replied Peter; "but the lands were left to your issue
female, should such issue be born."

"And did Sir Piers, my brother, know of this? did he see this
will," asked Mrs. Mowbray, with trembling impatience.

"He did; and withheld the knowledge of it from you and
yours."

"Ah! why knew I not this before? Why did you not tell me
ere that was done which cannot be undone? I have sacrificed my
child."

" Because it did not chime with my purposes to tell you," re-
plied Peter, coldly.

"It is false — it is false," cried Mrs. Mowbray, her anger and
vexation getting the better of her fears. " I will not believe it.
Who are you, that pretend to know the secrets of our house?"

" One of that house," replied the sexton.

"Your name?"

" Would you know my name?" answered Peter, sternly. " The
time is come when I will no longer conceal it. I am Alan Rook-
wood."

" My father's brother!" exclaimed Mrs. Mowbray.

"Ay, Alan Rookwood. The sworn enemy of your father — of
you — of all of ye : your fate — your destiny — your curse. I am that
Alan Rookwood whose name you breathed in the vault. I am
he, the avenger — the avenged. I saw your father die. I heard
his groans — his groans! — ha, ha! I saw his sons die: one fell in
battle — I was with him there. The other expired in his bed. I
was with Sir Piers when he breathed his last, and listened to his
death agonies. 'Twas 1 who counselled him to keep the lands

222 ROOKWOOD.

from you and from your child, and lie withheld them. One only
amongst the race, whose name I have cast ofi^ have I loved ; and
him — because," added he, with something like emotion — a because
he was my daughter's child — Luke Rookwood. And even he shall
minister to my vengeance. He will be your curse — your daugh-
ter's curse — for he loves her not. Yet he is her husband, and hath
her land; — ha, ha!" And he laughed till he became convulsed
with the paroxysm of fiendish exultation.

66 Mine ears are stunned," cried Mrs. Mowbray.

"The bride is mine; relinquish her to me," said Barbara.
u Advance and seize her, my children."

Alan Rookwood (for so we shall henceforth denominate the
sexton) suddenly grew calm : he raised the whistle to his lips, and
blew a call so loud and shrill, that those who were advancing hung
back irresolute.

There was a rush at the door of the vault. The sentinels were
struck down; and with pistols in each hand, and followed by two
assistants, Dick Turpin sprang into the thick of the crew.

" Here we are," cried he, " ready for action. Where is Sir Luke
Rookwood? where my churchyard pal, Peter?"

u Here," cried the sexton and Luke simultaneously.

" Then stand aside," cried Dick, pushing in the direction of the
sounds, and bearing down all opposition. " Have a care there —
these triggers are ticklish. Friend or foe, he who touches me
shall have a bullet in his gizzard. Here I am, pal Peter; and here
are my two chums, Rust and Wilder. Cut the whid."

"Have we license to pass scathless now?" asked the sexton;
" or shall we make good our way?"

" You shall not pass," cried Barbara, furiously. " Think you to
rob me of my prey? What, cowards ! do you hesitate? Ha !"

" Kindle the torches," cried several voices. " We fight not in
the dark."

A pistol was flashed. The torch again blazed. Its light fell
upon a tumultuous group.

" Seize the bride," cried Barbara.

"Hold!" exclaimed a voice from the altar. The voice was that
of Sybil.

Her hand was clasped in that of Luke. Eleanor had fainted in
the arms of the gipsy girl Handassah.

"Are you my bride?" ejaculated Luke, in dismay.

" Behold the ring upon my finger ! Your own hand placed it
there."

"Betrayed!" screamed Alan, in a voice of anguish. "My
schemes annihilated — myself undone — my enemies triumphant —
lost ! lost ! All is destroyed— all !"

"Joy! joy!" exclaimed Mrs. Mowbray: "my child is saved."

" And mine destroyed," groaned Barbara. " I have sworn by
the cross to slay the bride — and Sybil is that bride."

EOOKWOOD 22.°,

CHAPTER XII.

ALAN ROOKWOOD.

The wolf shall find her grave, and scrape it up ;

Not to devour the corse, but to discover

The horrid murthcr. Webster.

u Bravo ! capital !" cried Turpin, laughing loud and long as an
Olympian deity ; " has this simple wench outwitted you all ; turned
the tables upon the whole gang of plotters, eh? Excellent! ha,
ha, ha ! The next time you wed, Sir Luke, let me advise you not
to choose a wife in the dark. A man should have all his senses
about him on these occasions. Make love when the liquor's in;
marry when it's out, and, above all, with your eyes open. This
beats cock-fighting — ha, ha, ha ! — you must excuse me; but, upon
my soul, I can't help it." And his laughter seemed inextinguish-
able.

" Take your men without," whispered Alan Rookwood ; " keep
watch as before, and let the discharge of a pistol bespeak the
approach of danger as agreed upon; much yet remains to be done
here."

"How so?" asked Dick: "it seems to me the job's entirely
settled — if not to your satisfaction. I'm always ready to oblige my
friend Sir Luke; but curse me if I'll lend my help to any under-
hand work. Steer clear of foul play, or Dick Turpin holds no
hand with you. As to that poor wench, if you mean her any
harm, curse me if I will "

" No harm is intended her," replied Alan. " I applaud your
magnanimity," added he, sarcastically; "such sentiments are, it
must be owned, in excellent keeping with your conduct."

" In keeping or not," replied Turpin, gravely, " cold-blooded
murder is altogether out of my line, and I wash my hands of it. A
shot or two in self-defence is another matter; and when "

" A truce to this," interrupted Alan ; " the girl is safe. Will
you mount guard again?"

" If that be the case, certainly," replied Dick : " I shall be glad
to 2jet back to Bess. I couldn't bring; her with me into this black
hole. A couple of shots will tell you 'tis Ranulph Rookwood.
But mind, no harm to the gipsy girl — to Lady Rookwood, I
should say. She's a jewel, take my word for it, which Sir Luke
must be mad to throw away." And calling his companions, he
departed.

Alan Rookwood bent his steps towards the gipsy queen. Dark
thoughts gathered thickly o'er his brow. He smiled as he drew
nigh to Barbara — a smile it was

That wrinkled up his skin even to the hair.

224 eookwood.

Barbara looked at him at first with distrust; but as be developed
his secret purposes, that smile became reflected upon ber own fea-
tures. Their conference took place apart. We willingly leave
them to return to the altar.

Mrs. Mowbray and the priest were still there. Both were occu-
pied in ineffectual endeavours to restore. Eleanor to consciousness.
She recovered from ber swoon; but it was evident ber senses still
wandered; and vainly did Mrs. Mowbray lavish her tenderest
caresses upon her child. Eleanor returned them not.

Luke, meanwhile, had given vent to the wildest fury. He
shook away Sybil's grasp; he dashed her from him; he regarded
her with withering glances ; he loaded her with reproaches.
She bore his violence with meekest submission; she looked im-
ploringly— but she replied not to his taunts. Again she clung to
the hem of his garment when cast aside. Luke appeared un-
moved ; what passed within we pause not to examine. He grew
calmer; his calmness was more terrible to Sybil than his previous
wrath had been.

"You are my wife," said he; "what then? By fraud, by
stratagem, you have obtained that title, and, perforce, must keep
it. But the title only shall you retain. No rights of wife shall
ever be yours. It will be in your power to call yourself Lady
Rookwood — you w7ill be so in name — in nothing else."

"I shall not bear it long," murmured Sybil.

Luke laughed scornfully. "So you said before," replied he;
" and yet I see not why you are likely to abandon it. The event
will show. Thus far you have deceived me, and I place no further
faith in your assertions. My hand was yours; you refused it.
When I would give it to another, you grasp it clandestinely. Am
I to believe you now? The wind will change — the vane veer
with it."

" It will not veer from you," she meekly answered.

" Why did you step between me and my bride?"

"To save her life; to lay down mine for hers."

" An idle subterfuge. You know well that you run no risk of
being called upon to do so. Your life is in no danger. The
sacrifice was unnecessary. I could have dispensed with your as-
sistance : my own arm would have sufficed to protect Eleanor."

" Your single arm would not have prevailed against numbers :
they would have killed you likewise."

"Tush!" said Luke, fiercely. "Not only have you snatched
from me my bride, you have robbed me of my fair estates, of all,
save of my barren title, and that, even that, you have tarnished."

" True, true," sighed Sybil. " I knew not that the lands were
hers, else had I never done it."

" False, false," cried Luke ; " false as the rest. They will be
Ranulph's. She will be Kanulph's. I shall still be an outcast,
while Ranulph will riot in my halls — will press her to his bosom.

ROOKWOOD. 225

Cling not to me. Hence ! or I will spurn you from me. I am
undone, undone by you, accursed one."

" Oh, curse me not ! your words cut deep enough."

" Would they could kill you," cried Luke, with savage bitter"
ness.. " You have placed a bar between me and my prospects,
which nothing can now remove — nothing but — ha!" and his
countenance assumed a deadly hue and fearful expression. u By
Heaven, you almost rouse the fell spirit which it is said dwells
within the breast of my devoted race. I feel as if I could stab
thee."

" No, no !" shrieked Sybil ; " for mercy's sake, for your own sake,
do not stab me. It is not too late. I will repair my wrong!"

u Ever deceiving ! you would again delude me. You cannot
repair it. One way alone remains, and that "

" I will pursue," responded Sybil, sadly, but firmly.

"Never," cried Luke; "you shall not. Ha!" exclaimed he,
as he found his arms suddenly pinioned behind him. " What new
treachery is this? By whose orders am I thus fettered."

aBy mine," said Alan Rookwood, stepping forward.

"By yours?" echoed Luke. "And wherefore? Release me."

" Be patient," replied Alan. " You will hear all anon. In the
mean time you must be content to remain my prisoner. Quit not
your hold," added he, addressing the gipsies, who kept charge of
Luke.

"Their lives shall answer for their obedience," said Barbara.

Upon a further signal from Alan, Eleanor was torn from her
mother's arms, and a bandage passed so suddenly over Mrs. Mow-
bray's face, that, before she could raise a cry of alarm, all possi-
bility of utterance was effectually prevented. The priest alone
was left at liberty.

Barbara snatched the hand of Eleanor. She draped her to
Sybil.

"You are Lady Rookwood," whispered she; "but she has your
domains. I give her to you."

" She is the only bar between thy husband and his rights," whis-
pered Alan Rookwood, in a tone of horrible irony ; " it is not too
late to repair your wrong"

" Away, tempter !" cried Sybil, horror-stricken. " I know you
well. Yet," continued she, in an altered tone, " I will risk all for
him. I have done him wrong. One mode of atonement remains;
and, horrible though it be, I will embrace it. Let me not pause.
Give her to me." And she seized upon the unresisting hand of
Eleanor.

"Do you need my aid?" asked Barbara.

"No," replied Sybil; " let none approach us. A clapping of
hands will let you know when all is over." And she dragged her
passive victim deeper into the vault.

" Sybil, Sybil !" cried Luke, struggling with frantic violence to

226 ROOKWOOD.

liberate himself; "hurt her not. I was rash. I was mad. lam
calmer now. She hears me not — she will not turn. God of
heaven ! she will murder her. It will be done while I speak. I
am the cause of all. Release me, villains ! Would that I had
died ere I had seen this day."

At a signal from the sexton, Luke also was blindfolded. He
ceased to. struggle. But his labouring breast told of the strife
within.

a Miscreants !" exclaimed the priest, who had hitherto witnessed
the proceedings in horror. " W hy do not these rocks fall in, and
crush you and your iniquities? Save her! oh, save her! Have
you no pity for the innocent?"

" Such pity have we," replied Alan Rookwood, " as you showed
my daughter. She was as innocent as Eleanor Mowbray, and yet
you did not pity her ."

u Heaven is my witness," exclaimed the priest, u that I never
injured her."

" Take not Heaven's name in vain," cried Alan. " Who stood
by while it was doing? Whose firmer hand lent aid to the mur-
derer's trembling efforts? Whose pressure stifled her thrilling
screams, and choked her cries for mercy? Yours — yours; and
now you prate to me of pity — you, the slayer of the sleeping and
the innocent?"

" 'Tis false !" exclaimed the priest, in extremity of terror.

"False!" echoed Alan. "I had Sir Piers's own confession.
He told me all. You had designs upon Sir Piers, which his wife
opposed; you hated her; you were in the confidence of both —
how did you keep that confidence? He told me howy by awaken-
ing a spirit of jealousy and pride, that o'ermastered all his better
feelings. False ! He told me of your hellish machinations ; your
Jesuitical plots; your schemes. He was too weak, too feeble an
instrument to serve you. You left him, but not before she had
left him. False ! ha, I have that shall instantly convict you. The
corpse is here, within this cell. Who brought it hither?"

The priest was silent : he seemed confounded by Alan's violence.

"I will answer that question," said Barbara. " It was brought
hither by that false priest. His agent, Balthazar, lias betrayed
him. It was brought hither to prevent the discovery of Sir Luke
Rookwood's legitimacy. He meant to make his own terms about
it. It has come hither to proclaim his guilt — to be a fearful wit-
ness against him." Then, turning to Checkley, she added, u You
have called Heaven to witness your innocence : you shall attest it
by oath upon that body ; and should aught indicate your guilt, I
will hang you as "I would a dog, and clear off one long score with
justice. Do you shrink from this?"

" No," replied the priest, in a voice hollow and broken. " Bring
me to the body."

" Seize each an arm," said Barbara, addressing Zoroaster and
the knight of Malta, "and lead him to the corse."

ROOKWOOD. 227

" I will administer the oath," said Alan Rookwood, sternly.
" No, not you," stammered the priest.

" And wherefore not?" asked Alan. " If you are innocent, you
need fear nothing from her."

" I fear nothing from the dead" replied Chcckley ; " lead
on.

We will now return to Sybil. She was alone with her victim.
They were near the mouth of the cell which had been Prior
Cyprian's flinty dormitory, and were almost involved in darkness.
A broken stream of light glanced through the pillars. Eleanor
had not spoken. She suffered herself to be dragged thither with-
out resistance, scarcely conscious, it would seem, of her danger.
Sybil gazed upon her for some minutes with sorrow and surprise.
" She comprehends not her perilous situation," murmured Sybil.
" She knows not that she stands upon the brink of the grave.
Oh ! would that she could pray. Shall I, her murderess, pray
for her ? My prayers would not be heard. And yet, to kill her
unshriven will be a twofold crime. Let me not look on her.
My hand trembles. I can scarce grasp the dagger. Let me think
on all he has said. I have wronged him. I am his bane, his
curse! I have robbed him of all: there is but one remedy — 'tis
this ! — Oh God ! she recovers. I cannot do it now."

It was a fearful moment for Eleanor's revival, when the bright
steel flashed before her eyes. Terror at once restored her. She
cast herself at Sybil's feet.

" Spare, spare me!" cried she. "Oh! what a dream I have
had. And to waken thus, with the dagger's point at my breast.
You will not kill me — you, gentle maid, who promised to preserve
me. Ah, no, I am sure you will not."

" Appeal no more to me," said Sybil, fiercely. " Make your
peace with Heaven. Your minutes are numbered."

" I cannot pray," said Eleanor, " while you are near me."
" Will you pray if I retire and leave you?"
" No, no. I dare not — cannot," shrieked Eleanor, in extremity
of terror. " Oh ! do not leave me, or let me go."
" If you stir," said Sybil, " I stab you to the heart."
" I will not stir. I will kneel here for ever. Stab me as I
kneel — as I pray to you. You cannot kill me while I cling to
you thus — while I kiss your hands — while I bedew them with my
tears. Those tears will not sully them like my blood."

" Maiden," said Sybil, endeavouring to withdraw her hand,
" let oo your hold — your sand is run."
" Mercy !"

" It is in vain. Close your eyes."

" No, I will fix them on you thus — you cannot strike then. I
will cling to you — embrace you. Your nature is not cruel — your
soul is full of pity. It melts — those tears — you will be merciful.
You cannot deliberately kill me."

228 EOOKWOOD.

"' I cannot — I cannot !" said Sybil, with a passionate outburst
of grief. " Take your life on one condition."

" Name it."

a That you wed Sir Luke Rookwood."

"Ah!" exclaimed Eleanor, "all rushes back upon me at that
name ; the whole of that fearful scene passes in review before me."

" Do you reject my proposal?"

" I dare not."

" I must have your oath. Swear by every hope of eternity that
you will wed none other than him."

" By every hope, I swear it."

" Handassah, you will bear this maiden's oath in mind, and
witness its fulfilment."

" I will," replied the gipsy girl, stepping forward from a recess,
in which she had hitherto remained unnoticed.

" Enough. I am satisfied. Tarry with me. Stir not — scream
not, whatever you may see or hear. Your life depends upon your
firmness. When I am no more "

u No more?" echoed Eleanor, in horror.

" Be calm," said Sybil. " When I am dead, clap your hands
together. They will come to seek you — they will find me in your
stead. Then rush to him — to Sir Luke Rookwood. He will
protect you. Say to him hereafter that I died for the wrong I did
him — that I died, and blessed him."

" Can you not live, and save me?" sobbed Eleanor.

" Ask it not. While I live, your life is in danger. When I
am gone, none will seek to harm you. Fare you well ! Remember
}rour oath, and you, too, remember it, Handassah. Remember also
— ha! that groan !"

All started, as a deep groan knelled in their ears.

u Whence comes that sound?" cried Sybil. " Hist ! — a voice?"

u It is that of the priest," cried Eleanor. ci Llark ! he groans.
They have murdered him ! Kind Heaven, receive his soul !"

" Pray for me," cried Sybil: u pray fervently; avert your face;
down on your knees — down — down ! Farewell, Handassah !"
And breaking from them, she rushed into the darkest recesses of
the vault.

We must now quit this painful scene for another scarcely less
painful, and return to the unfortunate priest.

Checkley had been brought before the body of Susan Rook-
wood. Even in the gloom, the shimmer of the white cereclothes,
and the pallid features of the corpse, were ghastly enough. The
torchlight made them terrible.

" Kneel!" said Alan Rookwood. The priest complied. Alan
knelt beside him.

" Do you know these features?" demanded he. " Regard them
well. Fix your eyes full upon them. Do you know them?"

" I do."

" Place your hand upon her breast. Docs not the flesh creep

ROOKWOOD. 229

and shrink beneath your touch? Now raise your hand — make the
cross of your faith upon her bosom. By that faith you swear you
are innocent?"

" I do," returned the priest; "are you now satisfied?"

" No," replied Alan. " Let the torch be removed. Your inno-
cence must be more deeply attested," continued he, as the light
was withdrawn. "This proof will not fail. Entwine your fingers
round her throat."

" Have I not done enouirh?"

" Your hesitation proves your guilt," said Alan.

" That proof is wanting, then?" returned the priest ; " my hand
is upon her throat — what more?"

" As you hope for mercy in your hour of need, swear that you
never conspired against her life, or refused her mercy."

" I swear it."

"May the dead convict you of perjury if you have forsworn
yourself," said Alan; "you are free. Take away your hand?"

"Ha! what is this?" exclaimed the priest. "You have put
some jugglery upon me. I cannot withdraw my hand. It sticks
to her throat, as though 'twere glued by blood. Tear me away.
I have not force enough to liberate myself. Why do you grin at
me? The corpse grins likewise. It is jugglery. I am innocent.
You would take away my life. Tear me away, I say: the veins
rise; they blacken; they are filling with new blood. I feel them
swell ; they coil like living things around my fingers. She is
alive."

" And you are innocent?"

" I am — I am. Let not my ravines convict me. For Jesu's
sake, release me."

" Blaspheme not, but arise. I hold you not."

" You do," groaned the priest. " Your grasp tightens round
my throat ; your hard and skinny fingers are there — I strangle —
help!"

" Your own fears strangle you. My hand is at my side," re-
turned Alan, calmly.

" Villain, you lie. Your grasp is like a vice. The strength of
a thousand devils is in your hand. Will none lend help. I never
pressed so hard. Your daughter never suffered this torture —
never — never. I choke — choke — oh !" And the priest rolled
heavily backwards.

There was a deep groan ; a convulsive rattle in the throat ; and
all was still.

" He is dead — strangled," cried several voices, holding down
the torch- The face of the priest was blackened and contorted;
his eyeballs protruded from their sockets; his tongue was nearly
bitten through in the desperate efforts he had made to release him-
self from Alan's gripe ; his hair was erect with horror. It was a
ghastly sight.

230 ROOKWOOD.

A murmur arose amongst the gipsies. Barbara deemed it pru-
dent to appease them.

" He was guilty," cried she. " He was the murderer of Susan
Rookwood."

" And I, her father, have avenged her," said Alan, sternly.

The dreadful silence that followed this speech was broken by the
report of a pistol. The sound, though startling, was felt almost as
a relief.

" We are beset," cried Alan. " Some of you fly to recon-
noitre."

" To your posts," cried Barbara.

Several of the crew flocked to the entrance.

" Unbind the prisoners," shouted Alan.

Mrs. Mowbray and Luke were accordingly set free.

Two almost simultaneous reports of a pistol were now heard.

" 'Tis Ranulph Rookwood," said Alan ; u that was the precon-
certed signal."

" Ranulph Rookwood," echoed Eleanor, who caught the excla-
mation : " he comes to save me."

" Remember your oath," gasped a dying voice. " He is no
longer yours."

" Alas ! alas !" sobbed Eleanor, tremblingly.

A moment afterwards a faint clapping of hands reached the
ears of Barbara.

a All is over," muttered she.

" Ha!" exclaimed Alan Rookwood, with a frightful look. "Is
it done?"

Barbara motioned him towards the further end of the vault.

CHAPTER XIII.

MR. COATES.

Grimm. Look, captain, here comes one of the bloodhounds of justice.

Schw. Down with him. Don't let him utter a word.

Moor. Silence, I will hear him. Schiller : The Robbers.

Gladly do we now exchange the dank atmosphere of Saint
Cyprian's cell, and the horrors which have detained us there so
long, for balmy air, genial sunshine, and the boon companionship
of Dick Turpin. Upon regaining the verdant ruins of the ancient
priory, all appeared pretty much as our highwayman had left it.
Dick wended towards his mare. Black Bess uttered an affectionate
whinnying sound as he approached her, and yielded her sleek
neck to his caresses. No Bedouin Arab ever loved his horse more
tenderly than Turpin.

ROOKWOOD. 231

" 'Twill be a hard day when thou and I part!" murmured he,
affectionately patting- her soft and silky cheeks. Bess thrust her
nose into his hand, biting him playfully, as much as to say, " That
day will never arrive." Turpin, at least, understood the appeal
in that sense; he was skilled in the language of the Huoyhnymns.
" I would rather lose my right hand than that should happen,"
sighed he; " but there's no saying: the best of friends must part;
and thou and I may be one day separated: thy destination is the
knacker — mine, perhaps, the gibbet. We are neither of us cut
out for old age, that's certain. Curse me if I can tell how it is:
since I've been in that vault, I've got some queer crotchet into my
head. I can't help likening thee to that poor gipsy wench, Sybil;
but may I be scragged if I'd use thee as her lover has used her.
Ha !" exclaimed he, drawing a pistol with a suddenness that made
his companions, Rust and Wilder, start, a we are watched. See
you not how yon shadow falls from behind the wrall?"

" I do," replied Rust.

u The varmint shall be speedily unearthed," said Wilder, rush-
ing to the spot.

In another instant the shadow manifested itself in a substantial
little personage, booted, spurred, and mud-bespattered. He was
brought before our highwayman, who had, meanwhile, vaulted
into his saddle.

" Mr. Coates !" cried Dick, bursting into a loud laugh at the
ridiculous figure presented to his view, " or the mud deceives me."

" It does not deceive you, Captain Turpin," replied the attorney;
u you do, indeed, behold that twice unfortunate person."

" What brings you here?" asked Dick. " Ah ! I see. You are
come to pay me my wager."

u I thought you gave me a discharge for that," rejoined Coates,
unable, even in his distress, to resist the too-tempting quibble.

a True, but it was in blank" replied Turpin, readily; " and that
don't hold good in law, you know. You have thrown away a
second chance. Play or pay, all the world over. I shan't let you
off so easily this time, depend upon it. Come, post the pony, or
take your measure on that sod. No more replications or rejoinders,
sir. Down with the dust. Fake his dies, pals. Let us see what
he has about him."

"In the twinkling of a bed-post," replied Rust. a We'll turn
him inside out. What's here?" cried he, searching the attorney's
pockets. "A brace of barkers," handing a pair of pistols to
Turpin ; " a haddock, stuffed with nothing, I'm thinking ; one
quid, two coach-wheels, half a bull, three hogs, and a kick; a d — d
dicky concern, captain."

" Three hogs and a kick," muttered Coates ; " the knave says
true enough."

" Is there nothing else ?" demanded Dick.

■iily an old snuffy fogle and a pewter sneezer."

4. ( ),

232 KOOKWOOD.

" No reader?* Try liis hoxter."f

" Here's a pit-man,! captain."

" Give it me. Ah ! this will do," cried Dick, examining the
contents of the pocket-book. " This is a glorious windfall indeed ;
a bill of exchange for 500/., payable on demand, eh, Mr. Coates?
Quick ! indorse it, sir. Here's pen and ink. Rascal ! if you at-
tempt to tear the bill, I'll blow your brains out. Steady, sir, sign.
Good ! " added he, as Coates most reluctantly indorsed the bill.
" Good ! good ! I'll be off with this bill to London to-night, be-
fore you can stop it. No courier can beat Bess — ha, ha ! Eh !
what's this?" continued Dick, as, unfolding another leaf of the
pocket-book, he chanced upon a letter; "my Lady Rookwood's
superscription ! Excuse me, Mr. Coates, I must have a peep at
her ladyship's billet-doux. All's safe with me — man of honour.
I must detain your reader a moment longer."

" You should take charge of yourself, then," replied Coates,
sulkily. "You appear to be my reader."

" Bravo !" cried Turpin. " You may jest now with impunity,
Mr. Coates. You have paid dear enough for your jokes; and
when should a man be allowed to be pleasant, if not at his own
expense? — ha, ha! What's this?" exclaimed he, opening the
letter. " A ring, as I'm awake ! and from her ladyship's own fair
finger, I'll be sworn, for it bears her cipher, ineffaceabiy impressed
as your image upon her heart — eh, Coates? Egad! you are a
lucky dog, after all, to receive suck a favour from such a lady —
ha, ha ! Meantime, I'll take care of it for you," continued Dick,
slipping the ring on his little finger.

Turpin, we have before remarked, had a turn for mimicry;
and it was with an irresistible feeling of deferential awe creeping
over him that Coates heard the contents of Lady Rookwood's
epistle delivered with an enunciation as peremptory and imperious
as that of her ladyship's self. The letter was nastily indited, in a
clear, firm hand, and partook of its writer's decision of character.
Dick found no difficulty in deciphering it. Thus ran the missive :

u Assured of your devotion and secrecy, I commit my own
honour, and that of my son, to your charge. Time will not per-
mit me to see you, or I would not write. But I place myself en-
tirely in your hands. You will not dare to betray my confidence.
To the point: — A Major Mowbray has just arrived here with in-
telligence that the body of Susan Bradley (you will know to whom
I allude) has been removed from our family vault by a Romish
priest and his assistants. How it came there, or why it has been
removed, I know not ; it is not my present purpose to inquire.
Suffice it, that it now lies in a vault beneath the ruins of Daven-
ham Priory. My son, Sir Ranulph, who has lent a credulous ear

Pocket-book. f Inside coat-pocket. % A small pocket-book.

EOOKWOOD. 233

to the artful talcs of the impostor who calls this woman mother, is
at present engaged in arming certain of the household, and of the
tenantry, to seize upon and bring away this body, as resistance is
apprehended from a horde of gipsies who infest the ruins. Now,
mark me. That body must not be found! Be it your
business to prevent its discovery. Take the fleetest horse you can
procure; spare neither whip nor spur. Haste to the priory; pro-
cure by any means, and at any expense, the assistance of the
gipsies. Find out the body ; conceal it, destroy it — do what you
will, so my son find it not. Fear not his resentment; I will bear
you harmless of the consequences with him. You will act upon
my responsibility. I pledge my honour for your safety. Use all
despatch, and calculate upon due requital from

" Maud Hookwood.
" Haste, and God speed you ! "

" God speed you !" echoed Dick, in his own voice, contemptu-
ously. " The devil drive you ! would have been a fitter post-
script. And it was upon this precious errand you came, Mr.
Coates?"

" Precisely," replied the attorney; "but I find the premises pre-
occupied. Fast as I have ridden, you were here before me."

" And what do you now propose to do?" asked Turpin.

" Bargain with you for the body," replied Coates, in an in-
sinuating tone.

"With me!" said Dick; "do you take me for a resurrection
cove; for a dealer in dead stock, eh ! sirrah?"

" I take you for one sufficiently alive, in a general way, to his
own interests," returned Coates. " These gentlemen may not,
perhaps, be quite so scrupulous, when they hear my proposals."

" Be silent, sir," interrupted Turpin. " Hist ! I hear the tramp
of horses' hoofs without. Hark ! that shout."

" Make your own terms before they come," said Coates.
" Leave all to me. I'll put 'em on a wrong scent."

"To the devil with your terms," cried Turpin; "the signal!"
And he pulled the trigger of one of Coates's pistols, the shot of
which rang in the ears of the astounded attorney as it whizzed
past him. " Drag him into the mouth of the vault," thundered
Turpin: " he will be a capital cover in case of attack. Look to
your sticks, and be on the alert; — away!"

Vainly did the unfortunate attorney kick and struggle, swear
and scream; his hat was pushed over his eyes; his bob-wig thrust
into his mouth ; and his legs tripped from under him. Thus
blind, dumb, and half-suffocated, he was hurried into the entrance
of the cell.

Dick, meanwhile, dashed to the arched outlet of the ruin. He
there drew in the rein, and Black Bess stood motionless as a
statue.

234 EOOKWOOD.

CHAPTER XIV.

DICK TUKPIN.

Many a fine fellow with a genius extensive enough to have effected universal
reformation has been doomed to perish by the halter. But does not such a
man's renown extend through centuries and tens of centuries, while many a
prince would be overlooked in history were it not the historian's interest to in-
crease the number of his pages ? Nay, when the traveller sees a gibbet, does
he not exclaim, " That fellow was no fool !" and lament the hardship of the
times ? — Schiller : The Robbers.

Tuepin's quick eye ranged over the spreading sward in front
of the ancient priory, and his brow became contracted. The feel-
ing, however, was transient. The next instant saw him the same
easy, reckless being he had been before. There was a little more
paleness in his cheek than usual; but his look was keener, and his
knees involuntarily clasped the saddle more firmly. No other
symptom of anxiety was perceptible. It would be no impeach-
ment to Dick's valour were it necessary to admit that a slight
tremor crossed him as he scanned the formidable array of his oppo-
nents. The admission is needless. Dick himself would have
been the last man to own it; nor shall we do the memory of our
undaunted highwayman any such injustice. Turpin was intrepid
to a fault. He was rash ; apt to run into risks for the mere plea-
sure of getting out of them: danger was his delight, and the
degree of excitement was always in proportion to the peril in-
curred. After the first glance, he became, to use his own expres-
sive phrase, u as cool as a cucumber ;" and continued, as long as
they permitted him, like a skilful commander, calmly to calculate
the numerical strength of his adversaries, and to arrange his own
plan of resistance.

This troop of horsemen, for such it was, might probably amount
in the aggregate to twenty men, and presented an appearance like
that of a strong muster at a rustic fox-chase, due allowance being
made for the various weapons of offence; to wit, naked sabres,
firelocks, and a world of huge horse-pistols, which the present
field carried along with them. This resemblance was heightened
by the presence of an old huntsman and a gamekeeper or two, in
scarlet and green jackets, and a few yelping hounds that had fol-
lowed after them. The majority of the crew consisted of sturdy
yeomen; some of whom, mounted upon wild, unbroken colts, had
pretty lives of it to maintain their seats, and curvetted about in
a most admired disorder;" others were seated upon more docile,
but quite as provoking specimens of the cart-horse breed, whose
sluggish sides, reckless alike of hobnailed heel or ash sapling, re-
fused to obey their riders' intimations to move ; while others,
again, brought stiff, wrong-headed ponies to the charge — obstinate,

KOOKWOOD. 235

impracticable little brutes, who seemed to prefer revolving on
their own axes, and describing absurd rotatory motions, to pro-
ceeding in the direct and proper course pointed out to them.
Dick could scarcely forbear laughing at these ridiculous manoeuvres;
but his attention was chiefly attracted towards three individuals,
who were evidently the leaders of this warlike expedition. In the
thin, tall figure of the first of these he recognised Ranulph Rock-
wood. With the features and person of the second of the group
he was not entirely unacquainted, and fancied (nor incorrectly
fancied) that his military bearing, or, as he would have expressed
it, " the soldier-like cut of his jib," could belong to no other than
Major Mowbray, whom he had once eased of a purse on Finchley
Common. In the round, rosy countenance and robustious person
of the last of the trio he discovered his ancient ally, Titus Tyr-
connel.

"Ah, Titus, my jewel, are you there?" exclaimed Dick, as he
distinguished the Irishman. "Come, I have one friend among
them whom I may welcome. So, they see me now. Off they
come, pell-mell. Back, Bess, back — slowly, wench, slowly — there
— stand !" And Bess again remained motionless.

The report of Turpin's pistol reached the ears of the troop;
and as all were upon the alert, he had scarcely presented himself
at the gateway, when a loud shout was raised, and the whole ca-
valcade galloped towards him, creating, as may be imagined, the
wildest disorder ; each horseman yelling, as he neared the arch,
and got involved in the press occasioned by the unexpected con-
centration of forces at that point, while oaths and blows, kicks
and cuffs, were reciprocated with such hearty good-wdll, that, had
Turpin ever read Ariosto or Cervantes, or heard of the discord of
King Agramante's camp, this melee must have struck him as its
realisation. As it was, entertaining little apprehension of the
result, he shouted encouragement to them. Scarcely, however,
had the foremost horseman disentangled himself from the crowd,
and, struggling to the door, was in the act of levelling his pistol
at Turpin's head, when a well-directed ball pierced the brain of
his charger, and horse and man rolled to the ground. Vowing
vengeance, a second succeeded, and was in like manner compelled
to bite the dust.

" That will let old Peter know that Ranulph Rookwood is at
hand," exclaimed Dick. " I shan't throw away another shot."

The scene at the archway was now one of complete confusion.
Terrified by the shots, some of the boors would have drawn back,
while others, in mid career, advanced, and propelled them for-
wards. It was like the meeting of two tides. Here and there,
regardless of the bit, and scared by the firing, a wild colt broke
all bounds, and, hurling his rider in the air, darted off into the
green; or, in another case, rushed forward, and encountering the
prostrate cattle cumbering the entrance to the priory hall, stumbled,

236 ROOKWOOD.

and precipitated his master neck-over-heels at the very feet of his
enemy. During all this tumult, a few shots were fired at the
highwayman, which, without doing him a jot of mischief, tended
materially to increase their own confusion.

The voice of Turpin was now heard above the din and turmoil
to sound a parley ; and as he appeared disposed to offer no opposi-
tion, some of his antagonists ventured to raise themselves from the
ground, and to approach him.

" I demand to be led to Sir Ranulph Rookwood," said Turpin.

" He is here," said Ranulph, riding up. " Villain, you are my
prisoner."

" As you list, Sir Ranulph," returned Dick, coolly ; " but let me
have a word in private with you ere you do aught you may repent
hereafter."

" No words, sir — deliver up your arms, or "

" My pistols are at your service," replied Dick. "I have just
discharged them."

" You may have others. We must search you."

" Hold !" cried Dick ; " if you will not listen to me, read that
paper." And he handed Ranulph his mother's letter to Mr.
Coates. It was without the superscription, which he had thrown
aside.

"My mother's hand I" exclaimed Ranulph, reddening with
anger, as he hastily perused its contents. " And she sent this to
you? You lie, villain — 'tis a forgery."

" Let this speak for me," returned Dick, holding out the finger
upon which Lady Rookwood's ring was placed. " Know you that
cipher?

" You have stolen it," retorted Ranulph. " My mother," added
he, in a deep, stern whisper, articulated only for Turpin' s hearing,
"would never have entrusted her honour to a highwayman's
keeping."

" She has entrusted more — her life," replied Dick, in a careless
tone. " She would have bribed me to do murder."

" Murder!" echoed Ranulph, aghast.

" Ay, to murder your brother," returned Dick; "but let that
pass. You have read that note. I have acted solely upon your
mother's responsibility. Lady Rookwood's honour is pledged for
my safety. Of course her son will set me free."

" Never !"

" Well, as you please. Your mother is in my power. Betray
me, and you betray her."

"No more!" returned Ranulph, sternly. "Go your ways*
You are free."

" Pledge me your word of honour I am safe."

Ranulph had scarcely given his pledge, when Major Mowbray
rode furiously up. A deep flush of anger burnt upon his cheeks;

ROOK WOOD. 237

his sword was drawn in his hand. He glanced at Turpin, as if he
would have felled him from the saddle.

"This is the ruffian," cried the major, fiercely, "by whom I
was attacked some months ago, and for whose apprehension the
reward of three hundred pounds is offered by his majesty's procla-
mation, with a free pardon to his accomplices. This is Richard
Turpin. He has just added another crime to his many offences.
He has robbed my mother and sister. The postboy knew him the
moment he came up. Where are they, villain? Whither are they
gone? — answer!"

" I know not," replied Turpin, calmly. u Did not the lad tell
you they were rescued?"

"Rescued! — by whom?" asked Ranulph, with great emotion.

" By one who calls himself Sir Luke Rookwood," answered
Turpin, with a meaning smile.

"By him!" ejaculated Ranulph. "Where arc they now?"

" I have already answered that question," said Dick. " I repeat,
I know not."

"You are my prisoner," cried the major, seizing Turpin's bridle.

" I have Sir Ranulph's word for my safety," rejoined Turpin.
" Let go my rein."

"How is this?" asked Major Mowbray, incredulously.

"Ask me not. Release him," replied Ranulph.

"Ranulph," said the major, "you ask an impossibility. My
honour — my duty — is implicated in this man's capture."

" The honour of all of us is involved in his deliverance," re-
turned Ranulph, in a whisper. " Let him go. I will explain all
hereafter. Let us search for them — for Eleanor. Surely, after
this, you will help us to find them," added he, addressing Turpin.

" I wish, with all my soul, I could do so," replied the highway-
man.

" I see'd the ladies cross the brook, and enter these old ruins,"
interposed the postboy, who had now joined the party. " I see'd
'em from where I stood on the hill-side ; and as I kept a pretty
sharp look-out, and have a tolerably bright eye of my own, I don't
think as how they ever corned out again."

" Some one is hidden within yon fissure in the wall," exclaimed
Ranulph ; " I see a figure move."

And he flung himself from his horse, rushing towards the mouth
of the cell. Imitating his example, Major Mowbray followed his
friend, sword in hand.

" The game begins now in right earnest," said Dick to himself;
" the old fox will be soon unearthed. I must look to my snap-
pers." And he thrust his hand quietly into his pocket in search of
a pistol.

Just as Ranulph and the major reached the recess they were
startled by the sudden apparition of the ill-fated attorney.

238 ROOKWOOD.

"Mr. Coates!" exclaimed Ranulph, in surprise. "What do
you here, sir?"

" I — I — that is — Sir Ranulph — you must excuse me, sir — par-
ticular business — can't say," returned the trembling attorney; for
at this instant his eye caught that of Turpin, and the ominous re-
flexion of a polished-steel barrel, held carelessly towards him.
He was aware, also, that on the other hand he was, in like
manner, the mark of Rust and Wilder; those polite gentlemen
having threatened him with a brace of slugs in his brain if he
dared to betray their hiding-place. " It is necessary that I should
be guarded in my answers," murmured he.

"Is there any one within that place beside yourself?" said the
major, making a movement thither.

" No, sir, nobody at all," answered Coates, hastily, fancying at
the same time that he heard the click of the pistol that was to be
his death-warrant.

"How came you here, sir?" demanded Ranulph.

" Do you mean in this identical spot ?" replied Coates, evasively.

" You can have no difficulty in answering that question," said
the major, sternly.

" Pardon me, sir. I find considerable difficulty in answering
any question, situated as I am."

"Have you seen Miss Mowbray?" asked Ranulph, eagerly.

" Or my mother?" said the major, in the same breath.

" Neither," replied Coates, rather relieved by these questions.

" I suspect you are deceiving us, sir," said the major. " Your
manner is confused. I am convinced you know more of this
matter than you choose to explain ; and if you do not satisfy me

at once, fully and explicitly, I vow to Heaven " and the major's

sword described a glittering circle round his head.

" Are you privy to their concealment?" asked Ranulph. u Have
you seen aught of them, or of Luke Bradley?"

" Speak, or this moment is your last," said the major.

" If it is my last, I cannot speak," returned Coates. " I can
make neither head nor tail of your questions, gentlemen."

" And you positively assure me you have not seen Mrs. Mow-
bray and her daughter?" said Ranulph.

Turpin here winked at Coates. The attorney understood him.

" I don't positively assert that," faltered he.

"How! — you have seen them?" shouted Ranulph.

" Where are they? — in safety — speak !" added the major.

Another expressive gesture from the highwayman communicated
to the attorney the nature of his reply.

" Without, sir — without — yonder," he replied. " I will show
you myself. Follow, gentlemen, follow." And away scampered
Coates, without once venturing to look behind him.

In an instant the ruined hall was deserted, and Turpin alone left
behind. In the excitement of the moment his presence had been

ROOKWOOD. 239

forgotten. In an instant afterwards the arena was again occupied
by a company equally numerous. Rust and Wilder issued from
their hiding-places, followed by a throng of the gipsy crew.

" Where is Sir Luke Rookwood?" asked Turpin.

" He remains below," was the answer returned.

"And Peter Bradley?"

" Stays there likewise."

" No matter. Now make ready, pals. Give 'em one shout —
Hurrah !"

" Hurrah !" replied the crowd, at the top of their voices.

Ranulph Rook wood and his companions heard this shout. Mr.
Coates had already explained the stratagem practised upon them
by the wily highwayman, as well as the perilous situation in which
he himself had been placed; and they were in the act of returning
to make good his capture, when the loud shouts of the crew ar-
rested them. From the clamour, it was evident that considerable
reinforcement must have arrived from some unlooked-for quarter;
and, although burning to be avenged upon the audacious highway-
man, the major felt it would be a task of difficulty, and that ex-
treme caution could alone ensure success. With difficulty restrain-
ing the impatience of Ranulph, who could scarcely brook these
few minutes of needful delay, Major Mowbray gave particular in-
structions to each of the men in detail, and caused several of them
to dismount. By this arrangement Mr. Coates found himself
accommodated with a steed and a pair of pistols, with which latter
he vowed to wreak his vengeance upon some of his recent tor-
mentors. After a short space of time occupied in this manner, the
troop slowly advanced towards the postern, in much better order
than upon the previous occasion ; but the stoutest of them quailed
as they caught sight of the numerous gipsy-gang drawn out in
battle array within the abbey walls. Each party scanned the
other's movements in silence and wonder, anxiously awaiting, yet
in a measure dreading, their leader's signal to beinn. That signal
was not long delayed. A shot from the ranks of Rookwood did
instant and bitter execution. Rob Rust was stretched lifeless
upon the ground. Nothing more was needed. The action now
became general. Fire-arms were discharged on both sides, without
much damage to either party. But a rush being made by a de-
tachment of horse, headed by Major Mowbray, the conflict soon
became more serious. The gipsies, after the first fire, threw aside
their pistols, and fought with long knives, with which they in-
flicted desperate gashes, both on men and horses. Major Mow-
bray was slightly wounded in the thigh, and his steed receiving
the blow intended for himself, stumbled, and threw his rider.
Luckily for the major, Ranulph Rookwood was at hand, and with
the butt-end of a heavy-handled pistol felled the ruffian to the
earth, just as he was upon the point of repeating the thrust.

Turpin, meanwhile, had taken comparatively a small share in

240 EOOKWOOD.

the conflict. He seemed to content himself with acting upon the
defensive, and except in the case of Titus Tyrconnel, whom, espy-
ing amidst the crowd, he had considerably alarmed by sending a
bullet through his wig, he did not fire a single shot. He also
succeeded in unhorsing Coates, by hurling, with great dexterity,
the empty pistol at his head. Though apparently unconcerned in
the skirmish, he did not flinch from it, but kept his ground un-
yieldingly. "A charmed life" he seemed to bear; for amid the
shower of bullets, many of which were especially aimed at himself,
he came off unhurt.

" He that's born to be hanged will never be drowned, that's
certain," said Titus. " It's no use trying to bring him down.
But by Jasus ! he's spoiled my best hat and wig, any how. There's
a hole in my beaver as big as a crown piece."

" Your own crown's safe, and that's some satisfaction," said
Coates; "whereas mine has a bump on it as large as a swan's egg.
Ah ! if we could only get behind him."

The strife continued to rage without intermission: and though
there were now several ghastly evidences of its fury, in the shape
of wounded men and slaughtered or disabled horses, whose gaping
wounds fxooded the turf with gore, it was still difficult to see upon
which side victory would eventually declare herself. The gipsies,
though by far the greater sufferers of the two, firmly maintained
their ground. Drenched in the blood of the horses they had
wounded, and brandishing their long knives, they presented a for-
midable and terrific appearance, the effect of which was not at all
diminished by their wild yells and savage gesticulations. On the
other hand, headed by Major Mowbray and Ranulph, the troop of
yeomen pressed on undauntedly; and where the sturdy farmers
could get a firm gripe of their lithe antagonists, or deliver a blow
with their ox-like fists, they seldom failed to make good the advan-
tages which superior weight and strength gave them. It will thus
be seen that as yet they were pretty well matched. Numbers were
in favour of the gipsies, but courage was equally distributed, and,
perhaps, what is emphatically called " bottom," was in favour of
the rustics. Be this as it may, from what had already occurred,
there was every prospect of a very serious termination to the fray.

From time to time Turpin glanced to the entrance of the cell,
in the expectation of seeing Sir Luke Rookwood make his appear-
ance; and, as he was constantly disappointed in his expectation,
he could not conceal his chagrin. At length he resolved to de-
spatch a messenger to him, and one of the crew accordingly
departed upon this errand. He returned presently with a look of
blank dismay.

In our hasty narrative of the fight we have not paused to par-
ticularise, neither have we enumerated, the list of the combatants.
Amongst them, however, were Jerry Juniper, the knight of Malta,
and Zoroaster. Excalibur, as may be conceived, had not been

ROOKWOOD. 241

idle; but that trenchant blade had been shivered by Ranulph
Rookwood in the early stage of the business, and the knight left
weaponless. Zoroaster, who was not merely a worshipper of fire,
but a thorough milling-cove, had engaged to some purpose in a
pugilistic encounter with the rustics; and, having fought several
rounds, now "bore his blushing honours thick upon him." Jerry,
like Turpin, had remained tolerably quiescent. " The proper
moment," he said, "had not arrived." A fatality seemed to
attend Turpin's immediate companions. Rust was the first who
fell ; Wilder also was now among the slain. Things were pre-
cisely in this condition when the messenger returned. A marked
change was instantly perceptible in Turpin's manner. He no
longer looked on with indifference. He seemed angry and dis-
trustful. He gnawed his lip, ever a sign with him of vexation.
Addressing a few words to those about him, he then spoke more
loudly to the rest of the crew. Being in the jargon of the tawny
tribe, his wTords were not intelligible to the opposite party; but
their import was soon made known by the almost instant and total
relinquishment of the field by the gipsies. They took to their heels
at once, to a man, leaving only a few desperately wounded behind
them ; and, flying along the intricate ruins of the priory, baffled
all pursuit, wherever it was attempted. Jerry Juniper was the last
in the retreat; but, upon receiving a hint from Dick, he vaulted
like a roe over the heads of his adversaries, and made good his
escape. Turpin alone remained. He stood like a lion at bay,
quietly regarding the huntsmen hurtling around him. Ranulph
Rookwood rode up and bade him surrender.

" Detain me not," cried he, in a voice of thunder. u If you
would save her who is dear to you, descend into that vault. Ofi^
I say."

And Turpin shook away, with ease, the grasp that Ranulph had
laid upon him.

" Villain, you do not escape me this time," said Major Mowbray?
interposing himself between Turpin and the outlet.

u Major Mowbray, I would not have your blood upon my head,"
said Dick. " Let me pass." And he levelled a pistol.

"Fire, if you dare!" said the major, raising his sword. "You
pass not. I will die rather than allow you to escape. Barricade
the door. Strike him down if he attempts to pass. Richard
Turpin, I arrest you in the king's name. You hear, my lads, in
his majesty's name. I command you to assist me in this highway-
man's capture. Two hundred pounds for his head."

" Two hundred devils !" exclaimed Dick, with a laugh of dis-
dain. " Go, seek your mother and sister within yon vault, Major
Mowbray; you will find employment enough there."

Saying which, he suddenly forced Bess to back a few yards;
then, striking his heels sharply into her sides, ere his purpose could
be divined by the spectators, charged, and cleared the lower part

242 ROOKWOOD.

of the mouldering priory walls. This feat was apparently accom-
plished with no great effort by his admirable and unequalled
mare.

i{ By the powers !" cried Titus, " and he's given us the slip after
all. And just when we thought to make sure of him, too. Why,
Mr. Coates, that wall must be higher than a five-barred gate, or
any stone wall in my own country. It's just the most extraordinary
lepp I ever set eyes on !"

" The devil's in the fellow, certainly, or in his mare," returned
Coates; " but if he escapes me, I'll forgive him. I know whither
he's bound. He's off to London with my bill of exchange. I'll be
up with him. I'll track him like a bloodhound, slowly and surely,
as my father the thief-taker used to follow up a scent. Recollect
the hare and the tortoise. The race is not always to the swift.
What say you? 'Tis a match for five hundred pounds; nay, for
five thousand : for there is a certain marriage certificate in the way
— a glorious golden venture ! You shall go halves, if we win.
We'll have him, dead or alive. What say you for London, Mr.
Tyrconnel? Shall we start at once?"

" With all my sowl," replied Titus. " I'm with you." And
away this par yobile scoured.

Ranulph, meantime, plunged into the vault. The floor was
slippery, and he had nigh stumbled. Loud and deep lamentations,
and a wailing sound, like that of a lament for the dead, resounded
in his ears. A light at the further extremity of the vault attracted
his attention. He was filled with terrible forebodings; but the
worst reality was not so terrible as suspense. He rushed towards
the light. He passed the massive pillars, and there, by the ruddy
torch flame, discovered two female figures. One was an old
woman, fantastically attired, wringing her hands, and moaning, or
gibbering wild strains in broken, discordant, yet pathetic tones.
The other was Mrs. Mowbray. Both were images of despair.
Before them lay some motionless object. He noticed not that old
woman; he scarcely saw Mrs. Mowbray; he beheld only that
object of horror. It was the lifeless body of a female. The light
fell imperfectly upon the face; he could not discern the features,
but the veil in which it was swathed : that veil was Eleanor's !
He asked no more.

With a wild cry he rushed forward. u Eleanor, my beloved I"
shrieked he.

Mrs. Mowbray started at his voice, but appeared stunned and
helpless.

" She is dead," said Ranulph, stooping towards the body.
« Dead— dead !"

" Ay," echoed the old woman, in accents of equal anguish —
« dead— dead!"

" But this is not Eleanor," exclaimed he, as he viewed the fea-

ROOKWOOD. 243

turcs more closely. "This face, though beautiful, is not hers.
This dishevelled hair is black. The long lashes that shade her
cheek are of the same hue. She is scarce dead. The hand I clasp
is yet warm — the fingers are pliant."

" Yet she is dead," said the old woman, in a broken voice. " She
is slam.

" Who hath slain her?" asked Ranulph.

" I — I — her mother, slew her."

" You !" exclaimed Ranulph, horror-stricken. " And where is
Eleanor?" asked he. " Was she not here?"

" Better she were here now, even though she were as that poor
maid," groaned Mrs. Mowbray, " than where she is."

" Where is she, then ?" asked Ranulph, with frantic eagerness.

" Fled. Whither I know not."

"With whom?"

" With Sir Luke Rookwood — with Alan Rookwood. They
have borne her hence. Ranulph, you are too late."

"Gone!" cried Ranulph, fiercely springing to his feet. "How
escaped they? There appears to be but one entrance to this vault.
I will search each nook and cranny."

"'Tis vain," replied Mrs. Mowbray. "There is another outlet
through yon cell. Ry that passage they escaped."

" Too true, too true," shouted Ranulph, who flew to examine
the cell. " And wherefore followed you not?"

" The stone rolled to its mouth, and resisted my efforts. I could
not follow."

"Torture and death! She is lost to me for ever!" cried Ra-
nulph, bitterly.

" No !" exclaimed Barbara, clutching his arm. " Place your
trust in me, and I will find her for you."

" You!" ejaculated Ranulph.

" Even I," replied Barbara. " Your wrongs shall be righted —
my Sybil be avenged."

244 ROOKWOOD.

BOOK IV.

THE RIDE TO YORK.

Then one halloo, boys ! one loud cheering halloo !
To the swiftest of coursers, the gallant, the true !
For the sportsman unborn shall the memory bless
Of the horse of the highwayman, bonny Black Bess
"• Richard Turpin".

CHAPTER I.

THE RENDEZVOUS AT KILBURN.

Hind. Drink deep, my brave boys, of the bastinado ;
Of stramazons, tinctures, and slie passatas ;
Of the carricado, and rare embrocado ;
Of blades, and rapier-hilts of surest guard ;
Of the Vincentio and Burgundian ward.
Have we not bravely tossed this bombast foil-button ?
Win gold and wear gold, boys, 'tis we that merit it.

Prince of Prigs' Bevels.
An excellent Comedy, replete with various conceits and Tarltonian mirth.

The present straggling suburb at the north-west of the metro-
polis, known as Kilburn, had scarcely been called into existence a
century ago, and an ancient hostel, with a few detached farm-
houses, were the sole habitations to be found in the present populous
vicinage. The place of refreshment for the ruralising cockney of
1737 was a substantial-looking tenement of the good old stamp,
with great bay-windows, and a balcony in front, bearing as its
ensign the jovial visage of the lusty knight, Jack FalstafF. Shaded
by a spreading elm, a circular bench embraced the aged trunk of
the tree, sufficiently tempting, no doubt, to incline the wanderer
on those dusty ways to " rest and be thankful," and to cry encore
to a frothing tankard of the best ale to be obtained within the
chimes of Bow bells.

Upon a table, green as the privet and holly that formed the walls
of the bower in which it was placed, stood a great china bowl, one
of those leviathan memorials of bygone wassailry which we may
sometimes espy (reversed, in token of its desuetude) perched on the
top of an old japanned closet, but seldom, if ever, encounter in its
proper position at the genial board. All the appliances of festivity
were at hand. Pipes and rummers strewed the board. Perfume,
subtle yet mellow, as of pine and lime, exhaled from out the bowl,
and, mingling with the scent of a neighbouring bed of mignionette,

ROOKWOOD. 245

and tlie subdued odour of the Indian weed, formed altogether as
delectable an atmosphere of sweets as one could wish to inhale on
a meltinir August afternoon. So, at least, thought the inmates of
the arbour; nor did they by any means confine themselves to the
gratification of a single sense. The ambrosial contents of the china
bowl proved as delicious to the taste as its bouquet was grateful to
the smell; while the eyesight was soothed by reposing on the
smooth sward of a bowling-green spread out immediately before
it, or in dwelling upon gently undulating meads, terminating, at
about a mile's distance, in the woody, spire-crowned heights of
Hampstead.

At the left of the table was seated, or rather lounged, a slender,
elegant-looking young man, with dark languid eyes, sallow com-
plexion, and features wearing that peculiarly pensive expression
often communicated by dissipation; an expression which, we regret
to say, is sometimes found more pleasing than it ought to be in the
eyes of the gentle sex. Habited in a light summer riding-dress,
fashioned according to the taste of the time, of plain and unpre-
tending material, and rather under than over dressed, he had, per-
haps, on that very account, perfectly the air of a gentleman.
There was, altogether, an absence of pretension about him, which,
combined with great apparent self-possession, contrasted very for-
cibly with the vulgar assurance of his showy companions. The
figure of the youth was slight, even to fragility, giving little out-
ward manifestation of the vigour of frame he in reality possessed.
This spark was a no less distinguished personage than Tom King,
a noted high-tobygloak of his time, who obtained, from his appear-
ance and address, the sobriquet of the " Gentleman Highwayman."

Tom was indeed a pleasant fellow in his day. His career was
brief, but brilliant: your meteors are ever momentary. He was a
younger son of a good family ; had good blood in his veins, though
not a groat in his pockets. According to the old song —

"When he arrived at man's estate,
It was all the estate he had ;

and all the estate he was ever likely to have. Nevertheless, if he
had no income, he contrived, as he said, to live as if he had the
mines of Peru at his control — a miracle not solely confined to him-
self. For a moneyless man, he had rather expensive habits. He
kept his three nags; and, if fame does not belie him, a like num-
ber of mistresses ; nay, if we are to place any faith in certain scan-
dalous chronicles to which we have had access, he wras for some
time the favoured lover of a celebrated actress, who, for the time,
supplied him with the means of keeping up his showy establish-
ment. But things could not long hold thus. Tom was a model
of infidelity, and that was the only failing his mistress could not
overlook. She dismissed him at a moment's notice. Unluckily,
too, he had other propensities which contributed to involve him.

246 ROOKWOOD.

He had a taste for the turf — a taste for play — was well known in
the hundreds of Drury, and cut no mean figure at Howell's, and
the faro tables thereanent. He was the glory of the Smyrna,
D'Osyndar's, and other chocolate houses of the day; and it was
at this time he fell into the hands of certain dexterous sharpers, by
whom he was first plucked, and subsequently patronised. Under
their tuition he improved wonderfully. He turned his wit and
talent to some account. He began to open his eyes. His nine
days' blindness was over. The dog saw. But, in spite of his
quickness, he was at length discovered, and ejected from Howell's
in a manner that left him no alternative. He must either have
called out his adversary, or go out himself. He preferred the
latter, and took to the road; and in his new line he was eminently
successful. Fortunately, he had no scruples to get over. Tom
had what Sir Walter Scott happily denominates " an indistinct
notion of menm and tuum" and became confirmed in the opinion
that everything he could lay hands upon constituted lawful spoil.
And then, even those he robbed admitted that he was the most
gentlemanlike highwayman they had ever the fortune to meet
with, and trusted they might always be so lucky. So popular did
he become upon the road, that it was accounted a distinction to
be stopped by him ; he made a point of robbing none but gentle-
men, and — Tom's shade would quarrel with us were we to omit
them — ladies. His acquaintance with Turpin was singular, and
originated in a rencontre. Struck with his appearance, Dick pre-
sented a pistol, and bade King deliver. The latter burst into a
laugh, and an explanation immediately ensued. Thenceforward
they became sworn brothers — the Py lades and Orestes of the road ;
and though seldom seen together in public, had many a merry
moonlight ride in company.

Tom still maintained three mistresses, his valet, his groom (tiger,
we should have called him), "and many a change of clothes besides,"
says his biographer, " with which he appeared more like a lord
than a highwayman." And what more, we should like to know^
would a lord wish to have? Few younger sons, we believe, can
boast so much ; and it is chiefly on their account, with some
remote view to the benefit of the unemployed youth of all profes-
sions, that we have enlarged so much upon Tom King's history.
The road, we must beg to repeat, is still open; the chances are
greater than they ever were; we fully believe it is their only road
to preferment, and we are sadly in want of highwaymen !

Fancy Tom lounging at D'Osyndar's, carelessly tapping his boots
on the steps; there he stands! Is he not a devilish good-looking,
gentlemanlike sort of fellow? You could never have taken him
for a highwayman but for our information. A waiter appears —
supper is ordered at twelve — a broiled chicken and a bottle of
Burgundy — his groom brings his nags to the door — he mounts.
It is his custom to ride out on an evening — he is less liable to in-

KOOKWOOD. 247

terruption.* At Marylebone Fields (now the Regent's Park) Ins
groom leaves him. He has a mistress in the neighbourhood. He
is absent for a couple of hours, and returns gay or dispirited, as
his luck may have turned out. At twelve he is at supper, and
has the night before him. How very easy all this seems. Can it
be possible we have no Tom Kings?

To return to Tom as he was in the arbour. Judging from his
manner, he appeared to be almost insensible to the presence of his
companions, and to be scarcely a partaker in their revelry. His
back was towards his immediate neighbour; his glass sparkled un-
touched at his elbow; and one hand, beautifully white and small,
a mark of his birth and breeding (crede Byron), rested upon the
edge of the table, while his thin, delicate digits, palpably demon-
strative of his faculty of adaptation (crede James Hardy Vaux),
were employed with a silver toothpick. In other respects, he
seemed to be lost in reverie, and was, in all probability, meditating
new exploits.

Next to King sat our old friend Jerry Juniper; not, however,
the Jerry of the gipsies, but a much more showy-looking person-
age. Jerry was no longer a gentleman of " three outs" — the diffi-
culty would now have been to say what he was " without."
Snakelike he had cast his slough, and rejoiced in new and brilliant
investiture. His were "speaking garments, speaking pockets
too." His linen was of the finest, his hose of the smartest. Gay
rings glittered on his fingers ; a crystal snuff-box underwent
graceful manipulation; a handsome gold repeater was sometimes
drawn from its location with a monstrous bunch of onions (anglice,
seals) depending from its massive chain. Lace adorned his wrists,
and shoes (of which they had been long unconscious), with buckles
nearly as large as themselves, confined his feet. A rich-powdered
peruke and silver-hilted sword completed the gear of the trans-
mogrified Jerry, or, as he now chose to be designated, Count
Albert Conyers. The fact was, that Jerry, after the fracas, ap-
prehensive that the country would be too hot for him, had, in
company with Zoroaster, quitted the ranks of the Canting Crew,
and made the best of his way to town. A lucky spice on the road
set them up; and having some acquaintance with Tom King, the
party, on their arrival, sought him out at his customary haunt,
D'Osyndar's, and enlisted under his banners.

Tom received them with open arms, gave them unlimited use
of his wardrobe, and only required a little trifling assistance in
return. He had a grand scheme in petto, in the execution of
which they could mainly assist him. Jerry was a Greek by

* We have heard of a certain gentleman tobyman, we forget his name,
taking the horses from his curricle for a similar purpose, but we own we think
King's the simpler plan, and quite practicable still. A cabriolet would be
quite out of the question, but particularly easy to stop.

-248 ROOKWOOD.

nature, and could land a flat as well as the best of them. Zo-
roaster was just the man to lose a fight; or, in the language of the
Fancy, to play a cross. No two legs could serve Tom's purposes
better. He welcomed them with fraternal affection.

We will now proceed to reconnoitre Jerry's opposite neighbour,
who was, however, no other than that Upright Man,

The Magus Zoroaster, that great name.

Changed as was Juniper, the Magus was yet more whimsically
metamorphosed. Some traces of Jerry still remained, but not a
vestige was left of the original Dimber Damber. His tawny
mother had not known her son. This alteration, howTever, was
not owing to change of dress; it was the result of the punishment
he had received at the u set-to" at the priory. Not a feature was
in its place; his swollen lip trespassed upon the precincts of his
nose; his nose trod hard upon his cheek; while his cheek again,
not to be behind the rest, rose up like an apple-dumpling under
his single eye, — single, we say — for, alas ! there was no speculation
in the other. His dexter daylight was utterly darkened, and,
indeed, the orb that remained was as sanguinary a luminary as
ever struggled through a London fog at noonday. To borrow a
couplet or so from the laureate of the Fancy :

One of his peepers was put

On the bankruptcy list, with his shop-windows shut,

While the other made nearly as tag-rag a show,

All rimmed round with black like the Courier in woe.

One black patch decorated his rainbow-coloured cheek; another
adorned his chin; a grinder having been dislodged, his pipe took
possession of the aperture. His toggery was that of a member of
the prize-ring; what we now call a " belcher" bound his throat;
a spotted fogle bandaged his jobbernowl, and shaded his right
peeper, while a white beaver crowned the occiput of the Magus.
And though, at first sight, there would appear to be some incon-
gruity in the association of such a battered character as the Up-
right Man with his smart companions, the reader's wonder will
rapidly diminish, when he reflects that any distinguished P. C.
man can ever find a ready passport to the most exclusive society.
ViewTed in this light, Zoroaster's familiarity with his swell ac-
quaintance occasioned no surprise to old Simon Carr, the bottle-
nosed landlord of the FalstafT, who was a man of discernment in
his way, and knew a thing or two. Despite such striking evi-
dences to the contrary, the Magus was perfectly at his ease, and
sacrificing as usual to the god of flame. His mithra, or pipe, the
symbol of his faith, was zealously placed between his lips, and
never did his Chaldean, Bactrian, Persian, Pamphilian, Procon-
nesian, or Babylonian namesake, whichever of the six was the true
.Zoroaster [vide Bayle), respire more fervently at the altar of fire,

ROOKWOOD. 249

than our Ma^us at the end of his enkindled tube. In his creed
we believe Zoroaster was a dualist, and believed in the co-exist-
ence and mystical relation of the principles of good and ill; his
pipe being his Yezdan, or benign influence; his empty pouch his
Ahreman, or the devil. We shall not pause to examine his tenets;
we meddle with no man's religious opinions, and shall leave the
Magus to the enjoyment of his own sentiments, be they what they
may.

One guest alone remains, and him wrc shall briefly dismiss. The
reader, we imagine, will scarcely need to be told who was the
owner of those keen grey eyes; those exuberant red whiskers;
that airy azure frock. It was

Our brave co-partner of the roads,
Skilful surveyor of highways and hedges ;

in a word — Dick Turpin !

Dick had been called upon to act as president of the board, and
an excellent president he made, sedulously devoting himself to the
due administration of the punch-bowl. Not a rummer was allowed
to stand empty for an instant. Toast, sentiment, and anacreontic
song, succeeded each other at speedy intervals; but there was no
speechifying — no politics. He left church and state to take care
of themselves. Whatever his politics might be, Dick never
allowed them to interfere with his pleasures. His maxim was to
make the most of the passing moment; the dum vivimus vivamus
was never out of his mind ; a precautionary measure which we
recommend to the adoption of all gentlemen of the like, or any
other precarious profession.

Notwithstanding all Dick's efforts to promote conviviality,
seconded by the excellence of the beverage itself, conversation,
somehow or other, began to flag ; from being general it became
particular. Tom King, who was no punch-bibber, especially at
that time of day, fell into a deep reverie ; your gamesters often do
so; while the Magus, who had smoked himself drowsy, was com-
posing himself to a doze. Turpin seized this opportunity of ad-
dressing a few words on matters of business to Jerry Juniper, or,
as he now chose to be called, Count Conyers.

"My dear count," said Dick, in a low and confidential tone,
u you are aware that my errand to town is accomplished. I have
smashed Lawyer Coates's screen, pocketed the dimmock (here 'tis,"
continued he, parenthetically, slapping his pockets), " and done
t'other trick in prime twig for Tom Kin£. With a cool thousand
in hand, I might, if I choose, rest awhile on my oars. But a quiet
life don't suit me. I must be moving. So I shall start to York-
shire to-nioht."

" Indeed I" said the soi-disant count, in a languid tone^" so

o» ' °

soon :

" I have nothing to detain me/' replied Dick. " And, to tell

250 ROOKWOOD.

you the truth, I want to see how matters stand with Sir Luke
Rookwood. I should be sorry if he went to the wall for want of
any assistance I can render him."

" True," returned the count ; " one would regret such an occur-
rence, certainly. But I fear your assistance may arrive a little
too late. He is pretty well done up, I should imagine, by this
time."

" That remains to be seen," said Turpin. " His case is a bad
one, to be sure, but I trust not utterly hopeless. With all his
impetuosity and pride, I like the fellow, and will help him, if I
can. It will be a difficult game to set him on his legs, but I
think it may be done. That underground marriage was sheer
madness, and turned out as ill as such a scheme might have been
expected to do. Poor Sybil ! if I could pipe an eye for anything,
it should be for her. I can't get her out of my head. Give me a
pinch of snuff. Such thoughts unman one. As to the priest,
that's a totally different affair. If he strangled his daughter, old
Alan did right to take the law into his own hands, and throttle
him in return. I'd have done the same thing myself; and, being
a proscribed Jesuit, returned, as I understand, without the king's
license for so doing, why Father Checkley's murder (if it must be
so called, I can't abide hard terms) won't lie very heavy at Alan's
door. That, however, has nothing to do with Sir Luke. He was
neither accessary nor principal. Still he will be in danger, at least
from Lady Rookwood. The whole county of York, I make no
doubt, is up in arms by this time."

" Then why go thither?" asked the count, somewhat ironically;
" for my part, I've a strange fancy for keeping out of harm's way
as long as possible."

" Every man to his taste," returned Turpin ; " I love to confront
danger. Run away ! pshaw ! always meet your foe."

" True," replied the count, " half-way ! but you go the whole
distance. What prudent man would beard the lion in his den?"

"I never was a prudent man," rejoined Dick, smiling; "I have
no superfluous caution about me. Come what will, I shall try to
find out this Luke Rookwood, and offer him my purse, such as it
is, and it is now better lined than usual; a hand free to act as he
lists ; and a head which, imprudent though it be, can often think
better for others than for its own master."

"Vastly fine!" exclaimed the count, with an ill-disguised
sneer. " I hope you don't forget that the marriage certificate
which you hold is perfectly valueless now. The estates, you are
aware

" Are no longer Sir Luke's. I see what you are driving at,
count," returned Dick, coldly. "But he will need it to establish
his claim to the title, and he shall have it. While he was Sir
Luke with ten thousand a year, I drove a hard bargain, and would

ROOKWOOD. 251

have stood out for the last stiver. Now that he is one of c us? a
mere Knight of the Road, he shall have it and welcome/'

" Perhaps Lady Rook wood, or Mrs. Mowbray, might he in-
clined to treat," maliciously insinuated the count; "the title may
be worth something to Ranulph."

" It is worth more to Luke; and if it were not, he gets it. Are
you satisfied?"

"Perfectly," replied the count, with affected bonhomie; "and
I will now let you into a secret respecting Miss Mowbray, from
which you may gather something for your guidance in this matter;
and if the word of a woman is at all to be trusted, though indivi-
dually I cannot say I have much faith in it, Sir Luke's planetary
hour is not yet completely overcast."

u That's exactly what I wish to know, my dear fellow," said
Turpin, eager]}-. " You have already told me you were witness to
a singular interview between Miss Mowbray and Sir Luke after
my departure from the priory. If I mistook you not, the whole
business will hinge upon that. What occurred? Let me have
every particular. The whole history and mystery."

u You shall have it with pleasure," said the count; "and I hope
it may tend to your benefit. After I had quitted the scene of
action at the priory, and at your desire left the Rookwood party
masters of the field, I fled with the rest of the crew towards the
rocks. There we held a council of war for a short time. Some
were for returning to the fight: but this was negatived entirelv,
and in the end it was agreed that those who had wives, daughters,
and sisters, should join them as speedily as possible at their retreat
in the Grange. As I happened to have none of these attractive
ties, and had only a troublesome mistress, who I thought could
take care of herself, I did not care to follow them, but struck
deeper into the wood, and made my way, guided by destiny, I
suppose, towards the cave."

"The cave!" cried Dick, rubbing his hands; "I delight in a
cave. Tom King and I once had a cave of our own at Epping,
and I'll have another one of these fine days. A cave is as proper
to a high-tobyman as a castle to a baron. Pray go on."

" The cave I speak of," continued the count, " was seldom used,
except upon great emergencies, by any of the Stop Hole Abbey
crew. It was a sort of retiring den of our old lioness Barbara, and,
like all belonging to her, respected by her dupes. However, the
cave is a good cave for all that; is well concealed by brushwood,
and comfortably lighted from a crevice in the rock above; it lies
near the brink of the stream, amongst the woods, just above the
waterfall, and is somewhat difficult of approach."

" I know something of the situation," said Turpin.

" Well," returned the count, " not to lose time, into this den I
crept, and, expecting to find it vacant, you may imagine my sur-

252 ROOKWOOD.

prise on discovering that it was already occupied, and that Sir
Luke Rook wood, his granddad, old Alan, Miss Mowbray, and,
worst of all, the very person I wished most to avoid, my old flame
Handassah, constituted the party. Fortunately, they did not per-
ceive my entrance, and I took especial care not to introduce
myself. Retreat, however, was for the moment impracticable,
and I was compelled to be a listener. I cannot tell what had
passed between the parties before my arrival, but I heard Miss
Mowbray implore Sir Luke to conduct her to her mother. He
seemed half inclined to comply with her entreaties; but old Alan
shook his head. It was then Handassah put in a word; the minx
was ever ready at that. ' Fear not,' said she, ' that she will wed
Sir Ranulph. Deliver her to her friends, I beseech you, Sir
Luke, and woo her honourably. She will accept you.' Sir Luke
stared incredulously, and grim old Alan smiled. ' She has sworn
to be yours,' continued Handassah; ' sworn it by every hope of
heaven, and the oath has been sealed by blood — by Sybil's
blood.' — 'Does she speak the truth?' asked Sir Luke, trembling
with agitation. Miss Mowbray answered not. c You will not
deny it, lady,' said Handassah. ' I heard that oath proposed. I
?aw it registered. You cannot deny it.' — ' I do not,' replied Miss
Mowbray, with much anguish of manner ; ' if he claim me, I
am his.' — 'And he will claim you,' said Alan Rookwood, tri-
umphantly. ' He has your oath, no matter how extorted — you
must fulfil your vow.' — * I am prepared to do so,' said Eleanor.
' But if you would not utterly destroy me, let this maid conduct
me to my mother, to my friends.' — 'To Ranulph?' asked Sir
Luke, bitterly. — 'No, no,' returned Miss Mowbray, in accents of
deepest despair, ' to my mother — I wish not to behold him again.'
— 'Be it so,' cried Sir Luke; 'but remember, in love or hate, you
are mine; I shall claim the fulfilment of your oath. Farewell.
Handassah will lead you to your mother.' Miss Mowbray bowed
her head, but returned no answer, while, followed by old Alan,
Sir Luke departed from the cavern."

" Whither went they?" demanded Turpin.
"That I know not," replied Jerry. "I was about to follow,
when I was prevented by the abrupt entrance of another party.
Scarcely, I think, could the two Rookwoods have made good their
retreat, when shouts were heard without, and young Ranulph and
Major Mowbray forced their way, sword in hand, into the cave.
Here wras a situation — for me, I mean — to the young lady, I make
no doubt, it was pleasant enough. But my neck was in jeopardy.
However, you know I am not deficient in strength, and, upon the
present occasion, I made the best use of the agility with which
nature has endowed me. Amidst the joyous confusion — the sob-
bings, and cmbracings, and congratulations that ensued — I con-
trived, like a wild cat, to climb the rocky sides of the cave, and
concealed myself behind a jutting fragment of stone. It was well

ROOKWOOD. 253

I did so, for scarcely was I hidden, when in came old Barbara,
followed by Mrs. Mowbray, and a dozen others."

" Barbara !" ejaculated Dick. " Was she a prisoner?"

" No," replied Jerry ; " the old hell-cat is too deep for that. She
had betrayed Sir Luke, and hoped they would seize him and his
granddad. But the birds were flown."

" I'm glad she was baulked," said Dick. " Was any search
made after them?"

" Can't say," replied Jerry. " I could only indistinctly catch
the sounds of their voices from my lofty retreat. Before they left
the cavern, I made out that Mrs. Mowbray resolved to go to Rook-
wood, and to take her daughter thither — a proceeding to which
the latter demurred."

" To Rookwood," said Dick, musingly. " Will she keep her
oath, I wonder?"

" That's more than I can say," said Jerry, sipping his punch.

u 'Tis a deceitful sex, indeed," echoed Dick, tossing off a
tumbler. " For one Sybil we meet with twenty Handassahs, ch>
count?"

" Twenty ! — say rather a hundred," replied Jerry. "'Tis a vile
sex!"

CHAPTER II.

TCni KING.

Grimm. How gloriously the sun sets to-night.

Moor. When I was a boy, my favourite thought was, that I should live and
die like yonder glorious orb. It was a boyish thought.

Grimm. True, captain. The Robbers.

"Peace, base calumniators," exclaimed Tom King, aroused
from his toothpick reverie by these aspersions of the best part of
creation. a Peace, I say. None shall dare abuse that dear
devoted sex in the hearing of their champion, without pricking a
lance with him in their behalf. What do you, either of you, who
abuse woman in that wholesale style, know of her? Nothing —
less than nothing; and yet you venture, upon your paltry expe-
rience, to lift up your voices and decry the sex. Now I do know
her; and upon my own experience avouch, that, as a sex, woman,
compared with man, is as an angel to a devil. As a sex, woman
is faithful, loving, self-sacrificing. We 'tis that make her other-
wise; ice, selfish, exacting, neglectful men; we teach her indif-
ference, and then blame her apt scholarship. We spoil our own
hand, and then blame the cards. No abuse of women in my hear-

254 ROOKWOOD.

ing. Give me a glass of grog, Dick. 6 The sex ! — three times
three!' — and here's a song for you into the bargain." Saying
which, in a mellow, plaintive tone, Tom gave the following :

PLEDGE OE THE HIGHWAYMAN.

Come, fill up a bumper to Eve's fairest daughters,

Who have lavished their smiles on the brave and the free ;
Toast the sweethearts of Dudley, Hind, Wilmot, and Waters,*

Whate'er the attraction, whate'er their degree.
Pledge ! pledge in a bumper, each kind-hearted maiden,

Whose bright eyes were dimmed at the highwayman's fall ;
Who stood !by the gallows with sorrow o'erladen,

Bemoaning the fate of the gallant Dtj-Val !

Here's to each lovely lass chance of war bringeth near one,

Whom, with manner impassioned, we tenderly stop ;
And to whom, like the lover addressing his dear one,

In terms of entreaty the question we pop.
How oft, in such case, rosy lips have proved sweeter

Than the rosiest book, bright eyes saved a bright ring ;
While that one other kiss has brought off a repeater,

And a bead as a favour — the favourite string.

With our hearts ready rifled, each pocket we rifle,

With the pure flame of chivalry stirring our breasts ;
Life's risk for our mistress's praise is a trifle;

And each purse as a trophy our homage attests.
Then toss off your glasses to all girls of spirit,

Ne'er with names, or with number, your memories vex ;
Our toast, boys, embraces each woman of merit,

And, for fear of omission, we'll drink the whole sex.

" Well," replied Dick, replenishing King's rummer, while he
laughed heartily at his ditty, " I shan't refuse your toast, though
my heart don't respond to your sentiments. Ah, Tom ! the sex
you praise so much will, I fear, prove your undoing. Do as you
please, but curse me if ever I pin my life to a petticoat. I'd as soon
think of neo-lectins; the four cautions."

"The four cautions," said King; " what are they?"
"Did you never hear them?" replied Dick. "Attend, then,
and be edified."

THE POUR CAUTIONS.

Pay attention to these cautions four,
And through life you will need little more,
Should you dole out your days to threescore :
Beware of a pistol before !

Before ! before !
Beware of a pistol before !

* Pour celebrated highwaymen, all rejoicing in the honourable distinction of
captain.

ecrtjo S"^ C.-rULl£.^Kafl*lC-<-^

qJ^ ^JZbwwt/ ^"j^^^^

EOOKTVOOD. 255

And when backwards His ears are inclined,
And his tail with his ham is combined,
Caution two you will bear in your mind :
Beware of a prancer behind !

Behind ! behind !
Beware of a prancer behind !

Thirdly, when in the park you may ride,
On your best bit of blood, sir, astride,
Chatting gay to your old friend's young bride :
Beware of a coach at the side !

At the side ! at the side !
Beware of a coach at the side !

Lastly, whether in purple or grey,
Canter, ranter, grave, solemn, or gay,
Whate'er he may do or may say,
Beware of a priest every way !

Every way ! every way !
Beware of a priest every way !

" Well," said Tom King, " all you can sing or say don't alter
my good opinion of the women. Not a secret have I from the girl
of my heart. She could have sold me over and over again if she
had chosen, but my sweet Sue is not the wench to do that."

" It is not too late," said Dick. " Your Dalilah may yet hand
you over to the Philistines."

" Then I shall die in a good cause," said King: " but

The Tyburn Tree
Has no terrors for me,
Let better men swing — I'm at liberty.

I shall never come to the scragging-post, unless you turn topsman,
Dick Turpin. My nativity has been cast, and the stars have de-
clared I am to die by the hand of my best friend — and that's you
—eh, Dick?"

" It sounds like it," replied Turpin; a but I advise you not to
become too intimate with Jack Ketch. He may prove your best
friend after all."

" Why, faith, that's true," replied King, laughing; "and if I
must ride backwards up Holborn Hill, I'll do the thing in style,
and honest Jack Ketch shall never want his dues. A man should
always die game. We none of us know how soon our turn may
come; but come when it will, /shall never flinch from it.

As the highwayman's life is the fullest of zest,

So the lnghwayman's death is the briefest and best;

He dies not as other men die, by degrees,

But at once ! without flinching— and quite at his ease !

as the song you are so fond of says. When I die, it will not be of
consumption. And if the surgeon's knife must come near me, it

250 ROOKWOOD.

will be after death. There's some comfort in that reflection, at all
events."

" True," replied Turpin, u and, with a little alteration, my song
would suit you capitally :

There is not a king, should you search the world round,
So blithe as the king's king, Tom King, to be found :
Dear woman's his empire, each girl is his own,
And he'd have a long reign if he'd let 'em alone !

Ha, ha !"

61 Ha, ha!" laughed Tom. "And now, Dick, to change the
subject. You are off, I understand, to Yorkshire to-night. 'Pon
my soul, you are a wonderful fellow — an alibi personified ! — here
and everywhere at the same time — no wonder you are called the
flying highwayman. To-day in town — to-morrow at York — the
day after at Chester. The devil only knows where you will pitch
your quarters a week hence. There are rumours of you in all
counties at the same moment. This man swears you robbed him
at Hounslow ; that, on Salisbury Plain ; while another avers you
monopolise Cheshire and Yorkshire, and that it isn't safe even to
hunt without pops in your pocket. I heard some devilish good
stories of you at D'Osyndar's t'other day; the fellow who told them
to me little thought I was a brother blade."

" You flatter me," said Dick, smiling complacently; " but it's
no merit of mine. Black Bess alone enables me to do it, and hers
be the credit. Talking of being everywhere at the same time,
you shall hear what she once did for me in Cheshire. Meantime,
a glass to the best mare in England. You won't refuse that toast,
Tom. Ah ! if your mistress is only as true to you as my nag to
me, you might set at nought the tightest hempen cravat that was
ever twisted, and defy your best friend to hurt you. Black Bess I
and God bless her ! And now for the song." Saying which, with
m*ch emotion, Turpin chanted the following rhymes :

BLACK BESS*

Let the lover his mistress's beauty rehearse,
And laud her attractions in lancruishins: verse ;
Be it mine in rude strains, but with truth to express,
The love that I bear to my bonny Black Bess.

Prom the West was her dam, from the East was her sire,
Erom the one came her swiftness, the other her fire ;
No peer of the realm better blood can possess
Than flows in the veins of my bonny Black Bess.

Look ! look ! how that eyeball glows bright as a brand !
That neck proudly arches, those nostrils expand !
Mark ! that wide-flowing mane ! of which each silky tress
Might adorn prouder beauties — though none like Black Bess.

* Set to music by Mr. F. Homer.

ROOKWOOD. 257

Mark ! that skin sleek as velvet, and dusky as night,
With its jet undisfigured by one lock of white ;
That throat branched with veins, prompt to charge or caress
Now is she not beautiful ? — bonny Black Bess !

Over highway and by-way, in rough and smooth weather,
Some thousands of miles have we journeyed together ;
Our couch the same straw, and our meal i he same mess
No couple more constant than I and Black Bess.

By moonlight, in darkness, by night, or by day,
Her headlong career there is nothing can stay ;
She cares not for distance, she knows not distress :
Can you show me a courser to match with Black Bess ?

" Egad ! I should think not," exclaimed King.; u you are as
sentimental on the subject of your mare, as I am when I think of
my darling Susan. But pardon my interruption. Pray proceed."

"Let me first clear my throat," returned Dick; "and now to
resume:"

Once it happened in Cheshire, near Dunham, I popped
On a horseman alone, whom I speedily stopped ;
That I lightened his pockets you'll readily guess —
Quick work makes Dick Turpin when mounted on Bess.

Now it seems the man knew me ; "Dick Turpin," said he,
" You shall swing for this job, as you live, d'ye see;"
I laughed at his threats and his vows of redress ;
1 was sure of an alibi then with Black Bess.

The road was a hollow, a sunken ravine,*
Overshadowed completely by wood like a screen;
I clambered the bank, and I needs must confess,
That one touch of the spur grazed the side of Black Bess.

Brake, brook, meadow, and plough'd field, Bess fleetly bestrode,
As the crow wings her flight we selected our road ;
We arrived at Hough Green in five minutes, or less —
My neck it was saved by the speed of Black Bess.

Stepping carelessly forward, I lounge on the green,
Taking excellent care that by all I am seen ;
Some remarks on time's flight to the squires I address,
But I say not a word of the flight of Black Bess.

I mention the hour — it was just about four —
Play a rubber at bowls — think the danger is o'er ;
When athwart my next game, like a checkmate at chess,
Comes the horseman in search of the rider of Bess.

* The exact spot where Turpin committed this robbery, which has often
been pointed out to us, lies in what is now a woody hollow, though Once the
old road from Altringham to Knutsford, skirting the rich and sylvan domains
of Dunham, and descending the hill that brings you to the bridge crossing the
little river Bollin. With some difficulty we penetrated this ravine. It is just
the place for an adventure of the kind. A small brook wells through it ; and
the steep banks are overhung with timber, and were, when we last visited the
place, in April, 1S34, a per.fect nest of primroses and wild flowers. Hough
(pronounced Hoo) Green lies about three miles across the country — the way
Turpin rode. The old Bowling-green is one of the pleasantest inns in Cheshire.

258 ROOKWOOD.

What matter details ? Off with triumph 1 came ;
He swears to the hour, and the squires swear the same ;
I had robbed him at four ! — while at four they profess
I was quietly bowling — all thanks to Black Bess !

Then one halloo, boys, one loud cheering halloo !
To the swiftest of coursers, the gallant, the true !
For the sportsman unborn shall the memory bless
Of the horse of the highwayman, bonny Black Bess !

Loud acclamations rewarded Dick's performance. Awakened
from his doze, Zoroaster beat time to the melody, the only thing,
Jerry said, he was capable of heating in his present shattered con-
dition. After some little persuasion, the Magus was prevailed
upon to enliven the company with a strain, which he trolled forth
after a maudlin manner :

THE DOUBLE CROSS.

Though all of us have heard of crost rights,
And certain gains, by certain lost fights ■
I rather fancies that it's news,
How in a mill, both men should lose ;
For vere the odds are thus made even,
It plays the dickens with the steven ;*
Besides, against all rule they're shining,
Vere neither has no chance of vinning.

Ri, tol, lot, 8fc.

Two milling coves, each vide avake,

Vere backed to fight for heavy stake :

But in the mean time, so it vos,

Both kids agreed to play a cross ;

Bold came each buffer-\ to the scratch,

To make it look a lightish match ;

They peeled% in style, and bets were making,

5Tvos six to four, but few were taking.

Ri, tol, lol, Src.

Quite cautiously the mill began,
For neither knew the other's plan ;
Each cull\ completely in the dark,
Of vot might be his neighbour's mark;
Resolved his fbbing\\ not to mind,
Nor yet to pay him back in kind ;
So on each other kept they tout^\
And sparred a bit, and dodged about.

Ri, tol, lol, 8fc.

Vith mawleys** raised, Tom bent his back,

As if to plant a heavy thwack :

Vile Jem, with neat left-handed stopper,

Straight threatened Tommy with a topper;

5Tis all my eye ! no claret flows,

No facers sound — no smashing blows —

Five minutes pass, yet not a hit,

How can it end, pals ? — vait a bit.

Ri, tol, lol, Src

* Money. f Man. % Stripped. § Fellow.

|| A particular kind of pugilistic punishment,
•jf Kept each an eye upon the other. ** Hands.

EOOKWOOD . 259

Each cove vos teazed with double duty,

To please his backers, yet play booty ;*

Ven, luckily for .Jem, a teller

Vos planted right upon his smeller;

Down dropped he, stunned; ven time was called,

Seconds in vain the seconds bawled;

The mill is o'er, the crosser crost,

The loser's von, the vinner's lost !

Hi, tol, lot, SfC.

The party assumed once more a lively air, and the glass was cir-
culated so freely, that at last a final charge drained the ample bowl
of its contents.

"The best of friends must part/' said Dick; "and I would
willingly order another whiff of punch, but I think we have all
had enough to satisfy us, as you milling coves have it, Zory !
Your one eye has got a drop in it already, old fellow; and, to
speak the truth, I must be getting into the saddle without more
delay, for I have a long ride before me. And now, friend Jerry,
before I start, suppose you tip us one of your merry staves; we
haven't heard your pipe to-day, and never a cross cove of us all can
throw off so prime a chant as yourself. A song! a song!"

" Ay, a song !" reiterated King and the Magus.

"You dome too much honour, gemmen," said Jerry, modestly,
taking a pinch of snuff; " I am sure I shall be most happy. My
chants are all of a sort. You must make all due allowances —
hem !" And, clearing his throat, he forthwith warbled

THE MODERN GREEK.

{Not translated from the Romaic.)

Come, gemmen, name, and make your game,

See, round the ball is spinning.
Black, red, or blue, the colours view,
due, deux, cinque, 'lis beginning,
Then make your game,
The colour name,
"While round the ball is spinning.

This sleight of hand my flat shall land

While covered by my bonnet,^
I plant my ball, and boldly call,
Come make vour game upon it !
Thus rat-a-tat !
I land my flat !
'Tis black — not red — is winning.

At gay roulette was never met

A lance like mine for bleeding !
I'm ne'er at fault, at nothing halt,
All other legs preceding.
To all awake,
I never shake
A mag\ unless I nip it.

* Deceive them. f Accomplice. % A farthing.

260 EOOKWOOD. •

Blind-hookey sees how well I squeeze
The well-packed cards in shuffling.
Ecarte, whist, I never missed,
A nick the broads* while ruffling.
Mogul or loo,
The same I do,
I am down to trumps as trippet !

' French hazard ta'en, / nick the main,
Was ne'er so prime a caster.
No crabs for me, I'm fly, d'ye see ;
The bank shall change its master.
Seven quatre, trois,
The stakes are high !
Ten mains ! ten mains are mine, pals !

At Rouge et Noir, yon hellite^ choir

I'll make no bones of stripping ;
One glorious coup for me shall do,
While they may deal each pip in.
Trente-un-apres
Ne'er clogs my way ;
The game — the game's divine, pals.

At billiards set, I make my bet,

I'll score and win the rub, pals ;
1 miss my cue, my hazard, too,
But yet my foe I'll drub, pals.
That cannon-twist,
I ne'er had missed,
Unless to suit my views, pals. <i

To make all right, the match look tight,

This trick, you know, is done, pals ;
But now be gay, I'll show my play —
Hurrah ! the game is won, pals.
No hand so fine,
No wrist like mine,
No odds I e'er refuse, pals.

Then choose your game ; whate'er you name,

To me alike all offers ;
Chick-hazard, whist, whate'er you list,
Replenish quick your coffers.
Thus, rat-a-tat !
I land my flat !
To every purse I speak, pals.

Cramped boxes 'ware, all's right and fair,

Barred balls I bar when goaded ;
The deuce an ace is out of place !
The deuce a die is loaded !

Then make your game,
Your colour name ;
Success attend the Greek, pals.

Bravo, Jerry — bravissimo!" chorused the party.
"And now, pals, farewell! — a long farewell!" said Dick, in a

* Cards. f Qy. elite. — Pkinter's Devil.

ROOKWOOD 261

tone of theatrical valediction. " As I said before, the best friends
must separate. We may soon meet again, or we now may part}
for ever. We cannot command our luck; but we can make the
best of the span allotted to us. You have your game to play. I
have mine. May each of us meet with the success he deserves."

" Egad ! I hope not," said King. " I'm afraid, in that case, the
chances would be against us."

" Well, then, the success we anticipate, if you prefer it," re-
joined Dick. " I have only to observe one thing more, namely,
that I must insist upon standing Sam upon the present occasion.
Not a word. I won't hear a syllable. Landlord, I say — what
oh!" continued Dick, stepping out 'of the arbour. "Here, my
old Admiral of the White, what's the reckoning? — what's to pay,
I say?"

u Let ye know directly, sir," replied mine host of the Falstaff.

" Order my horse — the black mare," added Dick.

" And mine," said King, " the sorrel colt. I'll ride with you a
mile or two on the road, Dick; perhaps we may stumble upon
something."

" Very likely."

" We meet at twelve, at D'Osyndar's, Jerry," said King, " if
nothing happens."

" Agreed," responded Juniper.

" What say you to a rubber at bowls, in the mean time?" said
the Magus, taking his everlasting pipe from his lips.

Jerry nodded acquiescence. And while they went in search of
the implements of the game, Turpin and King sauntered gently on
the green.

It was a delicious evening. The sun was slowly declining, and
glowed like a ball of fire amid the thick foliage of a neighbouring
eim. Whether, like the robber Moor, Tom King was touched by
this glorious sunset, we pretend not to determine. Certain it was
that a shade of inexpressible melancholy passed across his hand-
some countenance, as he gazed in the direction of Harrow-on-
the-Hill, which, lying to the west of the green upon which they
walked, stood out with its pointed spire and lofty college against
the ruddy sky. He spoke not. But Dick noticed the passing
emotion.

" What ails you, Tom ?" said he, with much kindness of manner
— "are you not well, lad?"

" Yes, I am well enough," said King; " I know not what came
over me, but looking at Harrow, I thought of my school-days, and
what I was then, and that bright prospect reminded me of my
boyish hopes."

" Tut — tut," said Dick, u this is idle — you are a man now."

" I know I am," replied Tom, " but I have been a boy. Had I
any faith in presentiments, I should say this is the last sunset I
shall ever see:"

262 ROOKWOOD.

" Here comes our host," said Dick, smiling. " I've no presen-
timent that this is the last bill I shall ever pay."

The bill was brought and settled. As Turpin paid it, the man's
conduct was singular, and awakened his suspicions.

"Are our horses ready?" asked Dick, quickly.

" They are, sir," said the landlord.

" Let us be gone," whispered Dick to King; " I don't like this
fellow's manner. I thought I heard a carriage draw up at the inn
door just now — there may be danger. Be fly !" added he to Jerry
and the Magus. " Now, sir," said he to the landlord, " lead the
way. Keep on the alert, Tom."

Dick's hint was not lost upon the two bowlers. They watched
their comrades ; and listened intently for any manifestation of
alarm.

CHAPTER III.

A SURPRISE.

Was this well done, Jenny ? — Captain MacJieath.

While Turpin and King are walking across the bowling-
green, we will see what has taken place outside the inn. Tom's
presentiments of danger were not, it appeared, without founda-
tion. Scarcely had the ostler brought forth our two highway-
men's steeds, when a post-chaise, escorted by two or three horse-
men, drove furiously up to the door. The sole occupant of the
carriage was a lady, whose slight and pretty figure was all that
could be distinguished, her face being closely veiled. The land-
lord, who was busied in casting up Turpin's account, rushed forth
at the summons. A word or two passed between him and the
horsemen, upon which the former's countenance fell. He posted
in the direction of the garden; and the horsemen instantly dis-
mounted.

" We have him now, sure enough," said one of them, a very
small man, who looked, in his boots, like Buckle equipped for the
Oaks.

u By the powers J I begin to think so," replied the other horse-
man. " But don't spoil all, Mr. Coates, by being too preci-
pitate."

u Never fear that, Mr. Tyrconnel," said Coates; for it was the
gallant attorney : " he's sure to come for his mare. That's a trap
certain to catch him, eh, Mr. Paterson ? With the chief constable
of Westminster to back us, the devil's in it if we are not a match
for him."

ROOKWOOD. 263

" And for Tom King too," replied the chief constable; "since
his blowen's peached, the game's up with him, too. We've long
had an eye upon him, and now we'll have a finger. He's one of
your-dashing trouts to whom we always give a long line, but we'll
land him this time, anyhow. If you'll look after Dick Turpin,
gemmen, I'll make sure of Tom."

" I'd rather you would help us, Mr. Paterson," said Coates;
"never mind Tom King; another time will do for him."

"No such thing," said Paterson; "one weighs just as much for
that matter as t'other. I'll take Tom to myself, and surely you
two, with the landlord and ostler, can manage Turpin amongst
you."

" I don't know that," said Coates, doubtfully ; " he's a devil of a
fellow to deal with."

" Take him quietly," said Paterson. " Draw the chaise out of
the way, lad. Take our tits to one side, and place their nags near
the door, ostler. Shall you be able to see him, ma'am, where you
are?" asked the chief constable, walking to the carriage, and
touching his hat to the lady within. Having received a satisfac-
tory nod from the bonnet and veil, he returned to his companions.
" And now, gemmen," added he, " let's step aside a little. Don't
use your fire-arms too soon."

As if conscious what was passing around her, and of the danger
that awaited her master, Black Bess exhibited so much impatience,
and plunged so violently, that it was with diiliculty the ostler
could hold her. "The devil's in the marc," said he; " what's the
matter with her? She was quiet enough a few minutes since.
Soho ! lass, stand."

Turpin and King, meanwhile, walked quickly through the
house, preceded by the host, who conducted them, and without
some inward trepidation, towards the door. Arrived there, each
man rushed swiftly to his horse. Dick was in the saddle in an
instant, and stamping her foot upon the ostler's leg, Black Bess
compelled the man, yelling with pain, to quit his hold of the
bridle. Tom King was not equally fortunate. Before he could
mount his horse, a loud shout was raised, winch startled the
animal, and caused him to swerve, so that Tom lost his footing in
the stirrup, and fell to the ground. He was instantly seized by
Paterson, and a struggle commenced, King endeavouring, but in
vain, to draw a pistol.

"Flip him,* Dick; fire, or I'm taken," cried King. "Fire!
damn you, why don't you fire?" shouted he, in desperation, still
struggling vehemently with Paterson, who was a strong man, and
more than a match for a light weio-ht like King.

"I can't," cried Dick; "I shall hit you, if f fire."

"Take your chance," shouted Kino-. "Is this vour friend-
ship?"

* Shoot him.

264 EOOKWOOD.

Thus urged, Turpin fired. The ball ripped up the sleeve of
Paterson's coat, but did not wound him.

"Again!" cried King. "Shoot him, I say. Don't you hear
me? Fire a2:ain!"

Pressed as he was by foes on every side, himself their mark, for
both Coates and Tyrconnel had fired upon him, and were now
mounting their steeds to give chase, it was impossible that Turpin
could take sure aim; added to which, in the struggle, Paterson
and King were each moment changing their relative positions.
He, however, would no longer hesitate, but again, at his friend's
request, fired. The ball lodged itself in King's breast ! He fell
at once. At this instant a shriek was heard from the chaise : the
window was thrown open, and her thick veil being drawn aside,
the features of a very pretty female, now impressed with terror
and contrition, were suddenly exhibited.

King fixed his glazing eyes upon her.

" Susan !" sighed he, " is it you that I behold?"

" Yes, yes, 'tis she, sure enough," said Paterson. " You see,
ma'am, what you and such like have brought him to. However,
you'll lose your reward; he's going fast enough."

" Reward !" gasped King; " reward ! Did she betray me?"

" Ay, ay, sir," said Paterson, " she blowed the gaff) if it's any
consolation to you to know it."

" Consolation !" repeated the dying man; " perfidious ! — oh ! —
the prophecy — my best friend — Turpin — I die by his hand."

And vainly striving to raise himself, he fell backwards and ex-
pired. Alas, poor Tom !

"Mr. Paterson! Mr. Paterson!" cried Coates; "leave the land-
lord to look after the body of that dying ruffian, and mount with
us in pursuit of the living rascal. Come, sir; quick! mount! de-
spatch! You see he is yonder; he seems to hesitate; we shall
have him now."

" Well, gemmen, I'm ready," said Paterson ; " but how the
devil came you to let him escape?"

" Saint Patrick only knows!" said Titus; "he's as slippery as
an eel — and, like a cat, turn him which way you will, he is always
sure to alight upon his legs. I wouldn't wonder but we lose him
now, after all, though he has such a small start. That mare flies
like the wind."

" He shall have a tight run for it, at all events," said Paterson,
putting spurs into his horse. " I've got a good nag under me,
and you are neither 'of you badly mounted. He's only three hun-
dred yards before us, and the devil's in it if we can't run him
down. It's a three hundred pound job, Mr. Coates, and well
worth a race."

" You shall have another hundred from me, sir, if you take
him," said Coates, urging his steed forward.

" Thank you, sir, thank you. Follow my directions, and we'll

ROOKWOOD. 265

make sure of him," said the constable. " Gently, gently, not so
fast up the hill — you see he's breathing his horse. All in good
time, Mr. Coates — all in good time, sir."

And maintaining an equal distance, both parties cantered lei-
surely up the ascent now called Windmill Hill. We shall now
return to Turpin.

Aghast at the deed he had accidentally committed, Dick re-
mained for a few moments irresolute; he perceived that King was
mortally wounded, and that all attempts at rescue would be fruit-
less; he perceived, likewise, that Jerry and the Magus had effected
their escape from the bowling-green, as he could detect their figures
stealing alon# the hed^e-side. He hesitated no longer. Turning
his horse, he galloped slowly off, little heeding the pursuit with
which he was threatened.

" Every bullet has its billet," said Dick; " but little did I think
that I really should turn poor Tom's executioner. To the devil
with this rascally snapper," cried he, throwing the pistol over the
hedge. " I could never have used it again. 'Tis strange, too,
that he should have foretold his own fate — devilish strange ! And
then that he should have been betrayed by the very blowen he
trusted ! that's a lesson, if I wanted any. But trust a woman ! —
not I, the length of my little finger."

CHAPTER IY.

THE nUE AND CEY.

Six. gentlemen upon the road

Thus seeing Gilpin fly,
With postboy scampering in the rear,

They raised the hue and cry :

Stop thief! stop thief! a highwayman!

Not one of them was mute ;
And all and each that pass'd that way

Did join in the pursuit. Jonn Gilpin.

Arrived at the brow of the hill, whence such a beautiful view
of the country surrounding the metropolis is obtained,* Turpin.
turned for an instant to reconnoitre his pursuers. Coates and
Titus he utterly disregarded; but Paterson was a more formidable
foe, and he well knew that he had to deal with a man of expe-

* Since the earlier editions of this Romance were published, we regret to
state (for to us, at least, it is matter of regret, though probably not to the
travellers along the Edgeware-road) that this gentle ascent has been cut
through, and the fair prospect from its brow utterly destroyed.

266 EOOKWOOD.

rience and resolution. It was then, for the first time, that the
thoughts of executing his extraordinary ride to York first flashed
across him; his bosom throbbed high with rapture, and he invo-
luntarily exclaimed aloud, as he raised himself in the saddle, " By
God ! I will do it !"

He took one last look at the great Babel that lay buried in a
world of trees beneath him; and as his quick eye ranged over the
magnificent prospect, lit up by that gorgeous sunset, he could not
help thinking of Tom King's last words. " Poor fellow !" thought
Dick, " he said truly. He will never see another sunset." Aroused
by the approaching clatter of his pursuers, Dick struck into a lane
which lies on the right of the road, now called Shoot-up-hill Lane,
and set off at a good pace in the direction of Hampstead.

" Now," cried Paterson, " put your tits to it, my boys. We
must not lose si^ht of him for a second in these lanes."

Accordingly, as Turpin was by no means desirous of inconve-
niencing his mare in this early stage of the business, and as the
ground was still upon an ascent, the parties preserved their relative
distances.

At length, after various twistings and turnings in that deep and
devious lane; after scaring one or two farmers, and riding over a
brood or two of ducks; dipping into the verdant valley of West
End, and ascending another hill, Turpin burst upon the gorsy,
sandy, and beautiful heath of Hampstead. Shaping his course to
the left, Dick then made for the lower part of the heath, and
skirted a path that leads towards North End, passing the furze-
crowned summit which is now crested by a clump of lofty pines.

It was here that the chase first assumed a character of interest.
Being open ground, the pursued and pursuers were in full view of
each other; and as Dick rode swiftly across the heath, with the
shouting trio hard at his heels, the scene had a verv animated
appearance. He crossed the hill — the Hendon Road — passed
Crackskull Common — and dashed alon£ the cross road to Hio-hirate.

Hitherto no advantage had been gained by the pursuers; they
had not lost ground, but still they had not gained an inch, and
much spurring was required to maintain their position. As they
approached Highgate, Dick slackened his pace, and the other party
redoubled their efforts. To avoid the town, Dick struck into a
narrow path at the right, and rode easily down the hill.

His pursuers were now within a hundred yards, and shouted to
him to stand. Pointing to a gate which seemed to bar their fur-
ther progress, Dick unhesitatingly charged it, clearing it in beau-
tiful style. Not so with Coates's party ; and the time they lost in
unfastening the gate, which none of them chose to leap, enabled
Dick to put additional space betwixt them. It did not, however,
appear to be his intention altogether to outstrip his pursuers: the
chase seemed to give him excitement, which he was willing to
prolong as much as was consistent with his safety. Scudding

^yV^nJ^Y 'oya ■

ROOKWOOD. 267

rapidly past Highgate, like a swift-sailing schooner, with three
lumbering Indiamen in her wake, Dick now took the lead along
a narrow lane that threads the fields in the direction of Hornsey.
The shouts of his followers had brought others to join them, and
as he neared Crouch End, traversing the lane which takes its
name from Du-Val, and in which a house frequented by that
gayest of robbers stands, or stood, " A highwayman! a highway-
man !" rang in his ears, in a discordant chorus of many voices.

The whole neighbourhood Avas alarmed by the cries, and by the
tramp of horses : the men of Hornsey rushed into the road to seize
the fugitive, and women held up their babes to catch a glimpse of
the flying cavalcade, which seemed to gain number and animation
as it advanced. Suddenly three horsemen appear in the road —
they hear the uproar and the din. " A highwayman ! a highway-
man !" cry the voices: " stop him, stop him !" But it is no such
easy matter. With a pistol in each hand, and his bridle in his
teeth, Turpin passed boldly on. His fierce looks — his furious
steed — the impetus with which he pressed forward, bore down all
before him. The horsemen gave way, and only served to swell
the list of his pursuers.

""We have him now — we have him now!" cried Paterson,
exultingly. " Shout for your lives. The turnpike-man will hear
us. Shout again — again ! The fellow has heard it. The irate is
shut. We have him. Ha, ha!"

The old Hornsey toll-bar was a high gate, with chevaux-de-
frise in the upper rail. It may be so still. The gate was swung
into its lock, and, like a tiger in his lair, the prompt custodian of
the turnpike trusts, ensconced within his doorway, held himself in
readiness to spring upon the runaway. But Dick kept steadily
on. He coolly calculated the height of the gate; he looked to
the right and to the left — nothing better offered; he spoke a few
words of encouragement to Bess, gently patted her neck, then
struck spurs into her sides, and cleared the spikes by an inch.
Out rushed the amazed turnpike-man, thus unmercifully bilked,
and was nearly trampled to death under the feet of Paterson's
horse.

" Open the gate, fellow, and be expeditious," shouted the chief
constable.

" Not I," said the man, sturdily, " unless I gets my dues. I've
been done once already. But strike me stupid if I'm done a
second time."

"Don't you perceive that's a highwayman? Don't you know
that I'm chief constable of Westminster?" said Paterson, showing
his staff. u How dare you oppose me in the discharge of my
duty?" .

" That may be, or it may not be," said the man, doggedly.
" But you don't pass, unless I gets the blunt, and that's the long
and short on it."

268 ROOKWOOD.

Amidst a storm of oaths Coates flung down a crown piece, and
the gate was thrown open.

Turpin took advantage of this delay to breathe his mare; and,
striking into a by-lane at Duckett's Green, cantered easily along
in the direction of Tottenham. Little repose was allowed him.
Yelling like a pack of hounds in full cry, his pursuers were again
at his heels. He had now to run the gauntlet of the long straggling
town of Tottenham, and various were the devices of the populace
to entrap him. The whole place was up in arms, shouting, scream-
ing, running, dancing, and hurling every possible description of
missile at the horse and her rider. Dick merrily responded to
their clamour as he flew past, and laughed at the brickbats that
were showered thick as hail, and quite as harmlessly, around him.

A few more miles' hard riding tired the volunteers, and before
the chase reached Edmonton most of them were " nowhere."
Here fresh relays were gathered, and a strong field was again
mustered. John Gilpin himself could not have excited more
astonishment amongst the good folks of Edmonton, than did our
highwayman as he galloped through their town. Unlike the men
of Tottenham, the mob received him with acclamations, thinking,
no doubt, that, like " the citizens of famous London town," he rode
for a wager. Presently, however, borne on the wings of the blast,
came the cries of " Turpin ! Dick Turpin !" and the hurrahs were
changed to hootings; but such was the rate at which our high-
wayman rode, that no serious opposition could be offered to him.

A man in a donkey-cart, unable to get out of the way, drew
himself up in the middle of the road. Turpin treated him as he
had done the dub at the knapping jigger, and cleared the driver
and his little wain with ease. This was a capital stroke, and well
adapted to please the multitude, who are ever taken with a
brilliant action. " Hark away, Dick ! " resounded on all hands?
while hisses were as liberally bestowed upon his pursuers.

CHAPTER V.

THE SHORT PIPE.

The Peons are capital horsemen, and several times we saw them, at a gallop,
throw the rein on the horse's neck, take from one pocket a bag of loose to-
bacco, and, with a piece of paper, or a leaf of Indian com, make a cigar, and
then take ont a flint and steel and light it. Head's Rough Notes.

Away they fly past scattered cottages, swiftly and skimmingly,
like eagles on the wing, along the Enfield highway. All wTere
well mounted, and the horses, now thoroughly wanned, had got

TURPIN LEAPING THE CART.

P. 268.

Cto-rjt GrUiK.4H*n|L.

'J f^^{7^U^U^,

EOOKWOOD. 269

into their paces, and did their work beautifully. None of Coates's
party lost ground, but they maintained it at the expense of their
steeds, which were streaming like water-carts, while Black Bess
had scarcely turned a hair.

Turpin, the reader already knows, was a crack rider; he was
the crack rider of England of his time, and, perhaps, of any time.
The craft and mystery of jockeyship was not so well under-
stood in the eighteenth as it is in the nineteenth century; men
treated their horses differently, and few rode them as well as many
ride now, when every youngster takes to the field as naturally as
if he had been bred a Guacho. Dick Turpin was a glorious ex-
ception to the rule, and anticipated a later age. He rode wonder-
fully lightly, yet sat his saddle to perfection, distributing the
weight so exquisitely that his horse scarcely felt his pressure; he
yielded to every movement made by the animal, and became, as it
were, part and parcel of itself ; he took care Bess should be neither
strained nor wrung. Freely, and as lightly as *a feather, was she
borne along; beautiful was it to see her action — to watch her
style and temper of covering the ground; and many a first-rate
Meltonian might have got a wrinkle from Turpin's seat and
conduct.

We have before stated that it was not Dick's object to rick away
from his pursuers — he could have done that at any moment. He
liked the fun of the chase, and would have been sorry to put a
period to his own excitement. Confident in his mare, he just kept
her at such speed as should put his pursuers completely to it, with-
out in the slightest decree inconveniencing himself. Some iudg-
ment of the speed at which they went may be formed, when we
state that little better than an hour had elapsed and nearly twenty
miles had been ridden over. " Not bad travelling that," methinks
we hear the reader exclaim.

" By the mother that bore me," said Titus, as they went along
in this slapping style — Titus, by-the-by, rode a big, Roman-nosed,
powerful horse, well adapted to his weight, but which required a
plentiful exercise both of leg and arm to call forth all his action,
and keep his rider alongside his companions — u by the mother that
bore me," said^he, almost thumping the wind out of his flea-bitten
Bucephalus with his calves, after the Irish fashion, " if the fellow
isn't lighting his pipe ! I saw the sparks fly on each side of him,
and there he goes like a smoky chimney on a frosty morning !
See, he turns his impudent phiz, with the pipe in his mouth !
Are we to stand that, Mr. Coates?"

"Wait awhile, sir — wait awhile," said Coates; " we'll smoke
him by-and-by."

Pagans have been sung in honour of the Peons of the Pampas
by the Headlong Sir Francis; but what the gallant major extols
so loudly in the South American horsemen, viz., the lighting of a
cigar when in mid career, was accomplished with equal ease by

270 ROOKWOOD.

our English highwayman a hundred years ago, nor was it esteemed
"by him any extravagant feat either. Flint, steel, and tinder, were
bestowed within Dick's ample pouch, the short pipe was at hand,
and within a few seconds there was a stream of vapour exhaling
from his lips, like the smoke from a steam-boat shooting down the
river, and tracking his still rapid course through the air.

" I'll let 'em see what I think of 'em!" said Dick, coolly, as he
turned his head.

It was now grey twilight. The mists of coming night were
weaving a thin curtain over the rich surrounding landscape. All
the sounds and hum of that delicious hour were heard, broken only
by the regular clatter of the horses' hoofs. Tired of shouting, the
chasers now kept on their way in deep silence ; each man held his
breath, and plunged his spurs, rowel deep, into his horse ; but the
animals were already at the top of their speed, and incapable of
greater exertion. Paterson, who was a hard rider, and perhaps a
thought better mounted, kept the lead. The rest followed as they
might.

Had it been undisturbed by the rush of the cavalcade, the scene
would have been still and soothing. Overhead a cloud of rooks
were winging their garrulous flight to the ancestral avenue of an
ancient mansion to the right; the bat was on the wing; the dis-
tant lowing of a herd of kine saluted the ear at intervals; the
blithe whistle of the rustic herdsman, and the merry chime of
waggon bells, rang pleasantly from afar. But these cheerful
sounds, which make the still twilight hour delightful, were lost in
the tramp of the horsemen, now three abreast. The hind fled to
the hedge for shelter, and the waggoner pricked up his ears, and
fancied he heard the distant rumbling of an earthquake.

On rush the pack, whipping, spurring, tugging for very life.
Again they gave voice, in hopes the waggoner might succeed in
stopping the fugitive. But Dick was already by his side. " Harkee,
my tulip," cried he, taking the pipe from his mouth as he passed,
" tell my friends behind they will hear of me at York."

" What did he say?" asked Paterson, coming up the next mo-
ment.

" That you'll find him at York," replied the waggoner.

"At York !" echoed Coates, in amaze.

Turpin was now out of sight, and although our trio flogged
with might and main, they could never catch a glimpse of him
until, within a short distance of Ware, they beheld him at the
door of a little public-house, standing with his bridle in his hand,
coolly quaffing a tankard of ale. No sooner were they in sight,
than Dick vaulted into the saddle, and rode off.

" Devil seize you, sir! why didn't you stop him?" exclaimed
Paterson, as he rode up. " My horse is dead lame. I cannot go
any further. Do you know what a prize you have missed? Do
you know who that was?"

C wvi ^ ■o>u4t jk.a*ih.

' s/ms ^tYs /K''''?// ,,

t V?s.

ROOKWOOD. 271

" No, sir, I don't," said the publican. " But I know lie gave
his mare more ale than he took himself, and he has given me a
guinea instead of a shilling. He's a regular good 'un."

"Agood'un!" said Paterson; "it was Turpin, the notorious
highwayman. We are in pursuit of him. Have you any horses?
our cattle are all blown."

" You'll find the post-house in the town, gentlemen. I'm sorry
I can't accommodate you. But I keeps no stabling. I wish you
a very good evening, sir." Saying which, the publican retreated
to his domicile.

"That's a flash crib, I'll be bound," said Paterson. " I'll chalk
you down, my friend, you may rely upon it. Thus far we're done,
Mr. Coates. But curse me if I give it in. I'll follow him to the
world's end first."

" Right, sir — right," said the attorney. " A very proper spirit,
Mr. Constable. You would be guilty of neglecting your duty
were you to act otherwise. You must recollect my father, Mr.
Paterson — Christopher, or Kit Coates; a name as well known at
the Old Bailey as Jonathan Wild's. You recollect him — eh?"

" Perfectly well, sir," replied the chief constable.

" The greatest thief-taker, though I say it," continued Coates,
"on record. I inherit all his zeal — all his ardour. Come along,
sir. We shall have a fine moon in an hour — bright as day. To
the post-house! to the post-house!"

Accordingly to the post-house they went; and, with as little
delay as circumstances admitted, fresh hacks being procured, ac-
companied by a postilion, the party again pursued their onward
course, encouraged to believe thev were still in the right scent.

Night had now spread her mantle over the earth : still it was
not wholly dark. A few stars were twinkling in the deep,
cloudless heavens, and a pearly radiance in the eastern horizon
heralded the rising of the orb of night. A gentle breeze was
stirring; the dews of evening had already fallen; and the air felt
bland and dry. It was just the night one would have chosen for
a ride, if one ever rode by choice at such an hour; and to Turpin,
whose chief excursions were conducted by night, it appeared little
less than heavenly.

Full of ardour and excitement, determined to execute what he
had mentally undertaken, Turpin held on his solitary course.
Everything was favourable to his project ; the roads were in
admirable condition, his mare was in like order; she was inured,
to hard work, had rested sufficiently in town to recover from the
fatigue of her recent journey, and had never been in more perfect
training " She has now got her wind in her," said Dick; " I'll
see what she can do — hark away, lass — hark away ! I wish they
could see her now," added he, as he felt her almost fly away with
him.

Encouraged by her master's voice and hand, Black Bess started

272 hookwood.

forward at a pace which few horses could have equalled, and
scarcely any have sustained so long. Even Dick, accustomed as
he was to her magnificent action, felt electrified at the speed with
which he was borne along. " Bravo ! bravo ! " shouted he, " hark
away, Bess!"

The deep and solemn woods through which they were rushing
rang with his shouts, and the sharp rattle of Bess's hoofs ; and thus
he held his .way, while, in the words of the ballad,

Fled past, on right and left, how fast,

Each forest, grove, and bower ;
On right and left, fled past, how fast,

Each city, town, and tower.

CHAPTER YE.

BLACK BESS.

Dauphin. I will not change my horse witli any that treads but on four pas-
terns. Ca, ha ! He bounds from the earth as if his entrails were hairs ; le
cheval volant, the Pegasus qui a les narines de feu ! When I bestride him, I
soar, I am a hawk : he trots the air ; the earth sings when he touches it ; the
basest horn of his hoof is more musical than the pipe of Hermes.

Shakspeare : Henry V., Act III.

Black Bess being undoubtedly the heroine of the Fourth
Book of this Romance, we may, perhaps, be pardoned for here
expatiating a little in this place upon her birth, parentage, breed-
ing, appearance, and attractions. And first as to her pedigree;
for in the horse, unlike the human species, nature has strongly im-
pressed the noble or ignoble caste. He is the real aristocrat, and
the pure blood that flows in the veins of the gallant steed will in-
fallibly be transmitted, if his mate be suitable, throughout all his
line. Bess was no cock-tail. She was thorough-bred: she boasted
blood in every bright and branching vein :

If blood can give nobility,

A noble steed was she ;
Her sire was blood, and blood her dam,

And all her pedigree.

As to her pedigree. Her sire was a desert Arab, renowned in
his day, and brought to this country by a wealthy traveller; her
dam was an English racer, coal-black as her child. Bess united
all the fire and gentleness, the strength and hardihood, the absti-
nence and endurance of fatigue of the one, with the spirit and ex-
traordinary fleetness of the other. How Turpin became possessed
3f her is of little consequence. We never heard that he paid a

EOOKWOOD. 273

heavy price for her; though we doubt if any sum would have
induced him to part with her. In colour, she was perfectly black,
with a skin smooth on the surface as polished jet ; not a single
white hair could be detected in her satin coat. In make she was
magnificent. Every point was perfect, beautiful, compact; mo-
delled, in little, for strength and speed. Arched was her neck, as
that of the swan; clean and fine were her lower limbs, as those of
the gazelle ; round and sound as a drum was her carcase, and as
broad as a cloth-yard shaft her width of chest. Hers were the
" pulchrce dunes, breve caput, arduaque cervix" of the Roman
bard. There was no redundancy of flesh, 'tis true; her flanks
might, to please some tastes, have been rounder, and her shoulder
fuller; but look at the nerve and sinew, palpable through the
veined limbs ! She was built more for strength than beauty, and
yet she ivas beautiful. Look at that elegant little head ; those thin
tapering ears, closely placed together; that broad snorting nostril,
which seems to snuff the gale with disdain ; that eye, glowing
and large as the diamond of Giamschid! Is she not beautiful?
Behold her paces! how gracefully she moves! She is off! — no
eagle on the wing could skim the air more swiftly. Is she not
superb? As to her temper, the lamb is not more gentle. A chilu
might guide her.

But hark back to Dick Turpin. We left him rattling along in
superb style, and in the highest possible glee. He could not, in
fact, be otherwise than exhilarated; nothing being so wildly in-
toxicating as a mad gallop. We seem to start out of ourselves —
to be endued, for the time, with new energies. Our thoughts
take wings rapid as our steed. We feel as if his fleetness and
boundless impulses were for the moment our own. We laugh;
we exult ; we shout for very joy. We cry out with Mephistopheles,
but in anything but a sardonic mood, " What I enjoy with spirit,
is it the less my own on that account? If I can pay for six horses,
are not their powers mine ! I drive along, and am a proper man,
as if I had four-and-twenty legs!" These were Turpin' s senti-
ments precisely. Give him four legs and a wide plain, and he
needed no Mephistopheles to bid him ride to perdition as fast as
his nag could carry him. Away, away ! — the road is level, the
path is clear. Press on, thou gallant steed, no obstacle is in thy
way ! — and, lo ! the moon breaks forth ! Her silvery light is
thrown over the woody landscape. Dark shadows are cast
athwart the road, and the flying figures of thy rider and thyself
are traced, like giant phantoms, in the dust !

Away, away ! our breath is gone in keeping up with this tre-
mendous run. Yet Dick Turpin has not lost his wind, for we hear
his cheering cry — hark ! he sings. The reader will bear in mind
that Oliver means the moon — to " whiddlc" is to blab.

274 ROOKWOOD.

OLIVER WHIDDLES !

Oliver whiddles — the tattler old !
Telling what best had been left untold.
Oliver ne'er was a friend of mine ;
All glims I hate that so brightly shine.
Give me a night black as hell, and then
See what I'll show to you, my merry men.

Oliver whiddles ! — who cares — who cares,
If down upon us he peers and stares ?
Mind him who will, with his great white face,
Boldly I'll ride by his glim to the chase ;
Give him a Rowland, and loudly as ever
Shout, as I show myself, " Stand and deliver !"

" Egad," soliloquised Dick, as he concluded his song, looking
up at the moon. a Old Noll's no bad fellow either. I wouldn't
be without his white face to-night for a trifle. He's as good as a
lamp to guide one, and let Bess only hold on as she goes now, and
I'll do it with ease. Softly, wench, softly — dost not see it's a hill
we're rising. The devil's in the mare, she cares for nothing." And
as they ascended the hill, Dick's voice once more awoke the echoes
of night.

WILL DAVIES AND DICK TURPIN.

Hodie mihi, eras tibi. — Saint Augtjstin.

One night, when mounted on my mare,
To Bagshot Heath I did repair,
And saw Will Davies hanging there,
Upon the gibbet bleak and bare,

With a rustified, fustified, mustified air /

Within his chains bold Will looked blue,
Gone were his sword and snappers too,
Which served their master well and true ;
Says I, " Will Davies, how are you?

With your rustified, fustified, mustified air /"

Says he, " Dick Turpin, here I be,

Upon the gibbet, as you see ;

I take the matter easily ;

You'll have your turn as well as me,

With your lohistle-me, pistol-me, cut-my -throat air /"

Says I, " That's very true, my lad ;
Meantime, with pistol and with prad,
I'm quite contented as I am,
And heed the gibbet not a d — n !

With its rustified, fustified, mustified air !"

" Poor Will Davies !" sighed Dick ; " Bagshot ought never to
forget him." *

* This, we regret to say, is not the case. The memory of bold Will Davies,
the '■'■Golden Farmer" (so named from the circumstance of his always paying

ROOKWOOD. 275

For never more shall Bagshot see
A highwayman of such degree,
Appearance, and gentility,
As Will, who hangs upon the tree,

With his rustified, fustified, mustified air !

u Well," mused Turpin, u I suppose one clay it will be with me
like all the rest of 'em, and that 1 shall dance a long lavolta to the
music of the four whistling winds, as my betters have done before
me; but I trust, whenever the chanter-culls and last-speech scrib-
blers get hold of me, they'll at least put no cursed nonsense into
my mouth, but make me speak, as I have ever felt, like a man
who never either feared death, or turned his back upon his friend.
In the mean time I'll give them something to talk about. This
ride of mine shall ring in their ears long after I'm done for — put
to bed with a mattock, and tucked up with a spade.

And when I am gone, boys, each huntsman shall say,
None rode like Dick Turpin so far in a day.

And thou, too, brave Bess! — thy name shall be linked with mine,
and we'll go down to posterity together; and what," added he,

despondingly, " if it should be too much for thee? what if but

no matter ! Better die now, while I am with thee, than fall into
the knacker's hands. Better die with all thy honours upon thy
head, than drag out thy old age at the sand-cart. Hark forward,
lass — hark forward ! "

By what peculiar instinct is it that this noble animal, the horse,
will at once perceive the slightest change in his rider's physical
temperament, and allow himself so to be influenced by it, that,
according as his master's spirits fluctuate, will his own energies
rise and fall, wavering

From walk to trot, from canter to full speed ?

How is it, we ask of those more intimately acquainted with the
metaphysics of the Huoyhnymn than we pretend to be ? Do the
saddle or the rein convey, like metallic tractors, vibrations of the
spirit betwixt the two ? We know not ; but this much is certain,
that no servant partakes so much of the character of his master as
the horse. The steed we are wont to ride becomes a portion of

his rent in gold), is fast declining upon his peculiar domain, Bagshot. The
inn, which once bore his name, still remains to point out to the traveller the
dangers his forefathers had to encounter in crossing this extensive heath. Just
beyond this house the common spreads out for miles on all sides in a most
gallop-inviting style; and the passenger, as he gazes from the box of some
Jiving coach, as wc have done, upon the gorse-covered waste, may, without
much stretch of fancy, imagine lie beholds Will Davics careering like the wind
over its wild and undulating expanse. We are sorry to add that the H Golden
Farmer" has altered its designation to the "JoUy Farmer." This should be
amended; and when next we pass that way, we hope to see the original sign
restored. "We caimot afford to lose our golden farmers.

T 2

276 EOOKWOOD.

ourselves. He thinks and feels with us. As we are lively, he is
sprightly ; as we are depressed, his courage droops. In proof of
this, let the reader see what horses some men make — make, we say,
because in such hands their character is wholly altered. Partaking,
in a measure, of the courage and the firmness of the hand that
guides them, and of the resolution of the frame that sways them
— what their rider wills they do, or strive to do. When that
governing power is relaxed, their energies are relaxed likewise;
and their fine sensibilities supply them with an instant knowledge
of the disposition and capacity of the rider. A gift of the gods
is the gallant steed, which, like any other faculty we possess, to
use or to abuse — to command or to neglect — rests with ourselves:
he is the best general test of our own self-government.

Black Bess's action amply verified what we have just asserted ;
for during Turpin's momentary despondency, her pace was per-
ceptibly diminished and her force retarded ; but as he revived,
she rallied instantly, and, seized apparently with a kindred enthu-
siasm, snorted joyously, as she recovered her speed. Now was it
that the child of the desert showed herself the undoubted offspring
of the hardy loins from whence she sprung. Full fifty miles had
she sped, yet she showed no symptom of distress. If possible,
she appeared fresher than when she started. She had breathed;
her limbs were suppler; her action was freer, easier, lighter. Her
sire, who, upon his trackless wilds, could have outstripped the
pestilent simoom ; and with throat unslaked, and hunger unap-
peasecl, could thrice have seen the scorching sun go down, had
not greater powers of endurance. His vigour was her heritage.
Her dam, who upon the velvet sod was of almost unapproachable
swiftness, and who had often brought her owner golden assurances
of her worth, could scarce have kept pace with her, and would
have sunk under a third of her fatigue. But Bess was a paragon.
We ne'er shall look upon her like again, unless we can prevail
upon some Bedouin chief to present us with a brood mare, and
then the racing world shall see what a breed we will introduce
into this country. Eclipse, Childers, or Hambletonian, shall be
nothing to our colts, and even the railroad slow travelling, com-
pared with the speed of our new nags !

But to return to Bess, or rather to go along with her, for there
is no halting now: wre are going at the rate of twrenty knots an
hour — sailing before the wind ; and the reader must either keep
pace with us, or drop astern. Bess is now in her speed, and Dick
happy. Happy ! he is enraptured — maddened — furious — intoxi-
cated as with wine. Pshaw ! wine could never throw him into
such a burning delirium. Its choicest juices have no inspiration
like this. Its fumes are slow and heady. This is ethereal, trans-
porting. His blood spins through his veins ; winds round his
heart ; mounts to his brain. Away! away ! He is wild with joy.
Hall, cot, tree, tower, glade, mead, waste, or woodland, are seen,

nooxwooD. 277

passed, left behind, and vanish as in a dream. Motion is scarcely
perceptible — it is impetus! volition! The horse and her rider
are driven forward, as it were, by self-accelerated speed. A
hamlet is visible in the moonlight. It is scarcely discovered ere
the flints sparkle beneath the mare's hoofs. A moment's clatter
upon the stones, and it is left behind. Again, it is the silent,
smiling country. Now they are buried in the darkness of woods;
now sweeping along on the wide plain; now clearing the unopened
toll-bar; now trampling over the hollow-sounding bridge, their
shadows momently reflected in the placid mirror of the stream ;
now scaling the hill-side a thought more slowly; now plunging,
as the horses of Phoebus into the ocean, down its precipitous sides.

The limits of two shires are already past. They are within the
confines of a third. They have entered the merry county of
Huntingdon; they have surmounted the gentle hill that slips into
Godmanchester. They are by the banks of the rapid Ouse. The
bridge is past; and as Turpin rode through the deserted streets of
Huntingdon, he heard the eleventh hour given from the iron
tongue of St. Mary's spire. In four hours (it was about seven
when he started) Dick had accomplished full sixty miles !

A few reeling topers in the streets saw the horseman flit past,
and one or two windows were thrown open; but Peeping Tom of
Coventry would have had small chance of beholding the unveiled
beauties of Queen Godiva had she ridden at the rate of Dick
Turpin. He was gone, like a meteor, almost as soon as he ap-
peared.

Huntingdon is left behind, and he is once more surrounded by
dew-gemmed hedges and silent slumbering trees. Broad meadows,
or pasture land, with drowsy cattle, or low bleating sheep, lie on
either side. But what to Turpin, at that moment, is nature,
animate or inanimate ? He thinks only of his mare — his future
fame. None are by to see him ride; no stimulating plaudits ring
in his ears ; no thousand hands are clapping ; no thousand voices
huzzaing ; no handkerchiefs are waved ; no necks strained ; no
bright eyes rain influence upon him ; no eagle orbs watch his
motions; no bells are rung; no cup awaits his achievement; no
sweepstakes — no plate. But his will be renown — everlasting re-
nown ; his will be fame which will not die with him — which will
keep his reputation, albeit a tarnished one, still in the mouths of
men. He wants all these adventitious excitements, but he has
that within which is a greater excitement than all these. He is
conscious that he is doing a deed to live by. If not riding for
life, he is riding for immortality ; and as the hero may perchance
feel (for even a highwayman may feel like a hero), when he wil-
lingly throws away his existence in the hope of earning a glorious
name, Turpin cared not what might befal himself, so he could
proudly signalise himself as the first of his land,

And witch the world with noble horsemanship !

278 ROOKWOOD.

What need had he of spectators ? The eye of posterity was upon
him ; he felt the influence of that Argus glance which has made
many a poor wight spur on his Pegasus with not half so good a
chance of reaching the goal as Dick Turpin. Multitudes, yet un-
born, he knew would hear and laud his deeds. He trembled with
excitement, and Bess trembled under him. But the emotion was
transient. On, on they fly ! The torrent leaping from the crag —
the bolt from the bow — the air-cleaving eagle — thoughts them-
selves are scarce more winged in their flight !

CHAPTER "VII.

THE YOUK STAGE.

York, Pour, Days ! — Stage Coach begins on Friday, the \Wi of April, 1706.
All that are desirous to pass from London to York, or from York to London,
or any other place on that road, let them repair to the Black Swan, in Holborn,
in London, or to the Black Swan, in Coney-street, in York. At both winch
places they may be received in a Stage Coach, every Monday, Wednesday, and
[Friday, which performs the whole journey in four days (if God permits !), and
sets forth at five in the morning. And returns from York to Stamford in two
days, and from Stamford, by Huntingdon, in two days more. And the like
stages in their return. Allowing each passenger fourteen pounds' weight, and
all above, threepence per pound. Performed by Benjamin Kingman, Henry
Harrison, and Walter Baynes. — Placard, preserved in the coffee-room of the
Black Swan Inn at York.

The night had hitherto been balmy and beautiful, with a bright
array of stars, and a golden harvest moon, which seemed to diffuse
even warmth with its radiance ; but now Turpin was approaching
the region of fog and fen, and he began to feel the influence of
that dank atmosphere. The intersecting dykes, yawners, gullies,
or whatever they are called, began to send forth their steaming
vapours, and chilled the soft and wholesome air, obscuring the
void, and in some instances, as it were, choking up the road itself
■with vapour. But fog or fen was the same to Bess ; her hoofs
rattled merrily along the road, and she burst from a cloud, like
Eous at the break of dawn.

It chanced, as he issued from a fog of this kind, that Turpin
burst upon the York stage coach. It was no uncommon thing
for the coach to be stopped ; and so furious was the career of our
highwayman, that the man involuntarily drew up his horses.
Turpin had also to draw in the rein, a task of no little difficulty,
as charging a huge lumbering coach, with its full complement of
passengers, was more than even Bess could accomplish. The
moon shone brightly on Turpin and his marc. He was un-

ROOKWOOD. 279

masked, and his features were distinctly visible. An exclamation
was uttered by a gentleman on the box, who, it appeared, in-
stantly recognised him. •

" Pull up — draw your horses across the road !" cried the gentle-
man; "that's Dick Turpin, the highwayman. His capture would
be worth three hundred pounds to you," added he, addressing the
coachman, "and is of equal importance to me. Stand!" shouted
he, presenting a cocked pistol.

This resolution of the gentleman was not apparently agreeable,
either to the coachman or the majority of the passengers — the
name of Turpin acting like magic upon them. One man jumped
off behind, and was with difficulty afterwards recovered, having
tumbled into a deep ditch at the road-side. An old gentleman
with a cotton nightcap, who had popped out his head to swear at
the coachman, drew it suddenly back. A faint scream in a female
key issued from within, and there was a considerable hubbub on
the roof. Amongst other ominous sounds, the guard was heard
to click his long horse-pistols. " Stop the York four-day stage!"
said he, forcing his smoky voice through a world of throat-em-
bracing shawl ; " the fastest coach in the kingdom : vos ever sich
atrocity heard of? I say, Joe, keep them ere leaders steady; we
shall all be in the ditch. Don't you see where the hind wheels
are? Who — whoop, I say."

The gentleman on the box now discharged his pistol, and the
confusion within was redoubled. The white nightcap was popped
out like a rabbit's head, and as quickly popped back on hearing the
highwayman's voice. Owing to the plunging of the horses, the
gentleman had missed his aim.

Prepared for such emergencies as the present, and seldom at any
time taken aback, Dick received the fire without flinching. He
then lashed the horses out of his course, and rode up, pistol in hand,
to the frentleman who had fired.

"Major Mowbray," said he, in a stern tone, "I know you. I
meant not either to assault you or these gentlemen. Yet you have
attempted my life, sir, a second time. But you are now in my
power, and by hell ! if you do not answer the questions I put to
you, nothing earthly shall save you."

" If you ask aught I may not answer, fire !" said the major; " I
will never ask life from such as you."

" Have you seen aught of Sir Luke Rookwood?" asked Dick.

"The villain you mean is not yet secured," replied the major,
"but we have traces of him. 'lis with the view of procuring
more efficient assistance that I ride to town."

" They have not met then, since ? " said Dick, carelessly.

" Met ! whom do you mean ? "

" Your sister and Sir Luke," said Dick.

"My sister meet him!" cried the major, angrily — "think you
he dares show himself at Rookwood?"

'280 ROOKWOOD.

"Ho! ho!" laughed Dick — "she is at Rookwood, then? A
thousand thanks, major. Good night to you, gentlemen."

"Take -that with you, and remember the guard," cried the
fellow, who, unable to take aim from where he sat, had crept
along the coach roof, and discharged thence one of his large horse-
pistols at what he took to be the highwayman's head, but which,
luckily for Dick, was his hat, which he had raised to salute the
passengers..

" Remember you," said Dick, coolly replacing his perforated
beaver on his brow; "you may rely upon it, my fine fellow, I'll
not forget you the next time we meet."

And off he went like the breath of the whirlwind.

CHAPTER VIII.

ROAD-SIDE INN.

Moor. Take my horse, and clash a bottle of wine over him. 'Twas hot work !

Schiller : The Robbers.

We will now make inquiries after Mr. Coates and his party, of
whom both we and Dick Turpi n have for some time lost sight.
With unabated ardour the vindictive man of law and his myrmi-
dons pressed forward. A tacit compact seemed to have been en-
tered into between the highwayman and his pursuers, that he
was to fly while they were to follow. Like bloodhounds, they kept
steadily upon his trail; nor were they so far behind as Dick ima-
gined. At each post-house they passed they obtained fresh horses,
and, while these were saddling, a postboy was despatched en courier
to order relays at the next station. In this manner they proceeded
after the first stoppage without interruption. Horses were in
waiting for them, as they, "bloody with spurring, fiery hot with
.haste," and their jaded hacks arrived. Turpin had been heard or
seen in all quarters. Turnpike-men, waggoners, carters, trampers,
all had seen him. Besides, strange as it may sound, they placed
some faith in his word. York they believed would be his destina-
tion.

At length the coach which Dick had encountered hove in sight.
There was another stoppage and another hubbub. The old gen-
tleman's nightcap was again manifested, and suffered a sudden oc-
cultation, as upon the former occasion. The postboy, who was in
advance, had halted, and given up his horse to Major Mowbray,
who exchanged his seat on the box for one on the saddle, deeming
it more expedient, after his interview with Turpin, to return to
Rookwood, rather than to proceed to town. The postboy was

ROOK WOOD. 281

placed behind Coates, as being the lightest weight; and, thus re-
inforced, the party pushed forward as rapidly as heretofore.

Eighty and odd miles had now been traversed — the boundary
of another county, Northampton, passed; yet no rest nor respite
had Dick Turpin or his unflinching mare enjoyed. But here he
deemed it fitting to make a brief halt.

Bordering the beautiful domains of Burleigh House stood a
little retired hostelrie of some antiquity, which bore the great
Lord Treasurer's arms. With this house Dick was not altogether
unacquainted. The lad who acted as ostler was known to him.
It was now midnight, but a bright and beaming night. To the
door of the stable then did he ride, and knocked in a peculiar
manner. Reconnoitring Dick through a broken pane of glass in
the lintel, and apparently satisfied with his scrutiny, the lad thrust
forth a head of hair as full of straw as Mad Tom's is represented
to be upon the stage. A chuckle of welcome followed his sleepy
salutation. " Glad to see you, Captain Turpin," said he; "can I
do anything for you?"

" Get me a couple of bottles of brandy and a beefsteak," said
Dick.

"As to the brandy, you can have that in a jiffy — but the steak,
Lord love ye, the old ooman won't stand it at this time; but there's
a cold round, mayhap a slice of that might do — or a knuckle of
ham ?"

"A pest on your knuckles, Ralph," cried Dick; "have you any
raw meat in the house?"

" Raw meat 1" echoed Ralph, in surprise. " Oh, yes, there's a
rare rump of beef. You can have a cut off that, if you like."

"That's the tiling I want," said Dick, umiirthino; his mare.
" Give me the scraper. There, I can get a wisp of straw from
your head. Now run and get the brandy. Better bring three
bottles. Uncork 'em, and let me have half a pail of water to mix
with the spirit."

" A pail full of brandy and water to wash down a raw steak !
My eyes!" exclaimed Ralph, opening wide his sleepy peepers;
adding, as he went about the execution of his task, " I always
thought them Rum-padders, as they call themselves, rum fellows,
but now I'm sartin sure on it."

The most sedulous groom could not have bestowed more atten-
tion upon the horse of his heart than Dick Turpin now paid to
his mare. He scraped, chafed, and dried her, sounded each
muscle, traced each sinew, pulled her ears, examined the state of
her feet, and, ascertaining that her " withers were unwrung,"
finally washed her from head to foot in the diluted spirit, not,
however, before lie had conveyed a thimbleful of the liquid to his
own parched throat, and replenished what Falstaff calls a " pocket
pistol," which he had about him. While Ralph was engaged in
rubbing her down after her bath, Dick occupied himself, not in

282 EOOKWOCD.

dressing the raw steak in the manner the stable-boy had an-
ticipated, but in rolling it round the bit of his bridle.

" She will now go as long as there's breath in her body," said
he, putting the flesh-covered iron within her mouth.

The saddle being once more replaced, after champing a moment
or two at the bit, Bess began to snort and paw the earth, as if im-
patient of delay ; and, acquainted as he was with her indomitable
spirit and power, her condition was a surprise even to Dick him-
self. Her vigour seemed inexhaustible, her vivacity was not a
whit diminished, but, as she was led into the open space, her step
became as light and free as when she started on her ride, and her
sense of sound as quick as ever. Suddenly she pricked her ears,
and uttered a low neigh. A dull tramp was audible.

" Ha !" exclaimed Dick, springing into his saddle ; " they
come."

" Who come, captain ? " asked Ralph.

" The road takes a turn here, don't it?" asked Dick — " sweeps
round to the right by the plantations in the hollow?"

" Ay, ay, captain," answered Ralph ; " it's plain you knows the
ground."

" What lies behind yon shed?"

" A stiff fence, captain — a reg'lar rasper. Beyond that a hill-
side steep as a house ; no oss as was ever shoed can go down it."

" Indeed !" laughed Dick.

A loud halloo from Major Mowbray, who seemed advancing
upon the wings of the wind, told Dick that he was discovered.
The major was a superb horseman, and took the lead of his party.
Striking his spurs deeply into his horse, and giving him bridle
enough, the major seemed to shoot forward like a shell through
the air. The Burleigh Arms retired some hundred yards from the
road, the space in front being occupied by a neat garden, with
low, clipped edges. No tall timber intervened between Dick and
his pursuers, so that the motions of both parties were visible to
each other. Dick saw in an instant that if he now started he
should come into collision with the major exactly at the angle of
the road, and he was by no means desirous of hazarding such a
rencontre. He looked wistfully back at the double fence.

"Come into the stable. Quick, captain, quick!" exclaimed
Ralph.

"The stable?" echoed Dick, hesitating.

" Ay, the stable ; it's your only chance. Don't you see he's
turning the corner, and they are all coming? Quick, sir, quick!"

Dick, lowering his head, rode into the tenement, the door
of which was unceremoniously slapped in the major's face, and
bolted on the other side.

"Villain!" cried Major Mowbray, thundering at the door,
"come forth. You are now fairly trapped at last — caught like
the woodcock in vour own springe. We have you. Open the

IIOOKWOOD. 283

door, I say, and save us the trouble of forcing it. You cannot
escape us. We will burn the building down but we will have

you." \

"What dun you want, measter?" cried Ralph, from the lintel,
whence he rcconnoitered the major, and kept the door fast.
" You're clean mista'en. There be no one here."

" We'll soon see that," said Paterson, who had now arrived ;
and, leaping from his horse, the chief constable took a short run,
to give himself impetus, and with his foot burst open the door.
This being accomplished, in dashed the major and Paterson, but
the stable was vacant. A door was open at the back ; they rushed
to it. The sharply sloping sides of a hill slipped abruptly down-
wards, within a yard of the door. It was a perilous descent to the
horseman, yet the print of a horse's heels was visible in the dis-
lodged turf and scattered soil.

a Confusion !" cried the major, " he has escaped us."

"He is yonder," said Paterson, pointing out Turpin moving
swiftly through the steaming meadow. " See, he makes again for
the road — he clears the fence. A regular throw he has given us,
by the Lord!"

"Nobly done, by Heaven!" cried the major. "With all his
faults, I honour the fellow's courage, and admire his prowess. He's
already ridden to-night as I believe never man rode before. I
would not have ventured to slide down that wall, for it's nothing
clsCj with the enemy at my heels. What say you, gentlemen,
have you had enough? Shall we let him go, or ?"

" As far as chase coes, I don't care if we bring the matter
to a conclusion," said Titus. "I don't think, as it is, that I shall
have a sate to sit on this week to come. I've lost leather most
confoundedly."

"What says Mr. Coatcs ?" asked Paterson. " I look to him."

" Then mount, and oflj" cried Coates. " Public duty requires
that we should take him."

"And private pique," returned the major. " Xo matter! The
end is the same. Justice shall be satisfied. To your steeds, my
merry men all. Hark, and away."

Once more upon the move, Titus forgot his distress, and
addressed himself to the attorney, by whose side he rode.

"What place is that we're coming to?" asked he, pointing to a
cluster of moonlit spires belonging to a town they were rapidly
approaching.

" Stamford," replied Coates.

"Stamford!" exclaimed Titus; "by the powers! then, we've
ridden a matter of ninety miles. Why, the great deeds of Red-
mond O'Hanlon were nothing to this! I'll remember it to my
dying day, and with reason," added he, uneasily shifting his posi-
tion on the saddle.

284 EOOKWOOD.

CHAPTER IX.

EXCITEMENT.

How fled what moonshine faintly showed !

How lied what darkness hid !
How fled the earth beneath their feet.

The heaven above their head.

William and Helen.

Dick Tuepin, meanwhile, held bravely on his course. Bess was
neither strained by her gliding passage down the slippery hill-side,
nor shaken by larking the fence in the meadow. As Dick said,
"It took a devilish deal to take it out of her." On regaining the high
road she resumed her old pace, and once more they were distancing
Time's swift chariot in its whirling passage o'er the earth. Stam-
ford, and the tongue of Lincoln's fenny shire, upon which it is
situated, are passed almost in a breath. Rutland is won and
passed, and Lincolnshire once more entered. The road now verged
within a bowshot of that sporting Athens (Corinth, perhaps, we
should say), Melton Mowbray. Melton was then unknown to
fame, but, as if inspired by \haX furor venaticus which now inspires
all who come within twenty miles of this Chary bdis of the chase,
Bess here let out in a style with which it would have puzzled the
best Leicestershire squire's best prad to have kept pace. The
spirit she imbibed through the pores of her skin, and the juices of
the meat she had champed, seemed to have communicated pre-
ternatural excitement to her. Her pace was absolutely terrific.
Her eyeballs were dilated, and glowed like flaming carbuncles;
while her widely-distended nostril seemed, in the cold moonshine,
to snort forth smoke, as from a hidden fire. Fain would Turpin
have controlled her; but, without bringing into play all his
tremendous nerve, no check could be given her headlong course,
and for once, and the only time in her submissive career, Bess
resolved to have her own way — and she had it. Like a sensible
fellow, Dick conceded the point. There was something even of
conjugal philosophy in his self-communion upon the occasion.
"E'en let her take her own way and he hanged to her, for
an obstinate, self-willed jade as she is," said he: " now her back is
up there'll be no stopping her, I'm sure: she rattles away Jike a
woman's tongue, and when that once begins, we all know what
chance the curb has. Best to let her have it out, or rather to lend
her a lift. 'Twill be over the sooner. Tantivy, lassj tantivy! I
know which of us will tire first."

We have before said that the vehement excitement of continued
swift riding produces a paroxysm in the sensorium amounting to
delirium. Dick's blood was again on fire. He was first giddy, as

ROOKWOOD. 285

after a deep draught of kindling spirit; this passed off, but tlie
spirit was still in his veins — the estro was working in his brain.
All his ardour, his eagerness, his fury, returned. He rode like one
insane, and his courser partook of his frenzy. She bounded; she
leaped; she tore up the ground beneath her; while Dick gave
vent to his exultation in one wild prolonged halloo. More than
half his race is run. He has triumphed over every difficulty. He
will have no further occasion to halt. Bess carries her forage
alon^ with her. The course is straightforward — success seems cer-
tain — the goal already reached — the path of glory won. Another
wild halloo, to which the echoing woods reply, and away !

Away ! away ! thou matchless steed ! yet brace fast thy sinews-
— hold, hold thy breadth, for, alas, the goal is not yet attained 1

But forward ! forward, on they go,

High snorts the straining steed,
Thick pants the rider's labouring breath,

As headlong on they speed !

CHAPTER X.

THE GIBBET.

See there, see there, what yonder swings

And creaks 'mid whistling rain,
Gibbet and steel — the accursed wheel —

A murderer in his chain.

William and Helen.

As the eddying currents sweep over its plains in howling bleak
December, the horse and her rider passed over what remained of
Lincolnshire. Grantham is gone, and they are now more slowly
looking up the ascent of Gonerby Hill, a path well known to
Turpin ; where often, in bygone nights, many a purse had
changed its owner. With that feeling of independence and ex-
hilaration which every one feels, we believe, on having climbed
the hill-side, Turpin turned to gaze around. There was triumph
in his eye. But the triumph was checked as his glance fell upon
a gibbet near him to the right, on the round point of hill which
is a landmark to the wide vale of Belvoir. Pressed as he was for
time, Dick immediately struck out of the road, and approached
the spot where it stood. Two scarecrow objects, covered with
rags and rusty links of chains, depended from the tree. A night-
crow screaming around the carcases added to the hideous effect of
the scene. Nothing but the living highwayman and his skeleton
brethren were visible upon the solitary spot. Around him was
the lonesome "waste of hill, o'erlooking the moonlit valley: be-

286 ROOKWOOD.

neath his feet, a patch of bare and lightning-blasted sod : above,
the wan declining moon and skies, flaked with ghostly clouds:
before him, the bleached bodies of the murderers, for such they
were.

" Will this be my lot, I marvel?" said Dick, looking upwards,
with an involuntary shudder.

" Ay, marry will it," rejoined a crouching figure, suddenly
springing from beside a tuft of briars that skirted the blasted
ground.

Dick started in his saddle, while Bess reared and plunged at the
sight of this unexpected apparition.

" What, ho ! thou devil's dam, Barbara, is it thou?" exclaimed
Dick, reassured upon discovering it was the gipsy queen, and no
spectre whom he beheld. " Stand still, Bess — stand, lass. What
dost thou here, mother of darkness ? Art gathering mandrakes
for thy poisonous messes, or pilfering flesh from the dead ? Meddle
not with their bones, or I will drive thee hence. What dost thou
here, I say, old dam of the gibbet ?"

"I came to die here," replied Barbara, in a feeble tone; and,
throwing back her hood, she displayed features well-nigh as ghastly
as those of the skeletons above her.

" Indeed," replied Dick. " You've made choice of a pleasant
spot, it must be owned. But you'll not die yet?"

" Do you know whose bodies these are ?" asked Barbara, point-
ing upwards.

"Two of your race," replied Dick; "right brethren of the
blade."

" Two of my sons," returned Barbara; " my twin children. I
am come to lay my bones beneath their bones — my sepulchre shall
be their sepulchre; my body shall feed the fowls of the air as
theirs have fed them. And if ghosts can walk, we'll scour this
heath together. I tell you what, Dick Turpin," said the hag,
drawing as near to the highwayman as Bess would permit her;
a dead men walk and ride — ay, ride I — there's a comfort for you.
I've seen these do it. I have seen them fling off their chains, and
dance — ay, dance with me — with their mother. No revels like
dead men's revels, Dick. I shall soon join 'em."

" You will not lay violent hands upon yourself, mother?" said
Dick, with difficulty mastering his terror.

u No," replied Barbara, in an altered tone. a But I will let
nature do her task. Would she could do it more quickly. Such
a life as mine won't go out without a long struggle. What have
I to live for now ? All are gone — she and her child ! But what
is this to you? You have no child; and if you had, you could
not feel like a father. No matter — I rave. Listen to me. I have
crawled hither to die. 'Tis five days since I beheld you, and
during that time food has not passed these lips, nor aught of
moisture, save Heaven's dew, cooled this parched throat, nor shall

THE GIBBET.

P. 286.

ROOKWOOD. 2S7

they to the last. That time cannot be far off; and now can you
not guess how I mean to die? Begone, and leave me; your pre-
sence troubles me. I would breathe my last breath alone, with
none to witness the parting pang."

" I will not trouble you longer, mother," said Dick, turning his
mare; "nor will I ask your blessing."

"My blessing!" scornfully ejaculated Barbara. "You shall
have it if you will, but you will find it a curse. Stay ! a thought
strikes me. Whither are you going?"

"To seek Sir Luke Rookwood," replied Dick; "know you
au^ht of him?"

" Sir Luke Rookwood! You seek him, and would find him?"
screamed Barbara.

" I would," said Dick.

" And you will find him," said Barbara ; " and that ere long. I
shall ne'er again behold him. Would I could. I have a message
for him — one of life and death. Will you convey it to him?"

" I will," said the highwayman.

" Swear by those bones to do so," cried Barbara, pointing with
her skinny lingers to the gibbet ; " that you will do my bidding."

" I swear," cried Dick.

" Fail not, or ice will haunt thee to thy life's end," cried Bar-
bara; adding, as she handed a sealed package to the highway-
man, " Give this to Sir Luke — to him alone. I would have sent
it to him by other hands ere this, but my people have deserted
me — have pillaged my stores — have rifled me of all save this.
Give this, I say, to Sir Luke, with your own hands. You have
sworn it, and will obey. Give it to him, and bid him think of
Sybil as he opens it. But this must not be till Eleanor is in his
power; and she must be present when the seal is broken. It re-
lates to both. Dare not to tamper with it, or my curse shall pursue
you. That packet is guarded with a triple spell, which to you were
fatal. Obey me, and my dying breath shall bless thee."

" Never fear," said Dick, taking the packet; " I'll not disappoint
you, mother, depend upon it."

"Hence!" cried the crone; and as she watched Dick's figure
lessening upon the Waste, and at length beheld him finally disap-
pear down the hill-side, she sank to the ground, her frail strength
being entirely exhausted. "Body and soul may now part in
peace," gasped she. " All I live for is accomplished." And ere
one hour had elapsed, the night crow was perched upon her still
breathing frame.

Long pondering upon this singular interview, Dick pursued his
way. At length he thought fit to examine the packet with which
the old gipsy had entrusted him.

" It feels like a casket," thought he. "It can't be gold. But
then it may be jewels, though they don't rattle, and it ain't quite
heavy enough. What can it be? I should like to know. There

288 ROOKWOOD.

is some mystery, that's certain, about it; but I will not break the
seal, not I. As to her spell, that I don't value a rush; but I've
sworn to give it to Sir Luke, and deliver her message, and I'll
keep my word if I can. He shall have it." So saying, he re-
placed it in his pocket.

CHAPTER XI.

THE PHANTOM STEED.

I'll speak to thee, though hell itself should gape,

And bid me hold my peace. Hamlet.

Time presses. We may not linger in our course. We must
fly on before our flying highwayman. Full forty miles shall we
pass over in a breath. Two more hours have elapsed, and he still
urges his headlong career, with heart resolute as ever, and pur-
pose yet unchanged. Fair Newark, and the dashing Trent,
a most loved of England's streams," are gathered to his laurels.
Broad Notts, and its heavy paths and sweeping glades; its waste
(forest no more) of Sherwood past; bold Robin Hood and his
merry men, his Marian and his moonlight rides, recalled, for-
gotten, left behind. Hurrah ! hurrah ! That wild halloo, that
waving arm, that enlivening shout — what means it? He is once
more upon Yorkshire ground ; his horse's hoof beats once more
the soil of that noble shire. So transported was Dick, that he
could almost have flung himself from the saddle to kiss the dust
beneath his feet. Thrice fifty miles has he run, nor has the morn
yet dawned upon his labours. Hurrah ! the end draws nigh ; the
goal is in view. Halloo ! halloo ! on !

Bawtrey is past. He takes the lower road by Thorne and Selby.
He is skirting the waters of the deep-channelled Don.

Bess now began to manifest some slight symptoms of distress.
There was a strain in the carriage of her throat, a dulness in her
eye, a laxity in her ear, and a slight stagger in her gait, which
Turpin noticed with apprehension. Still she went on, though not
at the same gallant pace as heretofore. But, as the tired bird still
battles with the blast upon the ocean, as the swimmer still stems
the stream, though spent, on went she: nor did Turpin dare to
check her, fearing that, if she stopped, she might lose her force, or,
if she fell, she would rise no more.

It was now that grey and grimly hour ere one flicker of orange
or rose has gemmed the east, and when unwearying Nature herself
seems to snatch brief repose. In the roar of restless cities, this is
the only time when their strife is hushed. Midnight is awake —

ROOKWOOD. 289

alive; the streets ring with laughter and with rattling wheels. At
the third hour, a dead, deep silence prevails ; the loud-voiced
streets grow dumb. They are deserted of all, save the few guar-
dians of the night and the skulking robber. But even far removed
from the haunts of men and hum of towns it is the same. u Na-
ture's best nurse" seems to weigh nature down, and stillness reigns
throughout. Our feelings are, in a great measure, influenced by
the hour. Exposed to the raw, crude atmosphere, which has
neither the nipping, wholesome shrewdness 01 morn, nor the
profound dullness of night, the frame vainly struggles against the
dull, miserable sensations engendered by the damps, and at once
communicates them to the spirits. Hope forsakes us. We are
weary, exhausted. Our energy is dispirited. Sleep does " not
weigh our eyelids down." We stare upon the vacancy. We
conjure up a thousand restless, disheartening images. We abandon
projects we have formed, and which, viewed through this medium,
appear fantastical, chimerical, absurd. We want rest, refreshment,
energy.

We will not say that Turpin had all these misgivings. But he
had to struggle hard with himself to set sleep and exhaustion at
defiance.

The moon had set. The stars,

Pinnacled deep in the intense main,

had all — save one, the herald of the dawn — withdrawn their luster.
A dull mist lay on the stream, and the air became piercing cold.
Turpin's chilled fingers could scarcely grasp the slackening rein,
while his eyes, irritated by the keen atmosphere, hardly enabled
him to distinguish surrounding objects, or even to guide his steed.
It was owing, probably, to this latter circumstance, that Bess sud-
denly floundered and fell, throwing her master over her head.

Turpin instantly recovered himself. His first thought was for
his horse. But Bess was instantly upon her legs — covered with
dust and foam, sides and cheeks — and with her large eyes glaring
wildly, almost piteously, upon her master.

"Art hurt, lass?" asked Dick, as she shook herself, and slightly
shivered. And he proceeded to the horseman's scrutiny. " Nothing

but a shake; though that dull eye — those quivering flanks "

added he, looking earnestly at her. " She won't go much further,
and I must give it up — what ! give up the race just when it's won?
No, that can't be. Ha ! well thought on. I've a bottle of liquid,
given me by an old fellow, who was a knowing cove and famous
jockey in his day, which he swore would make a horse go as long
as he'd a leg to carry him, and bade me keep it for some great
occasion. I've never used it; but I'll try it now. It should be in
this pocket. Ah ! Bess, wench, I fear I'm using thee, after all, as
Sir Luke did his mistress, that I thought so like" thee. No matter!
It will be a glorious end."

290 itooKvrooD.

Raising her head upon his shoulder, Dick poured the contents
of the bottle down the throat of his mare. Nor had he to wait
long before its invigorating effects were instantaneous. The fire
was kindled in the glassy orb; her crest was once more erected;
her flank ceased to quiver; and she neighed loud and joyously.

" Egad, the old fellow was right," cried Dick. " The drink has
worked wonders. What the devil could it have been ? It smells
like spirit," added he, examining the bottle. " I wish I'd left a
taste for myself. But here's that will do as well." And he drained
his flask of the last drop of brandy.

Dick's limbs were now become so excessively stiff, that it was
with difficulty he could remount his horse. But this necessary pre-
liminary being achieved by the help of a stile, he found no diffi-
culty in resuming his accustomed position upon the saddle. We
know not whether there was any likeness between our Turpin and
that modern Hercules of the SDortino- world, Mr. Osbaldeston. Far
be it from us to institute any comparison, though we cannot help
thinking that, in one particular, he resembled that famous "copper-
bottomed" squire. This we will leave to our reader's discrimina-
tion. Dick bore his fatigues wonderfully. He suffered somewhat
of that martyrdom which, according to Tom Moore, occurs " to
weavers and M.P.s, from sitting too long;" but again on his
courser's back, he cared not for anything.

Once more, at a gallant pace, he traversed the banks of the Don,
skirting the fields of flax that bound its sides, and hurried far more
swiftly than its current to its confluence with the Aire.

Snaith was past. He was on the road to Selby when dawn first
began to break. Here and there a twitter was heard in the hedge;
a hare ran across his path, grey looking as the morning self; and
the mists began to rise from the earth. A bar of gold was drawn
against the east, like the roof of a gorgeous palace. But the mists
were heavy in this world of rivers and their tributary streams.
The Ouse was before him, the Trent and Aire behind ; the Don
and Derwent on either hand, all in their way to commingle their
currents ere they formed the giant Humber. Amid a region so
prodigal of water, no wonder the dews fell thick as rain. Here
and there the ground was clear; but then again came a volley of
vapour, dim and palpable as smoke.

While involved in one of these fogs, Turpin became aware of
another horseman by his side. It was impossible to discern the
features of the rider, but his figure in the mist seemed gigantic;
neither was the colour of his steed distinguishable. Nothing was
visible except the meagre-looking, phantom-like outline of a horse
and his rider, and, as the unknown rode upon the turf that edged
the way, even the sound of the horse's hoofs were scarcely audible.
Turpin gazed, not without superstitious awe. Once or twice he
essayed to address the strange horseman, but his tongue clove to
the roof of his mouth. He fancied he discovered in the mist-

ROOKV.'OOD. £91

exaggerated lineaments of the stranger a wild and fantastic re-
semblance to his friend Tom King. " It must be Tom/' thought
Turpin ; " he is come to warn me of my approaching end. I will
speak to him."

But terror o'ermastered his speech. He could not force out a
word, and thus side by side they rode in silence. Quaking with
fears he would scarcely acknowledge to himself, Dick watched
every motion of his companion. He was still, stern, spectre-like,
erect; and looked for all the world like a demon on his phantom
steed. His courser seemed, in the indistinct outline, to be huge
and bony, and, as he snorted furiously in the fog, Dick's heated
imagination supplied his breath with a due proportion of flame.
Not a word was spoken — not a sound heard, save the sullen dead
beat of his hoof upon the grass. It was intolerable to ride thus
cheek by jowl with a goblin. Dick could stand it no longer. He
put spurs to his horse, and endeavoured to escape. But it might
not be. The stranger, apparently without effort, was still by his
side, and Bess's feet, in her master's apprehensions, were nailed to
the ground. By-and-by, however, the atmosphere became clearer.
Bright quivering beams burst through the vaporous shroud, and
then it was that Dick discovered that the apparition of Tom King
was no other than Luke Rookwood. He was mounted on his old
horse, Rook, and looked grim and haggard as a ghost vanishing at
the crowing of the cock.

" Sir Luke Rookwood, by this light!" exclaimed Dick, in asto-
nishment. " Why, I took you for "

"The devil, no doubt?" returned Luke, smiling sternly, "and
were sorry to find yourself so hard pressed. Don't disquiet your-
self; I am still flesh and blood."

"Had I taken you for one of mortal mould," said Dick, "you
should have soon seen where I'd have put you in the race. That
confounded fon; deceived me, and Bess acted the fool as well as
myself. However, now I know you, Sir Luke, you must spur
alongside, for the hawks are on the wino-- and though I've much
to say, I've not a second to lose." And Dick briefly detailed the
particulars of his ride, concluding with his rencontre with Barbara.
" Here's the packet," said he, "just as I got it. You must keep
it till the proper moment. And here," added he, fumbling in his
pocket for another paper, " is the marriage document. You are
now your father's lawful son, let who will say you nay. Take it
and welcome. If you are ever master of Miss Mowbray's hand,
you will not forget Dick Turpin."

" I will not," said Luke, eagerly grasping the certificate; " but
she never may be mine."
" You have her oath?"
" I have."

" What more is needed?"
" Her hand."

292 ROOKWOOD.

" That will follow."

" It shall follow," replied Sir Luke, wildly. " You are right.
She is my affianced bride — affianced before hell, if not before
heaven. I have sealed the contract with blood — with Sybil's blood
— and it shall be fulfilled. I have her oath — her oath — ha, ha !
Though I perish in the attempt, I will wrest her from Ranulph' s
grasp. She shall never be his. I would stab her first. Twice
have I failed in my endeavours to bear her off. I am from Rook-
wood even now. To-morrow night I shall renew the attack. Will
vou assist me?"

" To-morrow night I" interrupted Dick.

a Nay, I should say to-night. A new day has already dawned,"
replied Luke.

" I will: she is at Rookwood?"

" She languishes there at present, attended by her mother and
her lover. The hall is watched and guarded. Ranulph is ever on
the alert. But we will storm their garrison. I have a spy within
its walls — a gipsy girl, faithful to my interests. From her I have
learnt that there is a plot to wed Eleanor to Ranulph, and that the
marriage is to take place privately to-morrow. This must be pre-
vented."

" It must. But why not boldly appear in person at the hall,
and claim her ?"

" Why not? I am a proscribed felon. A price is set upon my
head. I am hunted through the country — driven to concealment,
and dare not show myself for fear of capture. What could I do
now? They would load me with fetters, bury me in a dungeon,
and wed Eleanor to Ranulph. What would my rights avail?
What would her oath signify to them? No; she must be mine
by force. His she shall never be. Again, I ask you, will you
aid me?"

" I have said — I will. Where is Alan Rookwood ?"

" Concealed within the hut on Thorne Waste. You know it —
it was one of your haunts."

"I know it well," said Dick, "and Conkey Jem, its keeper,
into the bargain: he is a knowing file. I'll join you at the hut
at midnight, if all goes well. We'll bring off the wench, in
spite of them all — just the thing I like. But in case of a break-
down on my part, suppose you take charge of my purse in the
mean time."

Luke would have declined this offer.

"Pshaw!" said Dick. " Who knows what may happen? and
it's not ill lined either. You'll find an odd hundred or so in that
silken bag — it's not often your highwayman gives away a purse.
Take it, man — we'll settle all to-night; and if I don't come, keep
it — it will help you to your bride. And now off with you to the
hut, for you are only hindering me. Adieu ! My love to old
Alan. We'll do the trick to-night. Away with you to the hut.

ROOKTVOOD. 293

Keep yourself snug there till midnight, and we'll ride over to
Rookwood."

" At midnight," replied Sir Luke, wheeling off, " I shall expect
you."

" 'Ware hawks !" hallooed Dick.

But Luke had vanished. In another instant Dick was scouring
the plain as rapidly as ever. In the mean time, as Dick has casu-
ally alluded to the hawks, it may not he amiss to inquire how
they had flown throughout the night, and whether they were still
in chase of their quarry.

With the exception of Titus, who was completely done up at
Grantham, " having got," as he said, " a complete hellyful of it,"
they were still on the wing, and resolved sooner or later to pounce
upon their prey, pursuing the same system as heretofore in regard
to the post-horses. Major Mowbray and Paterson took the lead,
but the irascible and invincible attorney was not far in their rear,
his wrath having been by no means allayed by the fatigue he had
undergone. At Bawtrey they held a council of war for a few
minutes, beinc; doubtful which course he had taken. Their incer-
titude was relieved bv a foot traveller, who had heard Dick's loud
halloo on passing the boundary of Nottinghamshire, and had seen
him take the lower road. They struck, therefore, into the path to
Thorne at a hazard, and were soon satisfied they were right.
Furiously did they now spur on. They reached Selby, changed
horses at the inn in front of the venerable cathedral church, and
learnt from the postboy that a toilworn horseman, on a jaded steed,
had ridden through the town about five minutes before them, and
could not be more than a quarter of a mile in advance. "His
horse was so dead beat," said the lad, " that I'm sure he cannot
have got far; and, if you look sharp, I'll be bound you'll overtake
him before he reaches Cawood Ferry."

Mr. Coates was transported. " We'll lodge him snug in York
Castle before an hour, Paterson," cried he, rubbing his hands.

" I hope so, sir," said the chief constable, " but I begin to have
some qualms."

"Now, gentlemen," shouted the postboy, "come along. I'll
soon bring you to him."

294 EOOKWOOD.

CHAPTER XII.

C A W 0 0 D FEEBY.

The sight renewed my courser's feet,
A moment, staggering feebly fleet,
A moment, with a faint low neigh,

He answered, and then fell.
"With gasps and glazing eyes he lay,
And reeking limbs immovable, —
His first, and last career was done. Mazeppa.

The sun had just o'ertopped the "high eastern hill," as Turpin
reached the Ferry of Cawood, and his beams were reflected upon
the deep and sluggish waters of the Ouse. Wearily had he dragged
his course thither — wearily and slow. The powers of his gallant
steed were spent, and he could scarcely keep her from sinking. It
was now midway 'twixt the hours of five and six. Nine miles only
lay before him, and that thought again revived him. He reached
the water's edge, and hailed the ferry-boat, which was then on the
other side of the river. At that instant a loud shout smote his
ear; it was the halloo of his pursuers. Despair wras in his look.
He shouted to the boatman, and bade him pull fast. The man
obeyed ; but he had to breast a strong stream, and had a lazy bark
and heavy sculls to contend with. He had scarcely left the shore,
when another shout was raised from the pursuers. The tramp of
their steeds grew louder and louder.

The boat had scarcely reached the middle of the stream. His
captors wTere at hand. Quietly did he walk down the bank, and
as cautiously enter the water. There was a plunge, and steed and
rider were swimming down the river.

Major Mowbray was at the brink of the stream. He hesitated
an instant, and stemmed the tide. Seized, as it were, by a mania
for equestrian distinction, Mr. Coates braved the torrent. Not so
Paterson. He very coolly took out his bull-dogs, and, watching
Turpin, cast up in his own mind the pros and cons of shooting him
as he was crossing. " I could certainly hit him," thought, or said,
the constable; "but what of that? A dead highwayman is worth
nothing — alive, he weighs 300/. I won't shoot him, but I'll make
a pretence." And he fired accordingly.

The shot skimmed over the water, but did not, as it was in-
tended, do much mischief. It, however, occasioned a mishap,
which had nearly proved fatal to our aquatic attorney. Alarmed
at the report of the pistol, in the nervous agitation of the moment
Coates drew in his rein so tightly that his steed instantly sank. A
moment or two afterwards he rose, shaking his ears, and flounder-
ing heavily towards the shore; and such was the chilling effect of

ROOKWOOD. 295

this sudden immersion, that Mr. Coates now thought much more
of saving himself than of capturing Turpin. Dick, meanwhile,
had reached the opposite bank, and, refreshed by her bath, Bess
scrambled up the sides of the stream, and speedily regained the
road. " I shall do it yet," shouted Dick; " that stream has saved
her. Hark away, lass ! Hark away!"

Bess heard the cheering cry, and she answered to the call. She
roused all her energies; strained every sinew; and put forth all
her remaining strength. Once more, on wings of swiftness, she
bore him away from his pursuers, and Major Mowbray, who had
now gained the shore, and made certain of securing him, beheld
him spring, like a wounded hare, from beneath his very hand.

"It cannot hold out," said the major; "it is but an expiring
flash; that gallant steed must soon drop."

" She be regularly booked, that's certain," said the postboy.
u We shall find her on the road."

Contrary to all expectation, however, Bess held on, and set
pursuit at defiance. Her pace was swift as when she started. But
it was unconscious and mechanical action. It wanted the ease, the
lightness, the life of her former riding. She seemed screwed up
to a task which she must execute. There was no Hogging, no
gory heel; but the heart was throbbing, tugging at the sides
within. Her spirit spurred her onwards. Her eye was glazing;
her chest heaving; her flank quivering; her crc.-t again fallen.

Yet she held on. "She is dying!" said Dick. "I feel it "

No, she held on.

Fulford is past. The towers and pinnacles of York burst upon
him in all the freshness, the beauty, and the glory of a bright,
clear, autumnal morn. The ancient city seemed to smile a wel-
come— a greeting. The noble Minster and its serene and massive
pinnacles, docketed, lantern-like, and beautiful ; Saint Mary's
lofty spire, All-Hallows Tower, the massive mouldering walls of
the adjacent postern, the grim castle, and Clifford's neighbouring
keep — all beamed upon him, " like a bright-eyed face, that laughs
out openly."

" It is done — it is won," cried Dick. " Hurrah, hurrah !" And
the sunny air was cleft with his shouts.

Bess Was not insensible to her master's exultation. She neighed
feebly in answer to his call, and reeled forwards. It was a piteous
sight to see her, — to mark her staring, protruding eyeball, — her
shaking Hanks; but, while life and limb held together, she held on.

Another mile is past. York is near.

"Hurrah!" shouted Dick; but his voice was hushed. Bess
tottered — fell. There was a dreadful gasp — a parting moan — a
snort; her eye gazed, for an instant, upon her master, with a
dying glare ; then grew glassy, rayless, iixed. A shiver ran
through her frame. Her heart had burst.

296 ROOKWOOD.

Dick's eyes were blinded, as with rain. His triumph, though
achieved, was forgotten — his own safety was disregarded. He
stood weeping and swearing, like one beside himself.

" And art thou gone, Bess?" cried he, in a voice of agony, lift-
ing up his courser's head, and kissing her lips, covered with blood-
flecked foam. " Gone, gone ! and I have killed the best steed that
was ever crossed ! And for what?" added Dick, beating his brow
with his clenched hand — "for what? for what?"

At this moment the deep bell of the Minster clock tolled out
the hour of six.

"I am answered," gasped Dick; "it was to hear those strokes!"

Turpin was roused from the state of stupefaction into which he
had fallen by a smart slap on the shoulder. Recalled to himself
by the blow, he started at once to his feet, while his hands sought
his pistols ; but he was spared the necessity of using them, by dis-
covering in the intruder the bearded visage of the gipsy Balthazar,
The patrico was habited in mendicant weeds, and sustained a large
wallet upon his shoulders.

" So it's all over with the best mare in England, I see," said
Balthazar; " I can guess how it has happened — you are pursued?"

" I am," said Dick, roughly.

"Your pursuers are at hand?"

u Within a few hundred yards."

"Then why stay here? Fly while you can."

"Never — never," cried Turpin; "I'll fight it out here by
Bess's side. Poor lass ! I've killed her — but she has done it
— ha, ha! — we have won — what?" And his utterance was again
choked.

" Hark ! I hear the tramp of horse, and shouts," cried the pa-
trico. " Take this wallet. You will find a change of dress within
it. Dart into that thick copse — save yourself."

" But Bess — I cannot leave her," exclaimed Dick, with an ago-
nising look at his horse.

"And what did Bess die for, but to save you?" rejoined the
patrico.

"'True, true," said Dick; "but take care of her. Don't let
those dogs of hell meddle with her carcase."

" Away," cried the patrico ; " leave Bess to me."

Possessing himself of the wallet, Dick disappeared in the ad-
joining copse.

He had not been gone many seconds when Major Mowbray
rode up.

"Who is this?" exclaimed the major, flinging himself from his
horse, and seizing the patrico: "this is not Turpin."

"Certainly not," replied Balthazar, coolly. "I am not exactly
the figure for a highwayman."

"Where is he? what has become of him?" asked Coates, in
despair, as he and Paterson joined the major.

H'-^rjo C-rudts ko/hK-

K:3%aM< ^zwiOi

EEATH OF BLACK BE33

P. 296.

ROOKWOOD. 297

"Escnpc.], I fear," replied the major. "Have you seen any
one, fellow?" added he, addressing the patrico.

" 1 have seen no one," replied Balthazar. " I am only this in-
stant arrived. This dead horse lying in the road attracted my at-
tention."

" Ha !" exclaimed Paterson, leaping from his steed, " this may
be Turpin after all. He has as many disguises as the devil him-
self, and may have carried that goat's hair in his pocket." Saying
which, he seized the patrico by the beard, and shook it with as
little reverence as the Gaul handled the hirsute chin of the Roman
senator.

"The devil! hands off," roared Balthazar. "By Salamon, I
won't stand such usage. Do you think a beard like mine is the
growth of a few minutes? Hands off, I say."

" Regularly done !" said Paterson, removing his hold of the
patrico's chin, and looking as blank as a cartridge.

"Ay," exclaimed Coates; " all owing to this worthless piece of
carrion. If it were not that I hope to see him dangling from those
walls" (pointing towards the Castle), " I should wish her master
were by her side now. To the dogs with her." .And he was about
to spurn the breathless carcase of poor Bess, when a sudden blow,
dealt by the patrico's staff, felled him to the ground.

" I'll teach you to molest me," said Balthazar, about to attack
Paterson.

" Come, come," said the discomfited chief constable, " no more
of this. It's plain we're in the wrong box. Every bone in my
body aches sufficiently without the aid of your cudgel, old fellow.
Come, Mr. Coates, take my arm, and let's be moving. We've
had an infernal lon^ ride for nothing."

"Not so," replied Coates; "I've paid pretty dearly for it.
However, let us see if we can get any breakfast at the Bowling-
green, yonder; though I've already had my morning draught,"'
added the facetious man of law, looking at his dripping apparel.

"Poor Black Bess!" said Major Mowbray, wistfully regarding
the body of the mare, as it lay stretched at his feet. " Thou de-
scrvedst a better fate, and a better master. In thee, Dick Turpin
has lost his best friend. His exploits will, henceforth, want the
colouring of romance, which thy unfailing energies threw over
them. Light lie the ground over thee, thou matchless mare !"

To the Bowling-green the party proceeded, leaving the patrico
in undisturbed possession of the lifeless body of Black Bess.
Major Mowbray ordered a substantial repast to be prepared with
all possible expedition.

A countryman in a smock-frock was busily engaged at his

morning s

" meal.

" To see that fellow bolt down his breakfast, one would think
lie had fasted for a month," said Coates; "see the wholesome
effects of an honest industrious life, Paterson. I envy him his

298 EOOKWOOD.

appetite— I should fall to with more zest were Dick Turpin in his
place."

The countryman looked up. He was an odd-looking fellow,
with a terrible squint, and a strange contorted countenance.

" An ugly dog !" exclaimed Paterson : " what a devil of a twist
ne has got!"

" What's that you says about Dick Taarpin, measter?" asked
the countryman, with his mouth half full of bread.

" Have you seen aught of him ?" asked Coates.

"Not I," mumbled the rustic; " but I hears aw the folks here-
abouts talk on him. They say as how he sets all the lawyers and
constables at defiance, and laughs in his sleeve at their efforts to
cotch him — ha, ha ! He gets over more ground in a day than
they do in a week — ho, ho !"

"That's all over now," said Coates, peevishly. "He has cut
his own throat — ridden his famous mare to death."

The countryman almost choked himself, in the attempt to bolt
a huge mouthful. "Ay — indeed, measter! How happened that?"
asked he, so soon as he recovered speech.

" The fool rode her from London to York last night," returned
Coates : " such a feat was never performed before. What horse
could be expected to live through such work as that?"

" All, he were a foo' to attempt that," observed the country-
man: " but you followed belike?"

" We did."

" And took him arter all, I reckon?" asked the rustic, squinting
more horribly than ever.

" No," returned Coates, " I can't say we did ; but we'll have
him yet. I'm pretty sure he can't be far off. We may be nearer
him than we imagine."

" May be so, measter," returned the countryman ; " but might I
be so bold as to ax how many horses you used i' the chase — some
half-dozen, maybe?"

" Half a dozen ! " growled Paterson ; " we had twenty at the
least."

" And I one !" mentally ejaculated Turpin, for he was the
countryman.

EOOKWOOD. 290

BOOK V.

THE OATH.

It was an ill oath better broke than kept —
The laws of nature, and of nations, do
Dispense with matters of divinity
In such a case. Tateham.

CHAPTER I.

THE HUT ON THORNE WASTE.

Hind. Are all our horses and our arms in safety ?

Furbo. They feed, like Pluto's palfreys, under ground.
Our pistols, swords, and other furniture,
Are safely locked up at our rendezvous.

Prince of Prigs' Bevels.

The hut on Thorne Waste, to which we have before incident-
ally alluded, and whither we are now about to repair, was a low,
lone hovel, situate on the banks of the deep and oozy Don, at the
eastern extremity of that extensive moor. Ostensibly its owner
fulfilled the duties of ferryman to that part of the river; but as
the road, which skirted his tenement, was little frequented, his
craft was, for the most part, allowed to sleep undisturbed in her
moorings.

In reality, however, he was the inland agent of a horde of
smugglers who infested the neighbouring coast ; his cabin was
their rendezvous; and not unfrequently, it was said, the depository
of their contraband goods. Conkey Jem (so was he called by his
associates, on account of the Slawkenbergian promontory which
decorated his countenance) had been an old hand at the same
trade; but having returned from a seven vears' leave of absence
from his own country, procured by his lawless life, now managed
matters with more circumspection and prudence, and had never
since been detected in his former illicit traffic ; nor, though so
marvellously gifted in that particular himself, was he ever known
to nose upon any of his accomplices; or, in other words, to betray
them. On the contrary, his hut was a sort of asylum for all
fugitives from justice; and although the sanctity of his walls
would, in all probability, have been little regarded, had any one
been detected within them, yet, strange to say, even if a robber
had been tracked (as it often chanced) to Jem's immediate neigh-
bourhood, all traces of him were sure to be lost at the ferryman's
hut; and further search was useless.

Within, the hut presented such an appearance as might be
expected, from its owner's pursuits and its own unpromisin

300 ROOKWOOD.

exterior. Consisting of little more than a couple of rooms, the
rude whitewashed mud walls exhibited, in lieu of prints of more
pretension, a gallery of choicely-illustrated ballads, celebrating the
exploits of various highwaymen, renowned in song, amongst which
our friend Dick Turpin figured conspicuously upon his sable steed,
Bess being represented by a huge rampant black patch, and Dick,
with a pistol considerably longer than the arm that sustained it.
Next to this curious collection was a drum-net, a fishing-rod, a
landing-net, an eel-spear, and other piscatorial apparatus, with a
couple of sculls and a boat-hook, indicative of Jem's ferryman's
office, suspended by various hooks; the whole blackened and be-
grimed by peat-smoke, there being no legitimate means of exit
permitted to the vapour generated by the turf-covered hearthstone.
The only window, indeed, in the hut, was to the front; the back
apartment, which served Jem for dormitory, had no aperture what-
ever for the admission of light, except such as was afforded through
the door of communication between the rooms. A few broken
rush-bottomed chairs, with a couple of dirty tables, formed the
sum total of the ferryman's furniture.'

Notwithstanding the grotesque effect of his exaggerated nasal
organ, Jem's aspect was at once savage and repulsive; his lank
black hair hung about his inflamed visage in wild elf locks, the
animal predominating throughout; his eyes were small, red, and
wolfish, and glared suspiciously from beneath his scarred and tufted
eyebrows; while certain of his teeth projected, like the tusks of a
boar, from out his coarse-lipped, sensual mouth. Dwarfish in
stature, and deformed in person, Jem was built for strength; and
what with his width of shoulder and shortness of neck, his figure
looked as square and as solid as a cube. His throat and hirsute
chest, constantly exposed to the weather, had acquired a glowing-
tan, while his arms, uncovered to the shoulders, and clothed with
fur like a bear's hide, down, almost, to the tips of his fingers, pre-
sented a knot of folded muscles, the concentrated force of which
few would have desired to encounter in action.

It was now on the stroke of midnight; and Jem, who had been
lying extended upon the floor of his hovel, suddenly aroused by that
warning impulse which never fails to awaken one of his calling at
the exact moment when they require to be upon the alert, now set
about fanning into flame the expiring fuel upon his hearth. Having
succeeded in igniting further portions of turf, Jem proceeded to
examine the security of his door and window, and satisfied that lock
and bolt were shot, and that the shutter was carefully closed, he
kindled a light at his fire, and walked towards his bedroom. But
it was not to retire for the night that the ferryman entered his
dormitory. Beside his crazy couch stood a litter of empty bottlcs-
and a beer cask, crowding the chamber. The latter he rolled aside,
and pressing his foot upon the plank beneath it, the board gave
way, and a trap-door opening, discovered a ladder, conducting, ap-

UOOKWOOD. 301

parently, into the bowels of the earth. Jem leaned over the abyss,
and called in hoarse accents to some one below.

An answer was immediately returned, and a light became soon
afterwards visible at the foot of the ladder. Two figures next
ascended; the first who set foot within the ferryman's chamber
was Alan Rookwood; the other, as the reader may perhaps con-
jecture, was his grandson.

"Is it the hour?" asked Luke, as he sprang from out the trap-
door.

"Ay," replied Jem, with a coarse laugh; "or I had not dis-
turbed myself to call you. But, maybe," added he, softening
his manner a little, " you'll like some refreshment before you
start? A stoup of Nantz will put you in cue for the job,
ha, ha!"

" Not I," replied Luke, who could ill tolerate his companion's
familiarity.

" Give me to drink," said Alan, walking feebly towards the
fire, and extending his skinny fingers before it. " I am chilled
by the damps of that swampy cave — the natural heat within me
is nigh extinguished."

" Here is that shall put fresh marrow into your old bones/' re-
turned Jem, handing him a tumbler of brandy; "never stint it.
I'll be sworn you'll be the better on't, for you look desperate queer,
man, about the mazzard."

Alan was, in sooth, a ghastly spectacle. The events of the last
few days had wrought a fearful change. His countenance was
almost exanimate ; and when, with shaking hand and trembling
lips, he had drained the fiery potion to the dregs, a terrible grimace
was excited upon his features, such as is produced upon the corpse
by the action of the galvanic machine. Even Jem regarded him
with a sort of apprehension. After he had taken breath for a
moment, Alan broke out into a fit of wild and immoderate
laughter.

" Why, ay," said he, " this is indeed to grow young again, and
to feel fresh fire within one's veins. Who would have thouirht
so much of life and energy could reside in this little vessel? I
am myself once more, and not the same soulless, pulseless lump
of clay I was a moment or two back. The damps of that den
had destroyed me — and the solitude — the leaking dreams I've
had — the visions ! horrible ! I will not think of them. I am
better now — ready to execute my plans — your plans I should
say, grandson Luke. Are our horses in readiness? Why do
we tarry? The hour is arrived, and I would not that my new-
blown courage should evaporate ere the great work for which I
live be accomplished. That done, I ask no further stimulant.
Let us away."

" We tarry but for Turpin," said Luke; " I am as impatient as
yourself. I fear some mischance must have befallen him, or he

302 EOOKWOOD.

would have been true to his appointment. Do you not think
so?" he added, addressing the ferryman.

" Why," replied Jem, reluctantly, u since you put it home to
me, and I can't conceal it no longer, I'll tell you what I didn't
tell afore, for fear you should be down in the mouth about it.
Dick Turpin can do nothing for you — he's grabb'd."

"Turpin apprehended!" ejaculated Luke.

" Ay," returned Jem. " I learnt from a farmer, who crossed
the ferry at nightfall, that he were grabb'd this morning at York,
after having ridden his famous cherry-coloured prad to death —
that's what hurts me more nor all the rest; though I fear Dick
will scarce cheat the nubbing cheat this go. His time's up, I cal-
culate."

" Will you supply his place and accompany us?" asked Luke
of the ferrvman.

"No, no," replied Jem, shaking his head; " there's too much
risk, and too little profit, in the business for me — it won't pay."

"And what might tempt you to undertake the enterprise?"
asked Alan.

" More than you have to offer, Master Peter," replied Jem,
who had not been enlightened upon the subject of Alan's real
name or condition.

" How know you that?" demanded Alan. "Name your de-
mand."

" Well, then, I'll not say but a hundred pounds, if you had it,
might bribe me "

" To part with your soul to the devil, I doubt not," said Luke,
fiercely stamping the ground. " Let us be gone. We need not
his mercenary aid. We will do without him."

" Stay," said Alan, "you shall have the hundred, provided you
will assure us of your services."

" Cut no more blarneyfied winds, Master Sexton," replied Jem,
in a gruff tone. " If I'm to go, I must have the chink down, and
that's more nor either of you can do, I'm thinking."

"Give me your purse," whispered Alan to his grandson.
"Pshaw," continued he, "do you hesitate? This man can do
much for us. Think upon Eleanor, and be prudent. You cannot
accomplish your task unaided." Taking the amount from the
purse, he gave it to the ferryman, adding, " If we succeed, the sum
shall be doubled; and now let us set out."

During Alan's speech, Jem's sharp eyes had been fastened upon
the purse, while he mechanically clutched the bank-notes which
were given to him. He could not remove his gaze, but continued
staring at the treasure before him, as if he would willingly, by
force, have made it all his own.

Alan saw the error he had committed in exposing the contents
of the purse to the avaricious ferryman and was about to restore
it to Luke, when the bag was suddenly snatched from his grasp,
and himself levelled by a blow upon the floor. Conkcy Jem found

EOOXWOOD. 303

the temptation irresistible. Knowing himself to be a match for
both his companions, and imagining he was secure from interrup-
tion, he conceived the idea of making away with them, and pos-
sessing himself of their wealth. No sooner had he disposed of
Alan, than he assailed Luke, who met his charge halfway. With
the vigour and alacrity of the latter the reader is already acquainted,
but he was no match for the herculean strength of the double-
jointed ferryman, who, with the ferocity of the boar he so much
resembled, thus furiously attacked him. Nevertheless, as may be
imagined, he was not disposed to yield up his life tamely. He
saw at once the villain's murderous intentions, and, well aware of
his prodigious power, would not have risked a close struggle could
he have avoided it. Snatching the eel-spear from the wall, he had
hurled it at the head of his adversary, but without effect. In the
next instant he was locked in a clasp terrible as that of a Polar
bear. In spite of all his struggles, Luke was speedily hurled to
the ground; and Jem, who had thrown himself upon him, was
apparently searching about for some weapon to put a bloody
termination to the conflict, when the trampling of a horse was
heard at the door, three taps were repeated slowly, one after the
other, and a call resounded from a whistle.

"Damnation!" ejaculated Jem, gruffly, "interrupted!" And
he seemed irresolute, slightly altering his position on Luke's body.

The moment was fortunate for Luke, and, in all probability,
saved his life. He extricated himself from the ferryman's grasp,
regained his feet, and, what was of more importance, the weapon
he had thrown away.

"Villain!" cried he, about to plunge the spear with all his
force into his enemy's side, " you shall "

The whistle was again heard without.

" Don't you hear that?" 4cried Jem: "'tis Turpin's call."

" Turpin !" echoed Luke, dropping the point of his weapon.
" Unbar the door, you treacherous rascal, and admit him."

" Well, say no more about it, Sir Luke," said Jem, fawningly ;
" I knows I owes you my life, and I thank you for it. Take
back the lowrc. He should not have shown it me — it was that as
did all the mischief."

" Unbar the door, and parley not," said Luke, contemptuously.

Jem complied with pretended alacrity, but real reluctance, cast-
ing suspicious glances at Luke as he withdrew the bolts. The
door at length being opened, haggard, exhausted, and covered
with dust, Dick Turpin staggered into the hut.

" Well, I am here," said he, with a hollow laugh. " I've kept
my word — ha, ha! I've been damnably put to it; but here I am,
ha, ha !" And he sank upon one of the stools.

" We heard you were apprehended," said Luke. " I am glad
to find the information was ialse," added he, glancing angrily at
the ferryman.

" Whoever told you that, told you a lie, Sir Luke," replied

304 ROOKWOOD.

Dick; "but what are you scowling at, old Charon? — and you, Sir
Luke? Why do you glower at each other? Make fast the door
— bolt it, Cerberus — right ! Now give me a glass of brandy, and
then I'll talk — a bumper — so — another. What's that I see — a
dead man? Old Peter — Alan I mean — has anything happened to
him, that he has taken his measure there so quietly?"

" Nothing, I trust," said Luke, stooping to raise up his grand-
sire. u The blow has stunned him."

"The blow?" repeated Turpin. "What! there has been a
quarrel then? I thought as much from your amiable looks at each
other. Come, come, wre must have no differences. Give the old
earthworm a taste of this — I'll engage it will bring him to fast
enough. Ay, rub his temples with it if you'd rather ; but it's a
better remedy down the gullet — the natural course ; and hark ye,
Jem, search your crib quickly, and see if you have any grub within
it, and any more bub in the cellar: I'm as hungry as a hunter, and
as thirsty as a camel."

CHAPTER II.

MA JOE, MOWBRAY.

Mephistopheles. Out with your toasting-iron ! Thrust away !

Hayward's Translation of Faust.

Conkey Jem went in search of such provisions as his hovel
afforded. Turpin, meantime, lent his assistance towards the re-
vival of Alan Rookwood; and it was not long before his efforts,
united with those of Luke, were successful, and Alan restored to
consciousness. He was greatly surprised to find the highwayman
had joined them, and expressed an earnest desire to quit the hut
as speedily as possible.

" That shall be done forthwith, my dear fellow," said Dick.
" But if you had fasted as long as I have done, and gone through
a few of my fatigues into the bargain, you would perceive, with-
out difficulty, the propriety of supping before you started. Here
comes Old Nosey, with a flitch of bacon and a loaf. Egad, I can
scarce wait for the toasting. In my present mood, I could almost
devour a grunter in the sty." Whereupon he applied himself to
the loaf, and to a bottle of stout March ale, which Jem placed
upon the table, quaffing copious draughts of the latter, while the
ferryman employed himself in toasting certain rashers of the flitch
upon the hissing embers.

Luke, meanwhile, stalked impatiently about the room. He had
laid aside his tridental spear, having first, however, placed a pistol

ROOKWOOD. 30

within his breast to be ready for instant service, should occasion
demand it, as he could now put little reliance upon the ferryman's
fidelity. He glanced with impatience at Turpin, who pursued his
meal with steady voracity, worthy of a half-famished soldier ; but
the highwayman returned no answer to his looks, except such as
was conveyed by the incessant clatter of his masticating jaws,
during the progress of his, apparently, interminable repast.

" Ready for you in a second, Sir Luke," said Dick ; u all right
now — capital ale, Charon — strong as Styx — ha, ha ! — one other
rasher, and I've done. Sorry to keep you — can't conceive how
cleverly I put the winkers upon 'em at York, in the dress of a
countryman; all owing to old Baity, the patrico, an old pal — ha,
ha ! My old pals never nose upon me — eh, Nosey — always help
one out of the water — always staunch. Here's health to you, old
crony."

Jem returned a sulky response, as he placed the last rasher on
the table, which was speedily discussed.

" Poor Bess !" muttered Dick, as he quaffed off the final glass
of ale. " Poor lass ! we buried her by the roadside, beneath the
trees — deep — deep. Her remains shall never be disturbed. Alas !
alas ! my bonny Black Bess ! But no matter, her name is yet alive
— her deeds will survive her — the trial is over. And now," con-
tinued he, rising from his seat, "I'm with you. Where are the
tits ?"

" In the stable, under ground," growled Jem.

Alan Rook wood, in the mean time, had joined his grandson,
and they conversed an instant or two apart.

" My strength will not bear me through the night," said he.
a That fellow has thoroughly disabled me. You must go without
me to the hall. Here is the key of the secret passage. You
know the entrance. I will await you in the tomb."

u The tomb !" echoed Luke.

" Ay, our family vault," returned Alan, with a ghastly griii
— " it is the only place of security for me now. Let me see her
there. Let me know that my vengeance is complete, that I
triumph in my death over him, the accursed brother, through you,
my grandson. You have a rival brother — a successful one ; you
know now what hatred is."

" I do," returned Luke, fiercely.

u But not such hate as mine, which, through a life, a long life,
hath endured, intense as when 'twas first engendered in my bosom ;
which from one hath spread o'er all my race — o'er all save you —
and which even now, when death stares me in the face — when the
spirit pants to lly from its prison-house, burns fiercely as ever.
You cannot know what hate like that may be. You must have
wrongs — such wrongs as mine first."

" My hate to Ranulph is bitter as your own to Sir Reginald.'*

"Name him not," shrieked Alan. "But, oh! to think upon

306 KOOKWOOD.

the bride he robbed me of — the young — the beautiful ! — whom I
loved to madness; whose memory is a barbed shaft, yet rankling
keen as ever at my heart. God of Justice ! how is it that I have
thus long survived ? But some men die by inches. My dying
lips shall name him once again, and then 'twill be but to blend his
name with curses."

" I speak of him no more," said Luke. " I will meet you in
the vault."

" Remember, to-morrow is her wedding-day with Ranulph."

" Think you I forget it?"

u Bear it constantly in mind. To-morrow's dawn must see her
yours or his. You have her oath. To you or to death she is
affianced. If she should hesitate in her election, do not you hesi-
tate. Woman's will is fickle; her scruples of conscience will be
readily overcome; she will not heed her vows — but let her not
escape you. Cast off' all your weakness. You are young, and not
as I am, age-enfeebled. Be firm, and," added he, with a look of
terrible meaning, "if all else should fail — if you are surrounded —
if you cannot bear her off — use this," and he placed a dagger in
Luke's hands. " It has avenged me, ere now, on a perjured wife,
it will avenge you of a forsworn mistress, and remove all obstacle
to Rookwood."

Luke took the weapon.

" Would you have me kill her ?" demanded he.

" Sooner than she should be Ranulph's."

"Ay, aught sooner than that. But I would not murder both."

" Both !" echoed Alan. " I understand you not."

" Sybil and Eleanor," replied Luke; " for, as surely as I live,
Sybil's death will lie at my door."

" How so?" asked Alan; " the poison was self-ministered."

" True," replied Luke, with terrible emphasis, u but I spoke
daggers. Hearken to me," said he, hollowly whispering in his
grandsire's ears. iC Methinks I am not long for this world. I
have seen her since her death ! "

" Tut, tut," replied Alan. " 'Tis not for you (a man) to talk
thus. A truce to these womanish fancies."

" Womanish or not," returned Luke ; " either my fancy has
deceived me, or I beheld her, distinctly as I now behold yon,
within yon cave, while you were sleeping by my side."

" It is disordered fancy," said Alan Rookwood. " You will
live — live to inherit Rookwood — live to see them fall crushed be-
neath your feet. For myself, if I but see you master of Eleanor's
hand, or know that she no longer lives to bless your rival, or
to mar your prospects, I care not how soon I brave my threatened
doom."

" Of one or other you shall be resolved to-night," said Luke,
placing the dasher within his vest.

At this moment a trampling of a horse was heard before the

ROOKWOOD. 307

hovel, and in another instant a loud knocking resounded from the
door. The ferryman instantly extinguished the light, motioning
his companions to remain silent.

u What ho !" shouted a voice. " Ferry wanted."

" Gad zooks !" exclaimed Dick. " As I live, 'tis Major Mow-
bray !"

" Major Mowbray !" echoed Alan, in amazement. " What doth
he here?"

"He must be on his way from York to Rookwood, I con-
clude," said Dick. "If he's here, I'll engage the others are
not far off."

Scarcely were the words out of Dick's mouth, when further
clatter was heard at the door, and the tones of Coates were heard,
in altissimo key, demanding admittance.

" Let us retire into the next room," whispered Turpin, "and
then admit them, by all means, Conkey. And, hark ye, manage
to detain them a few seconds."

" I'll do it," said Jem. " There's a bit of a hole you can peep
through."

Another loud rat-tat was heard at the door, threatening to
burst it from its hinges.

" Well, I be coming," said Jem, seeing the coast was clear, in
a drowsy, yawning tone, as if just awakened from sleep. " You'll
cross the river none the faster for making so much noise."

With these words he unbarred the door, and Coates and Pater-
son, who, it appeared, were proceeding to Rookwood, entered
the hovel. Major Mowbray remained on horseback at the door.

"Can you find us a glass of brandy to keep out the fog?" said
Coates, who knew something of our ferryman's vocations. "I
know you are a lad of amazing spirit^

" May be I can, master, if I choose. But won't the other gem-
man walk in-doors likewise?"

" No, no," said Coates ; " Major Mowbray don't choose to dis-
mount."

" Well, as you please," said Jem. " It'll take me a minute or
two to get the punt in order for all them prads."

" The brandy in the first place," said Coates. " What's here ?"
added the loquacious attorney, noticing the remnants of Turpin's
repast. " But that we're hurried, I should like a little frizzled
bacon myself."

Jem opened the door of his dormitory with the greatest caution,
though apparent indifference, and almost instantly returned with
the brandy. Coates filled a glass for Paterson, and then another
for himself. The ferryman left the house apparently to prepare his
boat, half closing the door after him.

" By my faith ! this is the right thing, Paterson," said the
attorney. " We may be sure the strength of this was never
tested by a gauger's proof. Take another thimbleful. We've

x ^

308 ROOKWOOD.

twelve miles and a heavy pull to go through ere we reach Rook-
woocl. After all, we made but a poor night's work of it, Master
Constable. Cursed stupid in us to let him escape. I only wish we
had such another chance. Ah, if we had him within reach now,
how we would spring upon him — secure him in an instant. I
should glory in the encounter. I tell you what, Paterson, if ever
he is taken, I shall make a point of attending his execution, and
see whether he dies game. Ha, ha ! You think he's sure to swing,
Paterson, eh?"

" Why, yes," replied the chief constable. " I wish I was as cer-
tain of my reward as that Turpin will eventually figure at the
scragging-post."

"Your reward!" replied Coates. "Make yourself easy on
that score, my boy ; you shall have your dues, depend upon it.
Nay, for the matter of that, I'll give you the money now, if you
think proper."

" Nothing like time present," said Paterson. " We'll make all
square at once."

" Well, then," said Coates, taking out a pocket-book, u you
shall have the hundred I promised. You won't get Turpin's re-
ward, the three hundred pounds ; but that can't be helped. You
shall have mine — always a man of my word, Paterson," continued
the attorney, counting out the money. " My father, the thief-
taker, was a man of his word before me."

" No doubt," said the chief constable ; " I shall always be happy
to serve you."

" And then there's that other affair," said the attorney, mys-
teriously, still occupied in doling out his bank-notes, " that Luke
Bradley's case ; the fellow, I mean, who calls himself Sir Luke
Rookwood — ha, ha ! A rank impostor ! Two fives, that makes
fifty: you want another fifty, Paterson. As I was saying, we
may make a good job of that — we must ferret him out. I know
who will come down properly for that ; and if we could only tuck
him up with his brother blade, why it would be wrorth double.
He's all along been a thorn in my Lady Rookwood's side ; he's
an artful scoundrel."

" Leave him to me," said Paterson ; " I'll have him in less than
a week. What's your charge against him?"

" Felony, burglary, murder, every description of crime under
the heavens," said Coates. u He's a very devil incarnate. Dick
Turpin is as mild as milk compared with him. By-the-by, now
I think of it, this Jem, Conkey Jem, as folks call him, may
know something about him ; he's a keen file, I'll sound him.
Thirty, forty, fifty — there's the exact amount. So much for Dick
JLurpin.

" Dick Turpin thanks you for it in person," said Dick, suddenly
snatching the whole sum from Paterson's hands, and felling the
chief constable with a blow of one of his pistols. " I wish I was

KOOKWOOD. 309

as sure of escaping the gallows as I am certain that Paterson has

got hi? reward. You stare, sir. You are once more in the hands
of the Philistines. See who is at your elbow."

Coates, who was terrified almost out of his senses at the siirht of
Turpin, scarcely ventured to turn his head; but when he did so,
he was perfectly horror-stricken at the threatening aspect of Luke,
who held a cutlass in his hand, which he had picked up in the
ferryman's bedroom.

" So you would condemn me for crimes I have never committed,"
said Luke. " I am tempted, I own, to add the destruction of your
worthless existence to their number."

" Mercy, for God's sake, mercy !" cried Coates, throwing himself
at Luke's feet. " I meant not what I said."

" Hence, reptile," said Luke, pushing him aside; u I leave you
to be dealt upon by others."

At this juncture, the door of the hut was flung open, and in
rushed Major Mowbray, sword in hand, followed byConkey Jem.

" There he stands, sir," cried the latter; " upon him !"

"What! Conkey Jem turned snitch upon his pals?" cried
Dick ; " I scarce believe my own ears."

" Make yourself scarce, Dick," growled Jem; "the jigger's
open, and the boat loose. Leave Luke to his fate. lie's sold."

" Never, vile traitor," shouted Dick ; u 'tis thou art sold, not
he;" and, almost ere the words were spoken, a ball was lodged in
the brain of the treacherous ferryman.

Major Mowbray, meanwhile, had rushed furiously upon Luke,
who met his assault with determined calmness. The strife was
sharp, and threatened a speedy and fatal issue. On the Major's
side it was a desperate attack of cut and thrust which Luke had
some difficulty in parrying; but as yet no wounds were inflicted.
Soldier as was the Major, Luke was not a whit inferior to him in
his knowledge of the science of defence, and in the exercise of the
broadsword he was perhaps the more skilful of the two: upon the
present occasion his coolness stood him in admirable stead. Seeing
him hard pressed, Turpin would have come to his assistance; but
Luke shouted to him to stand aside, and all that Dick could do,
amid the terrific clash of steel, was to kick the tables out of the
way of the combatants. Luke's arm was now slightly grazed by a
cut made by the major, which he had parried. The smart of the
wound roused his ire. He attacked his adversary in his turn,
with so much vigour and good will, that, driven backwards by
the irresistible assault, Major Mowbray stumbled over the ferry-
man's body, which happened to lie in his way; and his sword
being struck from his grasp, his life became at once at his assail-
ant's disposal.

Luke sheathed his sword. "Major Mowbray," said he, sternly,
" your life is in my power. I spare it for the blood that is between

310 ROOKWOOD.

us — for your sister's sake. I would not raise my hand against her
brother."

"I disclaim your kindred with me, villain!" wrathfully ex-
claimed the major. " I hold you no otherwise than as a wretched
impostor, who has set up claims he cannot justify; and as to my

sister, if you dare to couple her name " and the major made

an ineffectual attempt to raise himself, and to regain his sword,
which Turpin, however, removed.

" Dare!" echoed Luke, scornfully; " hereafter, you may learn
to fear my threats, and acknowledge the extent of my daring; and
in that confidence I give you life. Listen to me, sir. I am bound
for Rookwood. I have private access to the house — to your
sister's chamber — her chamber — marked you that? I shall go
armed — attended. This night she shall be mine. From you —
from Ranulph — from Lady Rookwood, from all will I bear her
off. She shall be mine, and you, before the dawn, my brother,

or " And Luke paused.

"What further villany remains untold?" inquired the major,
fiercely.

" You shall bewail your sister's memory," replied Luke,
gloomily.

" I embrace the latter alternative with rapture," replied the
major — " God grant her firmness to resist you. But I tremble for
her." And the stern soldier groaned aloud in his agony.

" Here is a cord to bind him," said Turpin; "he must remain
a prisoner here."

" Right," said Alan Rookwood, " unless — but enough blood
has been shed already."

" Ay, marry has there," said Dick, " and I had rather not have
given Conkey Jem a taste of blue plumb, had there been any
other mode of silencing the snitching scoundrel, which there was
not. As to the major, he's a gallant enemy, and shall have fair
play as long as Dick Turpin stands by. Come, sir," added he, to
the major, as he bound him hand and foot with the rope, " I'll do
it as gently as I can. You had better submit with a good grace.
There's no help for it. And now for my friend Paterson, who
was so anxious to furnish me with a hempen cravat, before my
neck was in order, he shall have an extra twist of the rope
himself, to teach him the inconvenience of a tight neckcloth when
he recovers." Saying which, he bound Paterson in such a
manner, that any attempt at liberation on the chief constable's
part would infallibly strangle him. "As to you, Mr. Coates,"
said he, addressing the trembling man of law, " you shall proceed
to Rookwood with us. You may yet be useful, and I'll accom-
modate you with a seat behind my own saddle — a distinction I
never yet conferred upon any of your tribe. Recollect the coun-
tryman at the Bowling-green at York — ha, ha ! Come along, sir."
And having kicked out the turf fire, Dick prepared to depart.

ROOKWOOD. 311

It would be vain to describe the feelings of rage and despair
which agitated the major's bosom, as he saw the party quit the
hovel, accompanied by Coates. Aware as he was of their desti-
nation, after one or two desperate but ineffectual attempts to libe-
rate himself, by which he only increased the painful constriction
of his bonds without in the slightest decree ameliorating his con-
dition, he resigned himself, with bitterest forebodings, to his fate.
There was no one even to sympathise with his sufferings. Beside
him lay the gory corpse of the ferryman, and, at a little distance,
the scarcely more animate frame of the chief constable. And here
we must leave him, to follow, for a short space, the course of Luke
and his companions.

Concerning themselves little about their own steeds, the party
took those which first offered, and embarking man and horse in
the boat, soon pushed across the waters of the lutulent Don.
Arrived at the opposite banks of the river, they mounted, and,
guided by Luke, after half an hour's sharp riding, arrived at the
skirts of Rookwood Park. Entering this beautiful sylvan do-
main, they rode for some time silently among the trees, till they
reached the knoll whence Luke beheld the hall on the eventful
night of his discovery of his mother's wedding-ring. A few days
only had elapsed, but during that brief space what storms had
swept over his bosom — what ravages had they not made ! He was
then all ardour — all impetuosity — all independence. The future
presented a bright unclouded prospect. Wealth, honours, and
happiness apparently awaited him. It was still the same exquisite
scene, hushed, holy, tranquil — even solemn, as upon that glorious
night. The moon was out, silvering wood and water, and shining
on the white walls of the tranquil mansion. Nature was calm,
serene, peaceful as ever. Beneath the trees, he saw the bounding
deer — upon the water, the misty wreaths of vapour — all, all was
dreamy, delightful, soothing, all save his heart — there was the con-
flict— there the change. Was it a troubled dream, with the dark
oppression of which he was struggling, or was it stern, waking,
actual life? That moment's review of his wild career was terrible.
He saw to what extremes his ungovernable passions had hurried
him; he saw their inevitable consequences; he saw also his own
fate; but he rushed madly on.

He swept round the park, keeping under the covert of the wood,
till he arrived at the avenue leading to the mansion. The stems of
the aged limes gleamed silvery white in the moonshine. Luke
drew in the rein beneath one of the largest of the trees.

" A branch has fallen," said he, as his grandsire joined him.

"Ha!" exclaimed Alan, "a branch from that tree?"

" It bodes ill to Ranulph," whispered Luke, " does it not?"

" Perchance," muttered Alan. "'Tis a vast bough !"

" We meet within an hour," said Luke, abruptly.

■312 EOOKWOOD.

"Within the tomb of our ancestry," replied Alan; "I will
await you there."

And as lie rode away, Alan murmured to himself the following
verse from one of his own ballads :

But whether gale or calm prevail, or threatening cloud 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.

CHAPTER III.

HANDASSAH.

I have heard it rumoured for these many years,

None of our family dies but there is seen

The shape of an old woman, -which is given

By tradition to us to have been murthered

By her nephews for her riches. Such a figure

One night, as the prince sat up late at 's book,

Appeared to him ; when, crying out for help,

The gentleman of his chamber found his Grace

All in a cold sweat, altered much in face

And language ; since which apparition

He hath grown worse and worse, and much I fear

He cannot live. Duchess ofMalfy.

In one of those large antique rooms, belonging to the suite of
apartments constituting the eastern wing of Rookwood Place —
upon the same night as that in which the events just detailed took
place, and it might be about the same time, sat Eleanor, and her
now attendant, the gipsy Handassah. The eyes of the former
were fixed, with a mixture of tenderness and pity, upon the
lineaments of another lovely female countenance, bearing a
striking resemblance to her own, though evidently, from its
attire, and bygone costume, not intended for her, depicted upon
a tablet, and placed upon a raised frame. It was nigh the witch-
ing hour of night. .The room was sombre and dusky, partially
dismantled of its once flowing arras, and the lights set upon the
table feebly illumined its dreary extent. Tradition marked it out
as the chamber in which many of the hapless dames of Rookwood
had expired; and hence Superstition claimed it as her peculiar
domain. The room was reputed to be haunted, and had for a
long space shared the fate of haunted rooms — complete desertion.
It was now tenanted by one too young, too pure, to fear aught
unearthly. Eleanor seemed, nevertheless, affected by the profound
melancholy of the picture upon which she gazed. At length,
Handassah observed her start, and avert her eye shudderingly
from the picture.

EOOKVrOOD. 313

" Take it hence," exclaimed Eleanor; "I have looked at that
image of my ancestress, till it has seemed endowed with life — till
its eyes have appeared to return my gaze, and weep. Remove it,
Handassah."

Handassah silently withdrew the tablet, placing it against the
wall of the chamber.

"Not there — not there," cried Eleanor; "turn it with its face
to the wall. I cannot bear those eyes. And now come hither,
ijirl — draw nearer — for I know not what of sudden dread has
crossed me. This was her room, Handassah — the chamber of my

ancestress — of all the Ladies Rookwood — where they say Ha !

did you not hear a noise? — a rustle in the tapestry — a footstep
near the wall? Why, you look as startled as I look, wench ; stay
by me — I will not have you stir from my side — 'twas mere
fancy."

" No doubt, lady," said Handassah, with her eyes fixed upon the
arras.

" Hist !" exclaimed Eleanor, " there 'tis again."

" 'Tis nothing," replied Handassah. But her looks belied her
words.

a Well, I will command myself," said Eleanor, endeavouring to
regain her calmness; "but the thoughts of the Lady Eleanor —
for she was an Eleanor like to me, Handassah — and ah ! even more
ill-fated and unhappy — have brought a whole train of melancholy
fancies into my mind. I cannot banish them : nay, though painful
to me, I recur to these images of dread with a species of fascina-
tion, as if in their fate I contemplated mine own. Not one, who
hath wedded a Rookwood, but hath rued it."

"Yet you will wed one," said Handassah.

" He is not like the rest," said Eleanor.

"How know you that, lady?" asked Handassah. "His time
may not yet be come. See what to-morrow will bring forth."

" You are averse to my marriage with Ranulph, Handassah."

" I was Sybil's handmaid ere I was yours, lady. I bear in
mind a solemn compact with the dead, which this marriage will
violate. You are plighted by oath to another, if he should demand
your hand."

" But he has not demanded it."

" Would you accept him were he to do so ?" asked Handassah,
suddenly.

" I meant not that," replied Eleanor. " My oath is annulled."

" Say not so, lady," cried Handassah — " 'twas not for this that
Sybil spared your life. I love you, but I loved Sybil, and I would
see her dying behests complied with."

" It may not be, Handassah," replied Eleanor. " Why, from a
phantom sense of honour, am I to sacrifice my whole existence to
one, who neither can love me, nor whom I myself could love?

314 EOOKWOOD.

Am I to wed this man because, in her blind idolatry of him, Sybil
enforced an oath upon me which I had no power to resist, and
which was mentally cancelled while taken ? Recal not the horrors
of that dreadful cell — urge not the subject more. 'Tis in the hope
that I may be freed for ever from this persecution, that I have con-
sented thus early to wed with Ranulph. This will set Luke's
fancied claims at rest for ever."

Handassah answered not, but bent her head, as if in acqui-
escence.

Steps were now heard near the door, and a servant ushered in
Dr. Small and Mrs. Mowbray.

" I am come to take feave of you for the night, my dear young
lady," said the doctor; "but before I start for the Vicarage, I
have a word or two to say, in addition to the advice you were so
obliging as to receive from me this morning. Suppose you allow
your attendant to retire for a few minutes. What I have got to
say concerns yourself solely. Your mother will bear us company.
There," continued the doctor, as Handassah was dismissed — " I
am glad that dark-faced gipsy has taken her departure. I can't
say I like her sharp suspicious manner, and the first exercise I
should make of my powers, were I to be your husband, should be
to discharge the handmaiden. To the point of my visit. We are
alone, I think. This is a queer old house, Miss Mowbray; and
this is the queerest part of it. Walls have ears, they say ; and
there are so many holes and corners in this mansion, that one
ought never to talk secrets above one's breath."

" I am yet to learn, sir," said Eleanor, " that there is any secret
to be communicated."

"Why, not much, I own," replied the doctor; "at least what
has occurred is not a secret in the house by this time. What do
you think has happened?"

"It is impossible for me to conjecture. Nothing to Ranulph,
I hope."

"Nothing of consequence, I trust, — though he is part con-
cerned with it."

" What is it?" asked Eleanor.

" Pray satisfy her curiosity, doctor," interposed Mrs. Mowbray.

"Well, then," said Small, rather more gravely, "the fact of the
matter stands thus: — Lady Rookwood, who, as you know, was not
the meekest wife in the world, now turns out by no means the
gentlest mother, and lias within this hour found out that she has
some objection to your union with her son."

" You alarm me, doctor."

" Don't alarm yourself at all. It will be got over without diffi-
culty, and only requires a little management. Ranulph is with her
now, and I doubt not will arrange all to her satisfaction."

" What was her objection?" asked Eleanor; "was it any one
founded upon my obligation to Luke — my oath?"

ROOKWOOD. 315

a Tut — tut! dismiss that subject from your mind entirely," said
the doctor. " That oath is no more binding on your conscience
than would have been the ties of marriage had you been wedded
by yon recusant Romish priest, Father Checkley, upon whose
guilty head the Lord be merciful ! Bestow not a thought upon it.
My anxiety, together with that of your mother, is to see you now,
as speedily as may be, wedded to Ranulph, and then that idle
question is set at rest for ever; and therefore, even if such a thing
were to occur as that Lady Rookwood should not yield her consent
to your marriage, as that consent is totally unnecessary, we must
go through the ceremonial without it."

"The grounds of Lady Rookwood's objections," said Mrs. Mow-
bray

" Ay, the grounds of her ladyship's objections," interposed Small,
who, when he had once got the lead, liked nobody to talk but
himself, " are simply these, and exactly the sort of objections one
would expect her to raise. She cannot bear the idea of abandon-
ing the control of the house and estates to other hands. She
cannot, and will not relinquish her station, as head of the esta-
blishment, which Ranulph has insisted upon as your right. I
thought, when I conversed with her on this subject, that she was
changed, but

Naturam expcllas furca, tamen usque recurret.

I beg your pardon. She is, and always will be, the same."

" Why did not Ranulph concede the point to her? I wish not
to dwell here. I care not for these domains — for this mansion.
They have no charms for me. I could be happy with Ranulph
anywhere — happier anywhere than here."

The kind-hearted doctor squeezed her hand in reply, brushing a
tear from his eyes.

"Why did he not concede it?" said Mrs. Mowbray, proudly.
"Because the choice remained not with him. It was not his to
concede. This house — these lands — all — all are yours; and it
were poor requital, indeed, if, after they have so long been wrong-
fully withheld from us, you should be a dependant on Lady Rook-
wood."

" Without going quite so far as that, madam," said the doctor,
" it is but justice to your daughter that she should be put in full
possession of her rights; nor should I for one instant advise, or
even allow her to inhabit the same house with Lady Rookwood.
Her ladyship's peculiarities of temper are such as to preclude all
possibility of happiness. At the same time, I trust by manage-
ment— always by management, madam — that her ladyship's quiet
departure may be ensured. I understand, that all such legal
arrangements in the way of settlements as could be entered into
between your daughter and her future husband are completed.
I have only to regret the absence of my friend, Mr. Coates, at this

316 ROOKWOOD.

momentous conjuncture. It will be a loss to him. But he inherits
from his father a taste for thief- taking, which he is at present in-
dulging, to the manifest injury of his legitimate practice. Hark!
I hear Ranulph's step in the gallery. He will tell us the result of
his final interview. I came to give you advice, my dear," added
the doctor in a low tone to Eleanor; "but I find you need it not.
c Whoso humbleth himself, shall be exalted.' I am glad you do
not split upon the rock which has stranded half your generation ."

At this moment Ranulph Rookwood entered the room, followed
by Handassah, who took her station at the back of the room,
unperceived by the rest of the party, whose attention was attracted
by Ranulph's agitated manner.

" What has happened?" asked Doctor Small and Mrs. Mowbray
in the same breath.

Ranulph hesitated for a moment in his answer, during which
space he regarded Eleanor with the deepest anxiety, and seemed
revolving within himself how he could frame his reply in such way
as should be least painful to her feelings; while, with instinctive
apprehension of coming misfortune, Miss Mowbray eagerly se-
conded the inquiries of her friends.

" It is with great pain," said he, at length, in a tone of despond-
ency, not unmingled with displeasure, " that I am obliged to
descant upon the infirmities of a parent, and to censure her con-
duct as severely as I may do now. I feel the impropriety of such
a step, and I would willingly avoid it, could I do so in justice to
my own feelings — and especially at a moment like the present —
when every hope of my life is fixed upon uniting myself to you,
dear Eleanor, by ties as near as my own to that parent. But the
interview which I have just had with Lady Rookwood — bitter
and heart-breaking as it has been — compels me to reprobate her
conduct in the strongest terms, as harsh, unjust, and dishonourable;
and if I could wholly throw off the son, as she avows she has
thrown off the mother, I should unhesitatingly pronounce it as
little short of "

" Dear Ranulph," said Eleanor, palpitating with apprehension,
"I never saw you so much moved."

" Nor with so much reason," rejoined Ranulph. " For myself,
I could endure anything — but for you "

" And does your dispute relate to meV asked Eleanor. " Is it
for my sake you have braved your mother's displeasure? Is it
because Lady Rookwood is unwilling to resign the control of this
house and these lands to me, that you have parted in anger with
her? Was this the cause of your quarrel?"

" It was the origin of it," replied Ranulph.

" Mother," said Eleanor, (irmly, to Mrs. Mowbray, "go with me
to Lady Rookwood's chamber."

"Wherefore?" demanded Mrs. Mowbray.

" Question me not, dear mother, or let me go alone."

ROOKWOOD. 317

u Daughter, I guess your meaning," said Mrs. Mowbray, sternly.
" You would relinquish your claims in favour of Lady Rookwood.
Is it not so?"

" Since you oblige me to answer you, mother," said Eleanor,
crimsoning, "I must admit that you have guessed my meaning.
To Lady Rookwood, as to yourself, I would be a daughter as far
as is consistent with my duty," added she, blushing still more
deeply, " but my first consideration shall be my husband. And if

Lady Rookwood can be content But pray question me not

further — accompany me to her chamber."

"Eleanor," interposed Ranulph, " dearest Eleanor, the sacrifice
you would make is unnecessary — uncalled for. You do not know
my mother. She would not, I grieve to say, appreciate the gene-
rosity of your motives. She would not give you credit for your
feelings. She would only resent your visit as an intrusion."

" My daughter comprehends you, sir," said Mrs. Mowbray,
haughtily. " I will take care that, in her own house, Miss Mow-
bray shall remain free from insult."

" Mother, dear mother," said Eleanor, " do not wilfully misun-
derstand him."

" You can be little aware, madam," said Ranulph, calmly, yet
sadly, " how much I have recently endured — how much of
parental anger — how much of parental malediction I have in-
curred, to save you and your daughter from the indignity you
apprehend. As I before said, you do not know my mother; nor
could it enter into any well-regulated imagination to conceive the
extremities to which the violence of her passion will, when her
schemes arc thwarted, hurry her. The terms upon which you met
together will not escape your recollection; nor shall I need to
recal to your mind her haughtiness, her coldness. That coldness
has since ripened into distrust; and the match which she was at
first all anxiety to promote, she would now utterly set aside, were
it in her power to do so. Whence this alteration in her views has
arisen, I have no means of ascertaining; it is not my mother's
custom to give a reason for her actions, or her wishes: it is all-
sufficient to express them. I have perceived, as the time has
drawn nigh for the fulfilment of my dearest hopes, that her
unwillingness has increased; until to-day what had hitherto been
confined to hints has been openly expressed, and absolute objec-
tions raised. Such, however, is the peculiarity of her temper,
that I trusted, even at the eleventh hour, I should be able to work
a change. Alas ! our last meeting was decisive. She commanded
me to break off the match. At once, and peremptorily, I refused.
Pardon me, madam, pardon me, dearest Eleanor, if I thus enter
into particulars; it is absolutely necessary T should be explicit.
Enraged at my opposition to her wishes, her fury became ungo-
vernable. With appalling imprecations upon the memory of my
poor father, and upon your father, madam, whose chief offence in

318 ROOKWOOD.

her eyes was, it seems, the disposition of his property to Eleanor,
she bade me be gone, and take her curses as my wedding portion.
Beneath this roof — beneath her roof, she added — no marriage of
mine should e'er take place. I might go hence, or might stay, as
I thought fitting; but you and your daughter, whom she charac-
terised as intruders, should not remain another hour within her
house. To this wild raving I answered, with as much com-
posure as I could command, that she entirely mistook her own
position, and that, so far from the odium of intrusion resting with
you, if applicable to any one, the term must necessarily affix itself
on those who, through ignorance, had for years unjustly deprived
the rightful owners of this place of their inheritance. Upon this
her wrath was boundless. She disowned me as her son; dis-
claimed all maternal regard, and heaped upon my head a frightful
malediction, at the recollection of which I still tremble. I will
spare you further details of this dreadful scene. To me it is most
distressing; for, however firmly resolved I may be to pursue a
line of conduct, which every sound principle within me dictates
as the correct one, yet I cannot be insensible to the awful respon-
sibility I shall incur in bringing down a mother's curse upon my
head, nor to the jeopardy in which her own excessive violence may
place her."

Mrs. Mowbray listened to Ranulph's explanation in haughty dis-
pleasure; Eleanor with throbbing, tearful interest; Doctor Small,
with mixed feelings of an^er and astonishment.

"Lady Rookwood's conduct," said the doctor, "is — you must
forgive me, my dear Sir Ranulph, for using strong expressions —
outrageous beyond all precedent, and only excusable on the ground
of insanity, to which I wish it were possible we could attribute it.
There is, however, too much method in her madness to allow us to
indulge any such notion; she is shrewd, dangerous, and designing;
and, since she has resolved to oppose this match, she will leave no
means untried to do so. I scarcely know how to advise you under
the circumstances — that is, if my advice were asked."

" Which I scarcely think it likely to be, sir," said Mrs. Mow-
bray, coldly. " After what has occurred, / shall think it my
duty to break off this alliance, which I have never considered to
be so desirable that its rupture will occasion me an instant's un-
easiness."

" A plague on all these Rookwoods I" muttered Small. u One
would think all the pride of the Prince of Darkness were centred
in their bosoms. But, madam," continued the benevolent doctor,
a have you no consideration for the feelings of your daughter, or
for those of one who is no distant relation to you — your nephew?
Your son, Major Mowbray, is, if I mistake not, most eager for
this union to take place between his sister and his friend."

" My children have been accustomed to yield implicit obedience
to my wishes," said Mrs. Mowbray; " and Major Mowbray, I am

RCOKWOOD 319

sure, will see the propriety of the step I am about to take. I am
content, at least, to abide by his opinion."

" Snubbed again !" mentally ejaculated the doctor, with a shrug
of despair. " It is useless attempting to work upon such imprac-
ticable material."

Ranulph remained mute, in an attitude of profound melancholy.
An eloquent interchange of glances had passed between him and
Eleanor, communicating to each the anxious state of the other's
feelings.

At this crisis the door was suddenly opened, and old Agnes,
Lady Rookwood's aged attendant, rushed into the room, and sank
upon her knees on the floor, her limbs shaking, her teeth chatter-
ing, and every feature expressive of intense terror. Ranulph went
instantly towards her to demand the cause of her alarm.

u No, let me pray," cried Agnes, as he took her hand in the
attempt to raise her; " let me pray while there is yet time — let
the worthy doctor pray beside mc. Pray for an overladen soul,
sir; pray heartily, as you would hope for mercy yourself. Ah!
little know the righteous of the terrors of those that are beyond
the pale of mercy. The Lord pardon me my iniquities, and ab-
solve her."

"Whom do you mean?" asked Ranulph, in agitation. u You
do not allude to my mother?"

" You have no longer a mother, young man," said Agnes,
lemnly.

"What!" exclaimed Ranulph, terror-stricken; "is she dead?"

" She is gone."

"Gone! How? Whither?" exclaimed all, their amazement
increasing each instant at the terror of the old woman, and the
apparently terrible occasion of it.

"Speak!" exclaimed Ranulph; "but why do I loiter? my
mother, perchance, is dying — let me go."

The old woman maintained her clutching grasp, which was
strong and convulsive as that of one struggling betwixt life and
death. " It's of no use, I tell you ; it's all over," said she — " the
dead are come — the dead are come — and she is gone."

"Whither?— whither?"

" To the grave — to the tomb," said Agnes, in a deep and hollow
tone, and with a look that froze Ranulph's soul. " Listen to me,
Ranulph Rookwood, my child, my nursling — listen while I can
speak. We were alone, your mother and I, after that scene be-
tween you ; after the dark denunciations she had heaped upon the
dead, when I heard a low and gasping kind of sob, and there I saw
your mother staring wildly upon the vacancy, as if she saw that of
which I dare not think."

" What think you she beheld?" asked Ranulph, quaking with
apprehension.

" That which had been your father," returned Agnes, in a

320 ROOKWOOD.

hollow tone. " Don't doubt me, sir — you'll find the truth of what
I say anon. I am sure he was there. There was a thrilling,
speechless horror in the very sight of her countenance that froze
my old blood to ice — to the ice in which 'tis now — ough ! ough !
Well, at length she arose, with her eyes still fixed, and passed
through the paneled door without a word. She is gone !"

" What madness is this?" cried Ranulph. " Let me go, woman
— 'tis that ruffian in disguise — she may be murdered."

u No, no," shrieked Agnes; " it was no disguise. She is gone,
I tell you — the room was empty, all the rooms were empty — the
passage was void — through the door they went together — silently,
silently — ghostlike, slow. Ha ! that tomb — they are there together
now — he has her in his arms — see, they are here — they glide
through the door — do 3^011 not see them now? Did I not speak
the truth? She is dead — ha, ha !" And with a frantic and bewil-
dering laugh the old woman fell upon her face.

Ranulph raised her from the floor; but the shock of what she
had beheld had been too much for her. She was dead !

CHAPTER IV.

THE DOWER OF SYBIL.

Card. Now art thou come ? Thou look'st ghastly ;

There sits in thy face some great determination,

Mixed with some fear.
Bos. Thus it lightens into action :

I am come to kill thee. Duchess ofMalfy.

Ranulph Rookwood was for some moments so much stunned
by the ghastly fate of Agnes, connected, as it appeared to be, with,
a supernatural summons similar to that which he imagined he had
himself received, that he was incapable of stirring from the spot,
or removing his gaze from the rigid features of the corpse, which,
even in death, wore the strong impress of horror and despair.
Through life he knew that Agnes, his own nurse, had been his
mother's constant and faithful attendant; the unhesitating agent
of her schemes, and it was to be feared, from the remorse she had
exhibited, the participator of her crimes; and Ranulph felt, he
knew not why, that in having witnessed her terrible end, he beheld
the ultimate condition of his own parent. Conquering, not with-
out great effort, the horror which had riveted him to the spot, he
turned to look towards Eleanor. She had sunk upon a chair, a
silent witness of the scene, Mrs. Mowbray and Doctor Small
having, upon the first alarm given by Agnes respecting Lady

ROOKWOOD. 321

Rookwood's departure from the house, quitted the room to ascer-
tain the truth of her statement. Ranulph immediately flew to
Eleanor.

" Ranulph," said she, though almost overcome by her alarm,
" stay not an instant here with me. I am sure, from that poor
woman's dreadful death, that something terrible has occurred, per-
haps to Lady Rookwood. Go to her chamber. Tarry not, I
entreat of you."

"But will you, can you remain here alone with that body?"
asked Ranulph.

" I shall not be alone. Handassah is within call — nay, she is
here. Oh, what an eve of our espousals has this been, dear
Ranulph. Our whole life is a troubled volume, of which each suc-
cessive leaf grows darker. Fate is opposed to us. It is useless to
contend with our destinv. I fear we shall never be united."

" Dismiss me not with words like those, dear Eleanor," returned
Ranulph. "Fate cannot have greater woes in store lor us than
those by which we are now oppressed. Let us hope that we are
now at that point whence all must brighten. Once possessed of
you, assured of thus much happiness, I would set even fate at
defiance. And you will be mine to-morrow."

" Ranulph, dear Ranulph, your suit at this moment is desperate.
I dare not, cannot pledge myself. You yourself heard, even now,
my mother's sentiments, and I cannot marry without her consent."

" Your mother, like my own, regards not the feelings of her
children. Forgive my boldness, Eleanor; forgive me if I linger
now, when duty calls me hence; but I cannot tear myself away.
Your mother may return — my hopes be crushed; for even your
love for me seems annihilated in her presence."

" Ranulph, your vehemence terrifies me," rejoined Eleanor.
" I implore you, by the tender affection which you know I bear
you, not to urge me further at this moment. Recal your firmer
feelings, and obtain some mastery over yourself. I repeat, I am
yours only, if I am bride of any one. But when our union can
take place rests not with myself. And now, I entreat of you,
leave me."

"You are mine," said Ranulph, with fervour; " mine only."

" Yours only," replied Eleanor.

" Be this the earnest of my happiness !" exclaimed Ranulph, im
printing a long and impassioned kiss upon her lips.

The lovers were startled from their embrace by a profound sigh ;
it proceeded from Handassah, who, unbidden, had replaced the
picture of the Lady Eleanor upon its frame. The augury seemed
sinister. Every one who has gazed steadfastly upon a portrait
must have noticed the peculiar and lifelike character which, under
certain aspects, the eyes will assume. Seen by the imperfect light
upon the table, the whole character of the countenance of the Lady
Eleanor seemed changed; the features appeared to be stamped

322 ROOKWOOD.

with melancholy, and the eyes to be fixed with pitying tenderness
upon her descendants. Both gazed at each other and at the pic-
ture, struck with the same sentiment of undefined awe. Beside
them stood the dark figure of the gipsy girl, watching, with ill-
concealed satisfaction, the effect of her handiwork. Ranulph was
aroused from his abstraction by hearing a loud outcry in Mrs.
Mowbray's voice. Hastily committing Eleanor to the care of her
attendant,' he left the room. Handassah followed him to the door,
closed it after him, and then locked it within side. This done, she
walked back hastily towards Eleanor, exclaiming, in a tone of
exultation, " You have parted with him for ever."

" What mean you, girl?" cried Eleanor, alarmed at her manner.
u Why have you fastened the door? Open it, I command you."

"Command me!" laughed Handassah, scornfully. " What if
I refuse your mandate? What if, in my turn, I bid you obey me?
I never owned but one mistress. If I have bowed my neck to you
for a time, 'twas to fulfil her dying wishes. If I have submitted to
your control, it was to accomplish what I have now accomplished.
Your oath ! Remember your oath. The hour is come for its ful-
filment."

With these words Handassah clapped her hands. A panel in the
wall opened, and Luke stood suddenly before them. Silently and
with stern deliberation he strode towards Eleanor, and seizing one
of her hands, drew her forcibly towards him. Eleanor resisted not ;
she had not the power; neither did she scream, for so paralysing
was her terror, that for the moment it took away all power of utter-
ance. Luke neither stirred nor spoke, but, still maintaining his
hold, gazed searchingly upon her features, while Eleanor, as if
spell-bound, could not withdraw her eyes from him. Nothing more
terribly impressive could be conceived than Luke's whole appear-
ance. Harassed and exhausted by the life he had recently led ;
deprived almost* of natural rest; goaded by remorse, his frame was
almost worn to the bone, while his countenance, once dark and
swarthy, was now blanched and colourless as marble. This pallid
and deathlike hue was, in all probability, owing to the loss of blood
lie had sustained from the wound inflicted by Major Mowbray, with
the stains of which his apparel was dyed; for, though stanched, the
effusion had been sufficient to cause great faintness. His dark eyes
blazed with their wonted fire — nay, they looked darker and larger
from his exceeding paleness, and such intense mental and bodily
suffering was imprinted upon his countenance, that, despite its
fierceness and desperation, few could have regarded him without
sympathy. Real desperation has so much of agony in its character,
that no one can witness it unmoved. His garb was not that in
which the reader first beheld him, but a rich, dark, simple suit of
velvet, corresponding more with his real rank in life than his former
peasant's attire; but it was disordered by his recent conflict, and
stained with bloody testimonials of the fray; while his long sable

BOOKWOOD. 323

curls, once his pride and ornament, now hung in intertangled elf-
locks, like a coil of wreathed water-snakes. Even in her terror, at

she dwelt upon his noble features, Eleanor could not help admit-
ting that she beheld the undoubted descendant, and the living:
likeness of the handsomest and most distinguished of her house —
the profligate and criminal Sir Reginald. As her eye, mechani-
cally following this train of thought, wandered for an instant to the
haughty portraiture of Sir Reginald, which formed part of the
family pictures, and thence to those of his unfortunate lady, she
was struck with the fancy that, by some terrible fatality, the tragic
horrors of bygone days were to be again enacted in their persons,
and that they were in some way strangely identified with their
unfortunate progenitors. So forcibly was this idea impressed upon
her features, that Luke, who had followed the direction of her
glances, became instantly aware of it. Drawing her nearer to the
portrait of the Lady Eleanor, he traced the resemblance in mutt-
wonder; thence, turning towards that of Sir Reginald, he proudly
exclaimed: "You doubted once my lineage, maiden — can you
gaze on those features, which would almost seem to be a rellexion
of mine own, and longer hesitate whose descendant I am? I glory
in my likeness. There is a wild delight in setting human emo-
tions at nought, which he was said to feel — which I feel now.
Within these halls I seem to breathe an atmosphere congenial to
me. I visit what I oft have visited in my dreams; or as in a state
of pre-existence. Methinks, as I gaze on you, I could almost deem
myself Sir Reginald, and you his bride, the Lady Eleanor. Our
fates were parallel: she was united to her lord by ties of hatred —
by a void — a bridal vow ! So arc you to me. And she could
ne'er escape him — could ne'er throw off her bondage — nor shall
you. I claim the fulfilment of your oath; you are mine."'

"Never, never!" shrieked Eleanor, stru^odimj to disen^aixe her-
self. But Luke laughed at her feeble efforts. Handassah stood
by, a passive spectatress of the scene, with her arms folded upon
her bosom.

" You refuse compliance !" said Luke, scornfully. " Have you
no hopes of heaven, no fears of perdition, that you dare to violate
your vow? Bethink you of the awful nature of that obligation;
of the life which was laid down to purchase it; of the blood which
will cry out for vengeance 'gainst the murderess, should you hesi-
tate. By that blood-cemented sacrament, I claim you as my own.
You are mine." And he dragged her towards the opening.

Eleanor uttered a long and terrific scream.

" Be silent, on your life," added he, searching for the dagger
given to him by Alan Rookwood, when, as his hand sought the
weapon, Eleanor escaped from his grasp, and fled towards the
door. But Handassah had anticipated her intention. The key
was withdrawn from the lock, and the wretched maiden vainly
tried to open it.

324 ROOKWOOD.

At this instant Turpin appeared at the sliding panel.
"Quick, quick!" cried he, impatiently — "despatch, in the
devil's name. The house is alarmed. I hear young Ranulph's
voice in the gallery."

u Ranulph !" shrieked Eleanor — " then I am saved." And she
redoubled her outcries for assistance.

Luke again seized his victim. Her hands clutched so convul-
sively fast in her despairing energy against the handle of the door
that he could not tear her thence. By this time Ranulph Rook-
wood, who had caught her reiterated screams for help, was at the
entrance. He heard her struggles; he heard Luke's threats — his
mockery — his derisive laughter — but vainly, vainly did he attempt
to force it open. It was of the strongest oak, and the bolts re-
sisted all his efforts. A board alone divided him from his mistress.
He could hear her sobs and gasps. He saw, from the action of
the handle, with what tenacity she clung to it; and, stung to
frenzy by the sight, he hurled himself against the sturdy plank,
but all in vain. At length the handle was still. There was a
heavy fall upon the floor — a stifled scream — and a sound as of a
body being dragged along. The thought was madness.

" To the panel ! to the panel !'" cried a voice (it was that of
Turpin) from within.

" The panel! — ha!" echoed Ranulph, with a sudden gleam of
hope. " I may yet save her." And he darted along the corridor
with the swiftness of thought.

Luke, meanwhile, had for some minutes fruitlessly exhausted
all his force to drag Eleanor from the door. Despair gave her
strength; she clutched at the door; but she felt her strength
failing her — her grasp was relaxing. And then the maddening
thought that she would be shortly his — that he would slay her —
while the idea that Ranulph was so near, and yet unable to pro-
tect her, added gall even to her bitterness. With savage delight
Luke exulted in the lovers' tortures. He heard Ranulph's ineffec-
tual attempts; he heard his groans; he heard their mutual cries.
Inflamed by jealousy, he triumphed in his power of vengeance,
and even prolonged the torture which accident had given him the
means of inflicting. He stood like the inquisitor who marks his
victim's anguish on the rack, and calculates his powers of further
endurance. But he could no longer dally, even with this horrible
gratification. His companion grew impatient. Eleanor's fair long
tresses had escaped from their confinement in the struggle, and fell
down her neck in disorder. Twining his fingers amidst its folds,
Luke dragged her backwards from her hold, and, incapable of
further resistance, her strength completely exhausted, the wretched
girl fell to the ground.

Luke now raised her almost inanimate form in his arms, and
had nigh reached the aperture, when a crash was heard in the
panel opposite to that by which he was about to escape, and com-

ROOKWOOD. 325

municating with a further apartment. It was thrown open, and
Ranulph Rookwood presented himself at the narrow partition.
An exclamation of joy, that he was yet in time, escaped his lips;
and he was about to clear the partition at a bound, and to preci-
pitate himself upon Luke, when, as suddenly as his own action,
was the person of the unfortunate Mr. Coates wedged into the
aperture.

" Traitor !" cried Ranulph, regarding Coates with concentrated
fury, " dare you to oppose me? — hence ! or, by Heaven, I will cut
you down !"

"'Tis impossible," ejaculated the attorney. "For your own
sake, Sir Ranulph — for my sake — I entreat — implore of you — not
to attempt to pass this way. Try the other door."

Ranulph said no more. He passed his sword through the body
of the miserable attorney, who, with a deep groan, fell. The only
obstacle to his passage being thus removed, he at once leaped into
the room.

The brothers were now confronted together, but little of bro-
therly love mingled with the glances which they threw upon each
other. Ranulph's gentle, but withal enthusiastic temperament,
had kindled, under his present excitement, like flax at the sudden
approach of flame. He was wild with frenzy. Luke was calmer,
but his fury was deadly and inextinguishable. The meeting was
terrible on both sides.

With one arm Luke enfolded Eleanor, with the other he uplifted
the dagger. Its point was towards her bosom. Scowling grim
defiance at Ranulph, he exclaimed, in a determined tone, "Advance
a footstep, and my dagger descends into her heart."

Ranulph hesitated, uncertain how to act; foaming with rage,
yet trembling with apprehension.

" Ranulph," gasped Eleanor, " life without you were valueless.
Advance — avenge me !"

Ranulph still hesitated. He could not, by any act of his own,
compromise Eleanor's safety.

Luke saw his advantage, and was not slow to profit by it.
" You seal her destruction if you stir," said he.

" Villain," returned Ranulph, between his ground teeth, and
with difficulty commanding sufficient coolness to speak with deli-
beration, " you perceive your power. Injure her, and nothing
earthly shall protect you. Free her, and take your life and liberty ;
nay, reward if you will. You cannot otherwise escape me."

" Escape you !" laughed Luke, disdainfully. " Stand aside, and
let me pass. Beware," added he, sternly, " how you oppose me. I
would not have a brother's blood upon my soul."

" Nor I," cried Ranulph; " but you pass not." And he placed
himself full in Luke's path.

Luke, however, steadily moved forward, holding Eleanor be-
tween himself and Ranulph, so as to shield his own person; but,

326 ROOKWOOD.

fancying lie saw an opportunity of dealing a blow without injury
to his mistress, the latter was about to hazard the thrust, when his
arms were seized behind, and he was rendered powerless.

u Lost, lost," groaned he; "she is lost to me for ever !"

" I fear that's but too true," said Turpin, for it was the high-
wayman whose grasp confined Ranulph.

" Must I see her borne away before my eyes?" cried Ranulph.
" Release me — set me free."

" Quite impossible at present," returned Dick. " Mount and
away, Sir Luke," continued he; u never mind me. Leave me to
shift for myself."

u Eleanor !M cried Ranulph, as she passed close by his side.

u Ranulph ! " shrieked Eleanor, with a loud scream, recalled to
consciousness by his voice, " farewell for ever."

" Ay, for ever," responded Luke, triumphantly. " You meet no
more on earth."

He was about to pass through the panel, when Eleanor exerted
all her remaining strength in a last futile attempt at liberation. In
the struggle, a packet fell from Luke's bosom.

Handassah stooped to pick it up.

" From Sybil ! " exclaimed she, glancing at the superscription.

" Remember my promise to old Barbara," roared Dick, who had
some curiosity, as the reader knows, to learn what the package
contained. " The time is arrived. Eleanor is in your power — in
your presence."

" Give me the packet," said Luke, resigning Eleanor for the
instant to Handassah's custody — " take the steel, and grasp her
firmly."

Handassah, who, though slight of figure, was of singular per-
sonal strength, twined her arms about Miss Mowbray in such a
manner as to preclude all possibility of motion.

Luke tore open the package. It was a box carefully enclosed
in several folds of linen, and lastly within a sheet of paper, on
which were inscribed these words :

The Dower of Sybil.

Hastily, and with much curiosity, Luke raised the lid of the
box. It contained one long silken tress of blackest hair curiously
braided. It was Sybil's. His first impulse was to cast it from him ;
his next, reproachfully to raise it to his lips. He started as if a
snake had stung him.

At this moment a loud clamour was heard in the gallery. In
the next, the door was assailed by violent strokes, evidently pro-
ceeding from some weighty instrument, impelled by the united
strength of several assailants.

The voice of Turpin rose above the deafening din. " A bullet
for the first who enters," shouted he. " Quick, Sir Luke, and the
prize is safe — away, and "

ROOKWOOD. 327

But as he seconded his exhortation with a glance at Luke, he
broke off the half-uttered sentence, and started with horror and
amazement. Ere the cause of his alarm could be expressed, the
door was burst open, and a crowd of domestics, headed by Major
Mowbray and Titus Tyrconncl, rushed into the room.

"Nay, then, the game's up!" exclaimed Dick; " I have done
with Rookwood." And, springing through the panel, he was seen
no more.

When the new comers first looked round, they could perceive
only two figures besides themselves — those of the two lovers —
Eleanor having sunk pale, exhausted, and almost senseless, into
the arms of Ranulph. Presently, however, a ghastly object
attracted their attention. All rushed towards it — all recoiled, as
soon as they discovered that it was the lifeless body of Luk<-
Rookwood. His limbs were stiff, like those of a corpse which lias
for hours been such; his eyes protruded from their sockets; his
face was livid and blotched. All bespoke, with terrible certainty,
the efficacy of the poison, and the full accomplishment of Bar-
bara's revenge.

Handassah was gone. Probably she had escaped ere Turpi n
fled. At all events, she was heard of no more at Rookwood.

It required little to recal the senses of Eleanor. Shortly she
revived, and as she gazed around, and became conscious of her
escape, she uttered exclamations of thanksgiving, and sank into the
embraces of her brother.

Meanwhile, Mrs. Mowbray and Doctor Small had joined the
assemblage.

The worthy doctor had been full of alarm ; but his meditated
condolences were now changed to congratulations, as he heard the
particulars of the terrible scene that had occurred, and of Eleanor's
singular and almost providential deliverance.

"After what has befallen, madam," said the doctor to Mrs.
Mowbray, slightly coughing, "you can no longer raise any objec-
tion to a certain union, eh?"

"I will answer for my mother in that particular," said Major
Mowbray, stepping forward.

" She will "answer for herself, my son," said Mrs. Mowbray.
" The match has her full and entire consent. But to what am I
to attribute the unexpected happiness of your return?"

"To a chain of singular circumstances," replied the major,
" which I will hereafter'detail to you. Suffice it to say, that but
for this gentleman's fortunate arrival," added he, looking at Titus
Tyrconnel, " at the hut on Thorne Waste, I might have been de-
tained a prisoner, without parole, and, what is worse, without pro-
vision perhaps for days; and to add to my distress, fully acquainted
with the meditated abduction of my sister. It was excessively
lucky for me, Mr. Tyrconnel, that you happened to pass that way,
and for poor Paterson likewise."

328 ROOKWOOD.

u Arrah, by my sowl, major, and you may say that with safety;
and it was particularly fortunate that we stumbled upon the tits in
the cellar, or we'd never have been here just in the nick of it. I
begin to think we've lost all chance of taking Dick Turpin this
time. He's got clean away."

" I am not sorry for his escape," said the major. " He's a brave
fellow; and I respect courage wherever I find it, even in a high-
wayman. I should be sorry to appear as a witness against him ;
and I trust it will never be my fate to do so."

We shall not pause to describe the affectionate meeting which
now ensued between the brother and sister — the congratulations
upon Eleanor's escape from peril, intermingled with the tenderest
embraces, and the warmest thanks offered to Ranulph for his gal-
lant service. " She is yours, my dear boy," said the major; "and
though you are a Rookwood, and she bears the ill-fated name of
Eleanor, I predict that, contrary to the usual custom of our families
in such cases, all your misfortunes will have occurred before mar-
riage."

" There is only one thing," said Small, with a very peculiar
expression, which might almost be construed into serio-comic,
could we suspect the benevolent doctor of any such waggery, " that
can possibly throw a shade over our present felicity. Lady Rook-
wood is not to be found."

" My poor mother," said Ranulph, starting.

u Make yourself easy," said the doctor ; " I doubt not we shall
hear of her to-morrow. My only apprehension," added he, half
aside, " is, that she may be heard of before."

"One other circumstance afflicts me," said Ranulph. "Poor
Mr.Coates!"

" What's that you say of Mr. Coates, Sir Ranulph?" exclaimed
Titus.

" I fear he was killed in the recent affray," said Ranulph. " Let
some one search for the body."

"Kilt!" echoed Titus. "Is it kilt that Mr. Coates is? Ah!
nllagone, and is it over with him entirely? Is he gone to rejoin
his father, the thief-taker? Bring me to his remains."

" He will bring them to you himself," said the attorney, stepping
forward. " Luckily, Sir Ranulph," said the incurable punster, " it
was merely the outer coats that your sword passed through ; the
inner remains uninjured, so that you did not act as my convey-
ancer to eternity. Body o' me ! I've as many lives as a cat —
ha, ha !"

Ranulph welcomed the facetious man of law with no little satis-
faction.

We think it unnecessary to enter into further detail. Another
chamber was prepared for Eleanor's reception, to which she was
almost immediately transported. The remains of the once fierce
and haughty Luke, now stiff and stark, but still wearing, even

KOOKWOOD. 329

in death, their proud character, were placed upon the self-same
bier, and covered with the self-same pall which, but a week ago,
had furnished forth his father's funeral. And as the domestics
crowded round the corpse, there was not one of them but com-
mented upon his startling resemblance to his grandsire, Sir Regi-
nald; nor, amongst the superstitious, was the falling of the fatal
bough forgotten.

Tranquillity was at length restored at the hall. Throughout
the night, and during the next day, Ranulph made every search
for his mother, but no tidings could be learned of her. Seriously
alarmed, he then caused more strict and general inquiry to be in-
stituted, but with like unsuccessful effect. It was not, indeed, till
some years afterwards that her fate was ascertained.

CHAPTER V.

THE SARCOPHAGUS.

So now 'tis ended, like an old wife's story. — Webster.

Notwithstanding the obscurity which hung over the fate of
Lady Rookwood, the celebration of the nuptials of Sir Ranulph
and Eleanor was not long delayed; the ceremony took place at the
parish church, and the worthy vicar officiated upon the occasion.
It was a joyous sight to all who witnessed it, and not few were
they who did so, for the whole neighbourhood was bidden to the
festival. The old avenue was thronged with bright and beaming
faces, rustic maidens decked out in ribands of many-coloured splen-
dour, and stout youths in their best holiday trim; nor was the
lusty yeoman and his buxom spouse — nor yet the patriarch of the
village, nor prattling child, wanting. Even the ancestral rooks
seemed to participate in the universal merriment, and returned,
from their eyries, a hoarse greeting, like a lusty chorus of laughter,
to the frolic train. The churchyard path was strewn with flowers
— the church itself a complete garland. Never was there seen a
blither wedding : the sun smiled upon the bride — accounted a
fortunate omen, as dark lowering skies and stormy weather had,
within the memory of the oldest of the tenantry, inauspiciously
ushered in all former espousals. The bride had recovered her
bloom and beauty, while the melancholy which had seemingly
settled for ever upon the open brow of the bridegroom, had now
given place to a pensive shade, that only added interest to his ex-
pressive features; and, as in simple state, after the completion of
the sacred rites, the youthful pair walked, arm in arm, amongst

330 ROOKWOOD.

their thronging and admiring tenants towards the Hall, many a
fervent prayer was breathed that the curse of the house of Rook-
wood might be averted from their heads; and, not to leave a doubt
upon the subject, we can acid that these aspirations were not in
vain, but that the day, which dawned so brightly, was one of
serene and unclouded happiness to its close.

After the ceremonial, the day was devoted to festivity. Crowded
with company, from the ample hall to the kitchen ingle, the old
mansion could scarce contain its numerous guests, while the walls
resounded with hearty peals of laughter, to which they had been
long unaccustomed. The tables groaned beneath the lordly baron
of beef, the weighty chine, the castled pasty flanked on the one
hand with neat's tongue, and on the other defended by a moun-
tainous ham, an excellent piece de resistance^ and every other sub-
stantial appliance of ancient hospitality. Barrels of mighty ale
were broached, and their nut-brown contents widely distributed,
and the health of the bride and bridegroom was enthusiastically
drunk in a brimming wassail-cup of spicy wine with floating toast.
Titus Tyrconnel acted as master of the ceremonies, and was, Mr.
Coates declared, u quite in his element?' So much was he elated,
that he ventured to cut some of his old jokes upon the vicar, and,
strange to say, without incurring the resentment of Small.

To retrace the darker course of our narrative, we must state that
some weeks before this happy event the remains of the unfortunate
Sir Luke Rookwood had been gathered to those of his fathers.
The document that attested his legitimacy being found upon his
person, the claims denied to him in life were conceded in death ;
and he was interred, with all the pomp and peculiar solemnity
proper to one of the house, within the tomb of his ancestry.

It was then that a discovery was made respecting Alan Rook-
wood, in order to explain which we must again revert to the night
of the meditated enlevement of Eleanor.

After quitting his grandson in the avenue, Alan shaped his
course amons; the fields in the direction to the church. He sought
his own humble, but now deserted dwelling. The door had been
forced ; some of its meagre furniture was removed ; and the dog,
his sole companion, had lied. " Poor Mole !" said he, " thou hast
found, I trust, a better master." And having possessed himself of
what he came in search — namely, a bunch of keys and his lantern,
deposited in an out-of-the-way cupboard, that had escaped notice,
he quickly departed.

He was once more within the churchyard; once more upon that
awful stage whereon he had chosen to enact, for a long season, his
late fantastical character; and he gazed upon the church tower,
glistening in the moonshine, the green and undulating hillocks, the
" chequered cross-sticks," the clustered head-stones, and the black
and portentous yew-trees, as upon " old familiar faces." He
mused, for a few moments, upon the scene, apparently with deep

ROOKWOOD. 331

interest. He then walked beneath the shadow of one of the yews,
chanting an odd stanza or so of one of his wild staves, wrapped the
while, it would seem, in affectionate contemplation of the subject-
matter of his song :

THE CHURCHYARD YEW.

Metuendaque succo

Taxus.

A noxious tree is the churchyard yew,
As if from the dead its sap it drew ;
Dark are its branches, and dismal to sec.
Like plumes at Death's latest solemnity.
Spectral and jagged, and black as the ui
Which some spnit of ill o'er a sepulchre flings :
Oh ! a terrible tree is the churchyard yew ;
Like it is nothing so grimly to view.

Yet this baleful tree hath a core so sound,
Can nought so tough in the grove be found ;
.From it were fashioned brave English bows,
The boast of our isle, and the dread of its foes.
For our sturdy sires cut their stoutesl staves
From the branch that hung o'er their fathers' graves ;
And though it be dreary and dismal to view,
Staunch at the heart is the churchyard yew.

His ditty concluded, Alan entered the churchyard, taking care
to leave the door slightly ajar, in order to facilitate his grandson's
entrance. For an instant he lingered in the chancel. The yellow
moonlight fell upon the monuments of his race ; and, directed by
the instinct of hate, Alan's eye rested upon the gilded entablature
of his perfidious brother, Reginald, and muttering curses, "not
loud but deep," he passed on. Having lighted his lantern in no
tranquil mood, he descended into the vault, observing a similar
caution with respect to the portal of the cemetery, which he left
partially unclosed, with the key in the lock. Here he resolved to
abide Luke's coming. The reader knows what probability there
was of his expectations being realised.

For a while he paced the tomb, wrapped in gloomy meditation,
and pondering, it might be, upon the result of Luke's expedition,
and the fulfilment of his own dark schemes, scowling from time to
time beneath his bent eyebrows, counting the grim array of coffins,
and noticing, with something like satisfaction, that the shell which
contained the remains of his daughter had been restored to its
former position. He then bethought him of Father Chcckley's
midnight intrusion upon his conference with Luke, and their ap-
prehension of a supernatural visitation, and his curiosity was sti-
mulated to ascertain by what means the priest had gained admission
to the spot unperceived and unheard. He resolved to sound the
floor, and see whether any secret entrance existed; and hollowly

332 ROOKWOOD.

and dully did the hard flagging return the stroke of his heel as he
pursued his scrutiny. At length the metallic ringing of an iron
plate, immediately behind the marble effigy of Sir Ranulph, re-
solved the point. There it was that the priest had found access to
the vault; but Alan's disappointment was excessive, when he dis-
covered that this plate was fastened on the underside, and all com-
munication thence with the churchyard, or to wherever else it
might conduct him, cut off: but the present was not the season for
further investigation, and tolerably pleased with the discovery he
had already made, he returned to his silent march round the se-
pulchre.

At length a sound, like the sudden shutting of the church door,
broke upon the profound stillness of the holy edifice. In the
hush that succeeded, a footstep was distinctly heard threading the
aisle.

"He comes — he comes!" exclaimed Alan, joyfully; adding, an
instant after, in an altered voice, " but he comes alone."

The footstep drew near to the mouth of the vault — it was upon
the stairs. Alan stepped forward to greet, as he supposed, his grand-
son, but started back in astonishment and dismay as he encoun-
tered in his stead Lady Rookwood. Alan retreated, while the
lady advanced, swinging the iron door after her, which closed with
a tremendous clang. Approaching the statue of the first Sir
Ranulph, she paused, and Alan then remarked the singular and
terrible expression of her eyes, which appeared to be fixed upon the
statue, or upon some invisible object near it. There was some-
thing in her whole attitude and manner calculated to impress the
deepest terror on the beholder. And Alan gazed upon her with
an awe which momently increased. Lady Rookwood' s bearing was
as proud and erect as we have formerly described it to have been
— her brow was as haughtily bent — her chiselled lip as disdainfully
curled; but the staring, changeless eye, and the deep-heaved sob
which occasionally escaped her, betrayed how much she was under
the influence of mortal terror. Alan watched her in amazement.
He knew not how the scene was likely to terminate, nor what
could have induced her to visit this ghostly spot at such an hour,
and alone ; but he resolved to abide the issue in silence — profound
as her own. After a time, however, his impatience got the better
of his fears and scruples, and he spoke.

" What doth Lady Rookwood in the abode of the dead?" asked
he, at length.

She started at the sound of his voice, but still kept her eye
fixed upon the vacancy.

"Hast thou not beckoned me hither, and am I not come?" re-
turned she, in a hollow tone. " And now thou askest wherefore I
am here. I am here because, as in thy life I feared thee not,
neither in death do I fear thee. I am here because "

ROOKWOOD. 333

"What seest thou?" interrupted Peter, with ill-suppressed
terror.

" What see I — ha — lia!" shouted Lady Rook wood, amidst dis-
cordant laughter; "that which might appal a heart less stout than
mine — a figure anguish-writhen, with veins that glow as with a
subtle and consuming flame. A substance yet a shadow, in thy
living likeness. Ha — frown if thou wilt ; I can return thy
glances."

" Where dost thou see this vision?" demanded Alan.

u Where !" echoed Lady Rookwood, becoming for the first time
sensible of the presence of a stranger. " Ha — who are you that
question me? — what are you? — speak!"

"No matter who or what I am," returned Alan, "I ask you
what you behold."

"Can you see nothing?"

" Nothing," replied Alan.

" You knew Sir Piers Rookwood?"

"Is it he?" asked Alan, drawing near her.

" It is," replied Lady Rookwood; " I have followed him hither,
and I will follow him whithersoever he leads me, were it to "

" What doth he now?" asked Alan; " do you see him still?"

" The figure points to that sarcophagus," returned Lady Rook-
wood— " can you raise up the lid ?"

" No," replied Alan; "my strength will not avail to lift it."

" Yet let the trial be made," said Lady Rookwood ; " the figure
points there still — my own arm shall aid you."

Alan watched her in dumb wonder. She advanced towards the
marble monument, and beckoned him to follow. He reluctantly
complied. Without any expectation of being able to move the
ponderous lid of the sarcophagus, at Lady Rookwood's renewed
request he applied himself to the task. What was his surprise,
when, beneath their united efforts, he found the ponderous slab
slowly revolve upon its vast hinges, and, with little further diffi-
culty, it was completely elevated; though it still required the ex-
ertion of all Alan's strength to prop it open, and prevent its tailing
back.

" What does it contain?" asked Lady Rookwood.

" A warrior's ashes," returned Alan.

" There is a rusty dagger upon a fold of faded linen," cried
Lady Rookwood, holding down the light.

" It is the weapon with which the first dame of the house of
Rookwood was stabbed," said Alan, with a grim smile:

" Which whoso fmdet.h in the tomb

Shall clutch until the hour of doom ;
And when 'tis grasped by hand of clay,
The euvse of blood shall pass away.

Sosaith the rhyme. Have voa seen enough?"

334 ROOKWOOD.

"No," said Lady Rookwood, precipitating herself into the
marble coffin. " That weapon shall be mine."

" Come forth — come forth," cried Alan. " My arm trembles —
I cannot support the lid."

" I will have it, though I grasp it to eternity," shrieked Lady
Rookwood, vainly endeavouring to wrest away the dagger, which
was fastened, together with the linen upon which it lay, by some
adhesive substance to the bottom of the shell.

At this moment Alan Rookwood happened to cast his eye
upward, and he then beheld what filled him with new terror. The
axe of the sable statue was poised above its head, as in the act to
strike him. Some secret machinery, it was evident, existed be-
tween the sarcophagus lid and this mysterious image. But in the
first impulse of his alarm Alan abandoned his hold of the slab, and
it sunk slowly downwards. He uttered a loud cry as it moved.
Lady Rookwood heard this cry. She raised herself at the same
moment — the dagger was in her hand — she pressed it against the
lid, but its downward force was too great to be withstood. The
light was within the sarcophagus, and Alan could discern her
features. The expression was terrible. She uttered one shriek,
and the lid closed for ever.

Alan was in total darkness. The light had been enclosed with
Lady Rookwood. There was something so horrible in her probable
fate, that even he shuddered as he thought upon it. Exerting all
his remaining strength, he essayed to raise the lid, but now it was
more firmly closed than ever. It defied all his power. Once, for
an instant, he fancied that it yielded to his straining sinews, but it
was only his hand that slided upon the surface of the marble. It
was fixed — immovable. The sides and lid rang with the strokes
Avhich the unfortunate lady bestowed upon them with the dagger's
point; but those sounds were not long heard. Presently all was
still; the marble ceased to vibrate with her blows. Alan struck
the lid with his knuckles, but no response was returned. All was
silent.

He now turned his attention to his own situation, which had be-
come sufficiently alarming. An hour must have elapsed, yet Luke
had not arrived. The door of the vault was closed — the key was
in the lock, and on the outside. He was himself a prisoner within
the tomb. What if Luke should not return? What if he were
slain, as it might chance, in the enterprise? That thought flashed
across his brain like an electric shock. None knew of his retreat
but his grandson. He might perish of famine within this desolate
vault.

He checked this notion as soon as it was formed — it was too
dreadful to be indulged in. A thousand circumstances might con-
spire to detain Luke. He was sure to come. Yet the solitude — ■
the darkness was awful, almost intolerable. The dying and the
dead were around him. He dared not stir.

^ecrrj^ <?TU^k5ha*vio

tew&t?'L

KOOKWOOD. 335

Another hour — an age it seemed to him — had passed. Still
Luke came not. Horrible forebodings crossed him; but he would
not surrender himself to them. He rose, and crawled in the direc-
tion, as he supposed, of the door — fearful even of the stealthy sound
of his own footsteps. He reached it, and his heart once more
throbbed with hope. He bent his ear to the key; he drew in his
breath; he listened for some sound, but nothing was to be heard.
A groan would have been almost music in his car.-.

Another hour was gone ! He was now a prey to the most
frightful apprehensions, agitated in turns by the wildest emotions
of rage and terror. lie at one moment imagined that Luke had
abandoned him, and heaped curses upon his head ; at the next, con-
vinced that he had fallen, he bewailed with equal bitterness his
grandson's fate and his own. He paced the tomb like one dis-
tracted; he stamped upon the iron plate; he smote with his hands
upon the door; he shouted, and the vault hollowly echoed his
lamentations. But Time's sand ran on, and Luke arrived not.

Alan now abandoned himself wholly to despair. Jle could no
longer anticipate his grandson's coming, no longer hope for deli-
verance. His late was sealed. Death awaited him. lie must
anticipate his slow but inevitable stroke, enduring all the grinding
horrors of starvation. The contemplation of such an end v.
madness, but he was forced to contemplate it now ; and so appalling
did it appear to his imagination, that he half resolved to dash out
his brains against the walls of the sepulchre, and put an end at once
to his tortures; and nothing, except a doubt whether he might not,
by imperfectly accomplishing his purpose, increase his own suffer-
ing, prevented him from putting this dreadful idea into execution.
His dagger was gone, and he had no other weapon. Terrors o
new kind now assailed him. The dead, he fancied, were bursting
from their coffins, and he peopled the darkness with grisly phan-
toms. They were around about him on each side, whirling and
rustling, gibbering, groaning, shrieking, laughing, and lamenting.
He was stunned, stifled. The air seemed to grow suffocating, pes-
tilential; the wild laughter was redoubled; the horrible troop
assailed him ; they dragged him along the tomb, and amid their
howls he fell, and became insensible.

When he returned to himself, it was some time before he could
collect his scattered faculties; and when the agonising conscious-
ness of his terrible situation forced itself upon his mind, he had
nigh relapsed into oblivion. He arose. He rushed towards the
door; he knocked against it with his knuckles till the blood
streamed from them; he scratched against it with his nails till
they were torn off by the roots. With insane fury he hurled him-
self against the iron frame; it was in vain. Again he had recourse
to the trap-door. He searched for it; he found it. He laid him-
self upon the ground. There was no interval of space in which
he could insert a finger's point. He beat it with his clenched

336 ROOKWOOD.

hand; he tore it with his teeth; he jumped upon it; he smote it
with his heel. The iron returned a sullen sound.

He again essayed the lid of the sarcophagus. Despair nerved
his strength. He raised the slab a few inches. He shouted,
screamed, but no answer was returned; and again the lid fell.

"She is dead!" cried Alan. "Why have I not shared her
fate? But mine is to come. And such a death ! — oh, oh !" And,
frenzied at the thought, he again hurried to the door, and renewed
his fruitless attempts to escape, till nature gave way, and he sank
upon the floor, groaning and exhausted.

Physical suffering now began to take the place of his mental
tortures. Parched and consumed with a fierce internal fever, he
was tormented by unappeasable thirst — of all human ills the most
unendurable. His tongue was dry and dusty, his throat inflamed;
his lips had lost all moisture. He licked the humid floor; he
sought to imbibe the nitrous drops from the walls ; but, instead of
allaying his thirst, they increased it. He would have given the
world, had he possessed it, for a draught of cold spring- water. Oh,
to have died with his lips upon some bubbling fountain's marge !
But to perish thus !

Nor were the pangs of hunger wanting. He had to endure all
the horrors of famine, as well as the agonies of quenchless thirst.

In this dreadful state three days and nights passed over Alan's
fated head. Nor night nor day had he. Time, with him, was
only measured by its duration, and that seemed interminable.
Each hour added to his suffering, and brought with it no relief.
During this period of prolonged misery reason often tottered on
her throne. Sometimes he was under the influence of the wildest
passions. He dragged coffins from their recesses, hurled them
upon the ground, striving to break them open and drag forth
their loathsome contents. Upon other occasions he would weep
bitterly and wildly; and once — only once — did he attempt to
pray; but he started from his knees with an echo of infernal
laughter, as he deemed, ringing in his ears. Then, again, would
he call down imprecations upon himself and his whole line,
trampling upon the pile of coffins he had reared; and lastly, more
subdued, would creep to the boards that contained the body of his
child, kissing them with a frantic outbreak of affection.

At length he became sensible of his approaching dissolution.
To him the thought of death might well be terrible, but he quailed
not before it, or rather seemed, in his latest moments, to resume all
his wonted firmness of character. Gathering together his remain-
ing strength, he dragged himself towards the niche wherein his
brother, Sir Reginald Rookwood, was deposited, and placing his
hand upon the coffin, solemnly exclaimed, " My curse — my dying
curse — be upon thee evermore!"

Falling with his face upon the coffin, Alan instantly expired.
In this attitude his remains were discovered.

ROOKWOOD. 337

Our tale is told. Yet, perhaps, we inay be allowed to add a few
words respecting two of the subordinate characters of our drama
(melodrama we ought to say), namely, Jerry Juniper and the
knight of Malta. What became of the Caper Merchant's son alter
his flight from Kilburn Wells we have never been able distinctly
to ascertain. Juniper, however, would seem to be a sort of Wan-
dering Jew, for certain it is, that somebody very like him is extant
still, and to be met with at Jerry's old haunts; indeed, we have
no doubt of encountering him at the ensuing meetings of Ascot
and Hampton.

As regards the knight of Malta — (Knight of Roads (" Rhodes")
he should have been) — we are sorry to state that the career of the
Rulfler terminated in a madhouse, and thus the poor knight be-
came in reality a Hospitaller! According to the custom observed
in those establishments, the knight^was deprived of his luxuriant
locks, and the loss of his beard rendered his case incurable; but,
in the mean time, the barber of the place made his fortune by re-
tailing the materials of all the black wigs he could collect to the
impostor's dupes.

Such is the latest piece of intelligence that has reached us of the
Arch-hoaxer of Canterbury !

Turpin (why disguise it?) was hanged at York in 1739. His
firmness deserted him not at the last. When he mounted the
fatal tree his left leg trembled; he stamped it impatiently down,
and, after a brief chat with the hangman, threw himself suddenly
and resolutely from the ladder. His sufferings would appear to
have been slight: as he himself sang,

He died, riot as other men, by degrees,

But at once, without wincing, and quite at his ease !

We may, in some other place, lay before the reader the particu-
lars (and they are not incurious) of the " night before Larry was
stretched."

The remains of the vagrant highwayman found a final resting-
place in the desecrated churchyard of Saint George, without the
Fishergate postern, a green and grassy cemetery, but withal a
melancholy one. A few recent tombs mark out the spots where
some of the victims of the pestilence of 1832-33 have been in-
terred; but we have made vain search for Turpin's grave — unless
(as is more than probable) the plain stone with the simple initials
R. T. belongs to him.

The gyves by which he was fettered are still shown atlork
Castle, and are of prodigious weight and strength; and though
the herculean robber is said to have moved in them with case, the
present turnkey was scarcely able to lift the ponderous irons. An

z «

338 KOOKWOOD.

old woman of the same city has a lock of hair, said to have been
Turpin's, which she avouches her grandfather cut off from the body
after the execution, and which the believers look upon with great
reverence. O rare Dick Turpin !

We shall, perhaps, be accused of dilating too much upon the
character of the highwayman, and we plead guilty to the charge.
But we found it impossible to avoid running a little into extremes.
Our earliest associations are connected with sunny scenes in
Cheshire, said to have been haunted by Turpin; and with one
very dear to us (from whose lips, now, alas ! silent, we have lis-
tened to many stories of his exploits) he was a sort of hero. We
have had a singular delight in recounting his feats and hair-
breadth escapes ; and if the reader derives only half as much plea-
sure from the perusal of his adventures as we have had in narrating
them, our satisfaction will be complete. Perhaps, we may have
placed him in too favourable a point of view — and yet we know
not. As upon those of more important personages, many doubts
rest upon his history. Such as we conceive him to have been, we
have drawn him — hoping that the benevolent reader, upon finish-
ing our Tale, will arrive at the same conclusion ; and, in the words
of the quaint old Prologue to the Prince of Prigs' Revels,

-Thank that man,

Can make each thief a complete Roscian !

THE END.

LONDON:
C. WHITING BBAUFOET HOUSE, DUKE-STREET, LINCOLN'S INN FIELDS.

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