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R O O KW OOD :
A ROMANCE.
I see how Ruin, with a palsied hand,
Begins to shake our ancient house to dust.
Yorkshire Tragedy.
---- BY
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w. HARRI so N AINs worth.
FROM THE SECOND LONDON EDITION.
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PHILADELPHIA:
C A R EY, L E A & B L A N C H A R D.
1834.
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THE NEW YORK
PUBLIC LIBRARY
I G2920
As Toº, LE NCX AND
T is de N Four Nu At ONS.
399.
TO MY MIO THE R.
ºbese Tolumes are Kustribed
witH EveRY sent IMENT OF LovE AND v ENERATION.
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PREFACE
TO
THE SECOND EDITION.
THE favour with which this Work has been received has not been
more unexpected than gratifying; and although I am no great lover
of prefaces in a general way, and look upon them for the most part,
as matter of supererogation, I should indeed be wanting in courtesy
and proper sense of obligation, were I to neglect the opportunity now
afforded me of expressing my neknowledgments. The present re-
vised edition will, I trust, be found somewhat more. r" -
val than its predecessor. The pruning knife has been used with no
sparing hand; but though much has been removed, much I am
aware, still remains that was held to be objectionable in the original
construction of the story, but which I have found it impossible to
obviate. It would have been a less difficult task to re-write the book
than partially to remodel it; just as it is easier to build a new house
than to repair an old one. I have contented myself with taking down
a useless wing or so—with stopping up a window here and there,
that looked upon nothing—and having brushed up my tarnished
furniture and put my crazy structure somewhat in order, I solicit the
reader, with the best grace I can, to do me the favour to ramble
through it, in my company. I can show him an antique gallery of
portraits—of “undoubted originals,” some scraps it may be of faded
arras, and a sketch or two of characters :ot so far removed from his
own time. But he must so far preserve his good breeding, as not to
ask me any questions which I may not be prepared to answer; for
I am one of those persons who like to have all the talk to themselves
—and but seldom condescend to explain anything satisfactorily, es-
pecially when interrupted. The reader must therefore content him-
self with being as credulous as he can contrive to be, and take all for


5
admirable “Paul Clifford” awakened all my youthful enthusiasm
for the Knights of the Cross; and I then bethought me of my predi-
lections in favour of Turpin. But the Road had been previously
taken ; and all I could do was to stop any stray passenger, who had
escaped the vigilance of my leader, and bid him “deliver.” I now
willingly surrender my spoils. Wayward and unworthy offspring as
he may be, MR. BULwer must, nevertheless, share in the paternity
of Turpin, and set him down as a reflection of the same creative
pencil which depicted in such breathing colours a Thornton—a
Houseman—or a Clifford : unless, indeed, disdaining him altogether,
he should prefer adding him to the “Disowned.”
Before I quit the subject of Turpin, I cannot help alluding to cer-
tain strictures which have been passed upon me, for the introduction
of the Highwayman, in the following pages. They are from the pen
of an ancient gentlewoman, a very near relation to the celebrated old
lady, known as my “Grandmother;” whose criticism upon Lord
Byron has rendered her notorious throughout the land. In a kin-
dred spirit with the review in the British, are the following remarks
which appeared in a recent number of the Weekly Dispatch:—
“One of the Readers of Rookwood” is informed, that we have not
reviewed that work, because, while we can but respect the talents of
the author, we did not choose to extend the circulation of a book
which is certainly of a mischievous tendency, as it invests a ruffianl
murderer and robber with a chivalrous character, utterly ...}
and in fact, entirely false. But, as we are informed that this work is
pronounced in the fashionable slang of the day, “a love of a book,”(!!)
that it is perused with admiration by the higher classes, and that
some of its scenes are about to be dramatised, we feel called upon to
take some notice of a literary prostitution which deforms the pages of
one of the cleverest works we have perused for a long time. We are
sorry that Mr. Ainsworth should have chosen that drunken, and even
dastardly ruffian Dick Turpin, the highwayman—a wretch stained
with almost every crime that can disgrace humanity—as one of the
heroes of this tale (!) The ride of Turpin from London to York, which
Mr. Ainsworth has described in such glowing, and indeed, poetical
style, and on which he has wasted powers that should have been de-
voted to something really worthy of the pen of a man of genius, is a
very doubtful event, which rests on no authority whatever; and even
had the feat been performed, as described, on a single horse(!) what
is there to admire in the tale of a scoundrel outlaw thus torturing a
noble animal to save his own rascal carcass from the gallows 7 This
Turpin, whom half the town are now taught by Mr. Ainsworth to ad.
mire as a knight of chivalry, was a native of Essex, a butcher by
trade, who commenced his career of plunder by stealing sheep and
oxen, which he slaughtered in his own house. Being detected in this
species of roguery by the tracing of some hides which he had sold to
persons in London, he next turned smuggler—then deer stealer, and
soon after became a burglar. Bºing into the house of a decrepid
#


7 -
vinegar, that it is impossible to find fault; otherwise, when she objects
to the introduction of a highwayman in the pages of a romance, it
might be worth while to recall to her scattered recollection, Sir John
Falstaff and the pleasantries of Gad's Hill—the robbers in the Beaux
Stratagem—the inimitable Don Raphael and Rolando of Le Sage—
the hungry rogueries of Lazarillo de Tormes—the merry adventures
of Guzman d’Alfarache—the Saxon Banditti of Schiller, and more re-
cently the predatory heroes of Scott—but all this would be a work of
time; and the old lady has too little of that precious commodity to
spare, to warrant being robbed of what remains. -
The good old lady was however right in one thing. The follow-
ing pages have already furnished subjects for more than one Drama.
Turpin has found a representative at Astleys; and if Black Bess did
not perform her task quite so expeditiously as I could have wished,
the piece at least had a considerable run; and is, I believe, now in
the course of performance. I look forward with much pleasure to
its production at the Adelphi, satisfied that in the hands of the inge-
nious Mr. YATEs, ample justice will be done to it. Whether or not,
he will be able to prevail upon the legitimate Jerry Juniper to coun-
terfeit himself, I am unable to say. Nothing would be a more agree-
able diversity to the routine of ordinary theatricals, than the intro-
duction of one of Nature's Actors, which Jerry assuredly is, upon the
stage of mimic life; and I trust Mr. YATEs may be successful in his
engagement; but if he should fail with the “son of the caper mer-
chant,” he has only to engage Power, that gentleman being as like
the real Jerry as the false was to the true Sosia. -
I would also call attention, to a very beautiful volume of music
adapted to the words of several of the Ballads contained in these
volumes which has been published by Mr. F. RomeR.
Mr. RomeR's work I trust, will meet with the popularity to which
its merits entitle it. He has displayed very great skill in his ar-
rangements—the music being singularly adapted to the words, and
highly original, as well as pleasing in its character.
Neither must I omit to mention, that a series of illustrations of
Turpin's ride to York, of extraordinary merit, are in preparation, by
Edward HULL, Esq. and will speedily make their appearance.* All
I have to regret is, that these very graphic sketches will completely
eclipse my own humbler efforts. The prints, which have all the
fidelity and spirit of Jericho combined with the poetical power of
impersonation proper to Vernet, will be invaluable additions to the
portfolio of the Sportsman.
I trust I shall not be accused of overweening vanity in alluding,
in terms of so much admiration, to works which might be supposed
to be so intimately connected with my own, as to make any opinion
I might entertain of them so partial as to be valueless. But I beg
the reader will set any such notion aside, or at least not permit it to
* To be published by Colnaghi of Charing Cross.


8
operate to the disadvantage of the publications I have just mentioned
I would willingly also have taken this opportunity to have thanked
my numerous well-wishing critics for their services; but I feel that
such a proceeding would be as unnecessary as impertinent,”
Washington Irving has pleasantly remarked, that “there is no-
thing for which the world is apt to punish a man more severely, than
for having been over-praised; and as I feel myself placed in that not
altogether enviable predicament, I would endeavour to mitigate the
reader's rising displeasure, by beseeching him to believe that it has
been against my inclintion; and if he will not give me entire credit
for this assertion, I entreat that he will at least, in the words of the
writer form whom I have before quoted, “not think the worse of me
for the many injudicious things that have been said in my commen-
dation.”
Should however the tables be turned, and the shafts of criticism
directed against me, I shall console myself with my present modicum
of success, and lay to heart the consolatory axiom of the philosophical
Ancient Pistol— -
Si fortuna me tormenta, spero me contenta.
Wherewith I remain the Reader's very obliged humble servant,
*
- THE AUTHOR.
LoNDoN, August 12th. 1834.
* Amongst the multitude of friendly remarks for which I rest in
debt, none have pleased me more than the commentary in Fraser's
Magazine; and a pleasant mention of me by the erudite, facetious
and joyous Father Prout, which appeared in the same periodical.
Either I am greatly mistaken or the jovial Priest of Watergrasshill
is destined to be one of the brightest lights of our literature.


ROOKwooD.
BOOK I.
&Tijt (ºtubing iting.
It has been observed, and I am apt to believe that it is an observa.
tion that 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 truth itself.
GALLic REpoRTs.
Case of the Count St. Geran.





BOOK THE FIRST.
CHAPTER 1.
I saw great Satan like a sexton stand
With his intolerable spade in hand.
CHARLEs LAMB.
Within the deep recesses of a vault, the last abiding place
of an ancient family—many generations of whose long line
Were there congregated—and at midnight's dreariest hour, two
figures might be discovered, sitting, wrapt in silence as profound
as that of the multitudinous dead around them. Beings of
this nether world they seemed, yet so moveless was the atti-
tude of each, so breathless the repose maintained, and so
Shadowy and fantastical the appearance of the figures them-
Selves, as imperfectly revealed in the clair-obscur, occasioned by
the light of a single candle struggling with the gloom, that had
any human eye gazed upon them, the impression produced upon
the spectator's mind would doubtless have been (if, perchance,
with less of superstition, he had not put a construction equally
horrible upon the meeting), that the objects he beheld were
embodied spirits of the departed, which had burst the leaden
bondage of the tomb, and were still hovering nigh the place
of their imprisonment.
So far as it could be discerned, the cemetry was of antique
construction, and of no inconsiderable extent; its walls and
roof were of solid stone masonry, the latter rising in a wide
semicircular arch, to it might be the height of some seventeen
feet, measuring from the centre of the ceiling to the ground
floor. The sides of the sepulchre were subdivided, by thin
walls of stone, into ranges of low, narrow, but deep compart-


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12 . "
ments, adapted to the reception of the dead. The entrance to
each recess consisted of a door-way, surmounted by small, ob-
tusely-pointed arches, resting upon slender pillars, also of stone;
the spandrills between each being filled up with a variety of
escutcheons, shields, and other trophies and inscriptions. There
were no doors to these recesses; and within might be traced
huge heaps of coffins, reared pile upon pile, the accumulation
of ages, packed with a prodigality worthy of a miser's stores,
one upon another, till the floor groaned with the weight of lead;
and in some instances the lower layers had been crushed and
flattened by the superincumbent mass. Numerous, however,
as were these receptacles, the proportion of bodies exceeded
their capabilities; and in the further extremity there was an
additional range of coffins, which could not be included in the
cells, encroaching upon the limits of the vault, and attesting,
by their increase, dread ravages of the Destroyer.
Depending from a hook, fixed in one of the stone pillars pre-
viously described, hung a rack of old time-out-of-mind hatch-
ments, seemingly placed there in solemn mockery of the sunk-
en greatness, the fall whereof they so eloquently bespoke.
Stained and tarnished was their once flattering emblazonry—
tattered and thread-bare their once spotless quarterings—even
their triumphant Resurgam was obliterated and effaced, as if
Hope itself had been annihilated.
Another remarkable feature of this phantasmagorical picture
should not be unnoticed. In the centre of the chamber loomed
the ghostly outline of the erect effigies of an armed warrior,
Sir Ranulph Rookwood, the builder of the mausoleum, and the
founder of the family that slept the sleep of death within its
walls. Wrought in black marble, of the size of life, this stern,
and sable statue, of rare workmanship, and some antiquity,
differed from most monumental sculpture, in that the posture
chosen for the warlike figure was erect and life-like. The
warrior was represented as sheathed in a complete suit of plate
armour, decorated with the armonial surcoat, and grasping the
pummel of a weighty curtal-axe, his usual weapon of defence;
a conically-formed helmet rested upon his brow, revealing his
harsh but commanding features; the golden spur of knight-
hood graced his heel, and beneath, enshrined in a costly marble
sarcophagus, slept the mortal remains of what had once been
one of the “sternest knights to his mortal foe that ever put
speare to the rest.” .
Nor should the effect of the light and shade, within the
vault, pass unobserved.


13
Darkness with light so daringly doth fight,
That each confounding other, both appear
As darkness light, and light but darkness were.*
Stuck in a rusty sconce againstone of the columns overhead, the
flickering candle, ineffectually contending with the dank, heav
atmosphere that pervaded this house of death, not only lent addi-
tional duskness to the depths its rays were unable to penetrate,
but increased the apparent size of the tomb, producing the
strangest combinations, and multiplying the images of horror
a hundred-fold, by giving ample range and scope for the most
hideous speculations.
Streaming in a wavering, transverse line upon the ribbed
roof, the yellow flame partially fell upon the human figures,
before alluded to, throwing them into the blackest relief, and
casting their fantastical shadows along the floor. Dilated, in the
darkling twilight, to gigantic proportions, the marble figure of
the Knight received a gleam of the same lustre, which, striking
more particularly upon the gloomy features, communicated to
the rigid aspect a wild and terrible expression. Coupled with
the other group, and in connection with the awful scene, this
statue might be likened to a knight of romance, in the act of
bursting some spell of hell-engendered sorcery; or it might be
compared to one of those mystic, warrior creations which are
said to watch perpetually the never-failing lamps that burn at
the tombs of the trie Disciples of the Rosy Cross, ready to
3. their flame for ever, should unhallowed footsteps ap-
roach,
p Covered with a mouldering pall, and laid upon a bier, an
old oaken coffin served the parties for a seat; between them
stood a bottle and a glass; the latter, although emptied of its
contents, giving token, from the perfume that “hung round it
still,” of the most pellucid, but not least potent, of spirituous
distilments; and showing, that whatever might be the object
of their stealthy communion, the comfort of the creature had
not been altogether overlooked. At the feet of one of the per-
sonages were laid a mattock, a spade, a horn lantern, a bunch
of keys, and some other matters symbolical of his vocation, to-
gether with a little bristly, black-and-tan terrier, curled up like
a hedge-hog beside him. He was, apparently, a very old man,
with a bald head, hoar as the summit of Mont Blanc, and par-
tially protected from the cold by that description of woollen
caxon, vulgarly denominated a Welch wig. His elbow rested
* Drayton.
WOL. I. 2


14
upon his knees, his wrist supported his chin, and his grey glassy
eyes, glimmering like marsh meteors in the candle-light, were
fixed upon his º: with a glance of keen, searching
scrutiny, worthy of a cynic philosopher.
The object of his investigation, a much more youthful and
interesting person, seemed lost in the depths of 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 with his face leaning upon the same support, the features
were entirely concealed from view; the light, too, being to 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 proportions of the figure, were emi-
nently striking and symmetrical.
Attired in a rough, savage costume, a sort of dark green
chasseur, or sporting dress, of the fashion of George the Se-
cond's day (the period of our Tale), perpetrated in such wise,
as might be expected, from the hands of some untutored, rustie
º of the shears—his wild garb would have determined
is rank as but lowly 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 ele-
vated station in life, and contradicted, in a great measure, the
impression produced by the homely appearance of his habili-
mentS.
A cap of shaggy brown fur, fancifully, but not ungracefully
formed, covered his head, from beneath which, drooping 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, approachin
even to the stern, when at rest; but sufficiently animated .#
earnest when engaged in conversation, or otherwise excited.
His features were regular, delicately formed, and might be
characterized as singularly beautiful, were it not for a want of
roundness in the contour of the face, which gave to the linea-
ments a thin, worn look, totally distinct, however, from hag-
rdness or emaciation; some such countenance as an active,
abstemious Hindoo might be supposed to possess, wherein
there was no superfluous flesh. The nose was delicate and
fine; the nostrils especially so, keen and sensitive as that of
an Arabian with a pedigree of a thousand years; the upper lip
short, curling, graceful, and haughtily expressive. As to com-
plexion, his skin had a truly Spanish warmth and intensity of
' colouring; the tint might have originated in stain of juicy herb,


15 ..
or root, as well as from exposure to the sun and “skyey in-
fluences;” but the result was an embrowned swarthiness of
hue that would have done credit to the tawniest Gitano of
Andalusia, even with the true Morisco blood purpling in his
veins. His figure, when raised, was tall, and masculine, and
though slight, indicated great personal vigour, and muscular
resources, and but for the recklessness of manner, and unre-
strained carriage and deportment heretofore noticed, his ap-
pearance might be designated as prepossessing and attractive
in the extreme. -
At the precise moment when our narrative commences, both
parties were motionless; not a word was spoken by either—
scarce a breath drawn. It was a silence befitting the place.
In the mean time we shall take advantage of the pause (as it .
must evidently have been), to hazard a slight preliminary ac-
count of the old man, with the great, grey, glassy eyes.
Peter Bradley, of Rookwood, in the county of York, where
he had exercised the vocation of sexton, for the best part of a
life already drawn out to the span ordinarily allotted to mor-
tality, was one of those odd, grotesque, bizarre caricatures of
humanity, which it occasionally delighteth our inimitable
George Cruikshank to limn. So attenuated in the region of
the legs and arms, as scarcely to remove him from absolute
identity with the skeleton society he so much affected, Peter's
unnatural length and lankiness of limb, combined and con-
trasted with his round dropsical-looking paunch, puffed out to
a very pincushion plumpness, made him no inapt representa-
tive of a huge, bloated, and overgrown spider. Totally desti-
tute of hair, his bald head reminded one of a bleached sculf,
allowing for the wrinkled furrows in the forehead, and thick
beetle brows, that projected like the eaves of a barn; his hands
were lean, long, and skinny, as the Ancient Mariner's; his
fingers spread out like claws; but after all, his eyes were his
most remarkable feature; “like the toad, ugly, and venompus,
he bore a precious jewel in his head;” a.i. like that noxious
. his eyes were large, lambent, and luminous, though
cold as the fire of an ignis fatuus, and grey as the slaty hue of
earliest day-break. And then his laugh! that hollow chuck-
ling laugh, distinguishable from all other laughter by an occa- .
sional wheezing choke, which threatened, during its paroxysm,
to terminate the existence and merriment of the cachinnator, at
one and the same time; this laugh had, besides, something so
horrible about it, that, though seldom heard, it never failed,
when indulged in, to excite a shuddering response in the audi-


- 16
tor, whoever the luckless wight might be. It was a something
between the 5. of a ghoul and the grin of an hyena.
The inward man corresponded with his outward appearance.
His soul was in his spade. He was essentially a man of
graves—“of the earth, earthy;” of the dead, deathly. Habi-
tual contact with the mould, and the mouldering, had, so to
speak, mildewed and worm-eaten his better sensibilities, crust-
ing his mind “as with a scurf, and turning the wholesome
current of his blood to black and melancholic bile. Something
akin to nothingness he seemed, and yet endowed with anima-
tion—a connecting link betwixt the breathing body and the
bony corpse—Materiality and Immateriality in one.
The night-mare Life in Death was he, sº
Who thicks men's blood with cold.
The church-yard might be called his domain—the tomb his
dwelling-place—the charnel-house his museum of rarities; and
he displayed as intimate an acquaintance with the relics of the
latter, as his brother of the spade did with the scull of that
“mad rogue Yorick, the king’s jester;” and exhibited as much
assurance in affixing a name or a date to a “chapless maz-
zard,” or fragmentary bone, as any savant of them all could do,
in illustrating the fossil tusk of a mammoth, the giant jaw of
the mastodon, or other incomprehensible remnant of the ex-
tinct creation of the Antediluvian World.
Wearied with the prolonged silence, Peter was the first to
eak. His voice was harsh and grating as a rusty hinge.
“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; “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, “it will give you courage l’”
“Courage!” echoed the other, raising his head, while the
flash of his eye resented the implied reproach. -
“Ay, courage 1” retorted the sexton; “Nay, never stare at
me so hard, man. I doubt neither your courage nor your firm-
ness; but as both may be put to the test to-night, I see no great
harm in making certainty sure; and therefore 'tis that I press
the glass upon you. Well, as you please, I don’t want to poi-
son you—this is no doctor's stuff—no damned decoction, or
mixture, but honest, wholesome gin, distilled before you were
born or thought of. 'Tis as harmless as mother’s milk, and as


17
mild; and so it should be, for it has lain more years in this
vault than you can number to your head, grandson Luke; and
time is a great improver of liquor, whatever it may be of
women. ere in this vault, my cellar, as I call it, hath it
been hoarded these two-and-thirty years. But if you won’t
drink, I will. Here’s to the rest eternal of Sir Piers Rook-
wood. Thou wilt say amen to that pledge, Luke, or thou art
no offspring of his loins,” and having once again emptied the
beaker, he replenished it, and handed it to his grandson.
“Why should I reverence his memory,” answered Luke,
bitterly, refusing the proffered potion, “who showed no fatherly
love for me ! e disowned me in life—in death I disown him.
Sir Piers Rookwood was no father of mine.”
“He had at least the reputation of being so; but thou art,
doubtless, better informed,” returned the Sexton, “than I can
possibly be on a subjeet that so nearly concerns thyself. Whose
son art thou then 4”
“Whose? Do I hear thee ask the question?”
“Certainly thou dost, and repeat it; Whose son art thou?”
“Thy daughter's, Susan Bradley?” .
“That I know; but thy father?—for I presume thou hadst a
father,”—asked the sexton, with a sneer.
“Well,” returned Luke, “since it must be, and thou hast
said it, he was my reputed father. Father!—ha! the name
sounds strange in my ears; and with Sir Piers 'twas but the
name, and scarce even that.”
“He was as surely thy father, as Susan Bradley, thy mother,
was my daughter,” rejoined the sexton.
“And, surely,” cried Luke, impetuously, “thou needst not
boast of the connexion l—"Tis not for thee, old man, to eouple
their names together—to exult in thy daughter's disgrace and
thine own dishonour! Shame! shame—speak not of them in
the same breath, if thou wouldst not have me invoke curses on
the dead. I would be at peace with him now.”
“Reverential prayers and tears were fitter, methinks, than
curses from thy lips,” persisted the sexton, anxious it would
seem to rankle the wound he had inflicted, “at a season like
the present.”
“Prayers and tears!” vociferated Luke, “my prayers would
turn to curses, my tears to blood'. I have no reverence
(whatever thou may’st have) for the seducer—for the murderer
of my mother.” -
“Murderer!” repeated the sexton, apparently startled, and
affecting astonishment—“Thou hast choice store of epithets,
good grandson, Sir Piers a murderer !”


18
“Tush!” answered Luke, indignantly, “pretend not to be
ignorant. Thou hast better knowledge of the truth or false-
hood of the dark tale which has gone abroad respecting my
mother’s fate than I have ; and unless report has belied thee
foully, hast had substantial reasons for keeping sealed lips on
the subject. But whether she died of a broken heart, broken
by his perfidy—whether she fell a victim to remorse—to de-
spair—her crushed spirit, sinking under the pressure of peni-
tential sorrow for her crime, a crime of which he was the au-
thor and origin—whether more subtle and efficient means were
taken to remove her—may rest in doubt, vague and uncertain
as are hopes of hereafter. Yet this much is assured; that he,
Sir Piers Rookwood, was the primary cause of her death; and
in effect, if not in intent, her destroyer.”
“Sorrow never broke Susan's heart,” said the Sexton with
a ghastly grin ; “die as she might, she died impenitent.”
** Her sin then rest with him—her blood cries out for ven-
geance.” -
“Wengeance belongeth to the Lord,” returned the Sexton.
“Leave Sir Piers to settle his account elsewhere. I warrant
me he will not want thy assistance to help him towards the
brink of the pit that is bottomless. And now seeing that he is
gone, bury thy hatred with him; let not, thy anger reach be-
yond the grave. Say thou forgivest him.”
“For myself, I freely and fully forgive him; though to me
he hath ever been the worst of enemies.”
“Why, that is right and fairly spoken, though thou art still
far from a fair understanding of thy case, grandson Luke, and
givest vent to idle fumings at imaginary wrongs.”
“No more of this,” returned Luke impatiently.
“At what hour did Sir Piers Rookwood die!”
“He died on Thursday last, in the night time; but the ex-
act hour I know not.”
“Of what ailment?”
“Neither do I know that. His end was sudden, yet not
without 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 3—why, 'tis a com-
mon tale hereabouts, and has been for centuries: any old crone
would tell it thee. Peradventure thou hast seen the old avenue
of lime trees leading to the hall, near a quarter of a mile in
length, and as noble a row of timber as any in the county.
Well, there is one tree—the last on the left hand before you


19
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. Ah! there is something fearful and
portentous even in the look of the tree; its leaves have all a
darker green than those of any others; its branches are flung
out like the arms of a giant; and on wintry nights it will shriek
in the tempests like a human being in agony. Some say it was
planted in old times by Sir Ranulph, he who built the mansion,
and designed the avenue, and whose statue stands before you;
and that beneath its roots are scattered the bones of a witch,
whom he hunted and worried with his blood-hounds, denying
Christian burial to the heathenish remains. This is likely
enough; but I have heard other traditions, not so probable;
one of which runs, that the tree was originally a stake, which,
driven through the body of a murderer, and, nurtured in the
soil enriched and fattened with his blood, took root, and, con-
trary to the course of nature, flourished. This I heed not. One
thing, however, is certain, that the tree is, in some mysterious
manner, connected with the family of Rookwood, and immedi-
ately previous to the death of one of that line, a branch is sure
to be shed from the parent stem, prognosticating his doom.”
“And such an omen, thou wouldst add, preceded Sir Piers’s
demise,” said Luke.
“Even so. No later than Tuesday morning,” replied the
sexton, “I happened to be walking down the avenue; I know
not what took me thither, but I sauntered leisurely on till I
came nigh the tree; and lo! there was a huge bough cumbering
the ground, right across my path: an adder would not have
startſed me so much. There it was, a green, strong branch,
broken from the bole—no wind, no storm, no axe, had done it;
so I stood still to look upon it. Just then, with a loud, cheer-
ing cry, a burst of hounds, and a merry crew of friends at his
heels, out galloped Sir Piers from the gate. Full tilt he came
towards me; when directly his horse reared at the branch, and
out of his saddle he tumbled. He was not hurt by the fall, only
startled; but more when he beheld the cause of the accident,
than by anything else. He put a bold face on the matter, but
I could see it sickened him, and well it might—it was his death-
warrant—I could see it in his face, even then. At first he
stormed, and asked who had done it. Every body was ques-
tioned—all denied a hand in it. Hugh Badger, the keeper, held
his horse, but he would not mount, and returned dejectedly to
the hall, breaking up the day's sport. Before departing, he
addressed a word or two to me in private respecting thee, and
pointed, with a melancholy shake of the head, to the branch:


- 22
worst. Did he kill her ?” And Luke stared at the sexton as
if he would have looked into his secret soul.,
But the sexton was not easily fathomed. His cold, bright
eye returned Luke's gaze steadfastly, as he answered, com-
posedly—
“I have said all I know.”
“But not all thou thinkest.” 4.
“Thoughts should not always find their utterance in words,
else . we often endanger our own safety, and that of
others.”
“An idle subterfuge; and from thee, worse than idle. I
will have an answer, yea or nay. Was it poison—was it
steel 7’’
“Neither.”
“But there are other ways by which the vital spark may be
extinguished.” -
“Enough—she died.”
“No, not enough—When?—where?” -
“In her sleep—in her bed.” *
“Why, that was natural.”
• A wrinkling smile crossed the sexton’s brow.
“What means that horrible gleam of laughter?” exclaimed
Luke, grasping his shoulder with such force as nearly to anni-
hilate the man of graves.
“Speak, or I will strangle thee. Ha! A thought flashes
across my brain. ... She died, you say, in her sleep?”
“In her sleep,” replied the sexton, shaking off Luke's hold.
“The evening saw her blithe, healthful, blooming—the morn-
ing, stark, stiff, breathless.”
“I see,” ejaculated Luke, with a frightful gesture. “Was
it so 7"—
“May be.”
“And was it to tell me this you brought me hither? Was
it to tell me, 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 3’”
Luke exhibited so much frantic violence of manner and ges-
ture, that the sexton entertained some little apprehension that
his intellects were unsettled, by the shock of the intelligence.
It was, therefore, in what he intended for a soothing tone, that
he solicited Luke’s attention.
“I will hear nothing more,” replied Luke, and the vaulted
chamber rang with his passionate lamentations. Suddenly
pausing, he exclaimed, in a loud voice,—“Dead mother! upon
thee I call. If in thy grave, thou canst hear the cry of thy


23
*
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; “no
ear can hear me, save his to whom my wretchedness is food for
hellish glee.”
“Could the dead hear thee, she might do so. She is not far
off,” said the sexton.
“Fiend' mock me not.” * *
“Why should I? Thy mother lies within this space.”
Luke staggered back, as if struck by a thunderbolt! ... He
spoke not, but fell with a violent shock against a pile of coffins,
at which he caught for support.
“Ay, there,” cried the sexton, extending a skinny finger,
“ thou hast hit it.”
“What have I done?” exclaimed Luke, recoiling.
“What hast thou done? Ha!—have a care!” A thun-
dering crash resounded through the vault. One of the cof-
fins, which Luke had dislodged from its position, tumbled
to the ground; it alighted upon its side, splitting asunder in
the fall.
“Great heavens ! what is this 4” cried Luke; as a dead
body, clothed in all the hideous apparel of the tomb, rolled
forth to his feet. -
“It is thy mother's corpse,” answered the sexton. , “I
brought thee hither to behold it; but thou hast anticipated my
intentions.”
“This my mother?” shrieked Luke. “Can the dead indeed
hear?” he shudderingly added. “This is a solemn token :
she was not insensible to my adjuration.” - -
He dropped upon his knees by the body, seizing one of its
chilly hands, and bending over the countenance of the dead, as
it lay upon the floor, with its face upwards.
The sexton took the candle from the sconce.
“Art thou sure 'tis she 4” demanded Luke, as he approached
with the light. -
“As sure as that thou livest,” was the reply.
“Can this be death " shouted Luke, half frantic : “Impos-
sible ! Oh God! She stirs—she moves. The light!—quick
—I see her stir. This is dreadful—intolerable.” -
“Do not deceive yourself,” said the sexton, in a tone which
betrayed more emotion than was his wont. “”Tis the be-
wilderment of fancy: she will never stir again, poor wench.”
And he shaded the candle with his hand, so as to throw the
light full upon the deadly visage. It was motionless as that of


24
an image carved in stone. Pale was that face as monumental
marble; beneath the reflex of the yellow flame it wore a wax-
like tint, sicklied to a wanish white. No trace of corruption
was visible upon the rigid, yet exquisite tracery of its features.
No livid hue deformed the delicacy and beauty of its linea-
ments, but, lovely as it had been in life, unrivalled for its
fairness, so was it in death. The sight was indeed a marvel
and a mystery; it was as if some pitying spirit had seized the
In Oment
Before Decay’s effacing fingers
Had swept the lines where beauty lingers,
to arrest the hands of the Spoiler, ere one withering touch had
been laid upon her brow—ere a breath of his blighting atmo-
sphere had fallen upon his victim, and, failing to avert the
stroke of fate, had invested the fine clay it could not re-animate,
with a perpetuity of living loveliness. A profuse cloud of
raven hair escaped from its swathments in the fall, which hun
like a dark veil over the bosom and person of the departed, an
presented a startling contrast to the prevailing paleness of the
skin and the white sere-clothes. Flesh still adhered to the
hand, though it mouldered into dust within the gripe of Luke,
as he }. the fingers to his lips. The garments of the dead
were disposed like night-gear about her person, and from with-
out their folds a few withered flowers had fallen. . A strong
aromatic odour, of a pungent character was diffused around;
hence it was evident d. the art by which the ancient Egyptians
endeavoured to rescue their kindred from decomposition, had
been resorted to, to preserve the fleeting charms of the unfor-
tunate Susan Bradley; making it evident, also, that he who,
living, loved her not, or loving, had destroyed her, yet when
dead—lost to him for ..ºff sought, actuated by some in-
scrutable revulsion of feeling, to save from utter extinction
those fatal endowments of person which had first found favour
in his eyes, and ultimately ensured the destruction of its hapless
possessor.
A pause of awful silence succeeded, broken only by the pant-
ing respiration of Luke. He spoke not—groaned not—moved
not; but his breast laboured heavily with suppressed emotion,
and there was a quivering in the muscles of his limbs, like that
E.; from severe, paralytic affection. The sexton stood
#; apparently an indifferent spectator of the scene of horror.
e rendered no assistance—pronounced no word of sympathy—
expressed no commiseration, but remained fixed for a few mo-


- - - 25
-
ments in the attitude we have described. His eye wandered
from the dead to the living, and gleamed with a peculiar and
indefinable expression, half apathy, half abstraction. For one
single instant, as he scrutinized the features of his daughter,
his brow, contracted as in anger, immediately afterwards was
elevated as in scorn; but otherwise you would have sought in
vain to read the purport of that cold, insensible glance, which
dwelt for one brief space on the face of the mother, and settled
eventually upon her son. Worlds would that son have given to
have been at that instant equally insensible. A prey to the
keenest anguish—to agony almost insupportable, he yet ob-
tained no relief in tears—no drop of moisture found its way to
his eyes. The agony of his emotions can only be conceived by
those who have endured (and which of us hath altogether es-
caped?) the martyrdom of moments like to those—who, like
him, have felt the iron enter into their soul, and have drained to
the dregs the bowl of bitterness. -
All those who have similarly suffered, will need no descrip-
tion of the extent of Luke's suffering—of the heart-quake that
shook him. Of an earnest vivacity of temperament amounting
even to the fierce, he at the same time was endued with the
tenderest sensibilities. His case was not like one of those we
have enumerated. He had known no mother's love—no mo-
ther's watchful care—no mother's gushing tenderness; for him
had beamed no mother's well-remembered smile; but the ab-
sence of this reality had created in his ardent, enthusiastic
mind, possessed from infancy with but one fanciful image, that
of his mother—an image—a fantasm, such as haunts a dream-
er’s brain, of something like the object of his love, such as he
dreamed she would have been, had she ever blessed him with
her presence; peopling his imagination with a thousand vi-
sionary notions of smiles, and tears, and looks, remembered like
the indistinct perceptions of childhood, and dwelt upon as
fondly; till what had been but a dream, nay, the memory of a
dream, assumed, as life advanced, a substance, and a shape,
distinct and positive ; so that when, for the first time, he ac-
tually j". object of idolatry before him in death, no won-
der that all these hoarded emotions of years should burst forth
with irresistible vehemence, and the long sealed fountains of
the heart be unloosed. ~
The sexton, as has been before observed, made no effort to
console him. For some space he neither spoke, nor altered his
position; 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
WOL. I. 3


26.
*
ye were strewn " he murmured. “No sweet smell left—but
—faugh.” Holding in disgust 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.
The sexton observed the effect. “Such was thy life,” he ex-
claimed; “a brief, bright sparkle, followed by dark, utter
extinction;” and he flung the expiring ashes of the floweret
from his hand.
CHAPTER II.
Duch. You are very cold.
I fear you are not well after your travel.
Hah! lights—Oh horrible !
Fer. Let her have lights enough.
Duch. What witchcraft doth he practise, that he hath left
A dead hand here.
DUCHEss of 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. Havin
received no answer, and remarking no signs of life about his
grandson, 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, but he attempted
not to rise.
“Poh—this is worse than Midsummer madness,” cried the
sexton; “the lad is crazed with grief, and all about a mother
who has been four-and-twenty years in her grave. I will even
put her out of the way myself.” Saying which, he proceeded,
as noiselessly as possible, to raise the corpse in his arms, de-
positing it softly within its former tenement. Carefully as he
executed his task, he could not accomplish it without occasion-
ing a slight accident to the fragile frame. Insensible as he
was, Luke had not relinquished the hold he maintained of his
mother's hand. And when Peter lifted the body, the ligaments,
connecting the hand with the arm, were suddenly º:
asunder. It would appear afterwards, that this joint had been
tampered with, and partially dislocated. But without entering
|
º
<


w - 27
P.
into further particulars in this place, it may be sufficient to ob-
serve, that the hand, detached from the socket at the wrist, re-
mained within the gripe of Luke. Ignorant of the mischief he
had occasioned, the sexton continued his labours, unconscious-
ly, until the noise which he of necessity made, in stamping
with his heel upon the plank, was the means of recalling Luke
to sensibility. The first thing he perceived, upon collecting his
faculties, were the skeleton fingers, which he found twined
* his own. His frame thrilled as he regarded the severed
imb.
“What have you done with the body? Why have you left
this with me?” said he. !.
“It was not my intention to have done so,” answered the
sexton, suspending his occupation. “I have just made fast
the lid, but it is easily undone. You had better restore it.”
“Restore it,” echoed Luke, staring at the bony fragment.
“Ay! of what advantage is a dead hand 4 'Tis an unlucky
keepsake, and will lead to harm. The only use I ever heard
for such a thing, was in the case of bow-legged Ben, he who
was hanged in irons for murder, on Hardchase Heath, and
whose hand was cut off at the wrist the first night, to make
therewith a Hand of Glory, or dead man’s candle. Old Mistress
Asheton had her throat cut that night, and the candle, held by
the glorious fingers, lighted her murderess the while, and sub-
dued the poor woman and her servants into an unawakening
sleep—not even a cry was heard. Ho! ho!—But you have no
such intentions, I’m sure; if you had this would never serve
your turn, for it must be the limb of a hanged malefactor, and
the candle must be of the melted fat thereof 37
“Look there,” exclaimed Luke, extending the hand towards
the sexton. “Seest thou nothing upon that finger?”
“I see something shine. Hold it nigher the light. Ha!
that is strange truly. How came it there 4”
“How came it there! Ask of Sir Piers! ask of her hus-
band!” shouted Luke, with a wild burst of exulting laughter.
“Ha! haſ 'tis a wedding ring ; and look, the finger is bent;
it must have been placed thereon in life. There is no deception
in this ; no trickery—hah?” -
“It doth not look like it; that sinew must have been con-
tracted in life. The tendons are pulled down so tightly, that
the ring could not be withdrawn without breaking the finger.”
“Thou art right; it is so. This is her hand; it must be so.
She was his wedded wife. Ha! ha ha!”
“It would seem so.”


30
“Take them and leave me here.” -
“Here, in the vault! I could tell you a story of that statue,
that—” - -
* Not now.”
“You will rue it—there is danger—the arch fiend himself is
not more terrible—” -
“Leave me I say ; or await, if thou wilt, my coming, in the
church. If there is aught that may be revealed to my ear alone,
I will not quail from it, though the dead themselves should
arise to proclaim the mystery. It may be—but—go—there are
thy tools;” and he shut the door, with a jar that shook the sex-
ton's frame. - -
Peter, after some muttered murmurings at the hardihood and
madness, as he termed it, of his headstrong grandson, disposed
his lengthy limbs to repose, upon a cushioned seat without the
communion .# As the pale moonlight fell upon his gaunt
visage, he looked like some unholy thing, suddenly annihilated
by the presiding influence of that sacred spot. Mole coiled
himself in a ring at his master's feet. Peter had not dosed
many minutes, when he was aroused by Luke's return. The
latter was very pale, and the perspiration stood in big drops
upon his brow.
“Hast thou made fast the door?” was his first interrogation.
“Here is the key.”
“What hast thou seen 4” he next inquired, remarking the
deathy paleness of his face.
Luke made no answer. At that moment the church clock
struck two, breaking the stillness of the place with an iron
clang. Luke raised his eyes. A ray of moonlight, streaming
obliquely through the painted window, fell upon the gilt letter-
ing of a black mural entablature. The lower part, the inscrip-
tion, was in shade, but the emblazonment, and -
ittginal bug bit 3itoottºm000, Cºtteſ; 3ttratttg.
were clear and distinct. Luke trembled, he knew not why, as
the sexton pointed to it.
“Thou hast heard of the hand-writing upon the wall,” said
the Sexton; “Look there—“His kingdom hath been taken from
him.”—Ha, ha!”
.* Let us quit this place, and get into the fresh air; I am
faint,” said Luke, striding past his companion, and traversing
the church-floor with hasty steps. Peter was not slow to fol-
low. The key was applied, and they emerged into the church-
yard. The grassy mounds were bathed in the moon-beams, and
the two yew trees, throwing their black jagged shadows over
af
tº


31
the grave hills looked like evil spirits, brooding over the sancti-
fied repose of the righteous.
The sexton noticed the deathly paleness of Luke's counte-
nance; but it might be the tinge of the sallow moonlight that
gave it that livid tint.
“I will be with thee at thy cottage, ere day-break,” said the
latter; and turning an angle of the church, he disappeared from
View.
“He is crazed, beyond all question,” said Peter shouldering
his spade, and whistling to Mole; “though it must be confess-
ed, his brain must have been strong, to have withstood the
trial of this night. Mischief, I foresee, will come of it; but I
shall not trouble my head with these matters, at least for the
present. Should it be needful, he shall know more; mean-
while, a dram and a song will put care to flight.” Draining the
bottle to the last drop, he flung it from him, and commenced
chanting a wild ditty, the words of which ran as follow :—
THE SEXTON'S SONG.
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 Caw!
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 smelleth 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 below !


32
The cottage which Peter inhabited adjoined the church-yard,
so that he had scarcely concluded his song when he reached the
door; and as soon as he had disposed of his tools, he betook
himself to slumber.
-
*
CHAPTER III.
Brian. Ralph hearest thou any stirring 7
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
buck bray, I never heard deer in my life.
Bri. Stand, or I'll shoot.
Sir Arthur. Who’s there 7
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 re-
straint the sexton’s society imposed. He longed to commune
with himself. Leaping the small boundary-wall that defended
the church-yard 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 ºf Heedless of the impedi-
ments 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 paused be-
neath 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 sobered the irritation of his frame, and
the dewy chillness cooled the fever of his brow. Leaning for
support against the guarled trunk of one of the trees, he sur-
rendered himself to contemplation. The events of the last
hour—of his whole existence—passed in rapid review before
his mental vision. 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 endured—crowded
º
!


33 -
his mind; and then, like the passing of a cloud flitting across
the autumnal moon, and occasionally obscuring the smiling
landscape before him, his soul was shadowed by the remem.
brance of the awful revelations of the last hour, and the fearful .
knowledge he had acquired of his mother's fate—of his father's
guilt. Shudderingly he called to mind the horrors he had
witnessed, but the occultation was of brief endurance; the
cloud passed away, the moon was full again in all her ancient
lustre—the future—the bright glorious future, was before him,
and he eagerly longed for the coming struggle, the result of
which, his sanguine anticipations pictured as guerdoned with
Success. -
The eminence on which Luke stood was one of the highest
points 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 shimmering in the
moon-light, and its tall chimneys spiring far from out the round
masses of wood wherein it lay embosomed. The ground gra-
dually 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 sunk into
a deep declivity, that formed an effectual division, without the
intervention of a ha-ha, 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, 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 em-
bankments, this brook spread out into an expansive sheet of
water. Crossed by a rustic bridge, the sole mean of commu-
nication between 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 rushing waters, as
they dashed down the elevation in a foaming cascade; while
far away, in the spreading valley, the serpentine meanderings
of the slender current might be traced, glittering like silvery
threads in the lambent moonshine. The mild beams of the
queen of night, then in her meridian, trembled upon the top-
most 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 begin-
ning to rise from the surface of the pool, steeping them in
misty splendour, and lending to this part of the picture a cha-
racter of dreamy and unearthly beauty.


34
All else was in unison—no sound interrupted the silence ºf
Luke's solitude, except the hooting of a large grey owl, which,
scared at his approach, or in search of prey, winged its spectral
flight in continuous and mazy cineles 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 men-
tioned, but which was shrouded from view by the rising mist-
No living objects presented themselves, save a herd of deer,
that crouched in a covert of brown fern beneath the umbrage
of a few stunted trees immediately below the point of land
whereon Luke stood; and although their branching antlers
could scarcely be detected from the shadowy 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 out-
stretching forest, with which I cannot claim acquaintance: 'tis
long since I have seen them.—By heavens! 'tis beautiful!— -
and it is all my own—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 intoxicating bliss still tingles to my heart.
And they are all my own—my own! Softly, what have we
there 7°
Luke's attention was arrested by an object which could no
fail to interest him, sportsman as he was : a snorting bray was
heard, and a lordly stag stalked 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 shoul-
der, when he dropped it again to its rest.
“What am I about to do?” he exclaimed. “Why, for mere
astime, should I take away yon noble creature’s life, when
is carcass would be utterly useless to me? Yet such is the
force of habit, that I can scarce resist the impulse that tempted


36
be up, and blinking like a glim, I did think he'd have kept
quiet house to-night, if only for decency's sake; but there's
no thought of the old squire's finny” running in his addled
head.”
“I see 'em,” returned the other, “thanks to old Oliver—
there they are—two—three—and a muzzled bouser, f too.
There's Hugh at the head of '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
—why run the risk of being grab'd for a bit of venison 4 Had
Luke Bradley been with us, indeed, it might have been another
guess business; but he's with that old, resurrection cove, his
grand-dad, in the church—I saw 'em going there myself. Be-
sides we’ve that to do at the hall, that may make men of us for
the rest of our nat’ral lives. It won't do to be grabbed in the
nick of it—so let’s be off, and make for our prancers, in the
lane—keep in the mungef as much as you can.” And away
they scampered down the hill-side.
“Shall I follow,” thought Luke, “and run the risk of fallin
into the keeper's hand, just at this crisis, too? No-but #
am found here, I shall be taken for one of the gang. Some-
thing must be done—ha! devil take them, here they are, al-
ready.”
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 cer-
tain detection; and, doubting whether he should obtain cre-
dence from the keepers, if he delivered himself over in that
#. and armed, he at once rejected the idea. Just then it
ashed across his recollection that his gun had remained un-
loaded, 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—he had got his scent, and was baying close at
hand. The keepers were drawing migh—Luke gave himself
up for lost. The 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 re-
newed barking, upon their track. Hugh Badger and his com-
• Funeral. t Dog. f Darkness.


37 º
rades loitered an instant at the same place, looked warily round,
and then, as Luke conjectured, followed in the hound’s track.
Swift as thought, Luke leapt on his feet, and without even
pausing to ascertain which route the keepers had taken, started
at full speed, shaping his course in a cross line for the lane,
and keeping as much as possible under cover of the trees. Rapid
as was his flight, it was not without a witness: one of the
keeper's assistants, who had lagged behind, gave the view
holloa 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 sharp round, steering a middle course, and
still aiming at the fence. It was evident, from the cheers of
his pursuers, that he was in full view, and he heard them en-
couraging and directing the hound. -
Luke had gained the park pailings, 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 in the other parts,
owing to the inequality 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 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 ac-
quainted; the breed, some of which he had already seen,
having been maintained at the hall ever since the days of Sir
Ranulph. The eyes of the hound were glaring, blood-red—his
tongue hanging out, and a row of keen white fangs displayed,
like the teeth of a shark. There was a growl—a leap—and the
hound was close upon him. -
Luke’s courage was undoubted ; but his heart failed him as
he heard the bark of the remorseless brute, and felt that he
could not avoid an encounter with him. His resolution was
- instantly taken : he stopped short, with such suddenness, that
the dog, then in the act of springing, flew past him with great
violence, and the time, momentary as it was, occupied by the
animal in recovering itself, 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 returned to the charge, darting at Luke,
who received the assault without flinching; and in spite of a
severe laceration of the arm, he seized the animal by the threat,
WOL. I. 4


38
and hurling it upon the ground, jumped with all his force upon
its ... A yell of agony, and the contest was ended, and .
Luke 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 their victim.
Hugh Badger, who from the uplands had witnessed the fate
of his favourite, with a loud oath discharged the contents of his
un at the head of its destroyer. Fortunate was it for Luke,
hat at that 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 game, descended more leisurely to-
wards him. As he lay upon the ground, Luke felt that he was
wounded; whether by the bite 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 º: 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. His wrath was curbed—the fire of revenge
quenched. He mentally cancelled his rash oath ; yet he could
not bring himself to surrender at discretion, and without further
effort. #. keeper and his assistants were approaching the
spot where he lay, and searching for his body—Hugh Badger
was foremost, and within a yard of him. “Curse him,” cried
Hugh, “the rascal's not half killed, he seems to breathe.”
The words were scarcely out of his mouth ere the speaker was
dashed backwards, and lay sprawling upon the sod. Suddenly
and unexpectedly, as an Indian chief might rush upon his
foes, arose Luke, propelling himself with tremendous impetus
against Hugh, who happened to stand in his way, and before
the startled assistants, who were either too much taken by sur-
prise, 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 projecting branch of a tree, and
swung himself, at a single bound, fairly over the paling.
Stout 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 snatching 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 was now carried,
was not, as might be supposed, a continuation of the ring fence


39
which Luke had originally crossed, on his entrance into the
park, though guided by the same line of paling, but, in reality,
a close pheasant preserve, occupying ū. banks of a ravine,
which, after a deep and tortuous course, terminated in the de-
clivity 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 briar, 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 frequent 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
before . 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; but all was still, not a branch shook,
not a leaf rustled. Hugh was aghast. He had made sure of
getting a glimpse, and, perhaps, a stray shot, at the “poach-
ing 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 clough.” However, he could not be far off, and he en-
deavoured to obtain some clew to guide him in his quest. He
was not long in detecting recent marks deeply indented in the
mud on the opposite bank. Hugh leapt hither incontinently.
Farther 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 prompt alacrity, the scent he had opened. The brook
presented still fewer impediments to expedition than the thick
copse, and the keeper pursued the gyrations of the petty cur-
rent, occasionally splashing into the stream: , Here and there
was an appearance on the sod that satisfied him that he was in
the right way. At length he became aware, from the crumbling
soil, that the object of his pursuit had scaled the bank, and he
forthwith moderated his career. Halting, he perceived what
he took to be a face peeping at him from behind a knot of alders
that overhung, half way up the steep and shelving bank imme-
diately above him. His gun was instantly at his shoulder.


41
Not a word had been spoken during the conflict. A convul-
sive groan burst from Hugh's hardy breast, enforced by the
weighty body above him. His hand sought his girdle, but in
vain; his knife was gone. Gazing upwards, his dancing vision
encountered the glimmer of the blade—the knife had dropped
from its case in the fall–Luke brandished it before his eyes.
“Villain!” gasped Hugh, ineffectually struggling to free
himself, “you will not murder me?” And his efforts were
desperate. -
“No,” answered Luke, flinging the uplifted weapon into the
brook; “I will not do that, though thou hast twice aimed at my
life to-night; but I will silence thee, at all events—.” And
with that 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 whence they imagined the sound proceeded, present-
ing themselves 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 dragged him from the brook—then, with loud oaths,
followed in hot 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 selected for him; and when they beheld
him take it, they felt confident of his capture. On—on—they
sped.
*†e sides of the hollow became more and more abrupt as
they advanced, though less covered with brushwood. The fu-
gitive made no attempt to climb the bank, but still prest for-
ward. The road was tortuous, and wound round a jutting point
of rock. Now he was a fair mark—no, he had swept swiftly
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 but deep pool of water, the source of the
stream, formed an apparently insurmountable barrier in that di-
rection. Rooted (heaven knows how !) in some reft or fissure
of the rock, grew a wild ash, throwing out a few boughs over
the solitary pool; this is all the support Luke can hope for,
should he attempt to scale the rock. The rock was sheer—the
pool was deep—yet still he hurried on. He reached the muddy
4 *


42
embankment—he mounted its sides—he seemed to hesitate.
The keepers were now within a hundred yards—both guns
were discharged—and sudden as the .. with a dead,
splashless plunge, like a diving otter, the fugitive dropped into
the water.
The pursuers were at the brink. They º: at the pool. A
few bubbles floated upon its surface, and burst. The -water
was slightly discoloured with sand. No ruddier stain crimson-
ed 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 harnt
escaped us, after all.”
“No—no, he's fast enough, never fear,” rejoined the other ;
“sticking like an eel at the bottom o' the pond; and damn
him he deserves it, for he's slipp'd out of our fingers eelfashion,
often enough, to-night. But come, we'll drag for the body in
the morning. Let’s be moving, and give poor Hugh Badger a
helping hand. . A pretty business he have made of it, to be
sure. Come along.”
Whereupon they returned to the assistance of the wounded
and discomfited keeper.
CHAPTER IV.
I am right against my House—Seat of my Ancestors :
YonksHIRE TRAGEDY.
ºr a
WE shall now conduct our readers to the seat of the family,
so frequently alluded to in the preceding chapters.
Rookwood Place, was a fine, old, irregular pile, of conside-
rable size, presenting a rich, picturesque outline, with its innu-
merable gable ends, fantastical coigns, and tall crest of twisted
chimneys. There was no uniformity of style about the build-
ing, yet the general effect was pleasing and beautiful; its very
irregularity constituted its chief charm. Nothing but conve-
nience had been consulted in its construction; additions had
from time to time been made to it, but everything had dropped
into its proper place, and, without apparent .# or design,
had grown into an ornament, heightening the beauty of the
whole. It was, in short, one of those glorious manorial houses,


44 -
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 em-
bayed windows, had sunk into modernized casements, of lighter
construction; the wide porch, with its flight of steps leadin
to the great hall of entrance, had yielded to a narrow door; an
the broad, quadrangular court was occupied by a gravel drive.
Yet, despite of all these mutations, the house of the Rookwoods,
for an old house (and, after all, what is like a good, old house?)
was no undesirable, or uncongenial abode for any worshipful
country gentleman “that hath a great estate.”
The Hall was situated near the base of a gently declining
hill, terminating a noble avenue of limes, and partially embo-
somed in an immemorial wood of that same timber, which had
given its name to the family that dwelt among its rook-peopled
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
origin than the house, though in all probability occupying
the place where the bartizan"d gateway stood of yore. This
tower rose to a height corresponding with the roof of the man-
sion, and was embellished on the side facing the house, with a
flamingly gilt time-piece, peering, like an impudent observer,
at all that passed within doors; two apartments, which it con-
tained, were appropriated to the house-porter. Despoiled of
its martial honours, the gateway still displayed the achieve-
ments of the family, 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 summit of
the 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, that lay buried in the
thickness of the foliage. To the right was the garden—the
pleasaunce of the place—formal, precise, old fashioned, artifi-
cial, yet exquisite l—(for commend us to the by-gone, beautiful,
English garden—really a garden—not that mixture of park,
meadow, and wilderness,” brought up to one's very windows
+ Payne Knight, the scourge of Repton and his school, speaking
of the licence indulged in by the modern landscape gardeners, thus
vents his indignation:


45
—which, since the days of the innovators, Kent, and his “bold
associates,” Capability Brown and Co., has attained so largely)
—this was a garden There might have been 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,
a- 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 admoni-
tory 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, suggested 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 Epicurus to the world had taught,
That pleasure was the chiefest good;
(And was perhaps i' th' right, if rightly understood)
His life he to his doctrines brought—
And in his garden's shade that sovereign pleasure sought.t
All these delights might once have been enjoyed; but at
the time of which we write, this fair garden was for the most
“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.
* Mason's English Garden. - t Cowley.


46
part a waste. Ill kept, neglected, 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 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 imple-
ments of that game, scattered about, plainly testified.
Diverging from the garden to the house, we have before re-
marked that the more ancient characteristic features of the
place had been for the most part obliterated and destroyed,
less by the hand of time than to suit the tastes of different pro-
prietors; this, however, 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
brick work—the low Tudor arches—the mullioned bars of the
windows—all attested its age. - Within, this wing was occu-
pied 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 for the
matutine refection of the late Sir Piers; the interior was
curious for its ceiling, moulded in plaster, with the arms and
alliances of the Rookwoods. In the centre was the royal
blazon of Elizabeth, who had once honoured the hall with a
visit during a progress.
To return, for a moment, to the garden, which we linger
about as a bee round a flower:—below the lawn there was an-
other terrace, edged by a low balustrade of stone, which com-
manded a lovely view of park, water, and woodland—high
hanging woods in the foreground, and an extensive sweep of
flat champaign country, stretching out to meet a line of blue,
hazy hills that bounded the distant horizon.
From the house to its inhabitants, the transition is natural.
Besides the connection between them, there were many points
of resemblance—many family features in common—the same
original grandeur, the same character of romance, the same
fanciful display. Nor were the secret passages, peculiar to
the one, wanting to the history of the other: both had their
mysteries. . One blot there was in the otherwise proud es-
cutcheon of the Rookwoods, 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;


47
*
-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 ever baffled.
They were a stern and stiff-necked people, of indomitable pride
and unconquerable 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—
every obstacle will yield to it, and the determined energy of
the Rookwoods bore them harmless through a sea of troubles;
besides, they had taken their measures properly. They were
wealthy; lavish even to profusion—and gold will do much if
skilfully administered; yet, despite of all this, a dark, omi-
nous cloud settled over their house, and men wondered when
the vengeance of Heaven, so long delayed, would fall and con-
sume it.
Possessed of considerable landed property, once extending
over nearly half a county, the family increased in power and
importance for an uninterrupted series of years, until the out-
break of that intestine discord which ended in the Civil Wars,
when the espousal of the royalist party, with sword and sub-
stance, by Sir Ralph Rookwood, 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.
Sir Ralph Rookwood left two sons, Reginald and Alan. The
fate of the latter, and the younger, was buried in obscurity. It
was even a secret to his family. He was, it was said, a youth
of much promise, and of gentle manners, who, having made an
imprudent match, had, from jealousy, or some other cause, de-
serted his wife and fled his country. This was all that was
known of Alan Rookwood.
The young Sir Reginald had attended Charles in the charac-
ter of page during his exile, and if he could not requite the de-
votion of the son by absolutely reinstating the fallen fortunes of
the father, the Monarch could at least accord him the fostering
influence 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
*


48
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 that graced that
voluptuous 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 enough, 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 !. deli-
verance from the yoke he had so heedlessly imposed on himsel
and on his unfortunate lady. Her’s was a wretched life of
sufferance-from domestic tyranny and oppression ; but it was
brief; and if her sorrows were manifold, they were not of long
endurance.
The hapless lady of Sir Reginald was a fair and fragile crea-
ture, floating in the eddying current of existence, and hurried to
destruction 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 that beauty's self,
it would have been difficult to say whether the charm of soft-
mess, and sweetness, was more to be admired than her faultless
personal attractions; but when a tinge of sorrow came sadden-
ing 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 saddening sight to see, and melted the be-
holder's soul within him; and all acknowledged, that exquisite
as she had been before, the sad, sweet lady, was now more ex-
quisite still.
Seven moons had waned and flown—seven bitter, tearful
moons—and each day Lady Rookwood's situation claimed more
soothing attention at the hand of her lord. She had it not.
Fascinating as sin was Sir Reginald, if it pleased him; ruthless
as the striped tiger, if not in the mood to restrain himself,


49.
About this time his wife’s brother, whom he hated, returned
from the Dutch wars. Struck with his sister's altered appear-
ance, he readily divined the cause: 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, at.
tributing her wo-begone 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 guar-
dianship: however, I thank you in her name, for the trouble
you have taken, but for your own sake, I would venture, as a
friend, to caution you against a repetition of interference like the
present.”
“Interference! Sir Reginald?”
“Interference, Sir, was my word; unwarrantable imperti-
nence were perhaps the more suitable phrase. I give you your
choice; but would again renew my caution.”
“And I, Sir, caution you. See that you give heed to my
words, or, by the living God, 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. I love your sis-
ter not. I loathe her. She is my wife; what more would you
have? Were she a harlot, you should have her back and wel-
come; but the fool is virtuous. Devise some scheme, and take
her with you hence—so you rid me of her, I am content.”
“Sir Reginald, you are a villain.”
“Go on.”
“A ruffian.”
“Proceed, I pray you.” -
“A dastard! will nothing rouse you?” and Vavasour spat
upon his brother's cheek; -
Sir Reginald's eyes blazed. His sword started from its
scabbard. “Defend yourself,” he exclaimed, furiously attack-
ing Vavasour. Pass after pass was exchanged; fierce thrusts
made and parried; feint and appeal, the most desperate and
dexterous resorted to; their swords glanced like lightning
flashes; till 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
defence; both so brimful of wrath as to be regardless, of con-
sequences. They tore back their weapons. Vavasoº. blade
shivered. He was at the mercy of his adversary-º" adversary
5
WOL. I.


50
who knew no mercy. Sir Reginald's rapier was instantly
passed through his body, the hilt striking against his ribs.
Sir Reginald's ire was kindled, not extinguished, by the deed
he had done; like the tiger, he had tasted blood. ... 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. It was cutting as his dagger's edge.
“What ails you, sweetheart!” The said.
“I know not, your smiles frighten me.”
“My smiles frighten you—fool! be thankful that I frown
not.”
“Oh! do not frown. Begentle, my Reginald, as you were
when first I knew you. Smile not so sternly, but as you did
then, that I may, for one instant, dream you love me, as you
swore you did.”
“Dream that I love you!”
“Ay, dream, my Reginald; it is no longer a reality. I feel
your love is gone—that I have lost But oh let me not
think you are utter insensible to me. Smile ! smile ! if but for
a moment.”
“Silly wench : There I do smile.”
“That smile chills me—freezes me. Oh Reginald could
you but know what I have endured this morning on your ac-
count. My brother Lionel has been here.”
“ Well ?”
“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 vouched it to me himself.”
“Impossible ! He could not.”
“'Tis a tale he will not repeat.”
“Not repeat! He would not, I am sure, give utterance to
any scandal., You do but try me. Reginald, I never saw you
thus—never before. Ha! what is this? Your hand is bloody.
As you hope for heaven's mercy, speak, I implore you. You
have not harmed him $ He is well. He is well. Whose
blood is this 1°
“He spat upon my cheek—I have washed out the stain—”.
“Then it, is his,” shrieked Lady Rookwood, ressing her
hands shudderingly before her eyes. “Is he dead?”
Sir Reginald turned away.
“Stay,” cried ‘she, exerting her feeble strength to retain
him, and becoming white as ashes, “stay, thou thing of blood :
thou cruel and perjured one abide, and hear me.” M. º.


51
hast killed, I feel, with thy unkindness. I have striven against
it, but it would not avail. I am sinking fast—dying. I, who
loved thee, only thee; yea, one beside—my brother, and thou
hast slain him. Thy hands are dripping in his blood, and I
kissed them, have ... them. And now,” continued she,
with an energy that shook Sir Reginald, “I hate thee—I ab-
hor thee—I renounce thee—for ever ! May my dying words
ring in thine ears on thy death-bed, for that hour will come.
Thou can'st not shun that. Then think of him / think of me !
“Away,” interrupted Sir Reginald, endeavouring to shake
her off.
“I will not away! I will cling to thee.—I will curse thee.
M. unborn child shall live to visit my wrongs on thee and thine.
eak as I am, thou shalt not cast me off. Thou shalt learn to
fear even me.”
“I fear nothing living, much less a frantic woman.”
“Fear the dead then.” -
“Hence 1 or by the God above us —”
** Never !”
There was a struggle—a blow—and the wretched lady sank,
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 lived to fulfil her mother's boding words.
She 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. Inheriting none of her mother's gen-
tleness, she had all her mother's beauty—with all her father's
pride. His every thought was for his daughter—for her ag-
grandizement—all in vain. She seemed only to endure him,
while his affection waxed stronger, and entwined itself round
her alone; yet she shrank from his embraces as the shrub from
the killing 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 pro-
mised 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 fled, with the humblest and the mean-
est 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 seeming was suc-
cessful to 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 a foreign land, whither she had wandered.
It was a dread encounter-terrible to both ; but most so to Sir
Reginald. He spoke not of her afterwards. -
Šhortly after the death of his first wife, Sir Reginald made


52
->
proposals to a dowager of distinction, with a handsome join-
ture, one of his early attachments, and was without scruple ac-
cepted. The power of the family might then be said to have been
at its zenith, and but for certain untoward circumstances, and
the growing influence 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 the accumulation of wealth. In the meantime,
his second wife followed her predecessor, dying, it was said, of
vexation and disappointment.
The propensity to polygamy, always a distinguishing charac-
teristic of the . Rookwoods, largely displayed itself in Sir
Reginald. Another lady followed—equally rich, younger, and
ſar more beautiful than her immediate predecessor. She was a
prodigious flirt, and soon set her husband at defiance. Sir Re-
ginald did not condescend to expostulate. It was not his
way. He effectually prevented any recurrence. She was re-
moved, 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 altogether seclude himself. One anomaly in Sir Regi-
nald's otherwise utterly selfish character, was uncompromising
devotion to the House of Stuart; and shortly after the abdication
of James II., he followed that monarch to St. Germain, having -
previously mixed largely in secret political intrigues; and only
returned from the French Court to lay his bones with those of
his ancestry, in the family vault at Rookwood.
Sir Reginald died, leaving 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 mili-
tary taste 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 Killycrankie, under
the banners of William ; Piers, therefore, the second son, suc-
ceeded to the baronetcy. . A very different character, in many
respects, to his father and brother, holding in supreme contempt
courts and courtiers, party warfare, political intrigue, and all
the subtleties of jesuitical diplomacy; neither having any inor-
dinate relish for camps and campaigns; he yet displayed in
early life one family propensity, viz., unremitting devotion to
the sex; and if he rejoiced not in a like uxorial latitude, yet
were his mistresses numberless. Subsequently he allied him-
self to Mande, only daughter of Sir Thomas D'Aubeney, 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 mas-
ter of himself, much less of his dame, endured an existence so
infinitely miserable, that he was often heard to regret, in his


56
After a brief parley, 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 Pe-
ter encountered his dead master in corporeal presence, he could
not have manifested more surprise than he exhibited for an in-
stant or two, as he shrank back from the path as the stranger
pº him with a low greeting, taking his way towards the
“Wonder upon wonders!” ejaculated the sexton, recovering
speech; “young Ranulph here!—what could have brought him
hither, now? What but fate? The hour I have so long dreamed
of is fast coming ; but Luke should know this—he may still be
within hearing; I'll try—” and he whistled down the shrubbe-
ry—“No-he is gone—it would be too much trouble to seek
for him—besides, he must take his chance—I can only help
him so far—Destiny must do the rest. And who shall say
what his shall be 3 Not I. I can only speculate—only look
on—only laugh. ... I know better than to interfere with any
man's doom, and yet I should like to see young Ranulph's
palm. I might give a guess from that, what would be the up-
shot of this business. It will be a hard game. Ha! ha :
What says the old jingle:
When the stray Rook shall perch on the topmost bough,
There shall be clamour and screeching I trow;
But of right to, and rule of the ancient nest,
. The Rook that with Rook mates shall hold him possest.
which is a riddle I scarce can read, though I have some guess
of it. Oh! this is ... "...# and now, for my
merry mourners. They’re drunk I hope by this time—in which
case they’ll do their business so much the better, and not shed
tears out of season.”
And he crawled, mutteringly, on to the hall,
CHAPTER W.
On pain of death let no man name death to me,
It is a word most infinitely terrible.
THE WHITE DEVIL.
AN hour or two prior to the rencontre just described, in a
small, cosy apartment of the hall, nominally devoted to justi-
Ciary business by its late proprietor, but, in reality, used as a


57
sanctum snuggery, or smoking room, an odd triumvirate were
assembled, fraught with the ulterior view of attending the
funeral obsequies of their deceased patron and friend, though
immediately occupied in the discussion of a stoup 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, wainscotted with rich, black oak,
against which stood a fine old cabinet of the same material, and
a line or two of crazy worm-eaten book-shelves, loaded with
sundry, dusty, unconsulted law tomes, and a slight sprinkling
of the elder divines, equally neglected. The only book, indeed,
Sir Piers ever read, was Burton, and him only because the
quaint, racy style of the learned old hypochondriac suited his
humour at seasons, and gave a zest to his melancholy, such as
the olives lent to his wine.
Four portraits adorned the walls; those of Sir Reginald
Rookwood and his wives. The ladies were attired in the flow-
ing drapery of Charles's day, the snow of their radiant bosoms
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 elegance, was anything but suitable to the innocent,
unsophisticated simplicity of her costume. She was portrayed
tending her flock of downy sheep, with azure ribbons round
their necks, accompanied by one of those invaluable little dogs,
whose length of ear and delicacy of spot evinced him perfect
in his breeding, but whose large-eyed indifference to his charge,
proved him to he as much out of character with his situation,
as the reflned and luxuriant charms of his mistress were out of
keeping with her artless attire. This was Sir Piers's mother,
the third wife, a beautiful woman, answering to 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 improve-
ment, we leave to the consideration of the lovers of the beauti-
ful)—this was the dowager. Lastly, there was the sweet, deli-
cate Eleanor, with eyes serenely soft “as a star in water,” blue
as the depths of a summer's eve, and a form as light and lovely
as that of a sylph. Every gentle grace had been stamped in un-
dying beauty on the canvass by the hand of Lely, breathing a
spelſ upon the picture, almost as witching as that which had
dwelt around the exquisite original. Over the high carved
mantle-piece was suspended the portrait of Sir Reginald. It


59
tent..." Anything for a quiet life,” was his constant saying;
and, like the generality ofJºe with whom those words form
a favourite maxim, he led the most uneasy life imaginable.
Endurance, to excite commiseration, must be uncomplaining—
the aggrieved of the gentle sex should remember this. Sir
Piers endured, 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 mise-
ries. Racked by a sick head-ache, (for there is a bathos of
ebriety beyond soda-water,) Kır Piers was the most injured/
man breathing, and consequently the most wearisome. N6.
wonder that his friends deserted him ; still there was Titus
Tyrconnel—his ears and lips were ever open to pathos and to
unch—so Titus kept his station. Immediately after her hus-
and'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 cer-
tain hints received from Mr. Coates, who represented to her the
absolute necessity of complying with Sir Pier's testamentary
instructions, which were particular in that respect, she thought
proper to defer her intentions until after the ceremonial of inter-
ment 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 eating and drinking part of the transaction
—the most essential part of all.” He kept open house—open
hall—open cellar—resolved that his patron's funeral should
emulate as much as possible an Irish burial on a grand scale, L
“the finest sight in the whole world,” again to borrow his own
words.
No opposition was offered to these proceedings by Lady
Rookwood. She had given Titus the keys of the cellar, saying
to her attendant Agnes—“they might wallow in wine, if they
liked—like swine, as they were—it was Sir Pier's *...*
only acted in accordance with his intentions, which they fulfill-
ed to the letter. The period, required by the law, would soon
be past—she would then easily rid herself of them.”
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 rosily comic
countenance was increased 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 in-
vested. -
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,


60
and gave place to a denser vapour, occasioned by the introduc-
tion of the pipe, and its accompaniments.
#." in a comfortable old chair (it is not every old chair
that is comfortable), with pipe in mouth, and with full unbut-
toned ease, his bushy, buzz 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 himself. 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 that numerous family “the Smalls,” who, ac-
cording to Christopher North, form the predominant portion of
mankind.
In appearance, the doctor was short-necked, and puffy, with
a sodden face, wherein were set eyes, whose obliquity of vision
was, in a measure, redeemed by their expression of humour.
He was accounted a man of parts and erudition, and had ob-
tained high honours at his university. Rigidly orthodox, he
abominated the very name of papist; amongst which heretical
herd he classed his companion, Mr. Titus Tyrconnel-ireland
being with him synonimous with superstition and Catholicism
—and every Irishman rebellious and schismatical; on this sub-
ject he was inclined to be disputatious. His prejudices did not
i. him from passing the claret, nor from his laughing as
eartily as a plethoric asthma, and sense of decorum due to the
occasion would permit, at the quips and quirks of the Irishman,
who, he admitted, notwithstanding 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 when Small yearned for his afternoon’s solace, but
scrupled to ask for, or indulge in it—when the door had been
made fast, and the first whiff exhaled, all his migivings vanish-
ed, and he surrendered himself to the soft seduction. In this
elysian state we find him. -
“Ah! you may say that, Doctor Small,” said he, in answer
to some observation of the vicar, “that's a most original apo-
phthegm. 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 unawares, when least expected. Death hangs over
our heads by a single hair, as your reverence says, precisely like
the sword of Dan Maclise", the flatterer of Dinnish, what do
you call him, ready to fall at a moment’s notice, or at no notice
at all eh?—Mr. Coates. And that brings me back again to Sir
Piers—poor gentleman—ah! we shan’t soon see the like of him
again.”
“Poor Sir Piers!” said Mr. Coates, a wee man, with a brown
* Query, Damocles? Printer's Devil.


61
bob, and a face red and round as an apple, and almost as small,
“it is to be regretted, that his over conviviality should so much
have hastened his lamented demise.”
“Conviviality l’” replied Titus; “no such thing—it was apo-
plexy—extravaseation of saarum.”
“Extra vase-ation of rum and water, you mean,” replied
Coates, who, like all attorneys, rejoiced in a quibble.
“The squire's ailment,” continued Titus, “was a sangui-
neous 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, denominates the blue devils; he ne-
glected 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 him-
self. “Had he stuck to this”—holding up a glass of ruby
bright—“the elixir vitae—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 clane breast.”
“I trust, Sir,” said Small, withdrawing his pipe from his
lips, “that Sir Piers Rookwood addressed himself to a higher
source than to a sinning creature of clay like himself for media-
tion with his Creator for remission of his sin; but were there
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; “I was refused en-
trance, though my business was of the utmost importance—
certain dispositions—special bequests—ſor 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
—may 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 Pier's death. Odd circumstance that—been in my
custody a long while. Some reason to think the squire meant
to alter his will—ought to have seen me—sad neglect.”
“More’s the pity—but it was none of poor Sir Pier's do-
ings!” replied Titus; “he had no will of his own, poor fel-
low, even on his death-bed; it was all her doing, Lady Rook-
wood's,” added he, in a whisper. “I, his medical adviser, and
confidential friend, was ordered out of the room, and although
I knew it was as much as his life was worth to leave him for a
moment in that state, I was forced to comply; and, would you
WOL. I.e. 6 -


62
º
believe it, as I left the room, I heard high words. Yes,
Doctor, as I hope to be saved, words of anger from her at that
terrible time.”
The latter part of this speech was uttered in a low tone, and
very mysterious manner. The speakers drew so closely toge-
ther, 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,
coughing significantly. Mr. Coates expelled a thin curling
stream of vapour from a minute orifice in the corner of his
almost invisible mouth, and raised his eyebrows, fraught with
expectation: all seemed spell-bound. On the strength of a
bumper, which he swallowed, Titus mustered resolution to
break the charm.
“Och, Sirs!” said he, in a cautious whisper, as if afraid
lest the very walls should betray him, “Lady Rookwood's an
awful woman—an awful woman—a fit mate for Beelzebub him-
self, if he wer’nt a devilish deal too cunning to take a wife.
I'll just tell you...what happened. We all of us know the sort
of life she led poor Sir Piers. But, as I was saying, if there
was no love lost between them during life, one would think
the near approach of death might set all to rest: no such thing.
When I came back to the room, there lay the squire, in a sort
of trance, and she glaring at him like a tigress—so savage—so
full of spite and malice, and devilish rejoicing, my blood ran
cold to witness it.” -
Small shook his head, muttering some monosyllabic interjec-
tion, that sounded very like an oath. Mr. Coates looked un-
utterable things, but said nothing, with the characteristic cau-
tion of his tribe.
“I approached the bed-side,” resumed Titus, “as I don’t
care to confess, with fear and trepidation; for though the man
does not live who can say Titus Tyrconnel dreads him, some-
how or other there is that in her ladyship I never could get
over—and which petrifies me entirely. However, I went up
to the bed, and took hould of the dying man's hand. Sinking
as he was, the pressure reused him; whether or not he thought
that his wife relented towards him, I can’t say; a slight, sweet
smile played upon his features—a faint motion was perceptible
in his lips; he tried to fix his gaze upon me, and when, through
the gathering film, he perceived who it was, he shuddered sen-
sibly, and his eyes filled with tears. Dammee, but my own
are blinded, now, to think of it. “Sir Piers,’ says I to him,
‘be calm—be composed—’tis only I, Titus Tyrconnel.”—“I
cannot be composed,” gasped he. “I cannot die, unless I am
at peace.”—“Give him laudanum,' said Lady Rookwood; “here
is the phial, it will abridge his sufferings.”—“Oh, no—no,” said
Piers, with a look of horror I shall never forget, and struggling


66
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 crisis of the conversation, 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 VI.
Mrs. Peachum—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, reddish coloured whiskers, a freckled,
florid complexion, sandy hair, rather inclined to scantiness
towards the scalp of the head, and garnishing the nape of his
neck with a ruff of crisp little curls, like the ring on a monk’s
shaven crown. Notwithstanding 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 inex-
plicable countenances that seem proper to a peeuliar class of S
men—a regular Newmarket physiognomy—compounded chiefly
of cunning and assurance—not low cunning, nor vulgar assur-
ance, but crafty sporting subtlety, careless as to results—in-
different 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 a mode that he looked
half like a fine gentleman of that day, half like a jockey of ours
—his nether man appeared in well-fitting, well-worn buskins,
and boots with tops, not unconscious of the saddle ; while the
airy extravagance of his sky-blue riding-coat, the richness of
his vest, the pockets whereof were beautifully exuberant, ac-
cording to the fashion of the period: the smart luxuriance of
his shirt-frill of the finest cambric, 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 adornment: nor, in justice to Jack, must we say 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 the slightest bit embowed, 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
*


67
one particular occasion, when he had 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 solution to the inquiry.
Sir Piers never troubled his head about the matter: he was a
“d—d good fellow—rode devilish well;” that was enou
for him. Nobody else knew anything about him, save that he
was a capital judge of horse-flesh, kept a famous black mare,
and attended every hunt in the county—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 appear-
ance, Doctor Small had hastily laid down his pipe, and ar-
ranged his wig; but when he saw who was the intruder, with
a grunt of defiance, he resumed his occupation, without return-
ing the bow of the latter, or bestowing further notice upon him.
Nothing discomposed at the churchman’s displeasure, the new
comer greeted Titus cordially, and carelessly saluting Mr.
Coates, threw himself into a chair. He next filled a tumbler
of claret, which he drained 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
an afternoon as the present, makes one feel thirstyish. I’m as
dry as a sand-bed. Famous wine this—beautiful tipple—bet-
ter then all your red fustian. Ah, how the old squire used to
tuck it in Well, that's all over—a glass like this might do
him good where he’s gone to! I'm afraid I’m intruding; but
the fact is, I wanted a little information about the order of the
funeral, and missing you below, came hither in search of you.
You're to be chief mourner, I suppose—rehearsing your part,
eh?” -
“Come come, Jack, no joking; 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.”
“And they all will attend—or what is the aiting and drinking
to go for 3 I shan’t leave a sowl in the house.”
* Excepting one,” said Jack, slily. “She won't attend, I
think.”
“Ay, excepting one—she and her maid—all the rest go with
me, and form part of the procession—you go too.”
“Of course, what time do you start?”
“Midnight, precisely. As the clock strikes, we set out—
all in a line, and a long line we’ll be. I'm waiting for that
ould coffin-faced rascal, Peter Bradley, to arrange the order.”


-º- 69
º -
“Why, the poacher, t; be sure,” replied Jack; “who else
were we talking about?”
“Beg pardon,” returned Coates; “only 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 fellow, known by the name of Luke Bradley.”
“The devil!” 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—shocking incorrigible rascal—impossi-
ble to do anything with him.”
“Ah, indeed!” said Jack; “I’ve heard Sir Piers speak
of the lad—and, by his account, he’s as fine a fellow as ever
crossed colt's back—only a little wildish and unreasonable, as
the best of us may be—wants breaking, that's all—your wildest
colt ever 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' 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 off-shot of
the old squire. His mother was a servant-maid at the Hall, I
rather think; you, Sir, perhaps, can inform us,” added he turn-
ing to Coates.
“She was something better than a mere servant,” replied
the attorney. “I remember her quite well, though I was but
a boy then—a lovely creature, and so taking, I don’t wonder
at Sir Piers's fancy being 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. “She lived with him till
her death; and—let me see, wasn't there something rather odd
in the way in which she died, rather suddenish and unexpected
—a noise made at the time, eh?”
“Not that I ever heard,” replied Coates, shaking his head,
and seemingly afflicted with an instantaneous ignorance; while
Titus affected not to hear the remark, but occupied himself with
his wine-glass. The vicar snored audibly... “I was too young,
then, to pay any attention to idle rumours,” continued oates.
“It's a long time ago. May I ask the reason of your in-
quiry 3” - - - -
“Nothing farther than simple curiosity,” replied Jack, en-
joying the consternation of his companions. “It is, as you
say, along while since; but it's singular, how that sort of thing


70 -º
- { "…”
is remembered. One would think people had something else
to do than talk 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.”
“Does he, indeed ''” said Mr. Coates. “So much the worse
for him, that’s all. Let me once lay hands upon him, and I’ll
warrant me I'll put a gag on his mouth, shall spoil his talking
in future.” * * *
“That's precisely the point I want you to arrive at,” replied
Jack; “and I 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—
might turn stag.” –
“Turn stag!” replied Coates, “what the deuce is that? in
my opinion, he has ‘turned stag' already; at all events, he’ll
pay deer for his night's sport, you may depend upon it. What
does it signify what he says? Let me lay hands upon him,
that’s all.” -
“Well, well,” said Jack, “no offence; I meant but to offer
a suggestion. I thought the family,–young Sir Ranulph,
I mean, mightn't like the story to be revived; as to Lady
Rookwood, she don't, I suppose, care much about these things!
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.
“But it does seem a little hardish, that a lad should .#
º Elling a bit of venison in his own father's park,” continue
ack.
“Which he’d a nat'ral right to do,” added Titus.
“He’d no natural right to bruise, violently assault, and en-
danger the life of his father's, or any body else's gamekeeper.”
said Coates, “I tell you, Sir, he's committed a capital offence,
and if he’s taken 32 -
“No chance of that, I hope,” interrupted Jack.
“That's a wish I can't help wishing myself,” said Titus;
“these poachers are fine boys, when all’s said and done.”
“The finest of all boys,” exclaimed Jack, with a sort of en-
thusiasm, communicated, perhaps, by his love of anything
connected with sport, “are those birds of the night, and men
of the moon, whom we call, most unjustly, poachers. They
are, after all, 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 res.



71
it's all an idea; they merely thin an over-stocked 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 scientifically, and sys-
tematically they set to werk, than we amateurs do; how noise-
lessly they bag a hare, smoke a pheasant, or knock a buck
down with an air-gun; how independent are they of any licence,
except that of a good eye and a swift pair of legs; how unneces.
sary for them to ask permission of Mr. So and So's grounds, or
of 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 poaching
myself. In my opinion, a poacher's a highly respectable cha-
racter. What say you, Mr. Coates?”—turning very gravely
to that gentleman.
“Respectable character l’” echoed Coates; “ such a ques-
tion scarce deserves a serious answer. Perhaps you will next
maintain that a highwayman is a gentleman.”
“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 other-
wise. It is as necessary for a man to be a gentlemaz 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 distinguishing characteristics of a fine gentleman per-
fect knowledge of the world—perfect independence of charac-
ter—éclat in society—command of cash—and inordinate suc-
cess with the women—you grant all these premises; first, then,
it is part of a highwayman's business to be thoroughly acquant-
ed with the world—he is the easiest and pleasantest fellow
going. Then whose inclinations are so uncontrolled as the
highwayman's, so long as the mopusses last 4, who produces so
great an effect by so few words — Stand and deliver,’ is sure
to arrest attention—every one is so struck by an address so
taking. As to money, he appropriates a purse of a hundred
guineas as easily as you would the same sum from the faro tae
ble. And wherein lies the difference? only in the name of the
game—both are a species of hazard., Who so little need of a
banker, as he all he has to apprehend, is a check—all he
draws is a trigger. As to the women, they doat upon him—
not even your red-coated soldier is successful. Look at a high-
wayman mounted on his flying steed, with his pistols in his
holsters, and his cutlass by his side—what can be a more gal-


lant sight? the clattering of a horse's is like music to the
ear—he is in full quest—he shouts to the fugitive horseman to
stay—the other flies all the faster—what hunt can be half so
exciting as that Suppose he overtakes his prey, which ten to
one he will, how readily his summons to deliver is attended
to—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 cut-throat brigand of Italy—the assassin con-
trabandist of Spain, or the dastard 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 º’” said €oates.
“Claud du Val,” replied Jack; “and, though a Frenchman,
he was a deuced fine fellow in his day—quite a tip top macca-
roni—he could skip and twirl like a figurant, warble like an
opera singer, and play the flageolet better thau any man of his
day—he always carried a pipe in his pocket along with his
a snappers. And then his toggery—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 Re-
ceiver-General—all the women adored him—and that, bless
their pretty faces, was the best proof 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.”
“Very fine, indeed,” cried Titus; “but your English rob-
bers are nothing at all, compared with our Tories* and Rappa-
rees—nothing at all—they were the raal gentlemen—they were
the boys to cut a throat asily.”
“Cut a throat pshaw!” said Jack, in disgust. “The
ntleman I speak of never maltreated any one, except in self-
efefice.” -
* The word Tory, as here applied, must not be confounded with
the torm 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 abso-
lute monarchy, also an Irish vagabond, robber, or rapparee."—
GRose's DICTIONARY.


- º 73
“Maybe not,” replied Titus; “I’ll not dispute the pint.
but these Rapparees were true brothers of the blade, and gentle-
men every inch. There was Redmond O’Hanlon, as great a man
in his way as your famous outlaw Robin Hood, that we read of
in the ballats—a generous robber, taking from the rich and
giving to the poor, and that’s the kind of thief that I like. I
never read of Robin Hood and Little John, and Maid Marian,
without my heart throbbing within my bosom, and the blood
dancing in my veins, to be in the green-wood along with them.
Just such another as bold Robin Hood was Redmond O’Hanlon.
Och, many's the notable feat he performed.—I'll just tell you
one story that's tould about him, just to show the daring auda-
city of the fellow. But in the meanwhile don't let's forget the
bottle—talking's dry work—here's our absent friends !” wink-
ing at the somnolent Small. -
“Well, you must know,” continued Titus, “that Redmond had
arrived at such an elevation, the Tories being in power then,
and his having charge of the Administration, being a sort of
First Lord of the Treasury, that he elected himself Captain-
General of all the Rapparees, and would allow no one to take
a purse, or make free with a pocket-book, without a special
permission from himself, which shows he had instinctive sense
of his political importance. One day, as the great Captain was
riding quietly along the road between Newry and Armagh, he
chanced to fall in with a pedlar, who was making as much
hullabaloo and lamentation, as if he’d been knocked off the civil
list. “Hello, my man,’ says Captain O’Hanlon, “what ails
you, what makes you cry out in that way ?”—“Oh,' answers
the pedlar, “I’m kilt entirely. ... I've been robbed of above five
pounds in kinnis, which was all I had, as I hope for salvation;
and that wouldn’t satisfy the blackguard neither, for he took
away my pack; and because I strove to hould it, he knock'd
me down, and kicked me worse than a hound.”—“And who was
it rob’d you !” ask’d the Captain. ‘That infernal rascal, and
thief of the world, Redmond O’Hanlon,' answered the pedlar.
“You dog,' cried Redmond, in a terrible passion, delivering
him at the same time a knock on the side of the head with his
whip-handle, “how dare you tell me a lie like that, to my face.
By the mother that bore me, I’ve half a mind to shoot you on
the spot, and but for settling this business I’d do it. I am Red-
mond O’Hanlon; nobody shall usurp my title with impunity.
Show me which way the fellow went, and I’ll soon convince
you what it is, to offend a Tory leader.” The pedlar pointed
out the road, upon which he whistled to the members of his
cabinet, who were a little in the rear, and they set off in pursuit.
The fellow was soon overtaken, with the pack on his back, and
Redmond immediately compelled a restitution of the property.
• And now, my }. said he, to the terrified robber, as I
don't remember having given you any authority to make use of
7
VoI. I.
º


74
º
my name, or indeed any licence for exaction at all, I shall think
it my duty to make an example of you. You, pedlar, will sign
an obligation to prosecute this fellow next assizes, on pain of
having both your ears cropp'd off—a penalty which, if you ne:
glect the bond, I will not fail to enforce. You, Sir, I shall
merely commit to jail.” And he forthwith drew up a mittimus
from himself, Redmond O’Hanlon, in loco, one of #. Majesty’s
Justices of the Peace, as follows:– I herewith send you the
body of Dennis O'Brien, who was this day brought before me
and examined, for robbing Patrick O’Driscol on the King's
high road, requiring you to hold him in safe custody, till the
next General Assize to be held for the County; and for so doing
this shall be your sufficient warrant.” And this he signed with
his own hand, and sent him off with his own troop to the jail at
Armagh.”
“ Bravissimo "cried Palmer, “and was the fellow tried ?”
“Yes, and convicted moreover,” replied Titus, “ and plenty
of fun there was in court, as you may suppose, amongst the big
Wigs, at this daring proceeding of the great Tory.”
“The Whigs were in power at last, I suspect?” said Coates.
“Was the great Captain still more exalted 4”
“As high as Haman,” answered Titus; “more's the pity—
I’m no enemy to the Tories, and regret the great Captain.”
“So do I,” said Jack, who had istened with great satisfac-
tion to the exploit, “Suppose we toast him—To the memory
of Captain O’Hanlon”—filling his glass.
* “I must take the liberty of refusing that toast,” said the At-
torney; “it shall never be said that I, a Clerk of the Peace **
“Tush, man,” said Jack, “sit down, and keep quiet; we
know you’re amongst the Opposition—drink what you like, and
as you like, only let's have another story, if Titus have any
more to tell. He tops the traveller in prime twig.”
“Here’s to the blessed memory o j O’Hanlon,”
cried Titus, draining a bumper. “And as to the story, did you
ever hear mention made of one Captain Power. He was another
brave boy, and quite the gentleman, and as fond of the girls as
ever was Du Val. Nicely he turned the tables on an ensign
of musketeers, that came out from Cork to seize him. You
shall hear how it happened.
“This ensign had received intelligence that Power had taken
up his quarters at a small inn, on the road leading from Kil-
worth, and being anxious to finger the reward offered for his
apprehension, set out with a file of men. It was growing dusk
when they reached the inn, and there, shure enough, was Power
drinking, for they saw him through a window, with his bottle
before him, lighting his pipe, quite comfortable. Ha-ha’—
thinks the Ensign, “my boy, I have you safe enough, now ;
but knowing his man, and expecting a devil of a resistance, if
he attempted to lay hands on the captain by force, he deter-
mined to resort to stratagem; so entering the house, just as if


75
he were on a recruiting party, he, the Ensign, calls loudly for
whisky for his men, and a bottle of port for himself, and
marches into the room where Power was sitting, who got up to
receive him very politely. Now, whether the Captain sus-
p. his intentions or not I can’t say ; at all events, he didn’t
et the Ensign perceive it; but took his wine as pleasantly as
we are doing now, with no suspicion of anything in our heads
—and no thought of any mischief brewing.”
“Exactly,” said Jack; “I understand.”
“Well, the bottle was drawing to a close, and Power rose
up, to call for another, when the Ensign, thinking it time, starts
to his feet, presents a pistol to his head, and commands him to
surrender. With all the pleasure in life,' replied the Captain,
“that is, when you can take me; and knocking up the En-
sign's arm, so that he could not even pull his trigger, he threw
himself upon him, effectually preventing his crying out, by
stuffing his coat-pocket into his mouth; he then very coolly
proceeded to divest the Ensign of his grand uniform, and takin
his purse and sword, and military cloak, tied him hand and foot,
and telling him he hoped he was satisfied with his reward,
walked out of the room, locking the door on the other side un-
concernedly after him, and putting the key in his pocket. The
men, who were busy with their whisky-toddy, seeing their
officer, as they thought, come out and motion them to keep still,
never stirred a peg—but suffered Power to get clear away,
without so much as a question.”
“Capital,” cried Jack.
“Ah,” said Titus, “many's the tale I could tell, if I'd time,
about these Rapparees. There was strong Jack Macpherson,
who could pull a man off his horse single-handed, and Billy
Macguire, Irish Teague, as he was called, and Dick Balf, and
the devil knows how many others; and there is Paul Lidy,
whose name’s quite up in the country now—a famous thief,
horse-stealer, and horse-charmer.”
“Horse-charmer '" repeated Palmer, “what sort of craft
may that be 3’” -
“I’ll tell you,” replied Titus;. “Cahir na Cappul, one of
the Rapparees, is said to have received a potent charm from a
witch, to enable him to decoy and entrap any horse he thought
roper; and a right serviceable piece of enchantment he found
it, though not quite so useful to a Rapparee as that of Billy
Delaney, who got the same ould woman to rub his neck with
an intment, so that no hemp could hang him, which last has
proved true, sure endugh for after he'd been tied up for a mat-
ter of an hour, and cut down, he was brought to life again
without difficulty.” But to return to Cahir na Cappul. I was
* Delaney's own account somewhat differs from that in the text;
he does not appear to attribute his preservation to anything like
witchcraft. “An acquaintance of mine,” says he, “who had been


- 76
once myself an eye-witness to his tricks, although I wasn't
aware it was he himself at the time. One evening I'd been to
see a friend in a distant part of the country, and was returning
by some fields skirting a great º piece of ground that lies
in those parts, when what shoul see but a man driving a
pack of horses into a corner of the field, which he managed so
cleverly that I stopped to look at him. Not a notion had I
that he was a Rapparee; in fact, I took him for the owner of
the field. As to the horses, they were young unbroken º:
as wild and as restive as could be : but somehow or other, by
screaming and shouting, he got 'em all into a corner. Then
singling out the finest and freshest (and a beauty it was to be
shure), he seized by the near fore leg, and held him fast while
he threw a bit of rope round his neck, vaulting on to his back
as if he’d been a tame pony in a circus. Thinks I to myself,
when I saw how the coult began to fling, You'll not be sorry
to change your seat, my friend. No such idea entered his head;
for however much the coult kicked, and capered, and rared,
there sat the man, and only laughed, and encouraged him. At
last the horse rared boult upright, with his legs in the air; but
still there the rider stuck, glued to his back, as if he'd been the
man half of the Centaur in the sign at Ballynacrag. Finding
resistance useless, and the position by no means *...
down came the coult, and with that my gentleman began to
tickle his sides with his fingers, and away they set dashing and
splashing over bog and quagmire-floundering and plunging—
so that I thought if the Headless Horseman himself had been
the rider, he must have been hard put to it. I was wrong
again, for they were soon out of sight; and I found, on inquiry,
afterwards, that it was no other than Cahir na Cappul, him-
self, I had seen.”
“Is that all the charm?” cried Jack. “The secret of that,
Mr. Tyrconnel, lies in a nutshell—pluck!—that’s all that’s re-
quired. I’ll engage to do the same thing any day in the year,
and ask no withcraft to aid me to keep my seat.”
“Cahir can do other things beside ride,” said Titus, solici-
tous for the glory of his country. “Not long since he’d a nar-
instructed in the art of surgery at Paris, came to see me in jail a few
days before my trial at Naas; he prepared something for me, which
I was to keep in my mouth while I hung, if possible, and said it
would be a means of preserving my life. This made me somewhat
careless of preparing for death, for I was intent upon observing his
directions. I turned from the ladder as easily as I could, and for
the space of a minute or two was very sensible of pain, and could
feel something now and then under my feet, till immediately I
thought all things before me were turned into a red flame, which pre-
ºntly seemed blue, till at last it vanished quite.”—History of the
Rapparees,


77
now escape of being taken on the banks of the Barrow, when
he was pursued by a large party of armed men on both sides of
the river. Down j Cahir to the water-side, and dash'd
headlong into the stream, swimming away for his life. A
gun was fired-down he dives, like a coot—up again—another—
and then a yolley, followed by a long dive—so long, that eve
body thought he was done for entirely—when up pops a blac
head, far down the stream. He was now in a swift current,
and put out all his strength, darting away like an arrow from
a bow. The water in every direction was spotted by balls, but
never a one seemed to touch him; and though every sowl of
'em ran as fast as legs can carry him, yet aided by the swift
stream, Cahir na Cappul outstripped them all.”
“Well,” said Coates, “we’ve had enough about the Irish
highwaymen, in all conscience : but there’s one on our own
. of the channel that makes quite as much noise.”
“Who’s that?” asked Jack.
“Dick Turpin,” replied the Attorney; “he seems to me
quite as worthy of mention as any of the hinds, the Du Vals,
or the Rapparees, you have either of you enumerated.”
“I did not think of him,” replied Palmer, smiling; “though
if I had, he scarcely deserves to be ranked with those great
men.”
“Turpin'" cried Titus; “they tell me he keeps the best
nag in the United Kingdom, and can ride faster and farther in
a #, than any other man.”
“So I’ve heard,” said Palmer; “I should like to try a run
with him. I warrant me, l’d not be far behind that same
Dick.”
“I should like to get a peep at Turpin,” said Titus.
“So should I,” .#. ğ.
“You may both of you be gratified, gentlemen,” said Palmer.
“Talking of Dick Turpin, they say, is like talking of the devil,
he's at your elbow ere the word's out of your mouth. He may
be within hearing, at this moment, for anything we know to
the contrary.” - - - -
“Faith then,” replied Titus, “he must lie, like a rat, in the
wainscoat, for I don’t know where else he could hide.”
“Were he there,” returned Jack, laughing, “you might grab
him, like Du Val at the “Hole-in-the-wall.’” - -
“I wish they could grab him, as you call it, with all my
heart,” said the Attorney; “and they might do so, if they were
to set the right way to work. I’ve a plan for seizing him, that
could not fail; I’ve a noose in embryo : only let me get a
limpse of him, that's all. You shall see how I'll dispose of
im.”
“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
-
7 * -


78
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 cus:
tomer. 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 horse, and though the whole
field gave chace, he distanced them all, easily.” - -
“And how came you not to try your pace with him, if you
were there, as you boasted just now!” asked Coates.
“So I did, and stuck closer to him than any one else. We
were neck and neck. I was the only person who could, have
delivered him to the hands of justice, if I’d felt inclined.”
“I wish I’d a similar opportunity,” said Coates: “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 him!” cried Jack, with a sneer.
“I’d engage to do it,” replied Coates. “I’ll bet a hundred
guineas I take him, if I ever have the same chance.”
“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 your halves.”
“What's the matter?” exclaimed Small, awakened from his
doze.
“Only a trifling bet about a highwayman,” replied Titus.
“A highwayman!” echoed Small. “There are none in the
house, I hope.”
“I hope not,” answered Coates. “But these gentlemen
seem to have a remarkable predilection for discussing the lives
of those depredators. They have sung the praises of all sorts
of rogues and rascals for the last half-hour. All the thieves of
modern days have been brought under review.”
Further speech was cut short, by the sudden º. of the
door, followed by the abrupt entrance of a tall, slender young
man, who hastily advanced towards the table, around which
the company were seated. He excited the utmost astonishment
in the whole group, curiosity was exhibited in every counte-
nance—the magnum remained poised midway in the hand of
Palmer—Doctor Small scorched his thumb in the bowl of his
ipe; and Mr. Coates was almost choked, by swallowing an
inordinate whiff of vapour.
“Young Sir Ranulph '" ejaculated the latter, so soon as the
syncope would permit him.
“Sir Ranulph here?” echoed Palmer.
“Good God!” exclaimed Small.
“The devil l’” cried Titus, with a start; “This is more than
I expected.”
“Gentlemen,” said Ranulph, “do not let my unexpected ar-
rival here discompose you. Doctor Small, you will excuse the
manner of my greeting; and you, Mr. Coates. One of the


79
party, I believe, was my father's medical attendant, a Mr.
Tyrconnel.” - -
“I, Sir, had that honour,” replied Titus, bowing profoundly
“When, and at what hour, did he die?” jà Ranulph.
“Your worthy father,” answered Titus, again bowing, “de-
parted this life on Thursday last.”
“The hour?—the precise minute!” asked Ranulph.
eagerly.
“Faith, Sir Ranulph,” replied Titus, “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 eyes 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 intently at the apparel. “The very dress too!” muttered
he; then, turning to the assembly, who were watching his
movements with surprise, he requested them to resume their
seats. Palmer and the attorney complied instantly, but Doc-
tor Small advanced toward him, and with great kindness of
manner, taking hold of Ranulph's hand, drew him into a corner
of the room.
“Your sudden return has indeed surprised me—nor can I
conceive how intelligence of your father's demise could possi-
bly have reached you in time sufficient to have enabled you to
arrive here. Nevertheless, your presence will be most welcome
to your parent (would I could say in affliction)—as well as de-
sirable on all other accounts. Your attendance at the fune-
ral—” -
“Which takes place to-night.”
“At the mid hour—a strange custom, Sir Ranulph 3’” said .
Small. -
“Strange, indeed!” said Ranulph, musingly.
“Very strange!” reiterated Small, “and might be resisted.
I should never dream of complying with such conditions.”
“Comply with what conditions?” exclaimed Ranulph, start-
ing. “Have I not done his bidding?”
“Whose bidding, my good young friend?” asked Small,
surprised at the question. - -
“Nay, there is some mistake,” replied Ranulph, recovering
his composure, and smiling faintly. “I am jaded with my
journey. An hour's rest will enable me to go through this
melancholy ceremony. Where is my mother?” -
“Lady Rookwood is, I believe, in her own room,” replied
Titus. “She desired she might not be disturbed—and left the
whole management of the solemnity to me—of course not anti-
cipating your return, Sir Ranulph—and I trust the arrangements
j. have made will meet with your satisfaction. I have
endeavoured, to the best of my power, to maintain the respecta-


80
bility of the family, by doing the thing in the most liberal man-
ner, and in such a way as 1 knew it would best have pleased
my respected friend had he been alive to witness it. . Heaven
rest him! There is another thing, also, I may as well mention,
and I hope the allusion to it will not be distressing to your
feelings, Sir Ranulph. According to Sir Pier's directions, his
body has been embalmed under my own immediate superintend-
ence; and though I say it, who should not say it, he looks, in
consequence as beautiful as the day he was born. The corpse
is now lying in state, with the room lighted up; but, at Lady
Rookwood's particular request, I have ordered every sowl in
the house to be shut out of the room until ten o’clock, as her
Ladyship has signified her desire to view the remains alone.
An order, I assure you, Sir Ranulph, I had some difficulty in
enforcing, the tenantry being mighty anxious to see the last
of their master. Heaven rest him, I say.” -
“I will not disturb my mother, at present”—returned the
young man; upon whom this piece of information appeared to
produce a very painful effect; “nor would I have her know of
my arrival. Doctor, I have something for your private ear,”
addressing Small... “Gentlemen, will you spare us the room
for a few minutes ?”
“By my conscience,” said Tyrconnel to Jack Palmer, as
they were going forth, “a mighty fine boy he is—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 at this moment "
CHAPTER VII.
Fer. Yes, Francisco,
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.
- THE BROTHERs.-SHIRLEY.
“TheRE is nothing, I trust, my dear young friend and quon-
dam pupil,” said Dr. Small, as the door was closed, “ that
weighs upon your mind, beyond the sorrow naturally incident
tº an affliction, severe as the present. Forgive my apprehensions,
if I am wrong. You know the affectionate interest I have eve:
/


84
but my heart smote me with a bitter presentiment, and I thought
I saw a very slight tremor in Eleanor's countenance, so slight,
indeed, as to be imperceptible to any other eye than that of a
lover. “At all events,” said I, “I am a free agent.”
“‘No,' replied Mrs. Mowbray, ‘unless he is willing that the
intimacy be renewed, and will himself make the advances, I
will never acquiesce in it.”
“It was in vain I again urged all my former arguments; she
was inflexible; and the utmost I could obtain from her, was
permission to visit at her house daily during my brief continu-
ance in town. To this she º consented; but my
solicitation was backed by her son, Captain Mowbray, who
now came forward in the most friendly manner, and urged his
mother to accede to my wishes. -
“You may suppose that I did not hesitate to avail myself
of this permission. The next day found me there, and the
next. I then learnt the history of the family. For many years
they had dwelt in the south of France, where Mr. Mowbray
had died. The son had visited England; entered the army,
and risen to his present rank. Their fortune was slender, but
sufficient. After having spent some years in active service,
Captain Mowbray returned to his family, and brought them
over with him to this country. They had resided in London
then nearly two years.
“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
adverse 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 thus much,
I must 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
neighbours, combined with every solid qualification, which we
claim as more essentially our own. Her light and frolic man-
ner was French, certainly ; but her gentle, sincere heart was as
surely English. The foreign accent that dwelt upon her tongue,
communicated an inexpressible charm, even to the language
which she spoke.
“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—recall each word—revive
each look. It may not be—I must hasten on. Darker themes
await me. -
“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


85
this blissful state. One happy week was its extent. I
i.e. a peremptory summons from my father to return
Oine.
“Immediately upon commencing this acquaintance, I had
written 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 ex-
patiated upon the beauty of Eleanor, and in such terms, I fear,
that I excited 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 re-
turn. -
“The bitter hour was at hand. I could not hesitate to com-
ply. Without my father's sanction, I was assured Mrs. Mow-
bay would not permit any continuance of my acquaintance.
Of Eleanor's inclinations I fancied I had some assurance; but
without her mother's consent, to whose will she was devoted,
I felt, had I even been inclined 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 ut-
terly adverse to my wishes. Agonized, therefore, with a thou-
sand apprehensions, I presented myself on the morn of my de-
parture. It was then I made the declaration of my passion to
Eleanor—it was then that every hope was confirmed, every ap-
prehension realized. 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 consummation was
dependant on the will of two others, whose assenting voices,
she feared, could never be obtained. From Mrs. Mowbray I re-
ceived 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
outbreak of feeling peculiar to a heart keenly sympathetic as
her's. 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, I endeavoured to pre-
pare myself for the worst. I arrived. My reception was such
as I had calculated upon ; and, to increase my distress, my pa-
rents had been at variance... I will not pain you and Inyself
with any recital of their disagreement. , My mother had es-
poused my cause, chiefly, I fear, with the view of thwarting
my poor father's inclinations. He was in a terrible mood, ex-
asperated 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 wººd willingly have postponed
VOL. Is


86
the interview till the morrow. It could not be. He insisted
upon seeing me.
“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; P. my secret soul—dragged forth every latent
feeling, and then thundered 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 remonstrate with him. He was
deaf to my entreaties. My mother added sharp and stinging
words to my expostulations. “I had her consent,” she said;
‘what more was needed ! The lands were entailed. I should
at no distant period be their master, and might then please my-
self.” This Fiji. in order to give you my father's strange
answer.
“‘Have a care, madam,” replied he, “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 touch him. I will—but why threaten ?—let him do it,
and approve the consequences.” -
“On the morrow I renewed my importunities, with no better
success. We were alone.
“‘Ranulph,” said he, “you waste time, in seeking to change
my resolution; it is unalterable. I have many motives which
influence me: they are inexplicable, but imperative. Eleanor
Mowbray never can be your’s. 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
i. one whom you have never beheld At least consent to see
er.
“‘Never!” he replied. “The tie is sundered, and cannot be
re-united ; my father bound me by an oath, never to meet in
friendship 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 draweth nigh.” That I regard not. It may have no
meaning, or it may have much. To me it imports nothing fur-
ther, 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
e


87
of resentment to influence his conduct. My remonstrances, as
on the preceding meeting, were ineffectual. The more I spoke,
the more intemperate he grew; I desisted, therefore; but not
before he had ordered me to quit the house. I did not leave
the neighbourhood, but saw him again on the same evening.
“Our last interview took place in the garden. I then told
him that I had determined to go abroad for two years, at the
expiration 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 trusted, 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. Indulge no vain hopes. Eleanor never can
be yours, but upon one condition, and to that you would never
consent l’—‘Name it !” I cried; “there is no condition I could
not accede to.”—“Rash boyſ’ 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 your return, you shall
know it then—and, now, farewell.”—“Speak now, I beseech
you!' I exclaimed ; anything, everything—what you will !—
“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. } saw my mother, but
he came not again. I quitted England, without beholding
Eleanor.” -
“Did you not acquaint her, by letter, with what had occurred,
and your eonsequent intentions?” inquired Small.
“I did,” replied Ranulph : “but 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 con-
sideration, whether I am not justified in departing from my
father's express wishes, or whether I should violate his com-
mands in so doing.”
“We will discuss that point hereafter,” replied Small, add-
ing, as he noticed the growing paleness of his companion—
“You are too exhausted to proceed—you had better defer the
remainder of your story to a future period.” - -
“No,” replied Ranulph, filling himself 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 motive of my return. -
“I had wandered from city to city during my term of exile—
consumed by hopeless passion—with little that could amuse


88
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 Bourdeaux;-
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 château, 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 members 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 château 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
the room she had occupied—tended the flowers she had tended;
and, on the golden summer eves would watch the rapid waters,
tinged with the glorious hues of sunset, sweeping past my
feet, and think how she had watched them. Her presence so
seemed to pervade the place. I was now comparatively happy,
and, anxious to remain unmolested, I wrote home that I was
leaving Bourdeaux for the Pyrennees, on my way to Spain.”
“That account arrived,” said Small.
“One night,” continued Ranulph, “’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, wrapt in the contemplation of its
beauties. I watched each rosy tint reflected upon the surface
of the rapid stream—now fading into yellow—now paling into
white. I noted 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 scarce discern a leaf-all was
darkness—when lo! another change 's The moon was up—a
flood of light deluged all around—the stream was dancing
again in reflected 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 towards me, and was satisfied that no one beside my-
self could be in the garden. The presence of the figure in-
spired me with an undefinable awe; and, I can scarce tell why,
but a thrilling presentiment convinced me that it was a super-
natural visitant. Without motion—without life—without sub-
stance, it seemed ; yet still the outward character of life was
there. I started to my feet. God what did I behold 3 The
face was turned to me—my father's face / And what an


89
aspect—what a look! Time can never efface that terrible
gesture: 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 wo 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 like one half dead. The
phantom shook its head with the deepest despair; and as the
word ' Return' 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 day-break 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
received 4” said Small.
“ Undoubtedly,” replied Ranulph.
“The coincidence, P. is sufficiently curious,” returned
Small, .#. “ and it is difficult to offer any satisfactory
explanation of the delusion.”
* Delusion " echoed Ranulph; “there was no delusion—
the figure was as Falºlº 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.”
said Small, “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 1–1 shudder to
think of it. I will rejoin you at midnight—I shall myself at-
tend this solemnity—Adieu !” - -
Ranulph †. the room. Small sighingly shook his head,
and having ſighted his pipe, was presently buried in a profun-
dity of smoke and metaphysical speculation.
8%


91
*
some vengeful deity; so much did the gloomy grandeur of the
brow, the severe chiselling of the lip, the rounded beauty of
the throat, and the faultless symmetry of her full form, accord
with the beau ideal of antique perfection. Shaded by smooth folds
of raven hair, which still maintained its jetty dye, her lofty fore-
head would have been displayed to the greatest advantage, had
it not been at this moment corrugated 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 anguish and
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, this person was occupied in the perusal of a pile of
papers. Her gaze, at length, became riveted upon a letter,
taken from a heap of others, which at once arrested her atten-
tion. As she read, her whole soul became absorbed in its con-
tents. Suddenly she raised herself, and, crushing the letter
within her hand, cast it from her, with a look of ineffable
Scorn.
“ Fool! fool!” exclaimed she, aloud, “weak, wavering, and
contemptible fool—this alone was wanting, to fulfil the measure
of loathing for thee, and for thy memory. The very air I
breathed with thee in life, seemed contaminated with thy pre-
sence. With thee near me, I had ever the consciousness of
the hated ties which bound us together, which I would have
broken, could I thereby have accomplished my purposes; but
now that I deemed I was for ever ridden of thee—thou despised
worm—that thou shouldst have the power to injure me thus—to
blight my fairest plans—to put a bar between me and my views
—to inflict a wrong which could only have been cancelled by
thy life, which should have been the forfeit, had I known, this
heretofore; to think that I can no longer reach thee—that death
has placed an impassable barrier between us, which even re-
venge cannot o'erleap. That thought galls me—stings me to
the quick; and if curses can reach beyond the grave, may mine
meet thee there, and cling to thee; may heaven adjudge thee to
an eternity of torture, agonizing as the hell of heart I now en-
dure! And surely,” added she, after a pause, “the flame of
vengeance which I felt to be part of the spirit that burns within
me, will not expire, when I throw off this fleshly shroud—nor
be incapable of executing its tremendous purposes. Oh that my
soul could now pursue thee to thy viewless home !”
During the utterance of this imprecation, the features of
Lady Rookwood, for she it was, had undergone a marked, and
fearful change. Her º eye, glistening with unnatural
brightness, suddenly lost its lustre+her quivering lip, its agi:
tated motion—her distended nostril—its tension—her upraised


92
-
arm fell heavily to her side—she stood like one entranced, as
if transformed to stone. -
A deep-drawn sigh proclaimed the return of consciousness,
and her first movement was slowly to return to the escritoir,
whence she had taken the letter, which had caused her agita:
tion. Examining the papers which it contained, with great
deliberation, she threw each aside, as soon as she had satis-
fied herself of its purport, until she had arrived at a little Pack"
age, carefully .. up with black ribbon, and sealed. This;
Lady Rookwood hastily broke open, and drew forth a small
miniature. 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 ignorant of the original),
which attested the artist's fidelity. The face was 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. A slip of paper was also attached to it.
Lady Rookwood scornfully scrutinized 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. Placing
the marriage certificate, for such it was, within her breast, an
laying the miniature upon the table, she next proceeded, deli-
berately, to arrange the disordered contents of the box. She
then stooped to pick up the crumpled letter, and after carefully
adjusting its creases, returned, once more, to its perusal.
All outward traces of emotion, had, ere this, become so sub-
dued, in Lady Rookwood, that although she had, only a few
moments previously, exhibited the extremity of passionate in-
dignation, she now, apparently without effort, resumed entire
composure, and might have been supposed to be engaged in a
matter of little interest to herself. It was a dread calm, which
they who knew her would have trembled to behold. “From
this letter, I gather,” exclaimed she, “that their wretched off-
spring knows not of his fortune.—That is 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 pro-
vide—a grave. There will I bury him and his secret. My
son's security, and my own revenge, 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 gipsies—'tis well”—even as she spoke, a
knock at the chamber door broke upon her meditations. “Ag-
nes, is it you?” demanded Lady Rookwood,


93
Thus summoned, the old attendant entered the room.
“Why are my orders disobeyed?” asked the lady, in a se-
were tone of voice. “Did I not say, when you deſivered me
this package from Mr. Coates, which he himself wished to
present, I would be undisturbed.”
“You did, my Lady, but—”
“Well,” said, Lady Rookwood, somewhat more mildly,
perceiving, from Agnes’s manner, that she had something of
importance to communicate. “What is it brings thee hither,
now 7"
“Sorry am I,’” exclaimed Agnes, “right sorry, to disturb
your Ladyship, but—but—”
sé. But what?”
“I could not help it, my *:::::::: have me come ;
he said he was resolved to see your Ladyship, whether I would
or not.”
“Would see me, ha!—is it so? I guess his errand, and its
object; he has some suspicion. No, that cannot be—he
sº not dare to tamper with these seals. I will not see
1In ,
“But he swears, my Lady, that he will not leave the house
without 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
indignation; “force his way ! º: I promise you he
shall not display an equal anxiety to repeat the visit. Tell
Mr. Coates I will see him.”
“Mr. Coates!—bless you, my Lady, it’s not he ; he’d never
have intruded upon you, unask'd, depend upon it. No ; he
knows, too well, what he’s about, to do such a thing. This
i —”
s: Who?”
“Luke Bradley—your Ladyship knows who I mean.”
“He here—now 4–” -
“Yes, my Lady ; and looking so fierce and strange, I was
quite frightened to see him. He looked so like his—his—”
“His father, thou wouldst say—speak out.”
“No, my Lady, his grandfather—old Sir Reginald. He's the
very image of him; but had not your Ladyship better ring the
bell 4 and when he comes in, I’ll run and fetch the servants—
he's dangerous, I’m sure.”
“Dangerous—how ! 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
surprise, could command speech. She fixed her eyes, with a
look of keen and angry initiºn the bold intruder, who


96
A low born jade, his wife : Sir Piers Rookwood's wife—ha,
ha: thy fellow hinds would jeer thee out of this preposterous
notion. Is it new to thee, that a village wench, who lends her-
self to shame, should be beguiled by such pretences ! That
she was so duped, I doubt not; but it is too late now to com-
lain; and I would counsel thee not to repeat thine idle boast.
t will serve no other purpose, trust me, than to blazon forth
thy mother's dishonour.”
“Dishonour!” furiously reiterated Luke. “My mother's
fame is as free from dishonour as your own. Injured she was
—her reputation, which was without blemish and without spot,
hath been tarnished and traduced; but it shall, ere long, be
made clear in the light of day; nor she, nor her offspring, be
a by-word amongst men. Hear me, Lady Rookwood; I assert
that Susan Bradley was the first Lady of Sir Piers—that I,
her child, am first in the inheritance; nay, am sole heir to her
husband's estates and to his titles, to the exclusion of your
son. Ponder upon that intelligence—it is a truth—a truth I
can establish, for I have proofs—such proofs as will confound
you and your arts, were they dark and subtle as witchcraft. I
will burst your spells. Men say they fear you, as a thing of
ill. I fear you not—it is your turn to blanch. There have been
days when the Rookwoods held their dames in subjection. Is
there nothing of the Rookwood about me?”
As Lady Rookwood gazed at him, her heart acknowledged
the truth of his assertion. Passion prevented her speech.
She looked a scornful negative, and motioned Luke to depart.
“No l’’ exclaimed Luke; “my errand is not complete; nor
can I suffer your Ladyship to quit the room, till you have heard
me to an end.” -
“Not suffer me,” answered Lady Rookwood, raising herself,
and moving towards the door. “How, ruffian, will you detain
me?”
“By showing you the danger of departure,” said Luke.
“By your leave, Lady, you must obey me,” he added, taking
her arm. º
“Never!” exclaimed Lady Rookwood; her hitherto scarce
governable passion enraged beyond all bounds by this last act.
“Obey thy mandate! Stay at thy bidding ! Release my hand,
or by heavens l will stab thee on the spot.” And as Luke
quitted not his hold, she suddenly snatched up a small penknife,
the only weapon of offence at hand, which happened to be lying
open upon the table, and struck it with all her force against his
breast. Luke, however, sustained no injury. Encountering
some hard substance, the slight blade snapped at the haft, with:
out inflicting even a scratch, and Luke, grasping the hand that
had aimed the blow, forcibly detained it, while a smile of fierce
triumph played upon his features.
“What would you do?” exclaimed Lady Rookwood.


97
“Falsify your calumnies: yourself have furnished me with
the means. Look here. And clutching her hand, he drew
from out the folds of his waistcoat the skeleton hand of his
mother, in the bones of which the broken blade was sticking.
“This dead hand, which has this instant, in all probability,
preserved my life, was my mother’s . It has done this—it will
do more—it will accomplish all the rest. See,” added he,
stretching forth the shrunken finger, and placing it close by
Lady Rookwood's own hand, who recoiled from contact with it,
as from the touch of a scorpion—“That ring was placed where
you now see it before your own was proffered—that cold hand
was pressed to your husband's, at the altar, before his faith was
plighted to you. . His faith to her was broken, but the vows he
broke, were marriage vows. The living hand may part with its
ring to another—the dead will retain possession, while matter
shall endure. Compare them together. The one through her
brief life, was ever gentle, ever kindly, ever yielding—the other
grasping, severe, inexorable. That is instinct with vitality—
with power—this incapable of motion—dead. Yet shall this
nerveless hand accomplish more than the living. Years have
flown since this ring was placed upon the finger; yet hath it
not corroded—not relinquished its hold. Look at it, Lady;
consider it well—touch it—examine it—’tis real—actual—your
own in shape—in substance—in design; for the same holy end
procured—with the same solemn plight bestowed—all the
same—save that it was the first—ay, the first—let that confound
you—let that convince you. With what a voice this silent cir-
clet speaks—how eloquent—how loud. I have no other wit-
ness—yet will this suffice. Of those to whom I owe myteing,
both are dead. Can neither answer to my call? She sleeps
within the tomb that now yawns to receive him: he is on his
way thither: yet this remains to answer for both—to cry-out,
as from the depths of the grave, for justice to me. Look at it,
I say: can you look and longer doubt? You cannot—dare not
—do not. 1 read conviction in your quaking glance—in your
averted countenance.
saying which, he relinquished his hold, and Lady Rookwood
withdrew her hand. There is an eloquence, inspired by intense
emotion, so vivid, that it never fails to produce a convincing
effect, even upon an auditor the most determinately incredulous.
So was it with Lady Rookwood. Aware, beforehand, of the
truth of Luke's statement, she would nevertheless have ad-
mitted nothing; but her daring determination was overwhelmed
by surprise at the extent of his knowledge. and by the irre-
sistible vehemence of his manner. . With little ºf their cha-
racteristic caution, Luke seemed to inherit all the inbºn, terri-
ble impetuosity of his ancestry; and Lady Rookwood's Secret
soul admitted, that one of the * order as the fierce race
WOL. I.


101
that this wing claimed an earlier date than any other part of
the house; and the massive construction of its walls, as well
as its distance from quarters more inhabited, rendered it impers
vious to sound, or disturbance of any kind, and, so far, a desi-
rable retreat. But the same cause precluded the possibility of
Procuring aid, in case of any such dangerous emergency as the
F. This latter consideration, however, weighed little with
ady Rookwood. Fear was unknown to her, and she required
little attendance, though at all times imperatively insisting
upon servile obedience. - -
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 bed-chamber,
the other leading to the gallery. Through the latter, after
; 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
windows that looked into the old, quadrangular court-yard be-
low ; and as they issued from the oratory a dazzling flash of
lightning (a storm having suddenly arisen) momentarily illu-
mined the whole length of the passage, disclosing the retreating
figure of a man at the other extremity of the gallery. Lady
Rookwook uttered an outcry for assistance, but the man, who-
ever he might be, disappeared in the instantaneously succeed-
ing gloom, leaving her in doubt whether or not her situation
had been perceived. Luke had seen the figure at the same in-
stant; and, not without apprehensions lest his plans should be
defeated, he griped Lady Rookwood's arm still more strictly,
and }*. the muzzle of the pistol to her breast, hurried her
rapidly forwards. Descending a spiral staircase, which led
winding from the gallery to the lower story, the sound of
voices in conversation were distinctly heard through the thin
partition which separated them from the speakers. -
“A word, and 'tis your last,” whispered Luke, pressing the
pistol to her side. - .
Nothing doubting, from the determined fierceness of his
manner, that he would make good his words, and trusting still
to some fortuitous occurrence for deliverance, Lady Rookwood,
now within call, though not within reach, of assistance, Was
silent. A loud laugh proceeded from the parties in the cham-
ber, and with that instinctive quickness, with which everybody
recognizes the familiar sound, she heard her own name pro:
nounced, coupled with an epithet which sounded anything ºut
polite, as applied to a lady. She had no difficulty in distin-
guishing the tones of the voice to be those of Titus ...;
Luke lingered. The language of the speakers seemed such
as to assure him of his security, and he was no" unwilling that
- 9 +


I02
Lady Rookwood should hear an unbiassed opinion of herself
and of her conduct. -
… I wonder how long the ould Jezabel will keep us out of
the state room 4” continued Titus, for it was he. -
“Can't say, indeed,” returned another voice, which Lady
Rookwood knew at once to be Mr. Coates's; “till midnight,
most likely, unless he prevents it. For my part, I wonder what
the devil takes her there, unless, between ourselves, she wishes
to be beforehand with the old gentleman—ha! haſ one would
think she'd never have gone there of her own accord. How-
ever, as I said before, she's got somebody to manage her,
now.”
“Ay: ay!” answered Titus, “that youngster will see she
does no mischief, he’ll take her in hand now ; he’ll have all
properly done, for his father's sake. By St. Patrick, only to
think of his coming upon us so unawares. I’ve not half reco-
vered my surprise yet.”
“What will Lady Rookwood say, I wonder, when she sees
him,” replied Coates; she'd no notion whatever of it; I’m
sure it will come upon her like a clap of thunder. I wonder
how he got his information—that puzzles me. ... I thought he
was too much out of the way to have heard 29
“That's what bothers me,” replied Titus. “How did he
learn it? But what matters that. Here he is—he's master
now ; and if he takes my advice, he’ll soon make the house
clane of her presence. I’ll give him a helping hand, with all
the pleasure in life.”
“While on that subject,” returned the other, “there's one
thing, more I’ve got to say—but you’ll be silent—I wouldn’t
have it reach her ears for the world, at least, as coming from me;
though, perhaps, it might be as well she did learn a little that’s
said behind her back. You must know **
“Pass on,” interrupted Lady Rookwood; “I will not stay
to hear myself reviled ; or,” thought she, “are these, also, in
his confidence? The plot is deeper than I dream'd it.”
Equally surprised with herself at the conversation he had
overheard, which appeared to refer to his own situation, though
he could in mowise conceive how the speakers obtained their
information, unless from the incautious loquacity of Peter
Bradley, Luke had listened in silent wonder. The coincidence
was, indeed, curious, and affected both parties in different de-
grees. On the one hand, Luke, though perplexed and astounded,
was inspired, by confidence; while, on the other, Lady Rook.
Wood was filled with dismay and indignation. Éver distrust-
ful of all around her, she was satisfied that Coates had clandes-
tinely possessed himself of the secret of Luke's legitimacy, and
of the fact of the marriage, by breaking the seal of the package
and that he had subsequently betrayed it. It was difficult,
indeed, to reconcile this notion with the delivery of the papers
|


105
been the theatre of his revelry and rejoicing, through the rough
drama of his life; it was meet, that the last scene of his
earthly pilgrimage should close there likewise.
he 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, before her. 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 within. Suddenly bursting from Luke's hold,
Lady Rookwood rushed forwards with a scream, and touched
the man's shoulder. He started at the summons, and disclosed
the features of her son 1
Rapidly as her own act, Luke followed. He levelled the
pistol at her head, but his hand dropped to his side, as he en-
countered the glance of Ranulph. All three seemed paralyzed
by surprise. Ranulph, in astonishment, extended his arm to
his mother, who, placing one arm over his shoulder, pointed
with the other to º: the latter stared sternly and inquiring-
ly at both—yet none spake.
CHAPTER X.
We're sorry -
His violent act has elen 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 REvenGER's TRAGEDY.
STERN, indeed, must that bosom be—insensible beyond even
callous humanity, that would not thrill with gladness at the
sight of a long absent child. As tenderly as it was in her iron
nature to do, did Lady Rookwood love her son. Her love was
the stronger, perchance, in that if aught she loved, 'twas him,
and him alone-aii else she hated. Ín him all her affection was
concentred—for him, no sacrifice was too great—for his worldly
weal she would have braved eternal perdition. And now, at an
unlooked-for moment, when she deemed him absent in a foreign


106
land—when his return was what she wished for most—what
she would have prayed for, had she prayed for aught—he stood
before her; in her hour of peril, and distress, his succouring
arm was upraised to defend her. Her son was with her;—
her enemy—his enemy, within her grasp. Triumph flashed
within her eye, and her heart exulted. For one instant she had
gazed doubtfully upon his face—her frame shaking with emo-
tion. Spirits she had heard, have wandered near their fleshy
tabernacles at such hours as these, and the features seemed so
like his father's that she scarce knew what construction to put
upon the apparition she beheld. The doubt was of momentary
duration. The next instant saw her in the attitude we have
attempted to describe. -
With that quickness of perception, which at once supplies
information on such an emergency, Luke instantly conjectured
who was before him. Startled as he was, he yet retained his
tºur, abiding the result, with his arms folded upon his
reast.
“Seize him,” cried Lady Rookwood, as soon as she could
command her speech.
* “He rushes on his death—if he but stir,” exclaimed Luke,
Fº his pistol; “and you, his mother, shall answer for his
ife. He is unarmed—he cannot cope with me.”
“Bethink you where you are, villain!” cried Ranulph; “you
are entrapped in your 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 her—
she can inform you, if she will.”
“A villain—an impostor,” returned Lady Rookwood.
“Parley not with him—seize him, at all hazards—his life is
#. life. He is a robber, a murderer, who has assailed my
lie.
“Beware,” cried Luke to Ranulph, who was preparing to
obey his mother's commands—I am no imposter—no robber—
no murderer—my soul is as free from stain of guilt like that,
though I have many offences to answer for. Do not make me
a fratricide.” -
“Fratricide!” echoed Ranulph, recoiling.
“Ay, fratricide, in our dead father's presence.”
“Heed him not,” ejaculated Lady Rookwood. “It is false
—he dares not harm thee, for his soul—I will call assistance.”
“Hold, mother!” exclaimed Ranulph, detainin Lady
Rookwood; “this man may be what he represents himself.
Before we proceed to extremities I would question him, I


108
unattended by danger, or difficulty. She must do this to secure
him. Her retainers were still faithful to her; of that, Ranulph's
º assured her; as she at once saw her mistake in attri-
uting to Luke's situation the chance expressions she had
, overheard, and which had alarmed her so much at the moment,
when they so evidently applied to her son’s unexpected return.
On their fidelity she could therefore depend. With all these
aids—with a certainty of securing him—the task was neverthe-
less not without hazard, and might endanger all, nay, advance
the cause she would fain defeat. This Lady Rookwood felt.
Luke was fearless—eloquent—desperate; he might sell his life
dearly; but that weighed little with her, if he were slain: on
the other hand, he might escape—he might be taken with life
—his defence might be so gallant as to produce a strong im-
pression, in his favour; he might, she was sure he would,
blazon forth his story; and that, at this season, when all the
neighbourhood, and perchance his friends amongst the number,
were assembled, was a scandal she could not brook. Her eye
rolled inwardly, as these thoughts swept darkly across her
brain. Suddenly she became tranquil. There is a calm
within the storm, more to be dreaded than the whirlwind’s
self. Addressing her son, she said, in a hollow voice.
“You have heard what he says?”
“I have ;” answered he, mournfully.
“And you believe him 1"
“I can scarce do otherwise. Compare his assertions with
what my father, himself, declared to me, before my departure
from, England. You may remember it. You spoke of the
entailment of the lands of Rookwood, avering them to be mine
unalienably. Have you forgotten his reply "
“No,” answered Lady Rookwood; “I have not forgotten
it; but I will baulk his designs. And now,” added she in a
whisper, “thy prey is within thy power. Attack him 35
“Wherefore,” answered Ranulph : “if he be my brother,
shall I raise my hand against him f* -
“Wherefore not g” returned Lady Rookwood.
“'Twere an accursed deed,” replied Ranulph. “The mys-
tery is solved. 'Twas for this that I was summoned home.”
“Ha! what sayest thou !—summoned?”
“Who summoned thee!”
“My father!”
“Thy father?” echoed Lady Rookwood in great surprise.
“Ay, my dead father | He hath appeared to me since his
decease; nay, on the moment when his spirit departed to bid
me return; why, I knew not. The doubt is now made clear.”
“Ranulph, you rave—you are distracted with grief—with
astonishment.”
... “No, mother; he was in the right. The dead will witness
for him. I will not struggle against my destiny.”


110
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 inde-
corous strife, the corpse of their father was reſt 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 their father's features, as their angry glances fell in
that direction. This appalling effect was solely occasioned by
Lady Rookwood's approach, her shadow falling over the brow
and visage of the deceased, produced the appearance we have
noticed. Simultaneously quitting each other, with a deep
sense of shame, mingled with remorse, both remained, with
eyes fixed upon the dead, whose repose they had violated.
Folding the grave-clothes decently over the body, Luke pre-
pared to depart.
“Hold "cried Lady Rookwood; “you go not hence.”
“Indeed '" replied }. “My brother, Ranulph, will not
oppose my departure. Who else shall prevent it?”
“That will I,” cried a voice behind him; and, ere he could
turn to ascertain from whom the exclamation proceeded, Luke
felt himself grappled by two nervous assailants, who, snatching
the pistol from his hold, fast pinioned his arms. This was
scarce 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; the best Bow-Street
runners couldn’t have done it better—capital—hand me that
pistol—loaded, I see—slugs, no doubt—oh, he’s a precious ras-
cal—search him—that's right—turn his pockets inside out,
while I speak to her Ladyship.” Saying which, the little At-
torney, enchanted with the feat he had performed, 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 inconvenience
from the alarm—beg pardon, annoyance I meant to say, which
this daring outrage must have occasioned; excessively dis-
agreeable this sort of thing, to a lady, at any time, but at a
Fº like this more than usually E.; However, we
ave him safe enough now, at your Ladyship’s disposal. Wer
lucky I happened to be in the way—smelt a rat in the hall.
Perhaps your Ladyship would like to know how I discovered—”
.* Not now,” replied Lady Rookwood, checking the volu-
bility of the man of law. , “I thank you most heartily, Mr.
Coates, for the service you have rendered me; you will now add
materially to the obligation, already conferred upon me, by re-
moving the prisoner with all convenient despatch.”


114
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 expected.”
ºf Bah!” returned Jack, shrugging his shoulders.
“Is this Luke Bradley,” asked Small, the unfortunate son of
Sir Piers ?” -
“The same, Dochter, replied Titus; “there’s no doubt of his
genealogy, if you look at him.” - -
“ Unquestionably not,” returned Small—“ old Sir Reginald
Rookwood, who is looking at us from out that picture, might
well father that fierce face.”
A group of the tenantry, many of them in a state of intoxica-
tion, had, in the meantime, formed themselves round the pri-
soner. Whatever might be the nature of his thoughts, no ap-
prehension was visible on 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 vehemence of the former, attributing both to their real
causes. The taunts and jeers, threats, and insolent inquiries,
from 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.
“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 con-
tent 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 endea-
vouring 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 alº 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 whispel in his ear,
“Never fear, all's right;” and turning his head, became con-
vinced of the close vicinity 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
moved.
“You...will consent to remain here a prisoner, till to-
morrow #77
“Iconsent to nothing,” replied Luke; “I am in your hands.”


115
“He does not deserve your clemency, Sir Ranulph,” inter-
posed Coates.
“Let him take his own course,” said Lady Rookwood; “he
will reap the benefit of it anon.” -
h ºpf course,” cried the Attorney; “to be sure he will. Ha,
a !
“I will-pledge nothing,” returned Luke. “Detain me, at
your proper peril.”
“Better and better,” exclaimed the Attorney. “This is the
highest joke I ever heard of.”
“I shall detain you then, in custody, until proper inquiries
can be made,” said Ranulph. “To your care, Mr. Coates,
and to that of Mr. Tyrconnel, whom I must request to lend you
his assistance, 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. §. understand
me, Sir.”
“Ranulph Rookwood,” said Luke, sternly, as he departed,
“ thou hast another—a more sacred office, to perform. Fulfil
thy duty to thy father's son.”
“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 spectators who had listened to the extraordinary scene
in astonishment, greatly, admiring the clemency of Ranulph,
made way for her instantly, and she left the room, accompanied
by her son. 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, entirely, by this arrangement.”
“That you will,” replied Palmer. “Shall I be your de-
puty 4"
“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, that was
to have been chief mourner, and havc made all the prepa-
rations, am to be left out. I wish Sir Ranulph had stay’d till
to-morrow—what could bring him, to spile all—it's cursedly
provoking.”
“Cursed provoking,” echoed Jack.
“But then there's no help, so I must make the best of it,”
returned the good-humoured Irishman. -
“There's a spare room that I know of,” said the Attorney,
“in the lower gallery of the eastern wing, with never a window,
and a comfortable anti-chamber. There we’ll dispose of the
prisoner, and keep watch in the front room ourselves; and


116
what with a bowl of punch, and a yard or two of clay, we'll
contrive to get through the night tidily, never fear. As to the
keeping him here, it's all nonsense; but there's something in
it i. I can't fathom. We shall see what to-morrow will bring
forth.
“Ay,'. replied Jack, with a meaning smile, ‘to-mor-
End OF BOOK THE First.


B O OK II.
&Tije Šerton.
Duchess.-Thou art very plain.
Bosola.—My trade is to flatter the dead, not the living—
I am a tomb-maker.
WEBSTER


• 120
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 hori-
zon throughout the day, rose up in spiral volumes, like smoke
from a burning forest, and becoming gradually condensed, as-
sumed the form of huge billowy masses, which, reflecting the
sunlight, changed, as the sinking orb declined, from purple to
flame colour, and thence to ashy, angry grey. Night rushed
onwards, 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 arose. At
once the clouds turned to an inky blackness. A single, sharp,
intensely vivid flash, shot from the bosom of the rack, sheer
downwards, and struck the earth with a report like that of a
piece of ordnance. In ten minutes it was dunnest night, and a
rattling thunder-storm.
A thunder-storm by night! What spectacle is there so mag-
nificently beautiful—so awful—so sublime? Is there aught we
can look upon, that can awaken similar feelings of terror, of
admiration ? Dreadful by day—night is the fitting season to
behold it in all its grandeur—in all its terrible beauty. The
face of heaven is shrouded, as with a pall. The darkness is
almost palpable—a breath can scarce be drawn; suddenly the
sight is stricken with a broad, dazzling sheet of flame, rending
asunder the tenebrous shroud, and illumining the dense cope of
* heaven. "Tis gone ! Darkness relieves the aching vision—
darkness made more intense by the contrast. Hark! the skies
resound with the loud, reverberating roar of heaven’s artillery,
echoing from cloud to cloud, and seeming, like the voice of the
Eternal, to shake the firmament to its foundation. Lo! The
vexed air is scathed with forked flashes, each succeeding the
other, so fast that the eye is unable to follow their thwart course.
• Again, 'tis night—again the thunder peals.
uch a storm it was once our fate to witness, belated amongst
the Eastern Appenines, on our way from Rome to Terni. Hav-
ing descended the castellated heights of Narni, we were speed-
ing along a valley, thick with chestnut trees, and hemmed in
by mountains on either side, when night and the storm over-
took us. . We had perceived some symptoms of the coming
elemental strife at Narni, but thought we might reach our des-
tination ere its outbreak: and with this hope we urged our
course onwards. We were deceived. He who thinks to fly
before a storm, amidst those regions, will reckon without his
host. We were in the thick of it. Night fell—the tempest |
arose. The thunder roared—the lightning blazed—we were |
involved in an atmosphere of flame. The lightning could be
seen, even with eyes closed. The tree-leaves rustled in the
wind—the mountain sides returned the thunder's bray. All
around was blinding light or pitchy gloom. Still we dashed .


121
on, through darkness, or through fire. Our offers of a liberal
buona mano were not unheeded by the postilion who drove us,
and he kept his way in gallant style. Now were he and his
horses utterly lost in the black void—now we beheld him bolt
upright in his stirrups, crossing himself, whirling his whip
round his head, or screaming at the top of his voice, to the
drivers of the innumerable wains that impeded our progress.
Despite all these, and other risks, we reached Terni in safety,
by no means indisposed to exchange our well-windowed
britschka, which appeared at that time, to have more attraction
for the electric fluid than for ourselves, for the albergo, to which
it had served as conductor.
To return to our tale: The progress of the storm was watched
- with infinite apprehension, by the crowd of tenantry assembled
in the great hall; and loud and frequent were the ejaculations
uttered, as each succeeding peak of thunder burst over their
heads. There was, however, one amongst the assemblage,
who seemed to enjoy the uproar; a kindred excitement appeared
to blaze in his glances, as he looked upon the storm without.
This was Peter Bradley. He stood close by the window, and
shaded not his eyes, even before the fiercest flashes. A grin
of unnatural exhilaration played upon his features, and he
seemed to exult in, and to court, the tempestuous horrors, which
affected the most hardy amongst his companions with conster-
nation, and made all shrink trembling into the recesses of the
room. Peter's conduct was not unobserved, nor his reputation
for unholy dealing unremembered. To some he was almost as
much an object of dread as the storm itself. -
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 this, all superstitious terror was put to flight—
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 proceedings 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 disappointment, in his muttered excla-
mations. Again he returned to the window, as if to ascertain
the probable duration of the shower. It was a hopeless endea-
vour; all was pitch-dark without—the lightning 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. The merriment
of the party in the mean time waxed loud and boisterous.
“What think you of the night, Mr. Palmer ?” asked the
Sexton, of Jack, for he was the anxious investigator of the
weather. º
WOL. I. 11


• 122
“Don’t know—can't say—set in I think—damned unlucky
—for the funeral I mean—we shall be drowned if we go.”
“And drunk if we stay,” rejoined the Sexton. “But never
fear—it will hold up, depend upon it, long before we can start:
Why they're not half ready yet; the coffin's only just soldered
down, and there's I don’t know what of the ceremony to be
gone through with. The grace cup to be handed round, and
the funeral oration to be ifºld by Doctor Small.”
“You don't say there's any of that infernal stuff to come,”
returned Jack, pettishly.
“Why not It's no more to the Doctor's taste than to your
own, but he can’t help himself. He must go through with it:
it has always been the custom here, and customs are sacred
things with the Rookwoods. Ha, ha! Where have they put
the prisoner?” asked Peter, 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.”
“Good. And who are on guard 4”
“Titus Tyrconnel, and that swivel-eyed quill-driver Coates.”
“Enough.” -
“Come, come, master Peter,” cried one of the rustics,
“let’s have a stave—a chant—I know you can sing—I’ve
heard you—give us one of your odd snatches.”
“A good move,” seconded Jack. “A song from you—
capital.”
“I’ve nothing I can bring to mind, but a ditty which I sung
some years ago, at Sir Reginald’s funeral. If such will serve
you now, you shall have it and welcome.”
“By all means,” returned Jack. -
Preparing himself, like certain other accomplished vocalists,
with a few preliminary hems and haws, the Sexton struck forth
the following ballad, which we shall entitle
THE COFFIN.
In a church-yard 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.
For here was wrought the sculptured thought of a tormented face,
With serpents lithe that round it rithe, 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 gray 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 freere.
-


124
“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 audi-
ence. Jack Palmer, however, laughed loud and long.
“Bravo, bravo!” cried he, “that suits my humour exactly;
I can't abide the thoughts of being put under-ground—no cof-
fin for me.”
“A gibbet might, perhaps, serve your turn as well,” mut-
tered the Sexton; but further conversation 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 looked a not incurious spectator
of a by no means common scene.
Preparations had been made to give due solemnity to the
ceremonial. The leaden coffin was fastened down, and en-
closed in an outer case of oak, upon the lid of which stood a
richly-chased, 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; this
group consisted 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 house-
hold were formed into a wide half-moon across the chamber.
There was a hush of expectation, as Doctor Small looked
gravely around; and even Jack Palmer, who was as little
1ikely 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 superstitious of the scarlet
Woman in supreme abomination; and, entertaining such opi-
nions, 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—of candle—of cup—all evidently derived
from that period when, under the three-crowned Pontiff's sway,
the shaven priest pronounced his benediction o'er the dead, and
released the penitent’s soul from purgatorial flames, while he
heavily mulcted the price of his redemption from the possessions
of his successor. Small resented the idea of treading in such
steps, as an insult to himself and to 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
olluted—his garments thus defiled—by actual contact with it?
t 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


125
(the advowson of the church of Rookwood being resident with
the family), and represented by him, as well as the placing in
juxta-position 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 de-
livery of his exhortation. His temper had been ruffled by a
variety of petty annoyances, amongst the greatest of which was
the condition whereunto the good cheer had reduced his clerk,
Zachariah Trundletext, whose reeling eye, pendulous position,
and open mouth, proclaimed him absolutely incapable of office.
Zachariah was, in consequence, dismissed, and Small com-
menced his discourse unsupported. But as our recording it
would not probably contribute to the amusement of our readers,
whatever it might to their edification, 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, Hieronimus, Ambrosius, Basilius, Bernardus,
and the rest, with whose recondite latinity, notwithstanding
the clashing of their opinions with his own, the Doctor was in-
timately 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 scarce forbear smiling, as he proceeded ;
and if we could suspect so grave a personage of waggery, we
should almost think that, by way of retaliation, he had palm-
ed some abstruse monkish funeral discourse upon his astounded
auditors. A strong impression was, however, produced upon
his hearers, more by his manner than by the incomprehensible
language in which his admonitions were conveyed. -
The oration being concluded, biscuits and confectionary
were, according to the 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 bowl was kissed, first by Ranulph, with lips
that trembled with emotion, and afterwards by his surrounding
friends; but no drop was tasted, a circumstance which did not
escape Peter's observation.
His work being nearly completed, he looked around for Jack
Palmer, whom he had remarked during the discourse, 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 the Doctor. “Let here be no dreg left in the cup
11 -


126
—thy task is complete.” Saying which, he returned it to the
Sexton.
“My task here is ended,” muttered the Sexton, “but not
elsewhere. Foul weather or fine—thunder or calm, I must to
the church.” Bequeathing his final instructions to certain of
the household, who were to form part of the procession, in case
the procession set out, he opened the hall door, and, the pelting
shower dashing heavily in his face, took his way up the avenue.
“Now this is what I like,” thought he, “when my skin is
heated with drink, to be soaked through and through—to hear
the heavy rain pattering amongst the leaves of the trees. It will
soon be over,” added he, holding out his hand; “thus is it ever
—your storm—your deluging shower, pours down, and is done ;
but your mizzling, muddling mist drags out the day. Give me
the storm—ha, ha!” - -
Lights streamed through the chancel window as the Sexton
entered the church-yard, darkly defining all the ramified tra-
cery of the noble Gothic arch, and illumining the gorgeous dyes
of its richly-stained glass, profusely decorated with the armo-
rial bearings of the founder of the fane, and the many alliances
of his descendants. The sheen of their blazonry gleamed bright
in the darkness, as if to herald to his last home another of the
line whose achievements it displayed. Glowing colourings,
chequered like rainbow tints, were shed upon the É. 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,
what appeared to be a plumed hat, standing at some distance,
between the window and the tree, and so intervening as to re-
ceive the full influence of the stream of radiance, which served
to dilate its already almost superhuman stature. The sexton
stopped. The figure remained stationary. There was some-
thing singular, both in the costume and situation of the person.
Peter, being naturally of an inquisitive turn, his curiosity was
speedily aroused, and, familiar with every inch of the church-
yard, he determined to take the nearest cut, and to ascertain
to whom the mysterious cloak and hat belonged. Making his
way over the undulating graves, and instinctively rounding the
head-stones that intercepted his path, he speedily drew near
the object of his inquiry. From the moveless posture which 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 missing his footing,
owing to the uncertain state of the ground, rendered slippery
by the rain, he stumbled forwards; and although he arose upon
the instant, the figure had vanished.
Peter stared in amazement.
“What can this mean?” exclaimed he. “Who, or what have
I beheld t—this was the exact spot upon which it stood—this


127
flag-Randolph Crewe's grave. This stone clanks firmly be-
neath my feet. It could never be poor Randolph's ghost. He
could scarce afford a coat to cover his back during his lifetime,
much less a cloak and cap that might become a baron. And
the devil is too wise to trust him. "What if it be old Sir Ra-
nulph, that I have seen 4 that feather looked like the sculptured
É." upon his marble heim. I have heard he walks on nights
ike these. And then the voice I heard last night. Tut, it
cannot be. Had I not slipped over yon unlucky hillock, it
would not have escaped me, had it been human. But I must
not tarry here, for ghost or goblin—the funeral train will tread
upon my kibes else.”
Peter hastened to the church porch, and after shaking the
wet from his clothes, as a water-dog might shake the moisture
from his curly hide, and wringing 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 small group which im-
mediately attracted his attention. --
Near the communion-table were three persons, habited in deep
mourning, apparently occupied in examining the various monu-
mental sculpture 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 thé Sexton
could sufficiently recover his surprise, to force open the door, a
female figure stood by his side.
The keen, inquiring stare which Peter bestowed upon the
countenance of the young lady, so abashed her, that she hesi-
tated in her purpose of addressing him, and hastily retired. It
was not admiration of the exquisite grace and beauty of the
person who had approached him, that attracted, the Sexton's
regard, for Peter was no idolater of feminine loveliness—it was
not the witchery of the dark blue eyes, into whose depths he
gazed, that drew enraptured worship from his steely soul—it
was not to peruse the enchanting outline of that face, or to
mark her free and fawn-like step—it was with nothing of
pleasurable emotion, but with a mixed feeling of wonder and
curiosity, that he gazed upon her.
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.


129
his road hither; and you are the last, as in the course of Na-
*ºre, you might have been the first. And, now, that they are
*!!, gone, you do rightly to bury your grievances with them.
All that perplexes me, is to see you here, and yet not altoge-
ther that, for young Ranulph Rookwood is now lord of the
ascendant, and mayhap—ha, I see— * - • * *
- > - s
“But of right, and of rule, to the ancient nest,
The rook that with rook mates, shall hold him possest.’
Are you familiar with that old saying, of your house?”
“Silence, sirrah,” exclaimed the gentleman, “ or I will beat
your brains out with your own spade.” -
“No ; let him speak—he has awakened thoughts of other
days,” said the lady, with an expression of anguish.
“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 amongst
the number.”
“Not for worlds,” replied Mrs. Mowbray, for it was she who
spoke. -
“If my brother would bear me company, I would almost
venture to enter the vault,” said the younger lady.
“Eleanor, it is a wild wish '"
“And perhaps a wrong one,” returned she ; “but I know not
how it is, an impulse, which I can scarce define, prompts me
to visit that tomb. Will you go with me, mother?”
“It is a dismal place; but if you wish to go, I will not op-
pose your inclination—my son will attend us.” And they ap-
proached the door.
. The Sexton held the lantern so as to throw its light upon
the steps as they descended towards the gloomy receptacle of
the departed. Our readers are already acquainted with its ap-
pearance. Eleanor half repented having ventured within its
dreary limits; so much did the appearance of the yawning
cells, surcharged with mortality, and, above all, the ghostly
figure of the grim night, 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 un-
moved.
“Whom does that marble effigy represent?” asked Eleanor.
“The first Sir Ranulph,” returned the Sexton, with a grin.
Peter walked slowly on, holding the light to the mouth of
each recess, as he passed. Coffin upon coffin was discovered.
He paused. “There lies Sir Reginald,” quoth he—“and there,
crushed in her coffin, even as she was crushed in her brief ex-
istence, the Lady Eleanor. Ay! look upon it—there lies your
mother,” addressing Mrs. Mowbray; “your ancestress, young
lady,” turning to Eleanor. “Beauty, after all, is but a frail


130
flower. It soon withers. She was once as beautiful as you
are, and scarce had numbered more years to her life, when she
was brought hither. Alas! that I should have to tell it. You,
who have so much loveliness, would do well sometimes to
think of this, when your heart beats high with conquest; for
the moth’s thousand glorious dyes are not more easily effaced,
than beauty's flaunting attractions. Your comeliness is not
more surely dust, than that gaudy insect's winged splendour,
which the slightest touch will efface.” -
“This place is not more frightful than that man,” whispered
Eleanor to her brother. - -
“And all the family are here interred, you say?” inquired
Mrs. Mowbray.
“All,” replied the Sexton.
“Where, then, lies Sir Reginald's younger brother ?”
“Who?” exclaimed Peter, starting.
“Alan Rookwood.”
“What of him 1'.'
“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
Ine.
“Your pardon, Madam,” returned the Sexton. “Great cruelty
was shown to the lady Eleanor, and may well call forth im-
placable resentment in her child; yet methinks the wrong he
did his brother Alan, was the foulest stain with which Sir
Reginald’s black soul was dyed.” -
“The wrong he did my mother was the fouler,” said Mrs.
Mowbray, furiously. “How can a churl like thou judge in
such cases, or institute any parallel between them 7"
“True—true—how can I judge " rejoined the sexton. “I
have no feeling left for aught; and if I had, I am a base-born
churl, and ought not to indulge it. But methinks, he who
wrongeth his brother, in the nicest point in which man can be
wronged—who robbeth him of one rich gem, entrusted to a
brother’s keeping—who stabbeth him where he is most de-
fenceless—most exposed, yet where he should be arrow-proof–
who druggeth, with subtle poison, the sacred cup of fraternal
love, cannot well sin more deep and damnably.”
b “And did Sir Reginald do this?” demanded Major Mow-
pray.
“He wronged his brother's honour,” replied the Sexton;


132
He stopped, and signifying, that all was finished, they not un:
i. quitted #. ... of death, 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, that he
talks in a strain so forbidding?”
“Ay, who is he " asked Major Mowbray: -
“I recollect him now,” replied Mrs. Mowbray; “he is one
who hath ever been connected with the family. He had a
daughter, whose beauty was her ruin: it is a sad tale; I can-
not tell it now : you have heard enough of misery and guilt;
but that may account for his bitterness of speech. He was a
dependant 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 scarce support
myself—I am sure I shall not venture to look upon him.”
“Had I dreamed of the likelihood of his attending the cere-
mony, rest assured, dear Eleanor, we should not have been
here; but I was informed that there was no possibility of his
return; and upon that understanding alone it was, I came ; but
being here, I will not withdraw. Compose yourself, my
child. It will be a trying time to both of us; but it is now in-
evitable.”
At this moment the bell began to toll. “The procession has
started,” said Peter, as he passed the Mowbrays. “That bell
announces 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 l’”
Peter hastened to the church door, where he stationed him-
self, in company with a host of others equally curious. Flick-
ering 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
only muttered from afar, and the lambent 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.
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 radiance the
edges of a few ghostly clouds, that hurried along the deep
and starlight skies. . The suddenness of the change could not
fail to excite surprise and admiration, mingled with regret,


-- 134
down the aisle—he had taken his station near it, gazing with
confused vision, upon the by-standers—had listened, with a sad
composure to the expressive delivery of Small, until he read—
“For man walketh in a vain shadow, and disquieteth 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.
Ranulph withdrew his glance; but, in spite of his anxiety to
forget it, that look haunted him. Small continued the service.
He arrived at this verse:—“Thou hast set our misdeeds before
thee, and our secret sins in the light of thy countenance.”
“Even sol” exclaimed the voice; but Ranulph looked not
again. His heart melted within him ; and leaning his face
upon his hand, he wept aloud. In the fulness of his grief, he
took little note of passing things: he was absorbed in affliction.
Scheme and speculation, for future conduct, were all swept
away, by the strong tide of wo—were all banished, by the
reflections of the emptiness and unsubstantiality of human ex-
istence. Death swallowed all. Ranulph became, as it were,
entranced. A hand was laid upon his shoulder—it was that of
Doctor Small.
“Command yourself, I entreat of you, my dear Sir Ranulph,”
said the Doctor, “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
exclamation of surprise and joy burst from his lips.
“ Eleanor l’”
“Ranulph '"
“Is it possible Do I indeed behold you, Eleanor 3"
No other word was spoken. They rushed into each other’s
arms...Oh sad l—sad is the lover's parting—no pang so keen;
but if life hath a joy more exquisite than others—if felicity hath
one drop more racy than the rest in her honeyed cup, it is the
gust of happiness which the lover enjoys 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 complying, her lips were
-sealed in one long, loving, holy kiss, the sanctifying Hº of
their tried affection.


135
*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
seyes, which seem fraught with greater endearment than ever
I have known them wear—yet, though I see and feel, and
know all this, so sudden, so unlooked-for is the happiness, that
I could almost doubt its reality. Why—why am I so blest
Forgive me, Eleanor, if so many dark oppressions weigh upon
my brain, that what I fain would wish the most, I most discre-
dit; and though I hold thee to my bosom, and feel to my
heart's inmost core that thou art nigh me, yet do I fear that the
fate which hath brought thee hither, may tear thee from me.
Speak—speak, dear Eleanor, and say, to what blessed circum-
stances I am indebted for this unlooked-for happiness.”
“I am here—we are here, dear Ranulph; but the melancholy
occasion of our meeting is one which represses even my joy at
seeing you. . We are staying not far hence, with friends; and
my mother, hearing of her brother's death, and wishing to bury
all animosity with him, resolved to be present at the sad cere-
mony. We were told you could not be here.”
“And would my presence have prevented your attendance,
Eleanor º’”
“Not that, dear Ranulph; but—”
44 But what 32°
“I feared to meet you.”
“Why fear, dear Eleanor "
She turned aside without answering.
At that moment, a recollection of his mother’s warning words,
and of the change that might take place in his fortunes, crossed
Ranulph’s mind as the baleful shadow of a fiend flitting over a
Paradise; and he shuddered.
“We are but secondary in your regards, Sir Ranulph,” said
Mrs. Mowbray, advancing.
“Sir Ranulph " mentally echoed the young man—“What
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, but 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
Ranulph, looking at Eleanor; “but that is now past, and I
would fain hope that a brighter day is dawning.”, His heart
answered, 'twas but a hope. -
* You were unlooked-for here to-night, Ranulph,” said Mrs.


º
- 137 - --
—with such a title as its lord can claim, nought is too high to
aspire to.” -
“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.
“Dear Ranulph—for mercy’s sake—not now—speak not of
it now—” interrupted Eleanor.
“A singular, and to me most perplexing event hath occurred
to-night,” replied Ranulph, “which may materially effect my
future fortunes.”
“Your fortunes 1" echoed Mrs. Mowbray, “Doth it relate to
your mother?” -
“No, Madam, not to her, to another '"
“Ha! what other?”
“Do not—pray do not press this matter further now, dear
mother,” said Eleanor, “you distress him.”
“You shall know all to-morrow,” said Ranulph.
“Ay, to-morrow, dear Ranulph,” said Eleanor; “and what-
ever that morrow may bring forth, it will bring happiness to
me, so you are bearer of the tidings.”
“Dear Eleanor l’”
“I shall expect your coming with impatience,” said Mrs.
Mowbray.
“And I,” said Major Mowbray, who had listened thus far in
silence, “would offer you my services fully, in any way you
think they would be useful to you. Command me as you think
fitting.” -
& 4 f thank you heartily,” returned Ranulph. “To-morrow ..
you shall learn all. Meanwhile it will be my business to in-
vestigate the truth or falsehood of the statement I have heard,
ere I report it to you.”
As they issued from the ehureh it was grey dawn. Mrs.
Mowbray's carriage was 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. 12+


139
“Devil take it,” replied Titus, “there's another miss—
Couldn’t I just slip out, and see that?”
“By no means,” said Coates. “Consider, Sir Ranulph is
there.”
“Ah Tim 1" said Titus, heaving a deep sigh and squeezing a
lemon: “do you recollect the way I used to brew for the oºld
Squire, with a bit of fruit at the bottom of the glass? And then
to think that, after all, I should be left out of his funeral—it's
the very height of barbarity. You are sure this is biling water,
Tim, for after all, that's the secret of making good toddy, and
you may take my word for it, Tim. This rum of yours is poor
stuff—there's no punch worth the trouble of drinking, but
whiskey—a glass of right potheen, straw colour, peat-flavour,
ten degrees over proof, would be the only thing to drown my
cares. Any such stuff in the cellar! There used to be an odd
bottle or so, Tim 1"
“I’ve a notion there be,” returned Timothy. “I’ll try the
old bin, and if I can lay hands upon one, your honour shall
have it, you may depend.”
The butler departed, and Titus, emulating Mr. Coates, who
had already enveloped himself, like Juno, in a cloud, proceeded
to light his pipe.
Luke, meanwhile, had been left alone, without light. He
paced about his narrow prison; a few steps was all its space
afforded; until, wearied with the fruitless exertion, he at length
sat down. He had much to meditate upon, and with nought to
check the current of his thoughts, nought to distract his atten-
tion, in silence, in solitude, and in darkness, he pondered deeply
upon his past, his present situation, and his future prospects.
The future was gloomy enough—the present fraught with dan-
ger. And now that the fever of excitement was passed, he
severely reproached himself for his precipitancy. His mind,
by degrees, assumed a more tranquil state; and, exhausted
with his great previous fatigue, he threw himself upon the floor
of his prison-house, and addressed himself to slumber. The
noise he made induced Coates to enter the room, which he did
with a pistol in each hand, followed by Titus, with a pipe and
candle; but finding all safe, the sentinels retired.
“One may see, with half an eye, that you're not used to a
feather bed, my friend,” said Titus, as the door was locked.
“By the powers, but 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.” -
“Well, that's a good guess. Curse that ugly rascal, Tim ;
he's never brought the whiskey yet; but I’ll be even with him
to-morrow. Couldn't you just see to the prisoner for ten
minutes, Mr. Coates?”


142
if that old woman gives me much of her jaw, if I don't spoil
her talking in future, may I come to the gallows before my
time's up.”
Suppressed laughter, from Rust, followed this speech.
That laugh made Luke’s blood run cold within his veins.
A footstep was now heard in the room, and presently after-
wards, exclamations of surprise, and smothered laughter, were
heard from the parties.
“Bravo, captain—famous. That dress would deceive the
devil himself.” .
“I think it will answer the purpose,” returned the new comer
—“but what cheer, palls!—Is all ready ?”—“Ay, ay, captain
—all's ready.”
“There, 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, “Sir Piers Rook-
wood calls.” We’ll overhall the swag here; and hark ye, my
lads, I'll not budge an inch till Luke Éj be set free. He's
an old friend, and I always stick by old friends. I'd do the
same for either of you, so no flinching ; besides, I owe that
spider-shank'd, snivelling, split-cause Coates, who stands
sentinel, a grudge, and I’ll pay him off, as Paul did the Ephe-
sians. You may crop his ears, or slit his tongue, as you would
a magpie's, or any other chattering warmint; make him sign
his own testament, or treat him with a touch of your Habeas
Corpus Act, if you think proper, or give him a taste of the blue
plumb. And now to business.”
Saying which, they noiselessly departed; but, carefully as
they closed the door, Luke's ear could detect the sound.—
They were gone—what was he to do!—the house would be
robbed. The immediate attack would be directed to Lady
Rookwood; in case of resistance she would be murdered ; and
that this was no idle supposition, the character of the men too
well assured him. And then, with hands, perhaps, dripping
with her blood, they would return, to release him from prison;
in reality, the master of the house, after they had despoiled it.
His blood was chilled with horror—and felt what all must have
experienced, who have been so situated, with the will but not
the power, to assist another—a sensation almost approaching
to torture. At this moment a distant scream burst upon his
ears—another—he hesitated no longer. With all his force he
thundered against the door.
“What do you want, rascal ?” inquired Coates, from with-
out.
“There are robbers in the house.” :
“Thank you for the information. There is one I know of
already.”


143
&&. Fºol, they are in Lady Rookwood's room—fly 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, but it may
be all a trick.”
Luke dashed himself with all his force against the door. It
burst open, and he stood before the astonished Attorney.
“Advance a footstep, scoundrel,” said Coates, presenting
*: his pistols, “and I will lodge a brace of bullets in your
ead.”
“Listen to me,” said Luke ; “there are robbers in the house
—they are in Lady Rookwood's chamber—they will plunder
the place of everything—perhaps murder her. Fly to her as-
sistance, I will accompany you—assist you—it is your only
chance.” -
“My only chance—your only chance, rascal; do you take
me for a green horn? This is a poor subterfuge; could you
not have vamped up something better? But back to your own
room, or I will make no more of shooting you, than I would of
snuffing that candle.”
“Be advised, Sir—I warn you—Lady Rookwood herself will
throw all the blame on you. 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.”
“Sir, I tell you not a moment is to be lost. Is life nothing?
she may be murdered.”
“I tell you, once for all, it won’t do; go back to your room,
or take the consequence.”
“But it shall do, any how,” exclaimed Titus, flinging
himself upon the Attorney, and holding both his arms; “you’ve
bullied me long enough—I’m sure the lad's in the right.”
Nothing heeding the disputants, 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—
“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.”
“Repent be d–d,” replied Titus.
“Follow me,” cried Luke; “settle your differences hereaf-
ter. Quick, or we shall be too late.”
Coates bustled after him, and Titus, putting the neck of the
forbidden whiskey 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.


144
CHAPTER III.
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 ad-
dress, 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. They were
alone. She renewed all her arguments—had recourse to pas-
sionate supplications—to violent threats; all were ineffectual.
Ranulph maintained profound silence. He listened with melan-
choly attention, but replied not. Passion, as it often doth, de-
feated its own ends; and Lady Rookwood, seeing the ill effect
her anger would probably produce, gradually softened the
asperity of her manner, and suffered Ranulph to depart.
eft to herself and the communings of her own troubled
spirit, her fortitude, in a measure, forsook her under the pres-
sure of the difficulties that seemed to press on all sides. There
was no plan she could devise—no scheme adopt, unattended
with extremest peril. She must act alone—with promptitude,
with decision, with secresy: to win her son over was her chief
desire, and that at all hazards, she was resolved to do. . But
how !—She knew but of one point upon which he was vulner-
able—one weak part on which the citadel of his firm soul was
accessible—one link by which she could enchain him. His
love for Eleanor Mowbray was that link. By raising doubts
in his mind, and showing fresh difficulties, she .# compel
him to acquiesce in her machinations, as a necessary means of
accomplishing her own object. This she wished to effect, but
still she doubted; there was a depth of resolution in the placid
stream of Ranulph's character, which she had already often
fathomed. She knew his firmness, and she dreaded that his
sense of justice should be stronger than his passion, ardent
º she knew the latter to be. But the trial should be
Inade,
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
+


145
thought of danger, became filled with apprehension and vague
uneasiness. - - -
She summoned her attendant, Agnes. The old handmaiden
remarked the perturbed manner of her mistress, but made no
eomment. Lights were ordered; and when Agnes returned,
Lady Rookwood fixed a look so wistful upon her, that she ven-
tured to address her. Agnes trembled as she spoke—
“Bless you, my Lady, but you look very pale, and no won-
tler. I feel sick at heart, too. It's all over, and he is gone to
his account—poor master! he who feared so much to die—and
then such a night as it is for his funeral Oh, my Lady, I
shall be glad when they return from the church, and happier
still when the morning dawns—I can’t sleep a wink—can’t close
my eyes, but I think of him.” -
“. Of him 27? - w
“Of Sir Piers, my Lady; for though he’s dead, I don’t think
he’s gone.” *
“ How 2°
“Why, my Lady, the corruptible part of him's gone sure
enough; but the incorruptible, as Doctor Small calls it—the
sperrit, my Lady—it might be my fancy, your Ladyship; but
as I’m standing here, when I 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;
but I thought I saw him. ... 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.”
“Hence—leave me,” said Lady Rookwood.
Agnes left the room. -
“What if the dead can return ?” thought Lady Rookwood.
“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—Ha—what sound was
that?—a stifled scream –Agnes!—without there!—she hears
me not—she is full of fears—I am not free from them myself,
but I will shake them off. This will divert their channel,”
drawing forth out of her bosom the marriage certificate. “This
will arouse the torpid current of my blood—" Piers Rookwood to
Susan Bradley.’ And by whom solemnized The name is
Checkley—Richard Checkley—ha, I bethink me—a Romish
priest—a recusant—who was for some time concealed in the
house, during that wench's lifetime. I have heard of this man
—he was afterwards imprisoned, but escaped—he is either
dead, or in a foreign land. No witnesses—'tis well! Me:
thinks Sir Piers Rookwood did well to preserve this—it shall
WOL. I. 13


147
be your confederate, your labour is mis-spent—your stolen
disguise has no more weight with him than his forged claims.”
“Forged claims. Damme, he must be a prime fakirº, to
have forged that. But your Ladyship is in error—Luke Brad-
ley is no confederate of mine.”
- “Both are robbers. You steal from the father—he from the
Son. -
“Come, my Lady, these are hard words—I have no time to
bandy talk. What money have you in the house !—be
alive.”
“You are a robber, then º’”
“Robber 1–not I—I’m a tax-gatherer—a collector of Rich
Rates—Ha, ha! But come, what plate have you got? Nay,
don’t be alarmed—take it quietly—these things can’t be helped
—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
3your 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 1’’ shrieked Lady Rookwood, now seriously alarmed.
“I must caution your Ladyship to be silent,” said the rob-
ber, who, as our readers will no doubt have already conjectured,
was no other than the redoubted Jack Palmer. Cocking a
pistol, “Agnes is already disposed of,” said he. “However
like your deceased ‘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 hike rudeness.
But I know the consequence of my character, and must, at all
hazards, support it. 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. Excuse me if
I hurt you; but you are so devilish strong. Curse me if I
ever thought to be mastered by a woman. What, ho: “Sir Piers
Rookwood calls'—” - -
“Ready,” cried a voice. w
“That’s the word,” echoed another; “Ready.”—And, im-
mediately, two men, their features entirely hidden by a shroud
of black crape—accoutered 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 assail-
ants could reach her, she extricated herself from Palmer's grasp,
* Forger.


148
2^
and rushed upon the foremost so unexpectedly, that before the
man could seize her, which he endeavoured to do, she snatched
a pistol from his hand, and presented it at his head with a
fierceness of aspect, like that of a tigress at bay—her eye
wandering from one to the other of the group, as if selecting a
mark.
There was a pause of some few seconds, in which the men
looked at the lady, and then at their leader. Jack looked
blank.
“Hem ’” said he, coolly—“This is something new—dis-
armed—defied by a petticoat. Hark ye, Rob Rust; the dis-
grace rests with you. Clear your character by securing her at
once. What! afraid of a woman l’”
“A woman '" repeated Rust, in a surly tone; “devilish
like a woman indeed. Few men could do what she have
done. Give the word, and I fire; but as to seizing her, that’s
more than I’ll engage to do.”
“Then damn you for a coward,” said Jack. “Seize her I
will—I will steer clear of blood—iſ I can help it. Come, Ma-
dam, surrender, like the more sensible part of your sex, at dis-
cretion. You will find resistance of no avail;” and he stepped
boldly towards her.
Lady Rookwood drew the trigger. The pistol flashed in the
pan. She flung away the useless weapon, without a word.
“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 touch-hole,
or your barking iron will never bite for you. And now, Ma-
dam, I must take the liberty of again hånding you to a seat.
Dick Wilder, the cord—quick. It distresses me to proceed to
such lengths with your Ladyship—but safe bind, safe find, as
Mr. Coates would say.” -
“You will not bind me, ruffian.” -
“Indeed, but your Ladyship is very much mistaken—I have
no alternative—your Ladyship's wrist is far too dexterons to be
at liberty. I must furthermore request of your Ladyship to be
less vociferous—you interrupt business, Madam, which should
be transacted with silence and deliberation.”
Lady Rookwood’s rage and vexation at this indignity were
beyond all bounds. Resistance, however, was useless, and she
submitted, 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 had no sooner crossed her mind than she uttered a
loud and protracted scream.


149
Damnation 1" cried Jack—“civility is wasted here. - Give
me the gag, Rob 1'.'
“Better slit her squeaking pipe, at once,” replied Rust,
drawing his clasp 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 the room, 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, hol”
“Mercy, mercy!” shrieked Lady Rookwood.
“Ay, ay, I’ll be merciful,” said Rust, brandishing his knife
before her eyes. “I’ll not be long about it. Leave her to me
—I’ll give her a taste of Sir Sidney*.”
“No, no, Rust—by God, you shan’t do that,” said Jack, au-
thoritatively—“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 !”
*i. 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 in-
truders, and the latter would have fired, but Jack's keen eye
having discerned Luke amongst the foremost, checked further
hostilities for the present. Lady Rookwood, meanwhile, find-
ing herself free from restraint, had rushed towards her deli-
verers, 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 precipitately 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 as-
sist you—I will defend you with my life.” -
“Tou defend me !” exclaimed Lady Rookwood, as in
doubt.
* Closp knife.
13 *


150
“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 1–a ghost—a ghost'" .
“A ghost 1” echoed Titus. “By my sowl, it's the first ghost
I ever heard of, that committed a burghary on its own house,
and the night of the body’s burial too. But what the devil
are these with it? may be they’re ghosts likewise.”
“They are,” said }. 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, but lend
a hand to take her to the church-yard, and be d–d 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, long ago.”
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
accomplished, he burst into a loud laugh. -
“What! not know me,” cried he-‘‘ not know your old
friend with a new face, Luke º nor you, Titus 4 nor you, who
can see through a millstone, Lawyer Coates, don’t you recog-
nize 22
“Jack Palmer, as I'm a sinner,” cried Titus. “By the -
owers, and so it is. Why, Jack, honey, what does this mane?
s it yourself I see in such company You're not robbing in
arnest ?” .
“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
.."; 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. “I suspected you all along—all your praise of high-
waymen was not lost upon me. No, no—I can see into a mill-
stone, be it ever so thick.”
“Well;” replied Jack—“I’m sorry to see you here, friend
Titus; but 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 farther need to
trouble yourself with worldly eoncerns,” levelling a pistol at
the Attorney, who, however, shielded himself, in an ecstacy of


153
“Must it be done at once 3’”
“Without an instant's delay.”
“Before your own eyes?”
“I fear not to look on—each moment is precious—you need
but draw the trigger—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 3’” -
“Will be useless then.” -
“Will not that suffice?—why aim at life?”
“You trifle with me. You fear to do it.”
<< Fear Zºº
“About it, then—you shall have more gold.”
“I will about it,” cried Jack, throwing the casket to Wilder,
and seizing both Lady Rookwood’s hands.—“I am no Italian
bravo, Madam—no assassin—no remorseless cut-throat. What
are you—devil or woman, that ask me to do this Luke Brad-
ley, 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, here, would blow out my brains for laying
a finger upon your Ladyship.” -
“I will suffer no injury to be done to her,” said Luke; “re-
lease 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 hath proposed, nay, paid
for your assassination.”
“How 7" 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 do-
cument?”
“Beware l’” said Lady Rookwood.
“Do I avouch the truth, then º’”
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.





BOOK THE THIRD.
CHAPTER I.
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.
THERE is a freshness in the first breath of new awakened day
(what time
the dapple-grey coursers of the dawn
Beat up the light with their bright silver hoofs,
And chase it through the sky.)
so inspirating and life-giving, that even severest fatigue will
yield to its invigorating influence. Braced by the keen, thin
air, then in its greatest purity, and refreshed, almost as if by
slumber, the toil-worn frame suddenly shakes off its languor,
and prepares for renewed exertion; while the sympathetic
spirit, heretofore depressed in its energies, recovers, at once,
its elasticity, and, like the lark, soars upwards, attuning itself
to gladness. So was it with Luke, as (after his escape from
the Hall) he inhaled the breath of the autumnal morning, and
felt himself inspired with new vigour and animation. For the
last two days and nights, his had been a life of vast bodily
exertion and intense mental disquietude; and, with the excep-
tion of a few hours of repose, stolen at the cottage of Peter
Bradley (where he had passed the day after his adventure with
the keeper), and the disturbed slumber snatched during his con-
finement at the Hall, he had known no rest. His strength, in
consequence, was fast giving way, when the fresh matin
breeze, like the elixir of youth, poured a new current into his
veins.
WOL. I. 14 -


161 -
t
eyes of youth; and, to the sanguine soul of him upon whom
life itself is dawning, is, I dare say, inspiriting: but when the
*hey-day of existence is past—when the blood flows sluggishly
in the veins—when one has known the desolating storms which
the brightest sunrise has preceded, 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 revive pulses that
have long since ceased to throb with any chance emotion.
Even such am 1–I am too old to feel freshness in this nipping
airl it chills me more than the damps of night, to which I am
accustomed. Night—midnight, is my season of delight. Na-
ture is instinct then with secrets dark and dread; there is a lan-
guage which he who sleepeth not, but will wake, and watch,
may haply learn. Strange organs of speech hath the Invisible
World—strange language 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 that 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 hashly as thy own screech-owl's cry. Let thy thoughts take
a more sprightly turn, more in unison with my own and with
the fair aspect of nature.”
“Shall I direct them to the gipsies’ camp, then?” said Peter,
with a sneer. “Do thine own thoughts tend thither 4"
“Thou art not altogether in the wrong,” replied Luke; “I
was thinking of the gipsies’ camp, and of one who dwells
amongst its tents.” -
“I knew it,” replied Peter. “Didst thou think to deceive
me, by attributing all thy joyousness of heart to the dawn #
Thy 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—black, yet comely, “as the
tents of Kedar, as the curtains of Solomon’—a mesh of jetty
hair, that hath entangled thee in its net-work-ripe lips, and a
cunning tongue—one of the plagues of Egypt—Ha, ha!”
“Thou hast guessed shrewdly,” replied Luke., “I care not
to own to thee that my thoughts were so occupied.”
“I was assured of it,” replied the Sexton. ... “And what may
be the name of her towards whom thy imagination was stray-
ing 12” -
#, She is one of the tribe of Hººl, on the mother's side.”
14
-


162
“Of the tribe of Lovel ?” echoed Peter.
“Grandchild of that Barbara Lovel, whom thou sayest per-
formed the rites of embalment on my mother's remains.”
“Her grandchild !—How is she called !” -
“sibilä Perez,” replied Luke. “Her father was a Spanish
Gitano. She is known amongst her people by her mother’s
name of Lovel.”
“Beautiful, no doubt?”
“She is beautiful,” replied Luke; “how beautiful thou shalt
judge presently.”
“I will take your word for it,” returned the Sexton; “ and
you love her, doubtlessly "
“Passionately.”
“You have loved her long 4"
A “Years.” -
“You are not married ?” asked Peter, hastily.
“Not as yet,” replied Luke; “but my faith is plighted. I
will raise her to my state.”
“To your state ſ” echoed the Sexton, in a tone of deep scorn.
“Ha, ha!—What would then be your state 4 Marry in mad-
ness, as your father did before you, and then cut through the
knot you cannot otherwise untie. You are a Rookwood, and
I say to yº ‘ beware.”—Again I tell you, you must abandon
this wench.”
“And break her heart?”
“Women's hearts are not so readily broken: the stuff is
suppler than thou deemest. But grant it should be so, it were
better for thee she should perish now than hereafter.”
“For what dost thou take me?—What evil thing art thou?”
cried Luke, reining in his steed, and regarding him with a look
of horror and disgust, not unmixed with apprehension."
“Thy grandsire—thy counsellor—thy friend,” returned Peter,
with a sinister smile. “Thou art, I have already said, a Rook-
wood, and as such I offer thee advice grounded on experience,
which thou wilt do well not to reject. Thy father I knew ;
thy father's father, and others of thy family; and with the an-
nals of all thy race am I acquainted. Thy father's son I also
know, and I tell thee, Luke, there are seeds of pride in thy
composition, which will grow up in as short a space as grains
of mustard to towering trees. Once Sir Luke Rookwood in
possession, and mark the change! Impulses that now but
feebly sway thy character, may then determinately affect it,
and pride amongst the foremost.—Even now, methinks, I dis-
cern some difference in thee, of which thou thyself can scarce
be unconscious. , Be advised by me in this matter: approve
thyself first, ere thou art fully committed. 'Tis for her sake I
speak.”
“For her sake!” echoed Luke, disdainfully.


1.65
ardent as ever; but he was not engrossed, as heretofore, by
that passion. Pride struggled for mastery with love, and in
the end might, he feared, obtain the victory. When a suspi-
cion of his mistress's inferiority once enters the lover's mind,
his passion, we may rest assured, is on the wane. Love, like
death, is a leveller to all distinctions: it will admit of none—
will perceive none; and when affection and worldly degree are
put in comparison by the lover himself, it is not difficult to fore-
tell by which the scales will be turned.
- Love's kingdom is founded
Upon a parity; lord and subject,
Master and servant, are names banished thence. .
They wear one fetter all, or all one freedom.*
Annoyed with himself, and angry at the unexpected insight
into his own heart, which had been afforded him, Luke began
to regret that he had ever sought out his grandsire as a com-
panion of his journey, and wished him safely back at his own
cottage. He was in no mood tranquilly to endure the further
persecution which the Sexton intended him. -
“One question more, and I have done” exclaimed Peter,
abruptly renewing the conversation.
“What wouldst thou ask To whom relates thy ques-
tion ?” *
“To Sybil.” - -
“Name her not—thou dost it but to torture me.”
“You answer me,” persisted Peter. “Thou hast loved her
long, thou sayest. With thee to love must be to love madly,
desperately. With her, being of gipsy blood, commingled
with the fiery current which she deriveth from her Spanish
parentage, love can be no tame regard.”f
“Tame regard "echoed Luke. “She is the daughter of a
wild race, who love with an ardour which those who dwell in
cities can never equal. Love with them is an intense pas-
sion.” -
“And, like the prophet's rod, swalloweth up all lesser emo-
tions—as pride, revenge, remorse. That is not thy case, Luke.
No matter; she loved thee pasionately—you have wandered
together for years. Could hearts so framed for each other, en-
dure the torture of unrequited love for such a period With
inclination to prompt—opportunity to grant—it were unreason-
able to suppose otherwise ! She is not of a chilly race, thou
sayest ?”
“What mean you to insinuate 1"
“Nay, I make all allowances.” - -
“Allowances !” -
* Cartwright.
-


167
mess than of ecstacy in thus hurriedly retracing those bright
and happy hours. Surely I am not, cannot be, the monster
thou wouldst have me think myself. That vision of bliss rises
before me like a Paradise, from which I am self-exiled. Re-
nounce Sybill never, never. Away with thy accursed ad-
vice.”
The Sexton answered not for some space; when he did, it
was in a tone of cold irony.
... “Advice,” said he, “is always disagreeable; I never take
it; seldom give it. If I esteemed you as lightly as I esteem
- all else; or rather, if I hated you as I hate, all else, I would
urge you to this match—I would bid you brave all customs—
set all laws of society at nought, and despise them as they
ought to be despised ; (not that you could despise them, for
our proud man, let him think what he will; breathes but the
reath of others—is a shackled slave to other's opinions—and
thou art already, or will be, a proud man, and then thou wilt
no longer see with thine own eyes, or judge with thine own
judgment); I would bid you do this, I tell you frankly, be-
cause it would be to make you miserable; and think not hence,
that I delight in misery, or am jealous of happiness. It is not
so: . But when I see folly lifting its hand against itself, or
driving its mad chariot at headlong speed, my hand shall never
stay the blow, or put a spoke in the wheel. In such case my
counsel would be, that thou shouldst wed Sybil. She is young
—she is beautiful, I should say, and fair, I doubt not in thine
eyes, though dark as an Ethiop in those of others. She will
grace thy board. She will adorn thy name. The gipsy bride
of Sir Luke Rookwood—there is romance in the title—and what
needest thou to care, if high dames should say, that she lacks
accomplishment, or breeding, education, all that is supposed to
refine their sex What if they, titled as they would be, were
to shun her? thou needest not care for that. Avoid the society
of women, and seek that of men : there are many, I doubt not,
who would see no mote in thy wife's bright black eyes—no
stain in her sunburnt cheek.” º -
“What fiend could have prompted me to link myself with a
companion so pestilent?” muttered Luke; but, thank heaven,
'tis only for a short space.”
“True,” replied the Sexton, “and thou mayest profit by thy
present affliction, if thou wilt, and turn this necessary' evil
to excellent account. Even I, you see, can moralize. Your
present situation applieth forcibly to your future condition.
Unwittingly you have saddled yourself with a troublesome
companion, who sticketh to you like a burr, and whom you can-
not shake off. There is, however, one drop of comfort in the
cup—the journey, luckily, is short. Marry—and you will have


168
a companion through the journey of life, equally, it may be,
wearisome, undoubtedly as difficult to be dispose of.”
Infuriated, as his own steed might have been by the sting of
a summer hornet, and yet unable to free himself from his inex-
orable tormentor, Luke, as the animal would probably have
done, sought refuge in flight, forcing his horse into its swiftest
llop ; and though he still carried the galling cause of his
isquietude along with him, he, by this means, effectually dis-
armed his pertinacity; as in fact, Peter's sole attention was
now directed to the maintenance of his seat, which every in-
stant, owing to the nature of the road, became more precarious.
The aspect of the country had materially changed since
their descent of the hill. In place of the richly-cultivated dis-
trict which lay on the other side, a broad brown tract of waste
land was spread out before them, covered with scattered patches
of gorse, stunted fern, and low brushwood, presenting an un-
varied surface of unbaked turf, whose shallow coat of sod was
manifested by the stones that clattered under the horse’s hoofs
as he rapidly traversed its arid breast, clearing with ease to
himself, but not without creating alarm to the Sexton—every
velly 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 fixing its talons in the sides of its
quarry, Peter for some time kept his station in security; but,
unluckily, at one dyke rather wider than the rest, the horse,
owing possibly to the mismanagement, intentional or otherwise,
of its rider, swerved, and the Sexton, dislodged from his “high
estate,” fell at the edge of the trench, and rolled incontinently
to the bottom.
Luke drew up, to inquire if any bones were broken, and
Peter presently upreared his dusty person from the abyss into
which he had fallen. Without condescending any reply, yet
muttering curses, “not loud, but deep,” Peter 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 horse-
man, 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 anything but indifferently mounted. Apprehensive of pur-
suit, Luke expedited the Sexton’s ascent; and that accom-
F. without bestowing further regard upon the object of
is solicitude, he resumed his headlong flight. He now, how-
ever, thought it necessary to bestow more attention to his
choice of road, and, perfectly acquainted with the heath, avoid-
ed all unnecessarily hazardous passes; but in spite of his
knowledge of the ground, and the excellence of his horse, the
stranger sensibly gained upon him. The latter's steed carried
-


170
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, no, nor in any other; she wants
no coaxing, to do her work—no bleeder for her. . Often and
often she's saved her master's colquarron” from being twisted :
Black Bess is my best friend, my first favourite, and dearer to
me than any J * of them all, though I've no particular dislike
to the women. But what blowen would do for me what she
has done? No, no,-Black Bess before the world. I should
have been up with you before this, had I not taken a cross cut,
to look at poor Ben.”
“The martyr!” ejaculated Peter.
“True, the martyr,” echoed Jack, laughing: “many a man
of less merit has met with canonization. Ben was a brave boy
in his day. I like to see how long a man will last, under these
circumstances. There was Will Davies, the Golden Farmer,
who rattled merrily in his irons at Bagshot, for many a long
ear, I’ve heard say ; and Holloway, who was gibbeted at
olloway, on the Highgate Road; and Jack Hawkins; and Ben
Child (he who was tucked up for the Bristol mail job;) their
bones are bleaching still ; and Will the waterman, who was
hung in irons at the Isle of Dogs, he stood it out for years—I
remember him. I’ve seen some dozens in my day. Curse
those crows—I hate the sight of them. Dammee, if I don’t
shake my chains at 'em, if ever it's my lot to hang, like fruit,
from the tree, and to dance a long lavolta to the music of the
four whistling winds. No one shall, pluck me with impunity,
—Ha, ha! And now may I ask, whither are you bound, com-
rades 4”
“Comrades 1’’ whispered Peter to Luke; “you see he does
not so easily forget his old friends.”
“I have business which will not admit of delay,” observed
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
ood fortune. You have found out that you are a rich man's
eir, 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 like to be addressed. I am aware of . A
nod is as good as a wink to me. Last night I learnt the fact
of Sir Piers' marriage from Lady Rookwood:—Ay, from her
Ladyship. You stare, and old Peter there, opens his ogles
* Neck.


173
jected over their path, compelling the riders to incline their
heads, as they passed; but, heedless of such difficulties, Luke
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, branchless
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 quar-
ters secure from their approach; while the party-coloured pies,
like curious village gossips, congregated to peer at the stran-
gers, 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 following gradu-
ally mounted a hill side; and when, at length, they reached
an opening, the view thence showed the eminence they had
insensibly won. Pausing for a moment on the brow of the hill,
Luke pointed to a stream that wound through the valley, and,
tracing its course, indicated a particular spot amongst some
trees. There was no appearance of a dwelling-house—no cot-
tage roof, no white canvass shed, to point out tents of the
wandering tribe whose abode they were seeking; and the only
circumstance which showed that it had once been the haunt of
man, were a few gray monastic ruins scarce distinguishable
from the stony barrier by which they were surrounded ; and the
only evidence that it was still frequented by human beings,
was a thin column of pale blue smoke, which arose in wreaths
from out the brake; the light-coloured vapour beautifully con-
trasting with the green umbrage from which it issued.
“Our destination is yonder,” exclaimed Luke, pointing in the
direction of the vapour. -
“I am glad to hear it,” cried Turpin, “as well as to perceive
there is some one awake. The smoke holds out a prospect of
breakfast. No smoke without fire, as old Lady Scannag said,
and I'll wager that that fire was not lighted for the fayter fel-
lows” to count their fingers by. We shall find three sticks,
and a black pot with a kid seething in it, I'll engage. These
Fortune-Tellers.


178
By that glorious river
Sits a maid alone.
Like the sun-set splendour
Of that current bright,
Shone her dark eyes, tender
As its witching light;
Like the ripple flowing,
Tinged with purble 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 looked-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,
keeping upon the turf, so that the horse's tread became inaudi-
ble, he presently arrived at a spot where, through the boughs,
the object of his investigation could plainly be distinguished,
though they themselves were concealed from view.
Upon a platform of rock, which rose 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. Qne small hand rested upon her guitar,
the other pressed her brow. Braided hair, of the jettest di.


179
and sleekest texture, was twined around her brow, in endless.
twisted folds.
Rowled 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 loath 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 sun-
beams which 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 magnificence of the eyes eclipses the face, be it ever
so beautiful (an effect which may be observed in many of the
paintings of Murillo), and the lovely contour is scarce noticed
in the gaze which those large, languid, luminous orbs attract.
Such was Sybil. Her features were exquisite, yet you looked
only at her eyes—they were the load-stars of her countenance.
Her costume was singular, and partook, like herself, of other
climes. Like the Andalusian dame, her choice of colour in-
clined towards black, as the material of most of her dress was
of that sombre shade. A boddice of dark broidered velvet re-
strained her delicate bosom's swell; a rich girdle, from which
depended a silver chain, sustaining a short poignard, bound
her waist, around her slender throat was twined a costly ker-
chief; and the rest of her dress was calculated to display her
petite, yet faultless figure, to the fullest advantage.
The attitude she at present assumed was a pensive one ; un-
conscious that she was the object of regard. Raising her guitar,
she essayed to touch the chords; she struck a few notes; she
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,
chaunting part of her unfinished melody:—
* Brown’s Pastorals.


181
“Though he be thy 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 as the
poor fluttering bird may feel. She could not remove her eyes
from his, though she trembled as she gazed. This species of
fascination was one that Peter loved to practise. We have
said his eyes 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 underwent
the former feeling in a disagreeable degree. She was drawn to
}. by the motion of a whirlpool, and involuntarily clang to
uke.
“It is—it is the Evil Eye, dear Luke.”
“Tut, tut, dear Sybil; I tell thee it is my grandsire.”
“The girl says rightly, however,” rejoined Turpin, “Peter
has a damned 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 thee long
enough. Is this the first time thou hast seen a pretty lass,
eh tº -
“It is the first time I have seen one so beautiful,” said
Peter; “and I crave her pardon, if my freedom hath offended
her. I wonder not at thy 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 thee
from her sight, I would advise her to await thee at the hill top,
otherwise the chances are shrewdly against thy reaching the
ground with neck unbroken.”
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 his skinny fingers clasped her own.
It was like the hand of Venus in the grasp of a skeleton.
“It is a little hand,” said Peter, “and I have some skill
myself in palmistry. , Shall I peruse its lines 3"
“Not now, in the devil's name,” said Turpin, stamping im-
patiently. “We shall have old Ruffin" himself amongst us
presently, 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
encampment, the spot selected for which might be termed the
Eden of the valley. A paradise it seemed. Art and nature
had conspired to render it charming. Nature had encircled a
* Devil.
WOLe Ie 16


185
breath. But, when taking a softer tone, love, affection, happi-
ness, inspired the theme, and he 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
them with him—when, with ennobled hand and unchanged
heart, he would fulfil the troth pſighted by him, the outcast,
the despised—in lieu of tender, grateful acquiescence, the fea-
tures of Sybil became overcast—the soft smile faded away, and
even as spring sunshine is succeeded by the sudden shower, the
light that dwelt in her sunny orbs grew dim with tears.
Luke gazed at her in amazement, and with displeasure. He
had not expected this reception of his suit; on the contrary, he
deemed that the anticipation of aggrandizement, which he held
out, would have been rapturously welcomed. That it was not
so, was clear. A painful struggle was evidently taking place
in Sybil's bosom. Perplexed and mortified, Luke neither spoke
nor stirred. We have said that a new train of feeling was
awakened within him—that pride was usurping the sacred seat
of love—and that his affection for Sybil had received a severe
shock. In all probability, had his proposition been met in the
manner he expected by Sybil—had she eagerly acquiesced with
his expressed wishes, and unhesitatingly and gratefully com-
plied with his offers, he might then have felt that he had rashly
committed himself (for Peter Bradley's stinging words still
rankled in his recollection like barbed shafts)—and crippled his
free purposes on the very threshold of his career. But he had
found it otherwise ; and when, with hesitation in his heart,
though passion upon his lips, he had offered all to her—her
hand was withdrawn—her face averted—her eyes filled with
tears. “Capricious, inconsistent, heartless, insensible! Shall
I yield to her humours! Shall I stoop to her 4” were his
thoughts, “Stoop to Sybill” echoed his conscience; and
as he looked at her, he felt that his thoughts had belied his
heart.
And what were Sybil's emotions? Was she, in reality, the
capricious, inconsistent being, Luke had suddenly imagined
her to be 3 Could she not sympathize with his success : She
could—she could. There was no thought of her lover's which she
could not divine, with which her own wishes were not identi-
fied. Hers' was a devotion passing the love of woman; in
that it was absolute devotion. Nought was suffered to stand
between her and her lover. No other sentiment possessed her.
She had no kindred, save Barbara, to claim her duty, her af-
fections. She was not distracted with worldly dreams—with
thoughts of pleasures or of vanities. She lived for her lover,
and for him alone. Beneath her gentle exterior burnt a flame
that was to all others a scorching fire: to her lover, innocent
as the tongue of flame that licked the prophet's feet. Adorin
him thus, can it for an instant be supposed that she was indif-
16 #


187
fusest to be a sharer in my triumph 1 Why wilt thou render
my honours valueless, when I have acquired them 4 Thou
lovest me not.”
“Not love thee, Luke 4”
“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 thee.
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, º.; 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
wherefore—wherefore not as Sir Luke Rookwood "
“Because,” replied Sybil, with reluctance, “ because I am
no longer thy 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 mine own esteem, nor in that of the world, with which,
thou, alas! too soon wilt mingle, and which will regard even
me as—no matter what—it shall not scorn me as thy bride. I
will not bring shame and reproach on thee. Oh if, for me, dear
Luke, the proud ones of the earth were to treat thee with con-
tumely, this heart would break with agony. For myself, I
have pride sufficient—perchance too much; perehance ’tis
pride that actuates me now. I know not. But for thee, I am
all weakness. As thou wert heretofore, I would have been to
thee the tenderest and truest wiſe that ever breathed; as thou
art now 3-
“Hear me, Sybil.”
“Hear me out, dear Luke. One other motive there is, that
determines my present conduct, which, were all else sur-
mounted, would in itself suffice. Ask me not what that is: I
cannot explain it. For your own sake, I implore you, be satis-
fied with my refusal.”
“What a destiny is mine !” exclaimed Luke, striking his
forehead with his clenched hand. “No choice is left me.
Either way I destroy mine own happiness. On the one
hand standeth Love—on the other, Fame; yet neither will
conjoin.”
“Pursue then fame,” said Sybil, energetically, “if thou
canst hesitate. Forget that I have ever existed—forget that
thou hast ever loved-forget that such a passion dwells within
the human heart, and thou mayst still be happy, though thou
art great.” -
“And do you deem,” replied Luke, with frantic impatience,
“that I can accomplish this—that I can forget that I have loved
ou—that I can forget you? Cost what it will, the effort shall
e made. Yet by our former love, I charge thee tell me what


194
tain good order, and promote concord. By means of her
strangely acquired wealth, she had, it was said, frequently di-
verted the course of justice, and effected the liberation of seve-
ral of the wildest of her gang from jail, or, at least, had af-
forded them comforts during their confinement. These favours
were never forgotten, and Barbary had acquired an absolute as-
cendancy over every individual composing her formidable tribe—
an ascendancy which increased as she advanced in years (for
store of years is supposed, by this savage people, to bring with
it store of wisdom), so that at the period of our tale, when she
had already numbered more than eighty winters, the will of
Barbara, once expressed, was law. Add to all this, the know-
ledge which she possessed of the power and virtue of all heal–
ing plants and roots; the skill which she displayed in their
application; the frequent cures she had performed; the strange
instruments, the drugs, the oils, the distilments, the spicy
woods, which she possessed, and the mystery she observed in
the art she practised (for Barbara knew full well the advantage
of concealment); these, and a hundred other reasons, made her
appear to her people as the High Priestess of their mystic
rites, endowed, from some dark sources, with magic power.
Some, indeed, entertained the belief, that she had obtained her
power, her gold, and her length of life, by the barter of her
soul to the evil one; but, as the prevailing opinion amongst
the gipsy people happened to be, that man has no soul to dis-
pose of, this hypothesis was treated with the contempt it de-
served, by the majority. All, however, concurred in thinking
her a remarkable woman ; and in whatever speculation they
might privately indulge, none dared openly to disobey her.
§ partook, in a measure, of these sentiments. How could
it be otherwise? She was born in another land—under a warm-
er sun–amongst a more fiery, yet amongst a people who fol-
lowed the same pursuits, modified by the customs of the land
in which they dwelt, and directed towards the same end. Her
youth, her maturer years, if her years could even as yet be call-
ed mature, had been spent under the surveillance of Barbara-
Her father—a contrabandist—a mountain smuggler—had pe-
rished by the carbines of the soldiery. His widow was taken
—imprisoned—tortured—condemned as an heretic, to perish at
the Auto-da-Fé.
Here it was that Barbara’s power was shown to its utmost
extent. By that wonderful freemasonry which exists amongst
this singular race, and enables them to communicate with each
other in different places, and in different countries, Barbara,
with a celerity almost inconceivable, had received intelligence
of her daughter's imprisonment. She set out. Crossing France
—she scaled the Pyrennees—she traversed Spain—she passed
through Madrid—she arrived at Toledo, in which town her un-
fortunate child was confined. There she lost all trace of her:
her agents could supply her with no further information. She


201
deed so horrible; for she looked so beautiful, so innocent, so
smiling, even in death, that, little used to weeping, as I was,
mine eyes would scarce permit me to complete mine office. She
was not unlike thy mother, girl, except that her complexion
was more delicate, and lacked thy mother's rich and sunburnt
warmth. Well, I came forth—her murderer stood before me
—Sir Piers. He trembled in each joint, as I looked at him ;
—he saw that I knew his guilt—he saw that he was in my
power. Peter Bradley was with him likewise. The Sexton
watched my looks—he seemed to read the secret in my coun-
tenance, and, as he looked from the one to the other, he smiled.
I shall never forget that smile—it was a father’s smile upon his
daughter’s murderer, carrying a consciousness of the crime
along with it. I asked to be alone with Sir Piers; he feared to
comply, yet dared not refuse. We were alone—thou wonderest
how I ventured to trust myself with him. I was armed, and
then few men could cope with Barbara. I would have stabbed
him, if he had stirred—I could have stabbed him for a lighter
offence. “You have seen her,” said he. “I have,” I answered.
He dared not continue the conversation. I spoke boldly, for I
hated him. “You were her assassin,” I said. He started.
• Deny it not,” I continued—'your life is forfeit, if I but speak.”
—“But you will not speak # If gold will not purchase your
silence, fear shall.”—“I deride your threats,” I returned ; “and if
you repeat them, I will denounce you. There is a ring upon
her finger.” Again he started. “She was your wife º'—‘Alas!
replied he, “she was.”—“What demon prompted you to kill
her?” I added. ‘Pride, pride,” shrieked he; “and the curse
that is attached to our house, the insatiate spirit which will have
its victim. She is gone—she is gone—would I were also dead.
Denounce me—give me up to justice—I deserve it all.' . His
remorseful agony, in a measure, overcame my anger, and, look-
º upon his face, I saw that he was under the influence
of Fate. I even pitied him, such was the extremity of affliction
to which he was reduced. After a while, he partially recovered :
he brought out gold –a hoard of gold, it was mine,” he said;
“I should have more, if I would take the oath not to divulge the
dreadful secret in his lifetime.” He renewed his entreaties—I
took the oath. He then led me into another chamber, where an
infant was sleeping—it was a beautiful boy—it was Luke.
‘Take this child,” said he ; “the sight of it will only recall her
—its presence is dangerous. Take the child, and with it what
gold thou wilt. Appoint what place thou thinkest proper, and
more shall be sent thee; but hence, away; the sight of that
child maddens—it is like an accusing angel.’ I took the child
—I took his gold—I did not remonstrate with him on the bar-
barous and unnatural act he was committing. The child I
thought would thrive as well with me, and it did thrive, as thou
knowest, Sybil, under my care. Amongst the bravest, the
boldest, and the handsomest of our tribe, ranked Luke Bradley.


- 204
“Who is without !” cried Barbara.
“”Tis I, Balthazar;” replied a voice.
“Thou may'st enter,” answered Barbara; and an old man
with a long beard, white as snow, and a costume which might
be said to resemble the ephod of a Jewish High Priest, made
his appearance.
“I come to tell you that there are strange women 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.”
“Women!” exclaimed Barbara. Whence come they?”
“They have ridden, I understand, from Rookwood,” answer-
ed the Patrico. “They were on their way to Davenham, when
they were prevented.”
“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 º’’ asked Sybil, with an acute foreboding of
calamity.
“Eleanor is the name, assuredly,” replied the Patrico,
somewhat surprised.
“Gracious God! She here,” exclaimed Sybil.
“Here—Eleanor Mowbray here,” cried Barbara. “Within
my power—not a moment is to be lost. Balthazar, hasten
thee 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 with 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 accomplish-
ment 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 a cupboard, and
taking a smallphial—“this will fortify her; and this,” continued
she, with a ghastly smile laying her hand upon another vessel,
“this philter shall remove her rival when all is fulfilled—this
º! constrain her lover to be her titled, landed husband.
a ! Ila :
END OF Wol. I.