ROOKWOOD.
 
 W. HARRISON AINSWORTH'S NOVELS. 
 
 Illustrated Edition with Plates by George Cruikshank, H. K. Brownb, and 
 Sir John Gilbert, R.A. Price is. 6d. each Volume. 
 
 THE TOWEE OP LONDON. 
 
 "WINDSOE CASTLE. 
 
 KOOKWOOD. 
 
 THE LANCASHIBE WITCHES. 
 
 GUY FAWKES. 
 
 SAINT JAMES'S; OR, THE COUBT 
 
 OF Queen Anne. 
 OLD SAINT PAULS; A TALE OP 
 
 THE PLAQOB and THE FiBB. 
 
 CEICHTON. 
 
 THE FLITCH OF BACON: Ob, 
 
 THE Custom of Dunmow. 
 MERVYN CLITHEROE. 
 THE MISER'S DAUGHTEE. 
 JACK SHEPPAED. 
 BOSCOBEL Ob The Eotal Oak. 
 OVINGDEAN GEANGE ; A TALE 
 
 OF THE South Downs. 
 THE SPENDTHEIFT; A TALB. 
 
 THE STAE CHAMBEE. 
 PRESTON FIGHT; Ob, THE IS- 
 SURRECTION OF 1715. 
 
 THE MANCHESTER REBELS; 
 
 Or, The Fatal '45. 
 THE CONSTABLE OF THE 
 
 TOWER. 
 THE LORD MAYOR OF LONDON. 
 CARDINAL POLE, 
 THE LEAGUES OF LATHOM. 
 BEAU NASH. 
 THE SPANISH MATCH. 
 THE CONSTABLE DE BOUEBON. 
 OLD COURT. 
 MYDDLETON POMFRET. 
 HILARY ST. IVES. 
 JOHN LAW. 
 AURIOL. 
 STANLEY BEEBETON.
 
 ^^^^^/-yiy^/^j 
 
 RESCUE OF LADV ROOKWOOD.
 
 Rook WOOD 
 
 A ROMANCE 
 
 WILLIAM HARRISON AINSWORTH 
 
 I see how Ruin, with a palsied hand, 
 Begins to shalte our ancient house to dust. 
 
 Yorkshire Tragedy 
 
 AUTHORS COPYRIGHT EDITION 
 
 LONDON 
 GEORGE ROUTLEDGE AND SONS, Limited 
 
 Broadway, Ludgate Hill 
 GLASGOW, MANCHESTER, AND NEW YORK
 
 ILC^VEiK^i TV OF C AMFORMA 
 ?K SATSTA BAIIBARA 
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 rAOH 
 
 Memoir or William Harkison Ainsworth. By Lam an 
 
 BlANCnARD vii 
 
 Biographical Sketch by James Crossley, Esq., F.S.A. . . xx 
 
 ROOKWOOD. 
 
 Dedication , 
 
 Preface . , 
 
 Book I. The Wedding Ring , , 
 
 „ II. The Sexton 
 
 „ III. The Gipsy . . . , • 
 ,, IV. The Bide to York . • • 
 
 XXV 
 
 xxvii 
 
 1 
 
 99 
 
 143 
 
 274 
 
 „ V. The Oath 336
 
 MEMOIR 
 
 OP 
 
 WILLIAM HARRISON AINSWORTH. 
 
 m LAMAN BLANCHARD, 
 
 A RECENT review in a leading journal of France bears 
 testimony to the great popularity which has been obtained in 
 that romance-reading nation by the writer of whom we are 
 now to offer some account. The estimation in which he is 
 held by his own countrymen is evinced by the large sale 
 which each new production of his pen successively commands. 
 In America his writings have been extensively read. They have 
 all been translated into German, and some of them into Dutch 
 and Spanish. Dramas have been founded upon them ; their 
 more striking passages have become as famihar as household 
 words ; and their subjects, in some important instances at least, 
 are associated with the most memorable features of English 
 history. The biography of a writer who has secured so pro- 
 minent a position may be supposed calculated to awaken a 
 more than ordinary curiosity ; not merely with respect to 
 those early dawnings of intellect, and those traits of personal 
 character, to which a deep interest always attaches, but in 
 relation to the family from which he has sprung. Happily, 
 in the present instance, we are able to gratify the reader's 
 curiosity. 
 
 WiLLUM Harbison Ainsworth imites in his own name 
 the names of two families which in the eminent success of 
 various members of them, had obtained celebrity long prior 
 to the present generation. Amongst his paternal ancestors
 
 Vlll LAMAN BLANCH ARDS MEMOIR OF 
 
 are Robert Ainsworth, the well-known scholar and author ot 
 the Latin Dictionary, and Henry Ainsworth, the Brownist, 
 who flourished at the commencement of the seventeenth 
 century. The latter was one of the most profotmd Hebrew 
 scholars of his time, and author of " Annotations upon the 
 Old Testament," and of a translation of the Pentateuch. 
 From these we come to the father of the living descendant 
 from the learned stock, Thomas Ainsworth, of Manchester, a 
 solicitor in very extensive practice. 
 
 This gentleman, though descended from a family resid- 
 ing at Plessington, in Lancashire, was born at Rosthorne, 
 in Cheshire, a village which he always remembered with 
 affection, and where, dying in June, 1824, he was interred. 
 Manchester, however, the stage on which his active life was 
 passed, benefited most largely by the ardour and zeal with 
 which he devoted himself to the promotion of public improve- 
 ments. He was one of the main instruments in causing the 
 rebuilding and widening of one of the principal thoroughfares 
 ^Market- street ; and though he did not live to see the work 
 accomphshed, his name must always be honourably connected 
 with it. Of rather an ii'ritable temperament, perhaps he was 
 known extensively for a singular liberality of character and 
 generosity of disposition. He was a man of taste and virtu ; 
 uniting, with a fair degree of classical scholarship, consider- 
 able proficiency in botany, and a general fondness for scientific 
 pursuits ; and thus the excellent hbrary he possessed was 
 throughout life a source of pleasure and recreation that 
 lightened the graver duties he so faithfully discharged. 
 
 Thomas Ainsworth married, in 1802, Aim, daughter of the 
 Rev. Ralph Harrison, a Presbyterian divine, and Ann Touchet. 
 This divine, himself the son of a minister, and great-grandson 
 to the Rev. Cuthbert Harrison, who, as a famous Nonconformist 
 teacher, is noticed in Dr. Calamy's account of ejected minis- 
 ters, attained a high reputation in Manchester as a preacher, 
 an author, and a scholar. In the Academy there, he was 
 appointed professor of the Greek and Latin languages, and of 
 polite literature. He produced many able works of an educa- 
 tional character ; and left behind him a volume of discourses 
 that fully bear out his claim to the affectionate regard in 
 which his character and ministrations were held. Of these 
 sermons, which, with a biographical memoir, were first printed 
 in 1813, a new edition appeared in 1827. It may here be 
 mentioned, as a somewhat rare occurrence in the life of a
 
 WILLIAM HARllISON AINSWORTH. IX 
 
 Presbyterian minister, that this reverend person, the grand- 
 father of the subject of this sketch, realised, by fortunate 
 speculations in land and building, a large fortune, leaving 
 behind him upwards of 60,000Z. Of this union, two sons 
 were born ; the elder named William Harrison, the younger 
 Thomas Gilbert, who distinguished himself at Cambridge, 
 and taking a scholarship there, unfortunately fell into ill- 
 health from over-study, which so affected his nervous system 
 that he never took his degree, and his intention of going into 
 the Church was therefore abandoned.* 
 
 William Harrison Ainsworth was born on the 4th of 
 February, 1805, at the house of his father, in King-street, 
 Manchester ; but not long after, the family removed to a 
 very commodious and pleasantly- situated countiy-house, 
 called Beech-hill, about two miles from the town, on the 
 Chetham side. Here was a very extensive garden ; and here 
 all the time that could be spared by its possessor from pro- 
 fessional pursuits was devoted to the studies and recreations 
 of which he was sopasftionately fond. The grounds were Wd 
 out under his own eye, and several of the trees were planted 
 by the young brothers. 
 
 To the education of the elder of these it is now necessary 
 to refer. The early part of it was undertaken by his uncle, 
 the Rev. William Harrison ; and then, while still very young, 
 he was placed at the free grammar-school in Manchester, in 
 one of the classes of the Eev. Robinson Elsdale. 
 
 In this school, which was fovmded early in the six- 
 teenth century, many persons eminent for science and learn- 
 ing have been educated. The list extends as far back as 
 the reign of Mary, opening with the well-known name of John 
 Bradford, who suffered martyrdom in 1555. Reginald Heber 
 (the father of the bishop) was here, Cyril Jackson, and 
 his brother the Bishop of Oxford, the first Lord Alvanley, 
 Mr. Morritt of Rokeby, David Latouche, the celebrated 
 banker, Mr. Justice Williams, and many others. Here our 
 youthful student so far distinguished himself as to have 
 received very flattering testimonials from Dr. Smith (the then 
 head-master of the school), and his colleague. Dr. Elsdale. 
 He wrote several translations from the Latin and Greek 
 poets, which obtained their approbation. In this school he 
 remained, gathering honour and advantage, until he reached 
 
 * Thomas Gilbert Ainsworth died on the 9th of April, 1876, at Hill View 
 Lodge, Reigate, and was interred in the Kensal Green Cemetery.
 
 X LAMAN BLANCIIARD S MEMOIR OF 
 
 the first form, when his father, who designed his son to be 
 his successor, placed him as a clerk with an eminent solicitor 
 in the town. 
 
 It had been his father's wish, when the period of the 
 youth's law-studies commenced, that he should devote him- 
 self chiefly to that branch of the profession which it waa 
 intended he should practise — conveyancing; but no great 
 progress was made in this study. Byron, Scott, and Shelley 
 had charms that title-deeds could never boast ; writing 
 verses was far more attractive than making abstracts, and 
 drawing drafts bore no comparison to sketching for maga- 
 zines. It was the old story — he was literally 
 
 A youth foredoom'd liis father's hopes to cross, 
 Who penn'd a stanza when he should enj^ross. 
 
 The nameless editor of a magazine was, in his enchanted view, 
 greater by far than the greatest of the whole tribe of lawyers ; 
 and the occupation of the editorial chair appeared in his 
 fanciful dream an object worthier of a loftier ambition than 
 a seat on the woolsack. 
 
 On his father's death, which occurred, as we have said, 
 in 1824, he awakened to a sense of the expediency of com- 
 pleting his term as a conveyancer, and qualifying himself for 
 assuming the professional responsibility which this bereave- 
 ment devolved upon him. With this view he repaired to 
 London, to finish his term with Mr. Jacob Phillips, of the 
 Inner Temple. Yet it does not appear that he devoted 
 himseK with the adequate dihgence and zeal to professional 
 study. The literary enthusiasm was stiU the stronger feel- 
 ing, thoiigh less productive in its immediate results than 
 before ; for the metropolis was a novel scene, and some 
 time was spent in acquainting himself with its amuse- 
 ments. 
 
 Not long before the completion of his appointed stay in 
 town, he commenced an acquaintance with Mr. Ebers, at that 
 time the manager of the Opera House, and a constant attend- 
 ance there was, of course, included among the young law- 
 student's London pleasures. 
 
 We now have to record an important event in life — the 
 marriage of Mr. Ainsworth to Fanny, the youngest daughter 
 of Mr. Ebers. This event occurred in the autumn of 1826. 
 Three daughters, still living, were the offspring of this 
 union. They lost their mother in the spring of 1838.
 
 WILLIAM HAKRISON AINSWORTH. XI 
 
 The connexion thus formed with Mr. Ebers had a material 
 mfluence in deciding the young man as to the course he 
 should pursue. His repugnance to " conveyancing" being 
 insuperable, and his tastes and inclinations being decidedly 
 literary, he readily listened to the suggestions of Mr. Ebers, 
 to make an experiment as a publisher. The sacrifice, to be 
 sure, "was considerable. It involved the relinquishment of 
 his share in his father's lucrative business, which had been 
 carried on, meanwhile, by two partners, at the head of whom 
 he would necessarily be placed; it was the exchanging a 
 certainty for a chance. Yet, on the other hand, he was to 
 secure the advantage of Mr. Ebers's extensive connexion, and 
 of his practical knowledge of business, which as yet was a 
 "book sealed" to him. There were other temptations, not 
 unworthy of a high literary ambition, and a generous zeal for 
 the interests of authors. The period, that of 1828-9, was the 
 season of the (exclusively) " fashionable novels," when what 
 was most ephemeral was most triumphant, and when works 
 of a more enduring though less winning character had fewer 
 charms than usual in a publisher's eye. Let us here pause 
 for a moment to consider what his aims were, and, at the same 
 time, what were his qualifications for giving effect to them. 
 
 Mr. Ainsworth entered upon his speculation doubtless with 
 literary feelings not very dissimilar to those with which he 
 may be supposed to have recently originated his Magazine. 
 His was not the speculation of an ordinary publisher : his 
 aim was to promote the interests of literature, to advance his 
 own reputation as a writer, and to surround himself with 
 such authors as it was alike honourable to serve and to be 
 associated with ; he thought that he might bring forward 
 sterling works, rejected, perhaps, as not " fashionable," and 
 assist writers of a better class than those who aspired to a 
 merely fleeting popularity ; in any case, he should succeed in 
 showing that such an enterprise might be conducted on 
 liberal and gentlemanlike principles. These, as we believe, 
 were his objects ; but he mistook the practicability of the 
 scheme, and misconceived his own qualifications for conduct- 
 ing it. He had great liberality, a highly cultivated literary 
 taste, ripe scholarship, and popular manners ; he was borne 
 up by the spirit of youth, and the love of books for their own 
 sake, to make an experiment, and his entering uj)on it was 
 the best proof of the sacrifices he could cheerfully incur, and 
 that he thought of no selfish or mercenary bargain. But with
 
 xu LAMAN BLANCHARD S MEMOIR OF 
 
 these fine qualities lie wanted some that are not always found 
 in their company and in that of youth — forethought, delibe- 
 ration, patience under disappointment, submission to repug- 
 nant tasks, and indifference to the trifling circumstance of 
 being always unthanked and generally misapprehended. 
 What young man of one-and-twenty understands his own 
 character sufficiently to justify such an attempt ? His prin- 
 ciples were but partially recognised by the writers with whom 
 he was brought into connexion, and he was of too impatient 
 a temperament to afford them time to understand him. His 
 pride speedily revolted from the position he had voluntarily 
 chosen, and at the expiration of about a year and a half he 
 abandoned the experiment ; the result was — neither good nor 
 harm, beyond loss of time. During this period, and up to 
 the year 1830, a few trifles had been written ; a tragedy on 
 the subject of Philip van Artevelde was planned, and two 
 acts composed ; a melodrame or two, never acted, swelled the 
 stock ; but nothing was published. A change of scene was 
 now resolved upon : in the summer of that year Mr. Ains- 
 worth started on a tour in Switzerland and Italy. 
 
 It was in the following year, during a visit to Chesterfield, 
 that he first thought of writing a three-volumed tale, and the 
 idea of "Eookwood" arose. He has told us his object. 
 " Wishing," he says, " to describe somewhat minutely the 
 trim gardens, the picturesque domains, the rook-haunted 
 groves, the gloomy chambers, and gloomier galleries of an 
 ancient hall with which I was acquainted, I resolved to 
 attempt a story in the bygone style of Mrs. Radcliffe ; sub- 
 stituting an old English squire, an old manorial residence 
 and an old English highwayman, for the Italian marchese, 
 the castle, and the brigand of that great mistress of romance." 
 
 " Rookwood" was commenced, but many and serious pauses 
 occurred in the completion of the story ; nor was it until 
 May, 1834, that it was published ; but the power with which 
 the design was worked out, the success with which it waa 
 accomplished, was instantaneously recognised. The " Edin- 
 burgh Review" described the novel achievement — " Whal 
 Mr. Ainsworth has ventured to do, and successfully, was t( 
 revive the almost exploded interest afforded by the super- 
 natural ; and to preserve this, too, not in connexion with days, 
 long gone by, but side by side with the sober realities of 
 1737, with the convivialities of Yorkshire squires and country 
 attorneys, with the humours of justices of the peace and the 
 feats of Dick Turpin the highwayman." The same writer
 
 WILLIAM HARRISON AINSWORTH. xui 
 
 describes, also, the influences of all this upon the reader. 
 " Strange as it may seem, the author has contrived to present 
 the terrors of burial vaults and the blood-stained mysteries of 
 family crime side by side with the most familiar scenes of the 
 every-day life of the eighteenth century, without exciting 
 the slightest feeling of the ludicrous — nay, more, with a 
 character of earnestness and solemnity with which, a priori, 
 we should have hardly thought such subjects could have been 
 invested." 
 
 But the truth is, as the critic seems to have felt, that the 
 reader is never allowed to pause for an instant to think at 
 all. The famous picture of the ride to York, now as weU 
 known as the name of Turpin himself, is but an image of the 
 reader's course as he leaps the abrupt gaps and turns the pic- 
 turesque corners of this singular tale. He goes through it 
 hurried, yet noting everything, and with breathless interest ; 
 and it is not until after a pause at the close that he bethinks 
 him of the songs and ballads whose lively or solemn chimes 
 struck his ear as he passed rapidly ; when he is sure to turn 
 back to read them leisurely over one by one, enjoying the 
 true spirit of the old minstrelsy with which they are embued, 
 and wishing for a whole volume of such tuneful rarities. The 
 effect of this publication was to place Mr. Ainsworth in the 
 first rank of writers of romantic fiction. The first edition was 
 speedily sold off ; a second followed. In 1836 Mr. Macrone 
 issued a beautiful volume with designs by Cruikshank. 
 
 " Crichton" was the next work meditated ; and as soon as 
 projected Mr. Macrone offered 350/. for the manuscript. It 
 appeared in the spring of 1837, and a rapid sale betokened 
 the now estabhshed reputation of the writer. This historical 
 romance afforded, in some respects, indications of a higher 
 aim and more elaborate finish than the happiest pictures of 
 the preceding work. Extensive and curious reading— a minute 
 acquaintance with the modes, usages, intrigue, and philosophy 
 of the time — a capacity at once to analyse and combine — an 
 eye for grand effects as well as the smallest details — were 
 everywhere recognised. Many rare qualities united in the 
 composition of this work. Its pictures of the times and per- 
 sons it treats of are " finished sketches," the effect of which, 
 by a truly artist-like skill, is heightened instead of diminished 
 by the small fine touches that denote a thorough familiarity 
 with every incidental particular of the subject. Thus, not 
 only are the king's jester and the king's cook as vividly set
 
 XIV LAMAN BLANCHAKD S MEMOIR OF 
 
 before us as Henri himself ; but Henri's lineaments are not 
 more accurately painted than is the quaint figure of a piece 
 of embroidery, the fashion of a jewel, or the cut of a garment. 
 In spite of a most hurried and effect-marring termination, this 
 romance has in it the seeds of life, and contains some of its 
 author's soundest and most brilhant writmg. Here, again, 
 we see a lyrical genius in full flow ; some of the songs are of 
 a most dainty fashion, and charm equally by their structure 
 and their fancy. 
 
 The "Admii-able Crichton" was yet winning admiration 
 when his untired historian commenced another romance, 
 which he originally intended to call " Thames Darrell," and 
 under that name it was announced by its publisher. After 
 considerable delays, the opening chapters of the work made 
 their appearance in " Bentley's Miscellany," under the title 
 of " Jack Sheppard." This was in January, 1839. Two 
 months aftei'wards, on the retirement of Mr. Dickens, the 
 author of the new romance was installed as editor of the 
 "Miscellany" — the terms agreed upon being 51Z. per month. 
 
 As the story month by month developed itself, the circle 
 of its success widened ; not an audible objection to its hero 
 or to its author — to his plot, scenery, or persons— their life, 
 character, or behaviour — was raised, as far as we are aware, 
 in the most fastidious coterie ; but, on the contrary, many 
 established critics of high character, fully cognisant of the 
 significant fact that the hero of the tale was the veritable 
 housebreaker, welcomed him with winged pens as he broke 
 Hmb by limb out of the Magazine, and shook him heartily by 
 the hand as a legitimate historical acquaintance. When he 
 stood before them, whole, in the autumn of the same year, 
 he met with astonishing success, and became the " rage" for 
 months. The three volumes were produced in a dramatic 
 form simultaneously at eight different theatres ; and George 
 Cruikshank's inimitable designs became set scenes east and 
 west. At last, however, the prison-breaker's popularity 
 became all at once an offence in people's eyes greater than 
 any of which he was ever convicted. He was denoiuiced as 
 something worse than the monster in " Erankenstein." 
 Critics, who had always a passion for heroes in fetters before, 
 now found out that housebreakers are disreputable characters. 
 They were in raptures with the old-established brigand still, 
 and the freebooter of foreign extraction ; they could hug 
 Itohin Hood as fondly as ever, and dwell with unhurt morals 
 on the little peccadilloes of Rob Roy ; nay, they had no
 
 WILLIAM HARRISON ATNSWORTH. XV 
 
 objection to ride behind Turpin to York any day, and would 
 never feel ashamed of their company ; but they shook their 
 heads at Skeppard, because low people began to run after him 
 at the theatres ; he was a housebreaker ! 
 
 We are here recording facts, and have small space for 
 opinions. It may be observed, however, that the outcry, to 
 have served any moral end, should have been raised much 
 sooner. Why did it not break out when the housebreaker 
 first broke out in January amidst public plaudits ? Why was 
 it silent for a whole twelvemonth ? But this is not the only 
 question. Why was not that moral outcry raised long before 
 this culprit ever made a literary appearance at all ? He had 
 some remarkably suspicious precursors — heroes selected only 
 for their ruffianism ; yet the storm falls on this offender, 
 probably because he comes late in the field. In answer to 
 the charge of choosing a Newgate hero, the romancer is surely 
 entitled to say, " I did not select him because he was a house- 
 breaker, but because he was a prison-lreaher." And if mis- 
 chief arise from the delineation of the characters of such 
 criminals — which is a separate question, and would lead us 
 as far afield as the "Robbers" of Schiller led the young 
 reprobate nobles who tunaed thieves in imitation, and might 
 suggest a committee of inquiry concerning Bardolph and 
 Company, amongst a crowd of others ; but if mischief arise, 
 which course has the directest tendency to produce it — that 
 which introduces the criminal into the story to play off his 
 brutalities unrestricted, and, as it were, under cover of false 
 dates and places — or that which avows the heroship on the 
 title-page, and warns off those of timid tastes and trembling 
 morals ? People seem to object to no atrocity, no vulgarity, 
 so that it be unexpected, and not concentrated in the hero. 
 We take up the most innocent-looking Arcadian sort of books, 
 and find ourselves in the heart of Newgate. Of this we may 
 have some cause to complain; but we cannot complain of 
 going to Tyburn, when the hero's very name tells us we shall 
 be taken there in the end, wheresoever the story may pre- 
 viously wind. 
 
 Gay has been libelled for his "Beggar's Opera," and 
 Fielding has been abused for his " Jonathan Wild the 
 Great" (excellent company wherein to sin or to suffer mar- 
 tyrdom !) ; but those exquisite satires, if liable to be misun- 
 derstood by the dull, are as innocent of evil as they are brave 
 in purjDose and profound in wit. They are what they profess 
 to be, and do not cheat the reader with a promise of some-
 
 xvi LAMAN BLANCHARD's MEMOIR OF 
 
 thing different. It is so, in its degree, with the romance to 
 which we have referred. It can have injured or imposed 
 upon no family on earth, except the Fudge Family. 
 
 We now approach the consideration of worts on which 
 their author has unquestionably employed his best powers, 
 a.nd in which at least he has not sinned in point of subject. 
 With the new year he commenced two new romances. " Guy 
 Fawkes" appeared in the " Miscellany," and was completed 
 in eighteen monthly numbers, when it was reprinted in three 
 volumes. The sum received during this period from the 
 publisher exceeded 1500/. Of the several romances that 
 have been founded partly or entirely upon the same subject, 
 it is by far the most striking. The bold and simple paint- 
 ing of character, the felicitous description, the hair-breadth 
 'scapes which the reader follows with an interest tremblingly 
 alive, the constant fertility of invention, while the stream of 
 historical truth flows on in the midst of all, denote the 
 abundance of the resources which this writer always brings 
 to his task. The time and subject seem new in his hands, 
 because his manner and his materials (save the simple truth 
 upon and around which he works them) are entirely his own. 
 
 The " Tower of London" — the twin-born romance, running 
 chapter by chapter with the foregoing — is a work of yet more 
 remarkable power, because it is more fully and consistently 
 sustained to the close. It had been the author's wish — if we 
 are not misinformed — from the hour when he first saw the 
 old fortress, to write a romance on one of the thousand almost 
 incredible truths with which the memory that sanctifies it is 
 peopled. The companion-thought to this was the hope to 
 connect another historical legend with the Castle of Windsor 
 — both so picturesque in themselves, and both so surpas- 
 singly rich in historical recollections. The one object is 
 accomplished, the other is on the eve of commencement. 
 
 The project of the " Tower" brought together author and 
 artist — Ainsworth and Cruikshank — in partnership, on equal 
 terms, and on their own responsibility. Considerations, how- 
 ever, connected with publication, led to an arrangement with 
 Mr. Bentley, who was appointed to publish the work in 
 monthly parts. It is still as popular as ever, as it must long 
 remain. "Desirous," says Mr. Ainsworth, "of exhibiting 
 the Tower in its triple light of a palace, a prison, and a 
 fortress, the author has shaped his story with reference to 
 that end ; and he has also contrived such a series of incidents 
 as should naturally introduce every relic of the old pile — its
 
 WILLIAM HARRISON AINSWORTH. XVll 
 
 towers, chapels, halls, chambers, gateways, arches, and draw- 
 bridges, so that no part of it should remain unillustrated." 
 It is curious to observe how this purpose is worked out in 
 entire consistency with an unbroken and uninterrupted narra- 
 tive. With every necessity imposed upon the historian for 
 going out of his way in order to realise previously resolved 
 upon effects, there is no appearance of his ever doing so, and, 
 indeed, the scene being circumscribed and the locality fixed, 
 there is in this work fewer abrupt turns and changes than in 
 the majority of its predecessors. The historical events chosen 
 for illustration are happily suited for the design : they admit 
 of every variety of agency, and embrace an enormous field 
 in a small space ; they involve the throne and the block, the 
 siege and the stake, the secret plot and the fiery storm of 
 revolt; — "the mad battle and the ghastly grave." They 
 comprise the cold, insidious foreign bigot, wily as a serpent, 
 and the hot- gospeller, frantic in his fanaticism ; the haughty, 
 daring noble and the brutal gaoler ; the courtly knight and 
 the headsman — a goodly company, with an infinite train of 
 " dwarf and giant auxiliaries." The characters are extremely 
 numerous ; but they are not more skilfully grouped than 
 they are artfully discriminated. Two of them seem to us of 
 first-rate rank in that grand human gallery to which this 
 author has now contributed several noble portraitures ; these 
 are, Mary the queen, and the subtle Spaniard, Simon Eenard. 
 But the whole space allotted to this Memoir would not be too 
 wide a limit for a comprehensive review of the characteristics 
 of this admirable romance. 
 
 One remark may be allowed. Mr. Ainsworth, in his intro- 
 ductory observations, says — " Opposite the matchless White 
 Tower — WiUiam of Orange by the side of William the Con- 
 queror — is that frightful architectural abomination, the Grand 
 Store-House. It may not be impossible to remove this ugly 
 and incongruous structure." Not long after this was written 
 the abused building was burnt down. Should not cant or 
 prejudice, when it traces robberies to novels, have traced the 
 conflagration to this romance ? 
 
 In the first week of 1841, " Old Saint Paul's" was com- 
 menced. The proprietors of the Sunday Times newspaper 
 had proposed to Mr. Ainsworth to write a romance to be pub- 
 lished in their journal weekly throughout the year, for which 
 they very liberally offered lOOOZ. This was a new feature in 
 newspaper management and romance-writing. The offer was 
 accepted : the Tale appeared in successive numbers, and at the 
 
 b
 
 XVin LAMAN BLANCHARD S MEMOIR OF 
 
 close of the year (tlie copyright reverting to Mr. Ainsworth) 
 it was re-issued in three handsome volumes, lavishly illustrated 
 by Franklin. A large edition was disposed of. This work, 
 " a tale of the Plague and the Fire," abounds, as this ex- 
 planation denotes, in the terrible and the sublime. The time 
 extends from April, 1665, to September in the following year, 
 embracing the two most fearful and fatal calamities that ever 
 London was visited with. With what grasping power Mr. 
 Ainsworth has seized uj^on the prominent points arising out 
 of these scenes of devastation and dismay, those best may 
 judge who can most vividly recall past examples of his art in 
 stirring men's blood and lifting the imagination to a point of 
 horror ; but they may not so readily surmise with what a 
 gentle and reconciling humanity he has detained us amidst 
 what was loathsome, to exhibit to us, as it were, the lily in 
 the charnel-house ; and carried us thi-ough the jjestilence and 
 the flame, to vindicate the severity of human trials, to incul- 
 cate salutary lessons of exertion and endurance, and track 
 the course of faith, and courage, and happiness, through 
 all. From the insuj)portable and u.nredeemed ghastliness of 
 Defoe's astonishing narrative, we turn to this peopled story, 
 and discover a vitality amidst the shadows of death, and hope 
 stealing silently on through the desolation and the ruin. 
 
 Mr. Ainsworth's engagement as editor of " Bentley's Mis- 
 cellany" terminated with the year 1841, and in February, 
 1842, appeared the first number of " Ainsworth's Magazine," 
 a Journal of Romance, Literature, and Art. Its success, 
 measured by the sale of the first volume, now completed, 
 surpasses, it is said, by many degrees, that of any similar 
 periodical that ever made its appearance. Its editor had 
 surrounded himself by many able winters, but his reliance, 
 l^erhaps, was upon a new tale from his own pen, " The Miser's 
 Daughter." Public opinion seems to have set its seal upon 
 this fine-toned and charmingly-coloured story, as " the 
 favourite and the flower ;" but Mr. Ainsworth, it seems, 
 purposes to keep the imagination of a second artist employed, 
 for in July he opens, in his Magazine, a new tale, entitled 
 " Windsor Castle," for which the celebrated Tony Johannot 
 is to furnish steel engravings, and Alfred Delamotte wood- 
 cuts. 
 
 Here we draw to a close, with the observation, that, should 
 these new romances, now in a state of progress, share the 
 good fortune of their predecessors, they will not only be ex-
 
 WILLIAM HARRISOX AINSWORTH. xix 
 
 tensively read, but dramas will be founded upon them in this 
 coinitry ; the Paris press will give them a new shaj)e ; America 
 will spread them over her surface ; the German translator 
 will insure them a wide circulation in that land of the 
 mysteries ; and even the Dutch, as in the case of " Eook- 
 wood" and " Crichton," wiU marlc them for their own. 
 
 There is one event of a domestic nature that should be men- 
 tioned in a more saddened tone at the close. On the 15th of 
 March, 1842, it was Mr. Ainsworth's affliction to lose his 
 surviving parent — the revered mother who had taken pride in 
 his rising fame, and had found joy in his constant affection. 
 A beautiful monumental tribute to both parents has just been 
 erected in the cemetery at Kensal Green. 
 
 What have we to add to what wc have here ventured to 
 record, which the engraving that accomj^anies this Memoir 
 will not more happily embody ? Should that fail to do justice 
 to our author's face — to its regularity and delicacy of feature, 
 its manly glow of health, and the cordial nature which 
 lightens it up, we must refer the dissatisfied beholder to Mr. 
 Pickersgill's masterly full-length portrait, exhibited last year ; 
 in which the author of " The Miser's Daughter" may be seen, 
 not as some j^ale, worn, pining scholar — some fagging, half- 
 exhausted, periodical romancer — but, as an English gentle- 
 man, of goodly stature and well-set limb, with a fine head 
 on his shoulders, and a heart to match.* 
 
 If to this we add a word, it must be to observe, that, 
 though the temper of our poj)ular author may be marked by 
 imj)potience on some occasions, it has never been upon any 
 occasion marked by a want of generosity, whether in con- 
 ferring benefits or atoning for errors. His friends regard 
 him as a man with as few failings, blended with fine Cjualities, 
 as most people ; and his enemies know nothing at all about 
 him. He is liberal towards his contemporaries, and quick 
 to feel a kindness rendered to himself. He writes rapidly, 
 and finds leisure, we are told, for a full portion of social en- 
 joyment anil relaxation ; so that, at Kensal Manor-House, 
 hospitality is a virtue that is always at home. 
 
 * Pickcrsgiirs portrait has recently been presented by Mr. Ain^worth 
 to the Ciietkaui Hospital, Manchester, and is placed in the library. 1S78. 
 
 b2
 
 XX BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH OF 
 
 WILLIAM HARRISON AINSWORTH. 
 
 m" JAMES CROSS LET, ES^, F.S.A., 
 President of the Chetham Society, 
 
 William Harrison Ainsworth was born in King-street, 
 Manchester, at tlie house of liis father, who was a solicitor of 
 high standing and extensive practice, on the 4th February, 
 1805. His paternal grandfather was Jeremiah Ainsworth, 
 one of the founders of the Lancashire School of Geometry. 
 By the side of his mother, Ann, the daughter of the Eev. 
 Ralph Harrison, he was descended from a line of Noncon- 
 formists, some of whom Calamy has embalmed in his pages. 
 
 William Harrison, who was gifted by nature with a fine 
 constitiition, high spirits, and a most joyous temperament, 
 after receiving elementary tuition from his uncle, the Rev. 
 William Harrison, who held a highly respectable rank as 
 a teacher, became on the 20th March, 1817, a scholar of 
 the Manchester Free Grammar School, where he remained 
 for some years. A vivid sketch, in which he has brought 
 the school and its masters with such life and spirit before 
 us, appears in Mervyn CUtheroe. At the annual recitations 
 he appeared to great advantage, and his remarkably hand- 
 some face, excellent delivery, and perfect self-j)ossession are 
 still recollected by the surviving attenders of those interest- 
 ing occasions, and never failed to bring down plaudits from 
 the audience. Of Dr. Smith he was always a great favourite, 
 and that sagacious master well understood that he was no 
 common boy. While at school and afterwards he went 
 through a large amount of miscellaneous reading, in which, 
 beside recourse to his father's collection, which was a good 
 one, he had the advantage, a benefit which Thomas de 
 Quincey had availed himself of before him, of the old Ex- 
 change Circulating Library, now broken up and disj^ersed, 
 in which there was an ample if not select table provided 
 with dishes of all sorts, from Amadis of Gaul and Palmerin 
 of England to Bryant's Mythology, and Cudworth's Intellec- 
 tual System. On leaving the Free Grammar School he was 
 placed by his father with Mr. Alexander Kay, an able and ex- 
 perienced solicitor, afterwards Mayor of Manchester, with a
 
 WILLIAM HARRISON AINSWORTH. XXI 
 
 view to his succeeding to the well-establislied business which 
 his father canned on in partnership with his son's early and 
 intimate friend, the present President of the Chetham Society. 
 Mr. Thomas Ainsworth, the father, to whose energy and 
 public spirit the improvements in Manchester were matei'iall}' 
 indebted, died at a comparatively speaking early age, in 1824. 
 His son, William Harrison, went through the regular legal 
 curriculum, and from Mr. Kay's office in Manchester pro- 
 ceeded to Mr. Jacob Phillips's chambers in King's Bench 
 Walk, to be perfected in the higher mysteries of conveyanc- 
 ing. Here he copied precedents, and we have a folio volume 
 in which his labours are embodied, but the rule in Shelley's 
 case and Fearne's contingent remainders had no charms for 
 him. His aspirations were of another kind — to give new 
 associations to the name of Ainsworth unconnected with 
 Law, Mathematics, or Lexicography — in short, to enter 
 upon a literary career ; and to know and be known by the 
 leading authors of the day, exchanging Manchester with all 
 its prospects for the great metropolis. In this resolve he 
 was confirmed by marrying (October, 1826) Ann Frances, 
 the beautiful daughter of Mr. John Ebers, of Old Bond-street, 
 then lessee of the Opera House, whose London connexions 
 were large and extensive ; and the young man accordingly be- 
 came settled in the midst of the world of letters and fashion. 
 For some time he carried on the business of a publisher, and 
 several works of interest and value may be found with his 
 name attached ; but this, after giving it a full and fair trial, he 
 thought fit for wise reasons to discontinue ; having, however, 
 acquired an experience from his publishing operations which 
 was afterwards undoubtedly beneficial to him. During all 
 this period — at school, while going through his professional 
 education in Manchester and London, and the years which 
 immediately followed — he devoted the greater part of his 
 leisure to contributing, sometimes solely, sometimes with a 
 friendly collaborateur, to various periodicals ; commencing 
 with Arliss's little but elegantly illustrated magazine, and 
 proceeding onward to those of larger size and greater pre- 
 tensions. But, leaving these prolusions, as well as the 
 separate works in poetry and prose, of what we may style 
 the prse-Rookwoodian Era, to be indicated and enumerated 
 by his future biographer — and biography has nothing more 
 interesting than the examination of the early works of suc- 
 cessful writers — we must come to the production which first 
 gave Mr. Ainsworth a. solid footing as an author. This was
 
 xxu MR. CROSSLEY S SKETCH OF 
 
 the striking story of Boohvood, wliich contained what was at 
 once acknowledged to be a masterpiece of descriptive power ; 
 we need not add that we refer to Turpin's celebrated Ride to 
 York, which at once, delighting the young and the old, 
 established the writer as a favourite of the reading public. 
 
 Moohwood was followed by Crichton, which sustained, if it 
 did not increase, the reputation Mr. Ainsworth had acquired. 
 Most of the works which succeeded appeared originally in 
 a serial form either in Bentley's Miscellany, Ainsioortli's 
 Magazine, the Sunday Times, or in monthly numbers, and 
 were afterwards collected into volumes. The first of these 
 was the wonderfully popular and much calumniated JacJc 
 Slieppard, which, admirably illustrated by George Cruik- 
 shank, was universally read ; and, by its extraordinary suc- 
 cess, called forth attacks on all sides, and a spirit which, to 
 lovers of fair play, looked very much like persecution. On 
 this subject, we cannot do better than refer to Laman 
 Blanchard's very sensible remarks in his Memoir. 
 
 The storm which Jach Slieppard had evoked was in a great 
 measure appeased by the Toioer of London, which deals with 
 a higher class of criminals, and must always be placed 
 amongst the best, if it be not indeed the best of the author's 
 historical novels. During nearly forty years it has cer- 
 tainly lost none of its original popularity. Its great success 
 gave occasion to a large dinner, which we well remember, in 
 which were present, by Mr. Ainsworth's invitation, the lead- 
 ing authors, critics, artists, and publishers of London, at 
 which Serjeant Talfourd presided. We doubt much whether, 
 amongst the many similar celebrations which have since oc- 
 curred in London, there has been any which went off more 
 brilliantly, or with which the author, in compliment of whom 
 the gathering took place, had better reason to be satisfied. 
 
 The narrow limits of this sketch necessarily prevent more 
 than a simple enumeration of the titles of the novels which 
 Mr. Ainsworth's creative power and extraordinary fertility 
 have produced, from the date of Boohwood (1834) to the 
 present time. One of them we must not, however, omit 
 to single out from the rest — Mervyn Clitheroe — as it gives 
 many graphic sketches of the friends and scenes with 
 which he was familiar in boyhood. Another, The Lancashire 
 Witches, dedicated to his old friend, the President of the 
 Chetham Society, in which, with great artistic skill, he has 
 worked up the materials contained in two works in the Chet- 
 ham scries of very different character — Potts's Discovery and
 
 WILLIAM HARRISON AINSWORTH. 
 
 XXIU 
 
 Nicolas Asshe.ton^ s Journal — will always have a peculiar interest 
 as a powerful and striking delineation of the grand supersti- 
 tion of his native county. Nor should it be omitted that to 
 the very pleasing story, the Flitch of Bacon, we owe, under the 
 auspices of Mr. Ains worth, the temporary revival of one of 
 the most curious and interesting of the old customs of Eng- 
 land, the giving of the Fhtch at Great Dunmow. We proceed 
 to the list : 
 
 Roohwood, 1834. 
 
 CricUon, 1837. 
 
 Jaclc SJieppard, 1839. 
 
 Tower of London, 1840. 
 
 Gtiy FaioJces, 1841. 
 
 Old St. Paul's, a Tale of the 
 
 Plague and the Fire of 
 
 London, 1841. 
 The Miser's Daughter, 1842. 
 Windsor Castle, 1843. 
 St. James's, or the Court of 
 
 Queen Anne, 1844. 
 Lancashire Witches, 1848. 
 Star-Chamber, 1854. 
 The Flitch of Bacon, or the 
 
 Custom of Dunmow, 1854. 
 Spendthrift, 1856. 
 Mervyn Clitheroe, 1857. 
 Ovingdean G^-ange, a Tale of 
 
 the South Doivns, 1860. 
 Constable of the Toiver, 1861. 
 The Lord Mayor of London, 
 
 1862. 
 Cardinal Pole, 1863. 
 
 John Latv the Projector, 1864. 
 The Spanish Match, or Charles 
 
 Stuart in Madrid, 1865. 
 Myddleton Pomfret, 1865. 
 The Constable de Bourbon^ 
 
 1866. 
 Old Court, 1867. 
 The South Sea Bubble, 1868. 
 Hilary St. Ives, 1869. 
 Talbot Harland, 1870. 
 Tower Hill, 1871. 
 Boscobel, 1872. 
 The Manchester Rebels of the 
 
 Fatal '45, 1873 
 2Ierry England, 1874. 
 The Goldsmith's Wife, 1874. 
 Preston Fight, or the Insur- 
 
 rection o/l715, 1875. 
 Chetwynd Calverley, 1876. 
 The Leaguer of Lathom, a 
 
 Tale of the Civil War in 
 
 Lancashire, 1876. 
 The Fall of Somerset, 1877. 
 Beatrice Tyldesley, 1878. 
 
 That in so long a series, and dealing with scenes and 
 periods and subjects so diversified, Mr. Ainsworth should 
 stiU have retained his hold upon public favour, as is suffi- 
 ciently evidenced by the continually repeated impressions of 
 his works both here, on the Continent, in America, and our 
 colonial dependencies, and the translations of them into most 
 of the languages of Europe, is an ample proof that he pos- 
 sesses those sterling qualities, as a writer of fiction, which 
 will ensure permanence to his name as an author. To con- 
 tinue to please the public by successive productions during
 
 XXIV SKETCH OF WILLIAM HARRISON AINSWORTil. 
 
 a period of more than forty years is a distinction accorded 
 to few. 
 
 We must not forget to notice the collection of Mr. Ains- 
 worth's ballads, published in 1855, which makes us regret 
 that he has not continued to cultivate a species of composi- 
 tion for which he seems to have a peculiar talent. Nor can 
 we pass by The Comhat of the Thirty, from an old Breton Lay 
 of the \4:th Century, 1859, 8vo, a most spirited and excellent 
 version which we should be glad to see in an illustrated 
 form, which is all that is needed to give it an extensive 
 popularity. 
 
 Mr. Forster, in his Life of Charles Lichens, has referred 
 with evident pleasure to the kindly intercourse which 
 existed between the far-famed Boz, himself, and Mr. Ains- 
 worth, in the days gone by. We believe there is no one 
 connected with literature, who has been brought within 
 the range of the genial sympathy, the considerate feeling, 
 and hearty and liberal hospitality of the subject of this 
 sketch, who will not have equal pleasure in looking back 
 to the occasions when they met. We are sure there are no 
 reminiscences that dwell more agreeably on our minds than 
 of the days when Kensal Manor House, on the Harrow Eoad, 
 where Mr. Ainsworth resided for many years, was a central 
 jjoint for literary men ; and when, after sitting under an 
 admirable host and enjoying the conversation of men whom 
 it was always a delight to meet, the guests were serenaded 
 on those fine summer evenings as they went homewards by 
 the nightingales which had not then deserted that part of 
 the suburbs of London. 
 
 One of the advantages of the eminent authors of the 
 present day is the admirable manner in which, as a rule, 
 they have been represented pictorially. The portraits by 
 Pickersgill and Maclise will always give, as far as j)ainting 
 can, to those unacquainted with the original, a perfect idea 
 of the author of Boohwood when in the full bloom of age and 
 authorship. 
 
 Mr. Ainsworth was present at the grand banquet in 
 October, 1871, commemorating the new erections of the 
 Manchester Free Grammar School, the Earl of Derby 
 presiding; and, in an interesting and very appropriate 
 speech, from which, if our space had allowed, we should 
 have given some extracts, took a review of the alumni, who 
 in former days had done honour to the School.
 
 DEDICATION. 
 
 TO LTT MOTHER. 
 
 When I inscribed this Eomance to you, my dear Mother, 
 on its first appearance, I was satisfied that, whatever recep- 
 tion it might meet with elsewhere, at your hands it wovdd be 
 sure of indiilgence. 
 
 Since then, the approbation your partiality would scarcely 
 have withheld, has been liberally accorded by the public ; 
 and I have the satisfaction of reflecting, that in following the 
 dictates of affection, which prompted me to select the dearest 
 friend I had in the world as the subject of a Dedication, I 
 have not overstepped the limits of prudence ; nor, in connect- 
 ing your honoured name with this trifling production, involved 
 you in a failure which, had it occurred, would have given you 
 infinitely moi'e concern than myself. 
 
 After a lapse of three years, during which my little bark, 
 fanned by pleasant and prosperous breezes, has sailed, more 
 than once, securely into port, I again commit it to the 
 waters, with more confidence than heretofore, and with a 
 firmer reliance that, if it should be found " after many days," 
 it may prove a slight memorial of the warmest filial regard. 
 
 Exposed to trials of no ordinary difficulty, and visited by 
 domestic affliction of no common severity, you, my dear 
 Mother, have boi'ne up against the ills of life with a fortitude 
 and resignation which those who knew you best can best 
 appreciate, but which none can so well understand, or so 
 thoroughly appreciate, as myself. Suffering is the lot of all. 
 Submission under the dispensation is permitted to few. And 
 it is my fervent hope that my own children may emulate 
 your virtues, if they are happily spared your sorrows. 
 
 Hereafter, if I should realise a ctesign, which I have always 
 entertained, of illustrating the early manners and customs, as 
 well as the local peculiarities, of the great commercial town to 
 which I owe my birth, I would inscribe that book to my Father 
 — "tme pauvre feuille de papier, tout ce qve fai, en regrettant
 
 XXVI DEDICATION. 
 
 de n' avoir pas de granit ;" — as a fit tribute to the memory of 
 one whose energies were so unremittingly and so successfully 
 directed towards the promotion of the public improvements 
 in Manchester, that his name may, with propriety, be asso- 
 ciated with its annals. Would that he had lived to see the 
 good work he so well began entirely accomplished ! 
 
 But the present Dedication, and that which I meditate, are 
 inseparably connected together in my mind by the same ties 
 of reverence and love. I would offer one to both, and both 
 to one. 
 
 The tenderness lavished on my childhood, the guidance 
 bestowed upon my youth, and the counsel afforded me in 
 maturer years, 
 
 All these, still legible in memory's page, 
 
 And still to be so to my latest age, 
 
 Add joy to duty, make me glad to pay 
 
 Sncli Lonoins to thee as my numbers may : 
 
 Perhaps a frail memorial, but sincere, 
 
 Not scorned in heaven, though little noticed here 1 
 
 That you may be long spared to him* is the earnest wish of 
 
 Tour very affectionate son, 
 
 WILLIAM HAEEISON AINSWOETH. 
 
 October 18, 1837. 
 
 * The prayer was not granted. My venerated Mother was lost to me in 
 little more than four years from the date of this dedication. She died 15th 
 
 March, 1812.
 
 PREFACE. 
 
 During a visit to Chesterfield, in tlie autumn of tlie year 
 1831, I first conceived the notion of writing this story. Wish- 
 ing to describe, somewhat minutely, the trim gardens, the 
 picturesque domains, the rook-haunted groves, the gloomy 
 chambers, and gloomier galleries, of an ancient hall with 
 which I was acc[uainted, I resolved to attempt a story in 
 +he bygone style of Mrs. Eadcliffe (which had always inex- 
 pressible charms for me), substituting an old English squire, 
 an old English manorial residence, and an old English high- 
 wayman, for the Italian marchese, the castle, and the brigand 
 of the great mistress of Romance. 
 
 While revolving this subject, I happened, one evening, to 
 enter the spacious cemetery attached to the church with the 
 queer, twisted steej^le, which, like the uplifted tail of the re- 
 nowned Dragon of Wantley, to whom " houses and churches 
 were as capons and turkeys," seems to menace the good 
 town of Chesterfield with destruction. Here an incident 
 occurred, on the opening of a vault, which it is needless to 
 relate, but which supplied me with a hint for the commence- 
 ment of my romance, as well as for the ballad entitled " The 
 Coffin." ITpon this hint I immediately acted ; and the earlier 
 chapters of the book, together with the description of the 
 ancestral mansion of the Eookwoods, were completed before 
 I quitted Chesterfield. 
 
 Another and much larger portion of the work was written 
 during a residence at Eottingdean, in Sussex, in the latter 
 part of 1833, and owes its inspiration to many delightful 
 walks over the Downs adjoining the sea-coast. Eomance- 
 writingwas pleasant occupation then. 
 
 The Eide to York was completed in one day and one night. 
 This feat — for a feat it was, being the comjjosition of a huu-
 
 xxvni PKEFACE. 
 
 dred ordinary novel pages in less than twenty-four hours — 
 was achieved at "The Elms" — a house I then occupied at 
 Kilbum. Well do I remember the fever into which I was 
 thrown during the time of composition. My pen literally 
 scoured over the pages. So thoroughly did I identify myself 
 with the flying highwayman, that, once started, I found it 
 impossible to halt. Animated by kindred enthusiasm, I 
 cleared every obstacle in my path with as much facihty as 
 Tui-pin disposed of the impediments that beset his flight. In 
 his company, I mounted the hill-side, dashed through the 
 bustling village, swept over the desolate heath, threaded the 
 silent street, plunged into the eddying stream, and kept an 
 onward course, without pause, without hindrance, without 
 fatigue. With him I shouted, sang, laughed, exxdted, wept. 
 Nor did I retire to rest till, in imagination, I heard the beU 
 of York Minster toll forth the knell of j)Oor Black Bess. 
 
 The supernatural occurrence, forming the groundwork of 
 one of the ballads which I have made the harbinger of doom 
 to the house of Eookwood, is ascribed, by popular supersti- 
 tion, to a family resident in Sussex ; upon whose estate the 
 fatal tree (a gigantic lime, with mighty arms and huge girth 
 of trunk, as described in the song) is still carefully preserved. 
 Cuckfield Place, to which this singular piece of timber is 
 attached, is, I may state, for the benefit of the curions, the 
 real Eookwood Hall ; for I have not drawn upon imagination, 
 but uj^on memory, in describing the seat and domains of that 
 fated family. The general features of the venerable struc- 
 ture, several of its chambers, the old garden, and, in par- 
 ticular, the noble park, with its spreading prospects, its 
 picturesque views of the hall, " like bits of Mrs. Kadcliffe" 
 (as the poet Shelley once observed of the same scene), its 
 deep glades, through which the deer come lightly tripping 
 down, its uplands, slopes, brooks, brakes, coverts, and groves, 
 are carefully delineated. 
 
 The sui^erstition of a fallen branch affording a presage of 
 approaching death is not peculiar tc tb.? family I have men- 
 tioned. Many other old houses have been equally favoured 
 in fact, there is scarcely an ancient family in the kingdom 
 without a boding sign. For instance, the Breretons of Bre- 
 reton, in Cheshire, were warned by the aj)pearance of stocks 
 of trees floating, like the swollen bodies of long-drowned 
 men, upon the surface of a sombre lake (called Blaekmere, 
 from the inky colour of its waters) adjoining their residence ; 
 and numerous other examples w»'H\t be given. The death-
 
 PREFACE. XXIX 
 
 presage of the Breretons is alluded to by Drayton in the 
 " Pol/jolbion:' 
 
 It has been well observed by Barry Cornwall, " that the 
 songs that occur in dramas are more natural than those 
 which proceed from the author in person." With equal 
 force does the reasoning apply to the romance, which may be 
 termed the drama of the closet. It would seem strange, on a 
 first view, that an author should be more at home in an 
 assumed character than his own. But experience shows the 
 position to be correct. Conscious he is no longer individually 
 associated with his work, the writer proceeds with aU the 
 freedom of irresponsibility. His idiosyncrasy is merged in 
 that of the personages he repi*esents. He thinks with their 
 thoughts ; sees with their eyes ; speaks with their tongues. 
 His strains are such as he himself (per se) would not — per- 
 haps could not — have origiuated. In this light he may be 
 said to bring to his subject not one mind, but several ; he 
 becomes not one poet, but many ; for each actor in his drama 
 has a share, and an important share, in the lyrical csfro to 
 which he gives birth. This it is which has imparted any verve, 
 variety, or dramatic character they possess, to the ballads 
 contained in this production. Turpin I look upon as the real 
 songster of " Black Bess ;" to Jerry Juniper I am unques- 
 tionably indebted for a flash melody which, without his hint, 
 would never have been written ; while to the Sexton I owe the 
 solitary gleam of light I have been enabled to throw upon 
 the horrors and mystery of the churchyard. 
 
 As I have casually alluded to the flash song of Jerry 
 Juniper, I may, perhaps, be allowed to make a few obser- 
 vations upon this branch of versification. It is somewhat 
 curious, with a dialect so racy, idiomatic, and plastic as our 
 own cant, that its metrical capabilities should have been so 
 little essayed. The French have numerous chansons d'argnf, 
 ranging from the time of Charles Boiordigne and Villon down 
 to that of Vidoeq and Victor Hugo, the last of whom has en- 
 livened the horrors of his " Dernier Jour iVnn Condamne" by 
 a festive song of this class. The Spaniards possess a large 
 collection of Romances de Gcrmania, by various authors, 
 amongst whom Quevedo holds a distinguished place. We, 
 on the contrary, have scarcely any slang songs of merit. 
 With a race of depredators so melodious and convivial as our 
 highwaymen, this is the more to be admired. Had they no 
 bards amonst their bands ? Was there no minstrel at hand 
 to record their exploits ? I can only call to mind one robber
 
 XXX PREFACE. 
 
 wlio was a poet — Delany, and ha was an Irishman. This 
 barrenness, I have shown, is not attributable to the poverty 
 of the soil, but to the want of due cultivation. Materials are 
 at hand in abundance, but there have been few ojierators. 
 Dekker, Beaumont and Fletcher, and Ben Jonson, have all 
 dealt largely in this jargon, but not lyrically ; and one of 
 the earliest and best specimens of a canting-song occurs in 
 Brome's "Jovial Crew;'" and in the " Advimturcs of Bam- 
 fijldc Moore Carew " there is a solitary ode, addressed by the 
 mendicant fraternity to their newly-elected monarch ; but it 
 Las little humoiu", find can scarcely be called a genuine cant- 
 iag-song. This ode brings us down to om* own time ; to the 
 effusions of the illustrious Pierce Egan; to Tom. Moore's 
 I'lights of " Fancy ;'" to John Jackson's famous chant, " On 
 the High Tab// Spice flash ihe Muzzle,"'' cited by Lord Byron 
 in a note to " Don Juan ;" and to the glorious Irish ballad, 
 worth them all put together, entitled " The Night before 
 Larry teas sfretched." This facetious performance is attri- 
 buted to the late Dean Burrowes, of Cork. It is worthy of note, 
 that almost all modern aspirants to the graces of the Musa 
 Pedestris are Irishmen. Of all rhymesters of the " Jcnad," 
 however, Dean Burrowes is, as yet, most fully entitled to the 
 laurel. Larry is quite " the potato !" 
 
 And here, as the candidates are so few, and their preten- 
 sions so humble, 
 
 I cafl't help putting ia my claim for praise. 
 
 I venture to affirm that I have done something more than 
 has been accomijlished by my predecessors, or contempo- 
 raries, with the significant language under consideration. I 
 have written a purely flash song ; of which the great and 
 peculiar merit consists in its being utterly incomp-'-ehensible 
 to the iminformed understanding, while its meaning must be 
 perfectly clear and perspicuous to the practised paflerer of 
 Eomany, or Pedlar's French. I have, moreover, been the 
 first to introduce and naturalise amongst us a measure which, 
 though common enough in the Argotic minstrelsy of France, 
 has been hitherto utterly unknown to our jyedestrian poetry. 
 Some years afterwards the song alluded to, better known 
 under the title of " Nix my dolly, pals,— fake away !" sprang 
 into extraordinary popularity, being set to music by Eodwell, 
 and chanted by glorious Paul Bedford and clever little Mrs. 
 Keeley. 
 
 Turpiu was the hero of my boyhood.. I had always a
 
 PREFACE. XXXI 
 
 strange passion for liigliwaymen, and have listened by the 
 hour to their exploits, as narrated by my father, and espe- 
 cially to those of " Dauntless Dick," that " chief minion of 
 the moon." One of Turpin's adventures in particular, the 
 ride to Hough Green, which took deep hold of my fancy, I 
 have recorded in song. "\Yhen a boy, I have often lingered 
 by the side of the deep old road where this robbery was con- 
 mitted, to cast wistful glances into its mysterious windings ; 
 and when night deepened the shadows of the trees, have 
 urged my horse on his journey, from a vague apprehension of 
 a visit from the ghostly highwayman. And then there was 
 the BoUin, with its shelving banks, that Turpin cleared at a 
 bound ; the broad meadows over which he winged his flight ; 
 the pleasant bowling-green of the pleasant old inn at Hough, 
 where he produced his watch to the Cheshire squires, with 
 whom he was upon terms of intimacy ; all brought something 
 of the gallant robber to mind. No wonder, in after-years, in 
 selecting a highwayman for a character in a tale, I should 
 choose my old favourite, Dick Turpin. 
 
 Ill reference to two of the characters here introduced, and 
 drawn from personages living at the time the tale was written, 
 it may be mentioned that poor Jerry Juniper met his death 
 from an accident at Chichester, while he was proceeding to 
 Goodwood races ; and that the knight of Malta (Mr. Tom, a 
 brewer of Truro, the self-styled Sir William Courtenay, who 
 played the strange tricks at Canterbury chronicled in a song 
 given in these pages), after his release from Barming Heath 
 Asylum, was shot through the head while leading on a mob 
 of riotous Kentish yeomen, whom he had persuaded that he 
 was the Messiah ! 
 
 If the design of Romance be, what it has been held, the 
 exposition of an useful truth by means of an interesting 
 story, I fear I have but imperfectly fulfilled the office imposed 
 upon me ; having, as I will fi-eely confess, had, throughout, 
 an eye rather to the reader's amusement than his edification. 
 One wholesome moral, however, may, I trust, be gathered 
 from a perusal of this Tale ; namely, that, without due 
 governance of the passions, high asj)irations and generous 
 emotions will little avail their possessor. The impersonations 
 of the Tempter, the Tempted, and the Better Influence, may 
 be respectively discovered, by those who care to cull the 
 honey from the flower, in the Sexton, in Luke, and in Sybil. 
 
 But the chief object I had in view in making the present
 
 xxxu PREFACE. 
 
 essay, was to see how far tlie infusion of a warmer and more 
 genial current into the veins of old Romance would succeed in 
 reviving her fluttering and feeble pulses. The attempt has 
 succeeded beyond my most sanguine expectation. Romance, 
 if I am not mistaken, is destined shortly to undergo an 
 important change. Modified by the German and French 
 writers — by Hoffman, Tieck, Victor Hugo, Alexandre Dumas, 
 Balzac, and Paul Lacroix — the structure commenced in our 
 own land by Horace Walpole, Monk Lewis, Mrs. Eadcliffe, 
 and Maturin, but left impei'fect and inharmonious, requires, 
 now that the rubbish which choked up its approach is removed, 
 only the hand of the skilful architect to its entire renovation 
 and perfection. 
 
 And now, having said my say, I must bid you, worthy 
 reader, farewell, beseeching you, in the words of old Rabe- 
 lais, " to interpret all my sayings and doings in the perfectest 
 sense. Reverence the cheese-like brain that feeds you with 
 all these jolly maggots ; and do what Hes in you to keep me 
 always merry. Be frolic now, my lads ! Cheer up your 
 hearts, and joyfully read the rest, with all ease of your body, 
 and comfort of your reins." 
 
 Kensal Manor House, 
 December 15, 1849.
 
 R O O K W O O D. 
 
 Sooii Hit i'mi 
 
 THE WEDDING ED^G. 
 
 It has been observed, and I am apt to believe it is an observation wllich 
 will n;enerally be found true, that before a terrible truth comes tolight, tbcro 
 are certain murmuring whispers fly before it, and prepare the minds of men 
 for the reception of the truth itself. — GaUicfc Reports. Case of the Count 
 Saint Gcran. 
 
 I. 
 
 THE VAULT. 
 
 Let mo know, therefore, fully the intent 
 
 Of this thy dismal preparation— 
 
 This talk fit for a charnel. Webstee. 
 
 Within a scpiilcliral vault, and at miclniglit, two persons 
 were seated. Tlie chamber was of sino-ular construction and 
 considerable extent. The roof was of solid stone masonry, 
 and rose in a wide semicircular arch, to the height of about 
 seventeen feet, measured from the centre of the ceiling to the 
 ground fioor, while the sides were divided by slight partition- 
 walls into ranges of low narrow catacombs. The entrance to 
 each cavity was surmounted by an obtusely-pointed arch, 
 resting upon slender granite pillars ; and the intervening 
 space was filled up with a variety of tablets, escutcheons, 
 shields, and inscriptions, recording the titles and heraldic 
 honours of the departed. There were no doors to the niches ; 
 and within might be seen piles oE coffins, packed one upon 
 another, till the floor groaned with the weight of lead. 
 Against one of the pillars, upon a hook, hung a rack of tat- 
 tered, time-out-of-mind hatchments ; and in the centre of 
 the tomb might be seen the effigies of Sir Eanulph de Eoke- 
 wode, the builder of the mausoleum, and the founder of the 
 race who slept within its walls. This statue, wrought in 
 black marble, differed from most monumental carved-work, 
 in that its posture was erect and life-like. Sir Eanulph was 
 represented as sheathed in a complete suit of mailj dssorated
 
 2 EOOKAVOOD. 
 
 witt his emblazoned and gilded surcoat, his arm leaning upon 
 the pommel of a weighty curtal-axe. The attitude wp^s that 
 of stern repose, A conically-formed helmet rested upon the 
 brow ; the beaver was raised, and revealed harsh, but com- 
 manding features. The golden spur of knighthood was fixed 
 upon the heel ; and, at the feet, enshrined in a costly sarco- 
 phagus of marble, dug from the same quarry as the statue, 
 rested the mortal remains of one of " the sternest knights to 
 his mortal foe that ever put speare in the rest." 
 
 Streaming in a wavering line upon the roof, the sickly 
 flame of the candle partially fell upon the human figures 
 before alluded to, throvfing them into darkest relief, and cast- 
 ing their opaque and fantastical shadows along the ground. 
 An old coffin upon a bier, we have said, served the mysterious 
 twain for a seat. Between them stood a bottle and a glass ; 
 evidences that, whatever might be the ulterior object of their 
 stealthy communion, the imuiediate comfort of the creature 
 had not been altogether overlooked. At the feet of one of 
 the personages were laid a mattock, a horn lantern (from 
 which the candle had been removed), a crowbar, and a bunch 
 of keys. Near to these implements of a vocation which the 
 reader will readily surmise, rested a strange su2:)erannuated 
 terrier, with a wiry back and frosted muzzle, a head minus 
 an ear, and a leg wanting a paw. His master, for such we 
 shall suppose him, was an old man, with a lofty forehead, 
 covered with a singularly-shaped nightcap, and clothed, as 
 to his lower limbs, with tight, ribbed, grey worsted hose, 
 ascending externally, after a bygone fashion, considerably 
 above the knee. The old man's elbow rested upon the handle 
 of his spade, his wrist supported his chin, and his grey, 
 glassy eyes, glimmering like ma,rsh-meteors in the candle- 
 light, were fixed iipon his companion with a glance of search- 
 ing scrutiny. 
 
 The object of his investigation, a much more youthful and 
 interesting person, seemed lost in reverie, and alike insen- 
 sible to time, place, and the object of the meeting. With 
 both hands grasped round the barrel of a fowling-piece, and 
 his face leaning upon the same suj^port, 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 imj)erfectly defined, the 
 outline of the head and the proportions of the figure were 
 eminently striking and symmetrical. Attired in a rough 
 forester's costume, of the mode of 1737, and of the roughest
 
 ROOKWOOD. 3 
 
 textnre and rudest make, his wild garb would have deter- 
 mined liis rank as sufficiently humble in the scale of society, 
 had not a certain loftiness of manner, and bold, though 
 reckless deportment, argued pretensions on the part of the 
 wearer to a more elevated station in life, and contradicted, in 
 a groat measure, the impression jn'oduced by the homely 
 appearance of his habiliments. A cap of shaggy, brown fur, 
 fancifully, but not ungracefully fashioned, covered his head, 
 from beneath which, dropping, in natural clusters, over his 
 r^eck and shoulders, a cloud of raven hair escaped. Su^b- 
 sequently, when his face was more fully revealed, it proved 
 to be that of a yoimg man, of dark aspect, and grave, 
 melancholy exjjression of countenance, approaching even to 
 the stern, when at rest ; though sufficiently animated and 
 earnest when engaged m conversation, or otherwise excited. 
 His features were regular, delicately formed, and might be 
 characterised as singularly handsome, were it not for a want 
 01 roundness in the contour of the face, which gave the linea- 
 ments a thin, worn look, totally distinct, however, from 
 haggardness or emaciation. The nose was delicate and fine, 
 the nostril especially so ; the upper lip was short, curling, 
 graceful, and haughtily expressive. As to complexion, his 
 skin had a truly Spanish warmth and intensity of colouring. 
 His figure, when raised, was tall and masculine, and though 
 slight, exhibited great personal vigour. 
 
 We will now tiu'u to his companion, the old man with the 
 great grey glittering eyes. Peter Bradley, of Eookwood 
 (comitatu Ebor), v/here he had exercised the vocation of 
 sexton for the best part of a life already drawn out to the 
 full span ordinarily allotted to mortality, was an odd caricn- 
 ture of humanity. His figure was lean, and almost as lank 
 as a skeleton. His bald head reminded one of a bleached 
 skvdl, allowing for the overhanging and hoary brows. Deep- 
 seated, and sunken within their sockets, his grey orbs 
 gleamed -mth intolerable lustre. Few could endure his gaze ; 
 and, aware of his power, Peter seldom failed to exercise it. 
 He had likevvdse another habit, which, as it savoured of in- 
 sanity, made him an object of commiseration with some, 
 while it rendered him yet more obnoxious to others. The 
 habit we allude to was the indulgence of wild screaming 
 laughter at times when aV merriment should be checked, 
 and when the exhibition of levity must proceed from utter 
 disregard of human grief and sult'ering, or from meiital 
 alieuatiou. 
 
 B 2
 
 4 ROOKWOOB 
 
 Wearied with the prolonged silence, Peter at length con- 
 descended to speak. His voice was harsh and grating as a 
 rusty hinge. 
 
 " Another glass r" said ho, ponring out a modicum of the 
 pale fluid. 
 
 His companion shook his head. 
 
 "It will keep out the cold," continued the sexton, pressing 
 the liquid upon him ; " and you, who are not so much accus- 
 tomed as I am to the damps of a vault, may suffer from 
 them. Besides," added he, sneeringly, " it will give you 
 courage." 
 
 His companion answered not. But the flash of his eye 
 resented the implied reproach. 
 
 " Nay, never stare at me so hard, Luke," continued the 
 sexton ; " I douht neither your courage nor your firmness. 
 But if you won't drink, I will. Here's to the rest eternal 
 of Sir Piers Eoolcwood ! You'll say amen to that pledge, 
 or you are neither grandson of mine, nor offspring of his 
 loins." 
 
 " Why should I reverence his memory," answered Luke, 
 bitterly, refusing the proffered potion, " who showed no 
 fatherly love for me ? He disowned me in life ; in death I 
 disown him. Sir Piers Eookwood was no father of mine." 
 
 "He vras as certainly your father, as Susan Bradley, your 
 mother, was my daughter," rejoined the sexton. 
 
 " And, surely," cried Luke, impetuously, "?/o;f need not 
 boast of the connection ! 'Tis not for you, old man, to couple 
 their names together — to exult in your daughter's disgrace 
 and your own dishonoiir. Shame ! shame ! Speak not of 
 them in the same breath, if you would not have me invoke 
 curses on the dead ! I have no reverence (whatever you may 
 have) for the seducer — for the murderer of my mother." 
 
 " You have choice store of epithets, in sooth, good grand- 
 son," rejoined Peter, with a chuckling laugh. " Sir Piers a 
 murderer !" 
 
 "Tush!" exclaimed Luke, indignantly, "affect not igno- 
 rance. You have better knowledge than I have of the truth 
 or falsehood of the dark tale that has gone abroad respecting 
 my mother's fate ; and unless report has belied you foully, 
 had substantial reasons for keeping sealed lips on the occa- 
 sion. But to change this painful subject," added he, with a 
 sudden alteration of manner, " at what hour did Sir Piers 
 fiookwood die ?"
 
 ROOKWOOD. 5 
 
 "Oil Thursday last in tlie niglit-time. The exact hour I 
 know not," replied the sexton. 
 
 "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 ? Why, 'tis a 
 common tale hereabouts, and has been for centuries. Any 
 old crone would tell it you. Peradventure, you have seen 
 the old avenue of lime-trees leading to the hall, nearly a 
 quarter of a mile in length, and as noble a row of timber as 
 any in the West Eiding of Yorkshire. Well, there is one 
 tree — the last on the left hand before you come to the clock- 
 house — larger than all the rest — a huge piece of timber, with 
 broad spreading branches, and of I know not what girth in 
 the trunk. The tree is, in some mysterious manner, con- 
 nected with the family of Rookwood, and immediately previous 
 to the death of one of that line, a branch is sure to be shed 
 from the parent stem, prognosticating his doom. But you 
 shall hear the legend. And in a strange sepulchral tone, not 
 inappropriate, however, to his subject, Peter chanted the 
 following ballad : 
 
 THE LEGEND OF THE LIME-TREE. 
 
 Amid the grove o'er-arched above witb lime-trees old and tall 
 (The avenue that leads unto the Rookwood's ancient ball), 
 High o'er the rest its towering- crest one tree rears to the sky, 
 And wide out-flings, like mighty wings, its arms umbrageously. 
 
 Seven yards its base would scarce embrace— a goodly ti'ee I ween, 
 With silver bark, and foliage dark of melancholy green ; 
 And mid its boughs two ravens honse, and build from year to year, 
 Their black brood hatch— their black brood watch — then screaming dis- 
 appear. 
 
 In that old tree when playfully the summer breezes sigh, 
 
 Its leaves are stirred, and there is heard a low and plaintive cry ; 
 
 And when in shrieks the storm blast speaks its reverend boughs among. 
 
 Sad wailing moans, like human groans, the concert harsh prolong. 
 
 But whether gale or calm prevail, or threatening cloud hath fled. 
 By hand of l-'ate, predestinate, a limb that tree will shed : 
 A verdant bough— untouched, I trow, by axe or tempest's breath— 
 To Rookwood's head an omen dread of fast-approaching death. 
 
 Some think that tree instinct must be with preternatural power, 
 Like 'larum bell Death's note to knell at Fate's appointed hour; 
 While some avow that on its bough are fearful traces seen. 
 Red as the stains from human veins commingling with the green.
 
 b ROOKWOOD. 
 
 Others, again, there are maintain that on the shattered bark, 
 
 A print is made, where iicnds hare laid their scathing talons dark ; 
 
 That, ere it falls, the raven calls thrice from that wizard botigh ; 
 
 And that each cry doth signify what space the Fates allow. 
 
 In olden days, the legend says, as grim Sir Eanulph view'd 
 
 A wretched bag her footsteps drag beneath his lordly wood. 
 
 His blood-hounds twain he called amain, and straightway gave her chase f 
 
 Was never seen in forest gi'een, so fierce, so fleet a race ! 
 
 With eyes of flame to Eaniilph came each red and ruthless hound, 
 
 While mangled, torn— a sight forlorn '.—the hag lay on the ground; 
 
 E'en where she lay was turned the cLiy, and limb and reeking bone 
 
 Within the earth, with ribald mirth, by Eanulph grim were thrown- 
 
 And while as yet the soil was wet with that poor witch's gore, 
 
 A lime-tree stake did Ranulph take, and pierced her hosoii's core ; 
 
 And, strange to tell, v.hat next bcfel !— that branch at once took root, 
 
 And richly fed, within its bed, strong suckers forth did shoot. 
 
 From year to year fresh boughs appear — it waxes huge in size ; 
 
 And, with wild glee, this prodigy Sir Eanulph grim espies. 
 
 One day, when he, beneath that tree, reclined in joy and pride, 
 
 A branch was found upon the ground- the next, Sir Eannlph died ! 
 
 And from that hour a fatal power has ruled that Wizard Tree, 
 
 To Eanulph's line a warning sign of doom and destiny : 
 
 For when a bough is found, I trow, beneath its shade to lie. 
 
 Ere suns shall rise thrice in the skies a Eookwood sure shall die ! 
 
 " And sxich an omen preceded Sir Piers's demise ?" said 
 Luke, who had listened with some attention to his grand- 
 sire's song. 
 
 " Unqiiestionably," replied the sexton. " Not longer ago 
 than Tuesday morning, I happened to be sauntering down 
 the avenue I have just described. I know not what took me 
 thither at that early hour, but I wandered leisurely on till I 
 came nigh the Wizard Lime- Tree. Great Heaven! what a 
 surprise awaited ino ! a huge branch lay right across the path. 
 It had evidently just fallen ; for the leaves were green and 
 unwithered ; the sap still oozed from the splintered wood ; 
 and there was neither trace of knife nor hatchet on the bark. 
 I looked up among the boughs to mark the spot from whence 
 it had been torn by the hand of Fate — for no human hand 
 had done it— and saw the pair of ancestral ravens pei'ched 
 amid the foliage, and croaking as those carrion fowl are wont 
 to do when they scent a carcase afar off. Just then a livelier 
 sound saluted my ears. The cheering cry of a pack of 
 hounds resounded from the courts, and the great gates being 
 thrown ojjen, oat issued Sir Piers, attended by a troop of his 
 roystering companions, all on horseback, and all making the 
 welkin ring with their vociferations. Sir Piers laughed aa 
 loudly as the rest, but his mirth was speedily checked. No 
 sooner had his hoi'se (old Eook, his favourite steed, who never
 
 liUOKWOOD. 7 
 
 swerved at stake or pale before) set eyes upon tliis accursed 
 branch, than he started as if the fiend stood before him, and, 
 rearing baclnvards, flung his rider from his saddle. At this 
 moment, with loud screams, the wizard ravens took flight. 
 Sir Piers was somewhat hurt by the fall, but he was more 
 frightened than hurt ; and though he tried to put a bold face 
 on the matter, it was plain that his efforts to recover himself 
 were fruitless. Doctor Titus Tyrconnel and that wild fellow 
 Jack Palmer (who has lately come to the hall, and of whom 
 you know something) tried to rally him. But it would not 
 do. He broke up the day's sport, and returned dejectedly 
 to the hall. Before dej^arting, however, he addressed a word 
 to me, in private, respecting you ; and pointed, with a me- 
 lanclioly shake of the head, to the fatal branch. ' It is my 
 deatli-u' arrant,'' said he, gloomily. And so it proved; two 
 days afterwards his doom was accomplished." 
 
 " And do you place faith in this idle legend ?" asked Luke, 
 with affected indifference, although it was evident, from his 
 manner, that he himself was not so entirely free from a 
 superstitioiis feeling of credulity as he wovild have it appear. 
 
 " Certes," replied the sexton. "I were more diflicult to 
 be convinced than the vmbelieving disciple else. Thrice hath 
 it occurred to my own knowledge, and ever with the same 
 result ; firstly, with Sir Reginald ; secondly, with thy own 
 mother; and lastly, as- I have just told thee, with Sir 
 Piers." 
 
 " I thought you said, even now, that this death-omen, if 
 such it be, was always confined to the immediate family of 
 Eookwood, and not to mere inmates of the mansion." 
 
 " To the heads only of that house, be they male or female." 
 
 " Then how could it apply to my mother P Was she of 
 that house ? Was she a wife P" 
 
 "Who shall say she was not ?''' rejoined the sexton. 
 
 " Who shall say she was so ?" cried Luke, repeating the 
 Wv'>rds with indignant emphasis — " who will avouch that ?'''' 
 
 A smile, cold as wintry sunbeam, played upon the sexton's 
 rigid lips. 
 
 " I will bear this no longer," ci'ied Luke ; " anger me not, 
 or look to yourself. Li a word, have you anything to tell me 
 respecting her ? if not, let me begone." 
 
 " I have. But I will not be hui-ried by a boy like you," 
 replied Peter, doggedly. " Go, if you Avill, and take the con- 
 sequences. My lips are sealed for ever, and I have much to 
 say — much that it behoves you to know."
 
 8 ROOKWOOD. 
 
 " Bo brief, tlieii. When you souglit me out this morning, 
 in my retreat with the gipsy gang at Davenham Wood, you 
 bade me meet you in the porch of Eookwood Church at mid- 
 night. I was true to my appointment." 
 
 " And I will keep my promise," rephed the sexton. " Draw 
 closer, that I may whisper in thine car. Of every Eookwood 
 who lies around us — and all that ever bore the name, except 
 Sir Piers himself (who lies in state at the hall), are here — not 
 one — mark what I say — not one male branch of the house 
 but has been suspected " 
 
 " Of what ?" 
 
 " Of murder !" returned the sexton, in a hissing whisper. 
 
 " Murder !" echoed Luke, recoiling. 
 
 " There is one dark stain — one foul blot on all. Blood- 
 blood hath l:)een spilt." 
 
 " By all ?" 
 
 " Ay, and sucli blood ! theirs was no common crime. Even 
 murder hath its degrees. Theirs was of the first class." 
 
 " Their wives ! — you canuot mean that '?" 
 
 " Ay, their v/ives ! — I do. You have heard it, then. Ha ! 
 iia ! 'tis a trick they had. Did you ever hear the old saying ? 
 
 No mate ever brook would 
 A Rook of tbe Eookwood ! 
 
 A merry saying it is, and true. No woman ever stood in a 
 Kookwood's way but she was speedily removed — that's 
 certain. They had all, save poor Sir Piers, the knack of 
 stoj)ping a troublesome woman's tongue, and practised it to 
 perfection. . A rare art, eh?" 
 
 " What have the misdeeds of his ancestry to do with Sir 
 Piers," muttered Luke, " mixch less with my mother ?" 
 
 " Everything. If he could not rid himself of his wife (and 
 she is a match for the devil himself), the mistress might be 
 more readily set aside." 
 
 " Have you absolute knowledge of aught ?" asked Luke, 
 his voice tremulous with emotion. 
 
 " Nay, I but hinted." 
 
 " Such hints are worse than open speech. Let me know 
 the worst. Did ho kill her'r" And Luke glared at the sex- 
 ton as if he would have penetrated his secret soul. 
 
 But Peter was not easily fathomed. His cold, bris^ht ey 
 returned Luke's gaze steadfastly, as he answered! coa 
 posedly : 
 
 *' I have said all I know,"
 
 ROOKWOOD. 9 
 
 " But not all you ildnh:' 
 
 " Thouglits sliouLl not always find utterance, else wo might 
 often endanyvr our own safety, and that of others." 
 
 "An idle subterfuge — and, from you, worse than idle. I 
 will have an answer, yea or nay. Was it poison — was it 
 steel ?" 
 
 " Enough — she died." 
 
 " No, it is not enough. When ? Avhere ?" 
 
 " 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 the shoulder of the man of graves with such 
 force as nearly to annihilate him. " Speak, or I will strangle 
 you. She died, you say, in her sleep ?" 
 
 " She did so," replied the sexton, shaking off Luke's hold. 
 
 " And was it to tell me that I had a mother's murder to 
 avenge, that you brought me to the tomb of her destroyer — 
 when he is beyond the reach of my vengeance ?" 
 
 Luke exhibited so much frantic violence of manner and 
 gesture, that the sexton entertained some little apprehension 
 that his intellects were unsettled by the shock of the 
 intelligence. It was, therefore, in what he intended for a 
 soothing tone that he attempted to solicit his grandson's 
 attention. 
 
 " I will hear nothing more," interrupted Luke, and the 
 vaulted chamber rang with his passionate lamentations. " Am 
 I the sport of this mocking fiend ?" cried he, " to whom ray 
 agony is derision — my despair a source of enjoyment — be- 
 neath whose withering glance my spirit shrinks — who, with 
 half-expressed insinuations, tortures my soul, awakening 
 fancies that goad me on to dark and desperate deeds ? Dead 
 mother ! upon thee I call. If in thy grave thou canst hear 
 the cry of thy most wretched son, yearning to avenge thee — 
 answer me, if thou hast the power. Let me have some token 
 of the truth or falsity of these wild suppositions, that I may 
 va-ostle against this demon. But no," added he, in accents 
 of drspair, " no ear listens to me, save his to v/hom my 
 wretchedness is food for mockery." 
 
 " Could the dead hear thee, thy mother might do so," re- 
 turned the sexton. " She lies within this space." 
 
 Luke staggered back, as if struck by a sudden shot. He 
 spoke not, but fell with a violent shock against a pile of 
 cofllns, at which he caught for support.
 
 10 ROOKWOOD. 
 
 " What liave I done !" he exclaimed, recoiling. 
 
 A thundering crash resounded throngh the vanlt. One of 
 the coffins, dislodged from its position by his fall, tumbled 
 to the ground, and, alighting npon its side, split asunder. 
 
 " G-reat Heavens! what is this?" cried Luke, as a dead 
 body, clothed in all the hideous apparel of the tomb, rolled 
 forth to his feet. 
 
 " It is your mother's corpse," answered the sexton, coldly ; 
 " I brought you hither to behold it. But you have antici- 
 pated my intentions." 
 
 "This my mother?" shrieked Luke, dropping upon his 
 knees by the body, and seizing one of its chilly hands, as it 
 lay upon the floor, with the face upwards. 
 
 The sexton took the candle from the sconce. 
 
 " Can this be death?" shouted Luke. "Bnpossible! Oh, 
 God ! she stirs — she moves. The light ! — quick. I see her 
 stir ! This is dreadful !" 
 
 " Do not deceive yourself," said the sexton, in a tone which 
 betrayed more emotion than was his wont. " 'Tis the 
 bewilderment of fancy. She will never stir again." 
 
 And he shaded the candle with his hanrl, so as to throw 
 the light full iipon the face of the corpse. It was motionless 
 as that of an image carved in stone. No trace of corruption 
 was visible upon the rigid, yet exquisite tracery of its features. 
 A profuse cloud of raven hair, escaped from its swathements 
 in the fall, hung like a dark veil over the bosom and 2:)erson 
 of the dead, and presented a startling contrast to the waxlike 
 hue of the skin and the pallid cereclothes. Flesh still ad- 
 hered to the hand, though it mouldered into dust within the 
 gripe of Luke, as he pressed the fingers to his lips. The 
 shroud was disposed like night-gear about her person, and 
 from without its folds a few withered flowers had fallen. A 
 strong aromatic odour, of a pungent nature, was diffused 
 around ; giving evidence that the art by which the ancient 
 Egyptians endeavoiu'ed to rescue their kindred fi'om decom- 
 position had been resorted to, to preserve the fleeting charms 
 of the unfortunate Susan Bradley. 
 
 A pause of awful silence succeeded, broken only by the 
 convulsive respiration of Luke. The sexton stood by, appa- 
 rently an indifferent spectator of the scene of hon-or. His 
 eye wandered from the dead to the living, and gleamed with 
 a peculiar and indefinable expr'^'3sion, half apathy, half ab- 
 straction. For one single in? 'ant, as he scrutinised the 
 features of h\s daughter, his brow, contracted by anger,
 
 KOOKWOOD. 11 
 
 immediately afterwards was elevated in scorn. But other- 
 wise you would have sought i i vain to read the iiiu'port of 
 that cold, insensible glance, which dwelt for a brief space on 
 the face of the mother, and settled eventually u^jon her son. 
 At length the withered flowers attracted his attention. He 
 stooped to pick up one of them. 
 
 " Faded as the hand that gathered ye — as the bosom on 
 which ye were strewn !" he murmured. " No sweet smell 
 left — but — faugh !" Holding the dry leaves to the flame of 
 the candle, they were instantly ignited, and the momentary 
 brilliance played like a smile upon the features of the dead. 
 Peter observed the effect. " Such was thy life," he exclaimed ; 
 "a brief, bright sparkle, followed by dark, utter extinc- 
 tion !" 
 
 Saying which, he flmig the expiring ashes of the floweret 
 from his hand. 
 
 n. 
 
 THE SKELETON HAND. 
 
 Duch. You are very cold. 
 
 I fear you are not well after your travel. 
 
 Ha ! lights.— Oh horribhi ! 
 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 j^rogresa 
 of time, and having completed his arrangements, he addressed 
 himself to Luke, intimating his intention of departing. But 
 receiving 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. 
 
 " I am glad to find you can breathe, if it be only after that 
 melancholy fashion," said the sexton ; " but come, I have 
 wasted time enough already. You must indulge your grief 
 elsewhere." 
 
 " Leave me," sighed Luke. 
 
 " What, here ? It were as much as my office is worth. 
 You can return some other night. But go you must, now — 
 at least, if you take on thus. I never calculated upon a 
 scene like this, or it had been long ere I brougbt you hither.
 
 12 ROOKWOOD. 
 
 So come away ; yet, stay ; but first lend me a hand to replace 
 the body in the coffin." 
 
 " Touch it not," exclaimed Lvike ; " she shall not rest 
 another hour within these accursed walls. I will bear her 
 hence myself." And, sobbing hysterically, he relapsed into 
 his former insensibility. 
 
 " Poh ! this is worse than midsummer madness," said 
 Peter; "the lad is crazy with grief, and all about a mother 
 who has been four-aud-twenty years in her grave. I will e'en 
 put her out of the way myself." 
 
 Saying which, he proceeded, as noiselessly as j)ossible, to 
 raise the corjjse in his arms, and deposited it softly within its 
 former tenement. Carefully as he executed his task, he could 
 not accomplish it without occasioning a slight accident to the 
 fragile frame. Insensible as he was, Luke had not relin- 
 quished 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 snajDped asunder. It would 
 appear afterwards, that this joint had been tampered with, 
 and partially dislocated. Without, however, entering into 
 further particulars in this place, it may be sufficient to ob- 
 serve that the hand, detached from the socket at the wrist, 
 remained within the gripe of Luke ; while, ignorant of the 
 mischief he had occasioned, the sexton continued his labours 
 unconsciously, until the noise, which he of necessity made in 
 stamping with his heel upon the plank, recalled his grandson 
 to sensibility. The first thing that the latter perceived, upon 
 collecting his faculties, were the skeleton fingers twined within 
 his own. 
 
 " What have you clone with the body ? Why have you 
 left this with me ?" demanded he. 
 
 "It was not my intention to have done so," answered the 
 sexton, suspending his occupation. " I have just made fast 
 the lid, but it is easily undone. You had better restore it." 
 
 " Never," returned Luke, staring at the bony fragment, 
 
 " Pshaw ! of what advantage is a dead hand ? 'Tis an un- 
 lucky keepsake, and will lead to mischief. The only use I 
 ever heard of such a thing being turned to, was in the case 
 of Bowlegged Ben, who was hanged in irons for murder, on 
 Hardchase Heath, on the York Eoad, and whose hand was 
 cut off at the wrist the first night to make a Hand of Glory, 
 or Dead Man's Candle. Hast never heard what the old song 
 says ?" And without awaiting his grandson's response, Peter 
 broke into the following wild strain :
 
 ItOOKWOOD. 13 
 
 THE HAND OF GLORY.* 
 
 Prcm tho corse that hangs on the roadsiile tree 
 
 (A murderer's corse it needs must be), 
 
 Sever the right hand carefully : — 
 
 Sever the hand that the deed hath done, 
 
 Ere the flesh that clinics to the bones be gone, ' 
 
 In its dry veins must blood be none. 
 
 Those ghastly fingers white and cold. 
 
 Within a winding-sheet enfold ; 
 
 Count the mj-stic count of seven ; 
 
 Name the Governors of heaven, f 
 
 Then in earthen vessel place them, 
 
 And with dragon-wort encase them, 
 
 Bleach them in the noonday sun, 
 
 Till the marrow melt and run, 
 
 Till the flesh is pale and wan, 
 
 As a moon-ensilvered cloud. 
 
 As an unpolluted shroud. 
 
 Next within their cliill embrace 
 
 Tlic dead man's Awful Caudle place: 
 
 Of murderer's fat must that candle be 
 
 (You may scoop it beneath the roadside tree), 
 
 Of wax, and of Lapland si.=ame. 
 
 Its wick must be twisti^d of hair of the dead. 
 
 By the crow and her brood ou the wilil waste shed. 
 
 Whei'ever that tei-riblo light shall burn 
 
 Vainly the sleeper may toss and turn ; 
 
 His leaden lids shall ho ne'er unclose 
 
 So long as that magical taper glows. 
 
 Life and treasure shall he command 
 
 Who knowcth the charm of the Glorious Hand 1 
 
 But of l)lack cat's gall let him aj-e have care, 
 
 And of sd'eech-owl's venomous blood beware ! 
 
 "Peace!" tliundered Liike, extending liis motlier's Lcand 
 towards the sexton. " What seest tliou?" 
 
 " I see sometliini:;' shine. Hold it nigher the li^-ht. Ha! 
 that is strange, truly. How ramc that ring there ?" 
 
 *' Ask of Sir Piers! ask of her /nisbamf .'" shouted Luke, 
 with a wild burst of exulting laughter. " Ha ! ha ! ha ! 'tis 
 X wedding-ring ! And look ! the finger is bent. It must 
 have been placed upon it in her lifetime. There is no decep- 
 tion in this — no trickery — ha !" 
 
 " It would seem not ; the sinew must have been conti'acted 
 in life. The tendons are pulled down so tightly, that the ring 
 could not be withdrawn without breaking the finger." 
 
 "You are sure that coffni contains her body ?" 
 
 " As sure as I am that this carcase is my own." 
 
 " The hand — 'tis hers. Can any doubt exist ?" 
 
 * See the relebratcd recipe for the Hand of Glory in "Los Secrets du 
 Petit Albert.'- 
 
 t The seven planets, so called by Mercurins Trismegistus.
 
 14 ROOKWOOD. 
 
 "Wherefore should it? It was broken from the car in Ly 
 accident within this moment. I noticed not the occurrence, 
 but it must have been so." 
 
 " Then it follows that she was wedded, and I am not " 
 
 "Illegitimate. For your own sake I am glad of it." 
 
 " My "heart will burst. Oh ! could I but establish the fact 
 of this marriage, her wrongs would be indeed avenged." 
 
 " Listen to me, Luke," said the sexton, solemnly. " I told 
 you, when I appointed this midnight interview, I had a 
 secret to communicate. That secret is now revealed — ^that 
 secret was your mother's marriage." 
 
 "And was it known to you dvu-ing her lifetinie?" 
 
 " It was. But I was sworn to secrecy." 
 
 " You have proofs then ?" 
 
 " I have nothing beyond Sir Piers's word — and he is silent 
 now." 
 
 " By whom was the ceremony performed ?" 
 
 " By a Eomish priest — a Jesuit — one Father Checkley, at 
 that time an inmate of the hall; for Sir Piers, though he 
 afterwards abjured it, at that time professed the Catholic 
 faith ; and this Checkley officiated as his confessor and 
 counsellor ; as the partner of his pleasures, and the prompter 
 of his iniquities. He was your father's evil genius." 
 
 "Is he still alive ?" 
 
 " I know not. After your mother's death he left the hall. 
 I have said he was a Jesuit, and I may add, that he was 
 mixed up in dark political intrigues, in which your father 
 was too feeble a character to take much share. But though 
 too weak to guide, he was a pliant instrument, and this 
 Checkley knew. He moulded him according to his wishes. 
 I cannot tell you what was the nature of their plots. Suffice 
 it, they were such as, if discovered, would have involved your 
 father in ruin. He Avas saved, however, by his wife." 
 
 " And her reward " groaned Luke. 
 
 " Was death," replied Peter, coldly. "What Jesuit ever 
 forgave a wrong — real or imaginary ? Tour mother, I ought 
 to have said, was a Protestant. Heaice, there was a difference 
 of religioTis oj^inion (the worst of differences that can exist 
 between husband and wife.) Checkley vowed her destruc- 
 tion, and he kept his vow. He Avas enamoured of her 
 beauty. But while he burnt with adulterous desire, he was 
 consumed by fiercest hate — contending, and yet strangeiy- 
 reconcileable passions — as you may have reason, hereafter, to 
 discover."
 
 ROOKWOOD. 15 
 
 " Go on," said Lixke, grinding his teeth. 
 
 " I ha,ve done," returned Peter. " From that hour your 
 father's love for his supposed mistress, and unacknowledged 
 wife, declined ; and with his waning love declined her health. 
 I will not waste w^ords in describing the catastrophe that 
 awaited her union. It will be enough to say, she was found 
 one morning a corpse within her bed. Whatever suspicions 
 were attached to Sir Piers were quieted by Chechley, who 
 distributed gold, largely and discreetly. The body was em- 
 balmed by Barbara Lovel, the GijDsy Queen." 
 
 " My foster-mother !" exclaimed Liike, in a tone of extreme 
 astonishment. 
 
 "Ay," replied Peter, " from her you may learn all par- 
 ticulars. You have now seen what remains of your mother. 
 You arc in possession of the secret of your birth. The path 
 is before you, and if you would arrive at honour you must 
 pursue it steadily, turning neither to the right nor to the 
 left. Opposition you will meet at each stej). But fresh 
 lights may be thrown upon this difficult case. It is in 
 vain to hope for Chechley's evidence, even shoidd the caitiff 
 priest be living. He is himself too deeply imjjlicated — ha!" 
 
 Peter stopped, for at this moment the flame of the candle 
 suddenly expired, and the speakers were left in total dark- 
 ness. Something like a groan followed the conclusion of the 
 sexton's discourse. It was evident that it proceeded not 
 from his grandson, as an exclamation burst from him at the 
 same instant. Luke stretched out his arm. A cold hand 
 seemed to press against his own, communicating a chill like 
 death to his frame. 
 
 " "Who is between us ?" he ejaculated. 
 
 " The devil!" cried the sexton, leaping from the coffin-lid 
 with an agility that did him honour. " Is aught between us ?" 
 
 " I will discharge my gun. Its flash will light us." 
 
 "Do so," hastily rejoined Peter. "But not in this 
 direction." 
 
 " Get behind me," cried Lute. And he pulled the 
 trigger. 
 
 A blaze of vivid light illumined the darkness. Still 
 nothing was visible, save the warrior figure, which was seen 
 for a moment, and then vanished like a ghost. The buck- 
 shot rattled against the further end of the vault. 
 
 " Let us go hence," ejaculated the sexton, who had rushed 
 to the door and thrown it wide open. " Mole ! Mole !" cried 
 he, and the dog sprang after him.
 
 10 ROOKWOOFj. 
 
 " I could have sworn I felt sometliing," said Luke ; " whellce 
 issued that groan ?" 
 
 " Ask not whence," replied Peter. " Eeach uic my mat- 
 tock and spade, and the lantern ; they are behind you. And 
 stay, it were better to bring away the bottle." 
 
 " Take them, and leave me here." 
 
 " Alone in the vault — no, no, Luke, I have not told you 
 half I know concerning that mystic statue. It is said to 
 move — to walk — to raise its axe— be warned, I pray." 
 
 " Leave me, or abide, if you will, my coming in the church. 
 If thei'e is aught that may be revealed to my ear alone, I will 
 aiot shrink from it, though the dead themselves should arise 
 to proclaim the mystery. It may be — but — go — there are 
 yom* tools." And he shut the door with a jar that shook 
 the sexton's frame. 
 
 Peter, after some muttered murmurings at the hardihood 
 and madness, as he termed it, of his grandson, disposed his 
 lanky limbs to repose upon a cushioned bench without the 
 communion railing. As the pale moonlight fell upon his 
 gaunt and cadaverous visage, he looked like some unholy 
 thing suddenly annihilated by the jiresiding influence of that 
 sacred spot. Mole crouched himself in a ring at his master's 
 feet. Peter had not dozed many minutes when he was 
 aroused by Luke's return. The latter was very pale, and 
 the damp stood in big drops upon his brow. 
 
 " Have you made fast the door ?" inquired the sexton. 
 
 "Here is the key." 
 
 " What have you seen ?" he next demanded. 
 
 Luke made no answer. At that moment the church clock 
 struck two, breaking the stillness with an iron clang. Luke 
 raised his eyes. A ray of moonlight, streaming obliquely 
 through the painted window, fell upon the gilt lettering of a 
 black mural entablature. The lower part of the inscription 
 was in the shade, but the emblazonment and the words — • 
 
 £Drate pro auima HcginalDj JRooitoooH equitisf auratj, 
 
 were clear and distinct. Luke trembled, he knew not why, 
 as the sexton pointed to it. 
 
 " You have heard of the handwriting upon the wall," said 
 Peter. " Look there ! — ' His kingdom hath been taken from 
 him.' Ha, ha ! Listen to me. Of all thy monster I'ace — of 
 all the race of Eookwood I shoidd say — no demon ever 
 stalked the earth more terrible than him whose tablet you 
 now behold. By him a brother was betrayed ; by him a
 
 ROOKWOOD. 17 
 
 brother's wife was dislionourecl. Love, honour, friendship, 
 were with him as words. He regarded no ties ; he defied 
 and set at naught all human laws and obligations — and yet 
 he was religious, or esteemed so — received the viaticum, and 
 died full of years and honours, hugging salvation to his 
 sinful heart. And after death he has you lying epitaph to 
 record his virtues. His virtues ! ha ! ha ! Ask him wha 
 preaches to the kneeling throng gathering within this holy 
 place, what shall be the murderer's portion— and he will 
 answer — Death ! And yet Sir Keginald was long-lived. The 
 awful question, ' Cain, where is thy brother ?' broke not his 
 tranquil slumbers. Luke, I have told you much — but not 
 all. You know not, as yet — nor shall you know your destiny ; 
 but you shall be the avenger of infamy and blood. I have a 
 sacred charge committed to my keeping, which, hereafter, I 
 may delegate to you. You shall bo Sir Luke Rookwood, but 
 the conditions it must be mine to propose." 
 
 "No more," said Luke; "my brain reels. I am faint. 
 Let us quit this place, and get into the fresh air." And 
 striding past his grandsire, he traversed the aisles with hasty 
 steps. Peter was not slow to follow. The key was applied, 
 and they emerged into the churchyard. The gi assy mounds 
 were bathed in the moonbeams, and the two yew-trees, 
 throwing their black, jagged shadows over the grave-hills, 
 looked like evil spirits brooding over the repose of the 
 righteous. 
 
 The sexton noticed the deathly paleness of Luke's coun- 
 tenance, but he fancied it might proceed from the tinge of 
 the sallow moonlight. 
 
 " I will be with you at your cottage, ere daybreak," said 
 Luke. And turning an angle of the church, he disappeared 
 from view. 
 
 "So," exclaimed Peter, gazing after him, "the train is 
 laid ; the spark has been applied ; the explosion will soon 
 follow. The hour is fast approaching when I shall behold 
 this accursed house shaken to dust, and when my long- 
 delayed vengeance will be gratified. Li that hope I am con- 
 tent to drag on the brief remnant of my days. Meanwhile, I 
 must not omit the stimulant. In a short time I may not 
 require it." Draining the bottle to the last drop, he flung it 
 from him, and commenced chanting, in a high key and 
 cracked voice, a wild ditty, the words of which ran as 
 follow :
 
 18 EOOKWOOD. 
 
 THE CARRION CROW.* 
 The Carrion Crow is a sexton bold, 
 He raketli tlie dead from out of the mould ; 
 He dflvcth tlie ground like a miser old, 
 Stealthily hiding his store of gold. Caw ! Caw! 
 
 The Carrion Crow hath a coat of Hack, 
 Silky and sleek like a priest's to hi:; back ; 
 Like a lawyer ho grubbeth -no matter what way — 
 The fouler the offal, the richer his prey. 
 
 Caiv ! Caw ! the Carrion Crow ! 
 
 Dig ! Dig ! in the ground helow ! 
 The Carrion Crow hath a dainty maw, 
 With savory pickings he cramiiieth his craw ; 
 Kept meat from the gibbet it pleasetli his whim, 
 It never can hang too long for him ! Caw ! Caw I 
 The Carrion Crow smelleth powder, 'tis said, 
 Like a soldier eschewetb the taste of cold lead ; 
 No jester, or miino, ];ath moi'e marvellous wit. 
 For, wherever he lightuth, lis makcth a Lit ! 
 
 Caio ! Caw ! the Carrion Crow! 
 
 Dig I Dig I in the ground helow ! 
 
 Slionldering- his spade, and whistling to his dog, the sexton 
 quitted the churchyai'd. 
 
 Peter had not been gone many seconds, when a dark figure, 
 miiffled in a wide bhick mantle, emerged from among the 
 tombs surrounding the chui'ch ; gazed after him for a .few 
 seconds, and then, with a menacing gesture, retreated behind 
 the ivied buttresses of the grey old pile. 
 
 in. 
 
 THE PARK. 
 
 Brian. Ralph! hearest though any stirring? 
 
 Ralph. I h^ard one speak hero, 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 
 hearil deer in ii y life. 
 
 Bri. Stand, or I'll shoot. 
 
 iSir Arthur. Who's there? 
 
 Bri. I am the keeper, and do charge yon stand. 
 
 You have stolen my deer. Merry Devil of Edmonton. 
 
 Luke's first impulse had been to free himsdf from the 
 restraint imposed by his grandsire's society. He longed to 
 commune with himself. Leajiing the small boundary- wall, 
 which defended the churchyard from a deep green lane, ho 
 hurried along in a direction contrary to that taken by the 
 
 * Set to music by Mr. F. Romer.
 
 ROOKWOOD. 19 
 
 sexton, making the best of his way until he arrived at a gap 
 in the high-banked hazel hedge, which overhung the i*oad. 
 Heedless of the impediments thrown in his way by the 
 undergrowth of a rough ring-fence, he struck through the 
 opening that presented itself, and, climbing over the moss- 
 grown paling, trod presently upon the elastic sward of Rook- 
 wood Park. 
 
 A few minutes' rapid walking brought him to the summit 
 of a rising ground crowned vnth aged oaks, and, as he passed 
 beneath their broad shadows, his troubled spirit, soothed by 
 the quietude of the scene, in part resumed its serenity. 
 
 Luke yielded to the gentle influence ox the time and hour. 
 The stillness of the spot allayed the irritation of his frame, 
 and the dewy chilliness cooled the fever of his brow. Leaning 
 for support against the gnarled trunk of one of the trees, he 
 gave liimself up to contemplation. The events of the last 
 hour — of his v/hole existence — passed in rapid review before 
 him. The thought of the wayward, vagabond life he had led ; 
 of the wild adventures of his youth ; of all he had been ; of 
 all he had done ; of all he had endured — crowded his mind ; 
 and then, like the passing of a cloud flitting across the 
 autumnal moon, and occasionally obscuring the smiling land- 
 scape before him, his soul was shadowed by the remembrance 
 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. 
 
 The eminence on which he stood was one of the highest 
 points of the pai'k, and commanded a view of the hall, which 
 might be a quarter of a rnilo distant, discernible through a 
 broken vista of trees, its w^hitenod walls glimmering in the 
 moonlight; and its tall chimney spiring far from out the 
 round masses of wood in which it lay embosomed. The 
 ground gradually sloped in thrjt direction, occasionally rising 
 into srreils, studded with magnificent timber — dipping intr 
 smooth dells, or stretching out into level glades, until it sua 
 denly sank into a deep declivity, that formed an eifc-ctual 
 division, without the intervention of a haw-haw, or ether 
 barrier, betv/een the chase and the home-park. A slender 
 stream strayed through this ravine, having found its v/ay 
 thither from a small reservoir, hidden in the higher planta- 
 tions to the left ; and further on, in the open ground, and in 
 a line with the hall, though, of course, much below the level 
 of the building, assisted by many local springs, and restrained 
 by a variety of natural and artificial embankments, this 
 
 c 2
 
 20 ROOKWOOD. 
 
 brook spread out into an expansive sheet of water. Crossed 
 by a rustic bridge, the only communication between the 
 parts, the pool found its outlet into the meads below ; and 
 even at that distance, and in that still hour, you might almost 
 catch the sound of the brawling wa,ters, as they dashed down 
 the weir in a foaming cascade ; while, far away, in the sj)read- 
 ing valley, the serpentine meanderings of the slender current 
 might be traced, glittering like silvery threads in the moon- 
 shine. The mild beams of the quetn of night, then in her 
 meridian, trembled tipon the topmost branches of the tall 
 timber, quivering like diamond spray upon the outer foliage ; 
 and, penetrating through the interstices of the trees, fell 
 upon the light wreaths of vapour, then beginning to arise 
 from the surface of the pool, steeping them in misty splen- 
 dour, and lending to this part of the picture a character of 
 dreamy and unearthly beauty. 
 
 All else was in unison. No sound interrujDted the silence 
 of Luke's solitude, except the hooting of a large grey owl, 
 that, scared at his approach, or in search of prey, winged its 
 spectral flight in continuous and mazy circles round his 
 head, uttering at each wheel its startling whooj) ; or a deep 
 distant bay, that ever and anon boomed upon the ear, pro- 
 ceeding from a pack of hounds kennelled in a shed adjoining 
 the pool before mentioned, but which was shrouded from 
 view by the rising mist. 'No living objects presented them- 
 selves, save a herd of deer, crouched in a covert of lu'own 
 fern beneath the shadow of a feAv stunted trees, immediately 
 below the point of land on which Luke stood ; and although 
 their branching antlers could scarcely be detected from the 
 ramifications of the wood itself, they escaj^ed not his prac- 
 tised ken. 
 
 " How often," munnured Luke, " in years gone by, have I 
 traversed these moonlit glades, and wandered amidst these 
 woodlands, on nights heavenly as this — ay, and to some jpixr- 
 pose, as yon thinned herd might testify ! Every dingle, 
 every dell, every rising brow, every bosky vale and shelving 
 covert, have been as familiar to my track as to that of the 
 fleetest and freest of their number : scarce a tree amidst the 
 thickest of yon outstretching forest with which I cannot 
 claim acquaintance ; 'tis long since I have seen them. By 
 heavens ! 'tis beautiful ! and it is all my own ! Can I forget 
 that it was hero I first emancipated myself from thraldom ? 
 Can I forget the boundless feeling of delight that danced 
 within my veiiis when I first threw off the yoke of servitude.
 
 ROOKWOOD. 21 
 
 and roved unshackled, unrestrained, amidst these woods ? 
 The wikl intoxicating bliss still tingles to my heart. And 
 they are all my own — my own ! Softly, what have wo 
 there!" 
 
 Luke's attention was arrested by an object which could not 
 fail to interest him, sportsman as he av.is. 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 shoulder, when he dropped it again to its 
 rest. 
 
 "What am I about to do?" he mentally ejaculated. 
 " ^Vliy, for mere pastime, should I take away yon noble 
 creature's life, when his carcase would be utterly useless to 
 me ? Yet such is the force of habit, that I can scarce resist 
 the impulse that tempted me to fire ; and I have known the 
 time, and that not long since, when I should have shown no 
 such self-control." 
 
 Unconscious of the danger it had escaped, the animal 
 moved foi-ward with the same stately step. Suddenly it 
 stopped with ears pricked, as if some sound had smote them. 
 At that instant the click of a gun-lock was heard, at a little 
 distance to the right. The piece had missed fire. An instan- 
 taneous report from another gun succeeded ; and, with a 
 bound high in air, the buck fell upon his back, struggling in 
 the agonies of death. Luke had at once divined the cause ; 
 he was aware that poachers were at hand. He fancied that 
 he knew the parties ; nor was he deceived in his conjecture. 
 Two figures issued instantly from a covert on the right, and 
 making to the spot, the first who reached it put an end to 
 the animal's struggles by plunging a knife into its throat. 
 The affrighted herd took to their heels, and were seen darting 
 swiftly down the chase. 
 
 One of the twain, meantime, was occupied in feeling for the 
 deer's fat, when he was approached by the other, who pointed 
 in the direction of the house. The former raised himself 
 from his kneeling posture, and both appeared to listen atten- 
 tively. Luke fancied be heard a slight sound in the distance ; 
 whatever the noise j)roceeded fi-om, it was evide.it the cleer- 
 stealers were alarmed. They laid hold of the buck, and, 
 draggling it along, concealed the carcase amonfr the tall fern ;
 
 22 llOOKWOOD. 
 
 they then retreated, halting for an instant to deliberate, 
 within a few yards of Luke, who was concealed from their 
 view by the trunk of the tree, behind which he had ensconced 
 his per?on. They were so near, that he lost not a word of 
 their muttered conference. 
 
 " The game's spoiled this time, Eob Rust, anyhow," 
 growled one, in an angry tone ; " the hawks are upon us, a.nd 
 we must leave this brave buck to take care of himself. Curse 
 him ! — who'ci a' thought of Hugh Badger's quitting his bed 
 to-night ? Sespect for his late master might ha.ve kept hira 
 quiet the night before the funeral. But look out, lad. Dost 
 see 'em F" 
 
 " Ay, thanks to old Oliver — yonder they are," returned the 
 other. " One — two — three — and a muzzled bouser to boot. 
 There's Hugh at the head on 'em. Shall we stand and show 
 fight. I have half a mind for it." 
 
 '•E"o, no," replied the first spea^ker; " that will never do, 
 Sob — no fighting. "Why run the risk of being grabb'd for a 
 haunch of venison ? Had Luke Bradley or Jack Palmer been 
 with V.S, it might have been another a:Sair. As it is, it won't 
 pay. Besides, we've that to do at the hall to-morrow night 
 that may make men of us for the rest of our nat'ral lives. 
 We've pledged ourselves to Jack PaJmer, and we can't be of£ 
 in honour. It won't do to be snabbled in the nick of it. So 
 let's make for the prad in the lane. Keep in the shade as 
 much as you can. Come along, my hearty." And away the 
 two worthies s-campered down the hill-side. 
 
 " Shall I follow," thought Luke, " and run the risk of 
 falling into the keeper's hand, just at this crisis, too? No, 
 but if I am found here, I shall be taken for one of the gang. 
 Something must be done — ^ha ! — devil take them, here they 
 are alrea>:ly." 
 
 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 ga;me ; and, as secrecy was no 
 longer necessary, his muzzle had been removed. To rush 
 forth now were certain betrayal; to remain was almost 
 equally assured detection ; and, doubting whether he should 
 obtain credence if he delivered himself over in that garb and 
 armed, Luke at once rejected the idea. Just then it flashed 
 across his recollection that his gun had remained unloaded, 
 and he a^pplied 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-
 
 ROOKWOOD. 23 
 
 thickest ; biit this seemed insufficient to bp.ffle the sagacity 
 of the hoviiid — the animal had got his scent, and was baying 
 close at hand. The keepers were drawing nigh. Luke gave 
 himself up for lost. The dog, however, stoj^ped where the 
 two poachers had halted, and was there completely at fault : 
 snuffing the ground, he bayed, wheeled round, and then set 
 off with renewed barking upon their track. Hugh Badger 
 and his comrades loitered an instant at the same place, 
 looked warily round, and then, as Luke conjectured, fol- 
 lowed the course taken by the hound. 
 
 Swift as thought, Luke arose, and keeping as much as 
 possible under cover of the trees, started in a cross line for 
 the lane. Eapid as was his flight, it was not without a wit- 
 ness ; one of the keeper's assistants, who had lagged behind, 
 gave the view-halloa in a loud voice. Luke pressed forward 
 with redoubled energy, endeavouriiig to gain the shelter of 
 the plantation, and this ho could readily have a,ccompliseed 
 had no impediment been in his way. But his rage and vex- 
 ation 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 ti:rned sharply round, 
 steei'ing 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 encouraging and directing 
 the dog. 
 
 Luke had gained the park palings, along which he rushed, 
 in the vain c[uest of some practicable point of egi'ess, for the 
 fence was higher in this part of the park than elsewhere, 
 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 climbiiig the palings. At this 
 junctm-e a deep breathing v,'as heard close behind him. He 
 threw a glance over his shoulder. Within a few yards was a 
 ferocious bloodhovmd, with whose savage nature Luke was 
 well acquainted ; the breed, some of which he had already 
 seen, having been maintained at the hall ever since the days 
 of grim old Sir Ranulph. The eyes of the hound were 
 glaring, blood-red ; his tongue was hanging out, and a row of 
 keen white fangs were displayed, like the teeth of a shark. 
 There was a growl — a leap — and the dog was close upon 
 him. 
 
 Luke's courage was undoubted. But his heart failed him 
 as he heard the roar of the remorseless brute, and felt that 
 he could not avoid an encounter with the animal. His reso-
 
 24 KOOKWOOD. 
 
 lution was instantly taken ; lie stopped sliort with sucli sud- 
 denness, tliat the dog, when in the act of sj)ringing, flew past 
 him with great violence, and the time, momentary as it was, 
 occupied by the animal in recovering himself, enabled Luke 
 to drop on his knee, and to place one arm, like a buckler, 
 before his face, while he held the other in readiness to grapple 
 his adversary. Uttering a fierce yell, the hound returned to 
 the charge, darting at Luke, who received the assault without 
 flinching ; and in sj)ite of a severe laceration of the arm, he 
 seized his foe by the throat, and hurling him upon the 
 ground, jumped with all his force upon his belly. There was 
 a yell of agony — the contest was ended, and Luke was at 
 liberty to pursue his flight luimolested. 
 
 Brief as had been the interval required for this combat, it 
 had been sufficient to bring the pursuers within sight of the 
 fugitive. Hugh Badger, who from the acclivity had witnessed 
 the fate of his favourite, with a loud oath discharged the 
 contents of his gun at the head of its destroyer. It was 
 fortunate for Luke, that at this instant he stumbled over the 
 root of a tree — the shot rattled in the leaves as he fell, and 
 the keeper, concluding that he had at least winged his bird, 
 descended more leisurely towards him. As he lay upon the 
 ground, Luke felt that he was woimded ; whether by the teeth 
 of the dog, from a stray shot, or from bruises inflicted by the 
 fall, he covild not determine. But, smarting with pain, he 
 resolved to wreak his vengeance upon the first person who 
 approached him. He voAved not to be taken with life — to 
 strangle any one who should lay hands upon him. At that 
 moment he felt a pressure at his breast. It was the dead 
 hand of his mother ! 
 
 Luke shuddered. The fire of revenge quenched. He 
 mentally cancelled his rash oath ; yet he could not bring 
 himself to surrender at discretion, and without further effort. 
 The 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. 
 
 " Confound the rascal," cried Hugh, " he's not half killed ; 
 he seems to breathe." 
 
 The words were scarcely out of his mouth ere the speaker 
 was dashed backwards, and lay sprawling upon the sod. 
 Suddenly and \mexpectedly, as an Indian chief might rush 
 upon his foes, Luke arose, clashing himself with great violence 
 against Hugh, who happened to stand in his way, and before 
 the startled assistants, who wei'e either too much taken by
 
 IlOOIvWOOD. 25 
 
 sitvprise, or unwilling to draw a trigger, could in any way lay 
 liands upon liim, exerting all tlie remarkal.tlc 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. 
 
 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 crash- 
 ing branches, and other sounds conveyed to his quick ear, he 
 was speedily upon Luke's track. 
 
 The plantation through which the chase now took place 
 vras not, as might be supposed, a continiiation of the ring- 
 fence which Luke had originally crossed, on his entrance into 
 the park, though girded by the same line of paling, but, in 
 reality, a close pheasant preserve, occupying the banks of a 
 ravine, which, after a deep and tortuous course, terminated 
 in the declivity heretofore described as forming the park 
 boundary. Luke plunged into the heart of this defile, 
 fighting his way downwards, in the direction of the brook. 
 His ju'ogress was impeded by a thick undergrowth of brier, 
 and other matted vegetation, as well as by the entanglements 
 thrown in his way by the taller bushes of thorn a id hazel, 
 the entwined and elastic branches of which, in their recoil, 
 galled and fretted him, by inflicting smart blows on his face 
 and hands. This was a hardshij) he usually little regarded. 
 But, upon the present occasion, it had the effect, by irritating 
 his temper, of increasing the thii-st of vengeance raging in 
 his bosom. 
 
 Through the depths of the ravine welled the shallow 
 stream before alluded to, and Hugh Badger had no sooner 
 reached its sedgy margin than he lost all trace of the fugitive. 
 He looked cautiously round, listened intently, and inclined 
 his ear to catch the faintest echo. All was still : not a branch 
 shook, nor a leaf rustled. Hugh looked aghast. He had 
 made sure of getting a glimpse, and, perhaps, a stray shot 
 at the " poaching rascal," as he termed him, " in the open 
 space, which he was sure the fellow was aiming to reach ; 
 and now, all at once, he had disappeai'ed, like a will-o'-the- 
 wisp, or a boggart of the clough." However, he could not 
 be far off, and Hugh endeavoured to obtain some clue to 
 guide him in his quest. He was not long in detecting recent 
 marks deeply indented in the mud on the opposite bank.
 
 26 ROOKWOOD. 
 
 Hngli leaped thltlier at once. Furtlicr on, some ruslies were 
 trodden down, mid. tLere 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 alacrity, the scent he had opened. The brook pre- 
 sented still fewer imj)ediments to expedition than the thick 
 copse, and the keeper pursued the wanderings of the petty 
 current, occasionally splashing into the stream. Here and 
 there, the print of a foot on the sod satisfied him he was 
 in the right path. At length he became aware, from the 
 crumbling soil, that the object of his pursuit had scaled 
 the bank, and he forthwith moderated his pace. Halting, he 
 perceived what he took to be a face peeping at him from 
 behind a knot of alders that overhung the steep and shelving 
 bank immediately above him. His gun was instantly at his 
 shoulder. 
 
 " Come down, you infernal deer-stealing scoundrel," cried 
 Hugh, " or I'll blow you to shivers." 
 
 ISo answer was returned : expostulation was vain ; and, 
 fearful of placing himself at a disadvantage if he attempted 
 to scale the bank, Hugh fired without further parley. The 
 sharp discharge rolled in echoes down the I'avine ; and a 
 pheasant, scared at the sound, answered the challenge from 
 a neighbouring tree. Htigh vfas an unen-ing marksman, aiid 
 on this occasion his aim had been steadily taken. The result 
 was not precisely such as he had anticipated. A fur cap, 
 shaken by the shot from the bough on which it hung, came 
 roiling down the bank, proclaiming the -mse that had been 
 practised upon the keeper. Little time was allowed him for 
 reiicction. Before he could reload, he felt himself collared 
 by the iron arm of Luke. 
 
 Hugh Badger — " "lan of great personal strength — 
 squa,re-set, band} rith a prodigious width of cliect, 
 
 and a frame like a j it^rciues ; and, energetic as vras Luke's 
 assault, he maintained his ground without flinching. The 
 struggle was desperate. Luke was of slighter proportion, 
 thoiigh exceeding the keeper in stature by the head and 
 shoulders. This superiority ava,iled him little. It was rather 
 a disadvantage in the conSiet that ensued. The gripe fastened 
 upon Hugh's throat was like that of a clenched vice. But Luke 
 might as well have grapj)led the neck of a bull as that of the 
 stalwart keeper. Defending himself with his hobnail boots, 
 witli Vv'hich he inflicted several severe blows ujjon Ltike's
 
 ROOKWOOD. 27 
 
 shins, and struggling veLomently, Hugli succeeded in extri- 
 -cating himself from his throttling grasp ; he then closed with 
 his foe, and they were locked together like a couple of bears 
 at plaj. Straining, tugging, and practising every sleight and 
 stratagem coming within the scope of feet, knees, and thighs 
 — now tripping, now jerking, now advancing, now retrea,ting, 
 they continued the strife, but all with doubtful result. 
 Victory, at length, seemod to declare itself in favour of the 
 sturdy keeper. Aw?.re of his opponent's strength, it was 
 Luke's chief endeavour to keep his lower limbs disengaged, 
 and to trust more to skill than force for ultimate success. 
 To prevent this was Hugh's grand object. - Guarding himself 
 against every feint, he ultimately succeeded in firmly grap- 
 pling his agile assailant. Luke's spine was almost broken by 
 the shock, when he suddenly gave way ; aaid, -^^Ithout losing 
 his brJance, drew his adversary forward, kicking his right 
 leg from under him. . "With a crash like that of an uprooted 
 oak, Hugh fell, with his foe upon him, into the bed of the 
 rivulet. 
 
 K'ot a word had been spoken dm'ing the conflict. A con- 
 vulsive groan burst from Hugh's hardy breast. His hand 
 sought his girdle, but in va,in ; his knife was gone. Gazing 
 iipwards, his. dancing vision encouitered the glimmer of the 
 blade. The weapon had dropped from its case in the fall. 
 Luke bi-aiidished it before his eyes; 
 
 "Villain!" gasped Hugh, ineffectually struggling to free 
 himself, "you will not murder me?" And his efforts to 
 release himself became desperate. 
 
 " No," answered Luke, flinging the uplifted knife into the 
 brook. " I will not do that, though thou hast twice aimed at 
 my life to-night. But I will silence thee, at all events." 
 Saying which, he dealt the keeper a blow on the head that 
 terminated all further resistance on his part. 
 
 Leaving the inert mass to choke up the current, with whoso 
 waters the blood, oozing from the wound, began to commingle, 
 Luke prepared to depart. His perils were not yet past. 
 Guided by the firing, the report of which alarmed them, the 
 keeper's assistants hastened in the direction of the sound, 
 presenting 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 vrith their bleeding com- 
 panion; they then dragged him from the brook, and with 
 loud oaths followed in pursuit.
 
 28 ROOKWOOD. 
 
 Threading, for a second time, the bosky labyrinth, Lnke 
 sought the source of the stream. This was precisely the 
 course his enemies would have desired him to pursue ; and 
 when they beheld him take it, they felt confident of bis 
 capture. 
 
 The sides of the hollow became more and more abrupt as 
 they advanced, though they were less covered with brushwood. 
 The fugitive made no attempt to climb the bank, but stiU 
 pressed forward. 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, slij^pery rocks, 
 shelving down to the edges of a small, deep pool of water, the 
 source of the stream formed an apparently insurmountable 
 barrier in that direction. Eooted (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 was all the support 
 Luke could hope for, should he attempt to scale the rock. 
 The rock was sheer — the pool deep — yet still he hm'ried on. 
 He reached the muddy embankment, mounted its sides, and 
 seemed to hesitate. The keepers were now within a hundred 
 yards of bim. Both guns were discharged ; and, sudden as 
 the reports, with a dead splashless plunge, like a diving otter, 
 the fugitive dropped into the water. 
 
 The pursuers were at the brink. They gazed at the pool. 
 A few bubbles floated uj^on its surface, and burst. The water 
 was slightly discoloiu'ed with sand. No ruddier stain crim- 
 soned the tide ; no figure rested on '^he naked rock ; no hand 
 clung to the motionless tree. 
 
 " Devil take the rascal," growled one; " I hope he har'n't 
 escaped us, arter all." 
 
 " Noa, noa, he be fast enough, never fear," rejoined the 
 other, " sticking like a snig at the bottom o' the pond ; and 
 dang him he deserves it, for he's slipp'd out of our fingers 
 like a snig often enough to-night. But come, let's be stump- 
 i]ig, and give poor Hugh Badger a helping hand." 
 
 Whereujion, they returned to the assistance of the wounded 
 and discomfited keeper.
 
 ROOKWOOD. 29 
 
 IV. 
 
 THE HALL. 
 
 i am riglit against my liouse -scat of my ancestors. — TorJcsMre Tragedy. 
 
 EooKwooD Place was a fine, old, irregular pile, of consi- 
 derable size, presenting a rich, picturesque outline, with its 
 innumerable gable ends, its fantastical coigns, and tpJl crest 
 of twisted chimneys. There was no uniformity of style 
 about the bviilding, yet the general effect was pleasing and 
 beautiful. Its very irregularity constituted a charm. No- 
 thing except convenience had been consulted in its construc- 
 tion : additions had from time to time been made to it, but 
 everything dropped into its proper place, and, without appa- 
 rent effort or design, grew into an ornament, and heightened 
 the beauty of the whole. It was, in short, one of those 
 glorious manorial houses that sometimes unexpectedly greet 
 us in our wanderings, and gladden us like the discovery of a 
 hidden treasure. Some such ancestral hall we have occasion- 
 ally encountered, in unlooked-for quarters, in our native 
 county of Lancaster, or in its smiling sister shire ; and never 
 without feelings of intense delight, rejoicing to behold the 
 freshness of its antiquity, and the greenness of its old age. 
 For, be it observed in passing, a Cheshire or Lancashire hall, 
 time-honovu-ed though it be, with its often-renovated black 
 and white squares, fancifully filled uj) with trefoils and 
 quatrefoils, rosettes, and other figures, seems to bear its 
 years so lightly, that its age, so far from detracting from 
 its beauty, only lends it a grace; and the same mansion, to 
 all outward apj^earance, fresh and j^erfect as it existed in the 
 days of good Queen Boss, may be seen in admirable pre- 
 servation in the days of the youthful Victoria. Such is 
 Bramall — such Moreton, and many another we might 
 instance ; the former of these houses may, perhaps, be "in- 
 stanced as the best specimeii of its class (and its class, in our 
 opinion, is the best) to be met with in Cheshire, considered 
 with reference either to the finished decoration of its exterior, 
 rich in the chequered colouring we have alluded to, preserved 
 with a care and neatness almost Dutch, or to the consistent 
 taste exhibited by its possessor in the restoration and main- 
 tenance of all its original and truly national beauty within 
 doors. As an illustration of old English hos])itality (that 
 real, hearty hospitality for which the squirearchy of this
 
 30 ROOKWOOD. 
 
 cotintiy was once so fanioiis — a,li ! why have tliey bartered it 
 for other ciistoms, le.ss substantially Enalish ?), it rnay bo 
 mentioned, that a road conducted the passenger directly 
 through the great hall of this house, literally " of entertain- 
 ment," where, if he listed, strong ade and other refreshments 
 awaited his acceptance, and courted his stay. ¥7'ell might 
 old King, the Cheshire historian, in the pride of his honesi 
 heart, exclaim, " / know divers men, loho are hut farmers, 
 that in their hoxisekeepiiig may ccmpare ivith a lord or baron 
 in some countries beyond the feas ; — yea, although I named a 
 higher degree, I ivere able to justify it." We have no such 
 " golden farmers " in these degenerate days ! 
 
 The mansion was originally built by Sir Uanulph de Rook- 
 wood (or, as it was then written, Sokewode). the first of the 
 name, a stout Yorkist, who flourished in the reign of Edward 
 the Fourth, and received the fair domain and broad la^nds upon 
 which the edifice was raised, from his sovereign, in reward 
 for good serv'ice ; retiring thither in the decline of life, at the 
 close of the wars of the Roses, to sequestrate himself from 
 scenes of strife, and to consult his spiritual weal in the 
 erection and endowment of the neighbouring church. It 
 was of mixed architecture, and combined the peculiarities of 
 each successive era. Retaining some of the sterner features 
 of earlier days, the period ere yet the embattled manor-house 
 peculiar to the reigns of the later Henrys had been merged in 
 the graceful and peaceable hall, the residence of the Rook- 
 woods had early anticipated the gentler characteristics of a 
 later day, though it could boast little of that exuberance of 
 external ornament, luxuriance of design, and prodigality 
 of beauty, which, under the sway of the virgin queen, dis- 
 tinguished the residence of the wealthier English landowner, 
 and rendered the hall of Elizabeth, properly so called, the 
 pride and boast of our domestic architecture. 
 
 The site selected by Sir Ranulph for his habitation had 
 been already occupied by a vast fa^bric of oak, which he in 
 I)art removed, though some vestiges might still be traced of 
 that ancient pile. A massive edifice succeeded with gate and 
 tower, court and moat complete, substantial enough, one 
 would have thought, to have endured for centuries. But even 
 this ponderous structure grew into disuse, and Sir Ranulph's 
 successors, remodelling, repairing, alrncst rebuilding the ■^-:...i i 
 mansion, in the end so metamorphosed its aspect, that at last 
 little of its original and distinctive character remained. Still, 
 as we said before, it was a fine old house ; though some 
 changes had taken place for the worse, which could not be
 
 EOOKWOOD. 31 
 
 leadily pardoned by the eye of taste ; as, for instance, the 
 ilcep embayed windows hvA dwindled into modernised case- 
 ments, of lighter construction ; tlio wide porch, with its flight 
 of steps leading to the great hall of entrance, had yielded to 
 a narrow door ; and the broad, quadrangular court was siic- 
 ceeded by a gravel drive. Yet, despite of all these changes, 
 the house of the Rookwoods, for an old house (and, after all, 
 what is like an old house?), was no undesirable, or uncon- 
 genial abode for any worshi|)ful country gentleman, " who 
 had a great estate." 
 
 The hall was situated near the base of a gently declining 
 hill, teraiina.ting a noble avenue of limes, and partially 
 embosomed in an immemorial wood of the same timber, which 
 had given its name to the family that dwelt amongst its 
 rook-haunted shades. Descending the avenue, at the point 
 of access afforded by a road^that wound down the hill-side, 
 towards a village distant about half a mile, as you advanced, 
 the eye was first arrested by a singular octagonal turret of 
 brick, of more recent construction than the house ; and in all 
 probability occupying the place where the bartizan'd gateway 
 stood of yore. This tower rose to a height corresponding 
 with the roof of the mansion ; and was embellished on the 
 side facing the house with a iiamingly gilt dial, peering, like 
 an impudent observer, at all that passed within doors. Two 
 apartments, which it contained, were appropriated to the 
 house- porter. Despoiled of its martial honour's, the gateway 
 still displayed the achievements of the family — ^the rook and 
 the fatal branch — carved in granite, which had resisted the 
 storms of two centuries, though stained green with moss, and 
 mapped over with lichens. To the left, overgrown with ivy, 
 and peeping from out a tuft of trees, appeared the hoary 
 summit of a dovecot, indicating the near neighbourhood of an 
 ancient barn, contemporary with the earliest dwelling-house ; 
 and of a little world of offices and out-buildings buried in the 
 thickness of the foliage. To the right was the garden — 
 the pleasaunce of the place — formal, precise, old fashioned, 
 artificial, yet exquisite — (for commend us to the bygone, 
 beautiful English garden — recdlij a garden — not that mixture 
 of park, meadow, and wilderness,* brought up to one's very 
 
 * Pnynn Knigat, tbe fcourge of Efpton and his scbool, speaking of the 
 licence iiulalgccl iu by the luoderii landscape gardeners, thus yents ]\is indig- 
 nation : 
 
 But hero, once more, ye rural musos weep 
 
 The ivy'd 1,'alnstrade, and terrace steep ; 
 
 Walls, mellowed into harmony by time. 
 
 On which fantastic creepers used to climb \
 
 32 ROOKWOOD. 
 
 windows — ^wbicli, since tlie clays of the innovators, Kent, and 
 his " bold associates," Capability Brown and Co., has obtained 
 so largely) — this tvas a garden ! There might be seen the 
 stately terraces, such as Watteau, and our own Wilson, in 
 his earlier works, painted — the trina alleys exhibiting all the 
 triumphs of Topiarian art — 
 
 The sidelong walls 
 Of shaven yew ; the holly's prickly arms, 
 Ti'imm'd into high arcades ; the tensile box 
 Wove in mosaic mode of many a curl, 
 Around the figured carpet of the la-svn,* 
 
 the gayest of parterres and greenest of lawns, with its ad- 
 monitory 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' 111' right, if rightly undernto^d), 
 
 His life he to his doctrine brought — 
 
 And in his garden's shade that sovereign pleasure soug'it.f 
 
 All these delights might once have been enjoyed. But at 
 the time of which we write, this fair garden was for the most 
 part a waste. Ill kept, and unregarded, the gay parterres 
 wei'e disfigured with weeds ; grass grew on the gravel walk ; 
 several of the urns were overthrown ; the hour upon the dial 
 was untold ; the fountain was choked wp, and the smooth- 
 shaven lawn only rescued, it wonld seem, fi'om the general 
 fate, that it might answer the purpose of a bowling-green, 
 as the implements of that game, scattered about, plainly 
 testified. 
 
 Diverging from the garden to the house, we have before 
 remarked that the more ancient and characteristic features of 
 the place had been, for the most part, destroyed ; less by the 
 
 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 f owi 
 
 Spreading o'er all its unprolitic spawn, 
 
 In never-ending sheets of vapid lawn.— 
 
 Tlie Landscape, a didactic Poem, 
 addressed to Ucedale I'rice, Esq. 
 * Mason's English Garden. f Cowley.
 
 EOOKWOOD. 33 
 
 hand of time tliau to suit the tastes of different proprietors. 
 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 
 brickwork ; the low, Tudor arches ; the mullioned bars of the 
 windows — all attested its age. This wing was occupied by 
 an upper and lower gallery, communicating with suites of 
 chambers, for the most part deserted, excepting one or two, 
 which were used as dormitories ; and another little room on 
 the ground-floor, with an oriel window opening upon the 
 lawn, and commanding the prospect beyond — a favourite 
 resort of the late Sir Piers. The interior was curious for its 
 honeycomb ceiling, deeply moulded in plaster, with the arms 
 and alliances of the Eookwoods. In the centre was the royal 
 blazon of Elizabeth, who had once honoured the hall with a 
 visit during a progress, and whose cipher ^. JR. was also dis- 
 played upon the immense plate of iron which formed the 
 tire- grate. 
 
 To return, for a moment, to the garden, which we linger 
 about as a bee around a flower. Below the lawn there was 
 another terrace, edged by a low balustrade of stone, com- 
 manding a lovely view of park, water, and woodland. High- 
 hanging woods waved in the foreground, and an extensive 
 sweep of flat, champaign country, stretched out to meet a 
 line of blue, hazy hills bounding the distant horizon. 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 SIR REGINALD KOOKWOOD. 
 
 Un hornme qui changeait de femmes, comme une femme de robes. 11 r^pu- 
 dia la premiere, il fit couper la tete a la scconde, il fit oiivi-ir le ventre a la 
 troisifeme : quant a la quatrieme, il lui fit grace, il la chas<a ; niais en revanche 
 il fit couper la tete a la cinquifeme. Ce n'est pas le conte de Barbe-Bleue que 
 je Tous iais la, c'est I'histoire.— Victob Hvao.— Marie Tudor. 
 
 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 ; 
 there was the same melancholy grandeur, the same character 
 of romance, the same fantastical 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
 
 34 ROOKWOOD. 
 
 tlie otherwise proud escutcheon of the Jlookwoocls, that 
 dimmed its splendour, and made pale its pretensions : their 
 sun was eclipsed in blood from its rising to its meridian ; and 
 so it seemed would be its setting. This foul reproach 
 attached to all the race ; none escaped it. Traditional 
 rumours were handed down from father to son, throughout 
 the county, and, like all other rumours, had taken to them- 
 selves wings, and flown abroad : their crimes -became a by- 
 word. How was it they escaped punishment ? How came 
 they to evade the hand of justice ? Proof was ever wanting ; 
 justice was ever baffled. They were a stern and stiff-necked 
 people of indomitable pride and resolution, with, for the 
 most part, force of character sufficient to enable them to 
 breast difficulties and dangers that would have overwhelmed 
 ordinary individuals. No quality is so advantageous to its 
 possessor as firmness ; and the determined energy of the 
 Hoolrwoods bore them harmless through a sea of troubles. 
 Besides, they were wealthy ; lavish even to profusion ; and 
 gold will do much, if skilfully administered. Tet, despite all 
 this, a dark ominous cloud settled over their house, and men 
 wondered when the vengeance of Heaven, so long delayed, 
 would fall, and consume it. 
 
 Possessed of considerable landed property, once extending 
 over nearly half the West Riding of Yorkshire, the family 
 increased in power and importance for an uninterrupted 
 series of years, until the outbreak of that intestine discord 
 which ended in the civil wars, when the espousal of the 
 royalist party, with sword and substance, by Sir Ralph 
 Rookwood, the then lord of the mansion (a dissolute, de- 
 praved personage, who, however, had been made a Knight of 
 the Bath at the coronation of Charles the First), ended in 
 his own destruction at Naseby, and the wreck of much of 
 his proj^erty ; a loss which the gratitude of Charles the 
 Second on his restoration did not fail to make good to Sir 
 Ralph's youthful heir, Reginald. 
 
 Sir Ranulph Rookwood left two sons, Reginald and Alan. 
 The fate of the latter was buried in obscurity. Ii was even 
 a mystery to his family. He was, it was said, a youth of 
 much promise, and of gentle manners ; who, having made an 
 imprudent match, from jealousy, or some other motive, 
 deserted his v/ife, and fled his country. Various reasons 
 were assigned for his conduct. Amongst others, it vv^as 
 stated that the object of Alan's jealous suspicious was his 
 elder brother, Reginald ; and that it was the discovery of his
 
 KOOKWOOD. - H5 
 
 wife's infidelity in this quarter, which occasioned his sudden 
 disappearance with his infant daughter. Some said he died 
 abroad. Others, that he had appeared again for a brief 
 space at the hall. But all now concurred in a belief of his 
 decease. Of his child aiothiug v^-as known. His inconstant 
 wife, after enduring for some years the agonies of remorse, 
 abandoned by Sir Eeginald, and neglected by her own 
 relatives, put an end to her existence by poison. This is all 
 that could be gathered of the story, or the misfortunes of 
 Alan Eookwood. 
 
 The young Sir Eeginald had attended Charles, in the cha- 
 racter of page, during his exile ; and if he could not requite 
 the devotion of the son, by absolutely reinstating the fallen 
 fortunes of the father, the monarch could at least accord him 
 the fostering influence of his favour and countenance ; and 
 bestow upon him certain lucrative situations in his house- 
 hold, as an earnest of his good-will. And thus much he did. 
 Eemarkable for his personal attractions in youth, it is not to 
 be wondered at, that we should find the name of Eeginald 
 Eookwood recorded in the scandalous chronicles of the day, 
 as belonging to a cavalier of infinite address and discretion, 
 matchless wit, and marvellous pleasanti-y ; and eminent 
 beyond his peers for his successes with some of the most 
 distinguished beauties who ornamented that brilliant and 
 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, we say, for from that 
 fatal hour all became as darkness ; the curtain fell upon the 
 comedy of his life, to rise to tragic horrors. When passion 
 subsided, repentance awoke, and he became anxious for 
 deliverance from the fetters he had so heedlessly imposed on 
 himself, and on his unfortunate dame. 
 
 The hapless lady of Sir Eeginald was a fair and fragile 
 jreature, 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 bad uot made 
 Sorrow more beautiful than Beauty's self, 
 
 it would have been difiicult to say whether the charm of 
 softness and sweetness was more to be admired than her 
 
 D 2
 
 36 ROOKWOOD. 
 
 faultless personal attractions. But wlien a tinge of inclan- 
 choly came saddening and shading the once smooth and 
 smiling brow ; when tears dimmed the blue beauty of those 
 deep and tender eyes ; when hot, hectic flushes supplied the 
 place of healthful bloom, and despair took possession of her 
 heart, then was it seen ivlat was the charm of Lady Eook- 
 wood, if charm that could be called, which was a saddening 
 sight to see, and melted the beholder's soul within him. All 
 acknowledged, that exquisite as she had been before, the sad, 
 sweet lady was now more exquisite still. 
 
 Seven moons had waned and flown — seven bitter, tearful 
 moons — and each day Lady Eookwood's situation claimed 
 moi'e soothing attention at the hand of her lord. About this 
 time his wife's brother, whom he hated, returned from the 
 Dutch wars. Struck with his sister's altered appearance, he 
 readily divined the cause ; indeed, all tongues were eager to 
 proclaim it to him. Passionately attached to her, Lionel 
 Vavasour implored an explanation of the cause of his sister's 
 griefs. The bewildered lady answered evasively, attributing 
 her wobegone looks to any other cause than her husband'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 yom- sister's behalf. But when she intrusted her- 
 self to my keeping, she relinquished, I conceive, all claim on 
 your guardianship : however, I thank you for the trouble 
 you have taken ; but, for your own sake, I would venture to 
 caution you against a repetition of interference like the 
 present." 
 
 "And I, sir, caution yo«. See that you give heed to my 
 words, or, by the Heaven above us, I will enforce attention 
 to them." 
 
 " You will find me, sir, as prompt at all times to defend 
 my conduct, as I am unalterable in my purj^oses. Your 
 sister is my wife. What more would you have ? Were she 
 a harlot, you should have her back and welcome. The fool 
 is v-irtuous. Devise some scheme, and take her with you 
 hence — so you rid me of her I am content." 
 
 " Eookwood, you are a villain." And Vavasour spat upon 
 his brother's cheek. 
 
 Sir Reginald's eyes blazed. His sword started from its
 
 ROOKWOOD. 37 
 
 Bcabbard. " Defend yourself," he exclaimed furiously 
 attacking Vavasour. Pass after pass was excnanged. Fierce 
 thrusts were made and parried. Feint and appeal, the most 
 desperate and dexterous, were resorted to. Their swords 
 glanced like lightning flashes. In the struggle the blades 
 became entangled. There was a moment's cessation. Each 
 glanced at the other with deadly, inextinguishable hate. 
 Both were admirable masters of the art of defence. Both 
 were so brimful of wi-ath as to be regardless of consequences. 
 They tore back their weapons. Vavasour's blade shivered. 
 He was at the mercy of his adversary — an adversaiy who 
 knew no mercy. Sir Eeginald passed his rapier through his 
 brother's body. The hilt struck against his ribs. 
 
 Sir Reginald's ire was kindled, not extinguished, by the 
 deed he had done. Like the tiger, he had tasted blood — like 
 the tiger he thirsted for more. He sought his home. He 
 was greeted by his wife. Terrified by his looks, she yet 
 summoned courage gufiicient to approach him. She embraced 
 his arm — she clasped his hand. Sir Eeginald smiled. His 
 smile was cutting as his dagger's edge. 
 
 " What ails you, sweetheart ?" said he. 
 
 " I know not ; your smile frightens me." 
 
 " My smile frightens you — fool ! be thankful that I frowu 
 not." 
 
 "Oh! do not frown. Be gentle, my Eeginald, as you 
 were when I first knew you. Smile not so coldly, but as you 
 did then, that I may, for one instant, dream you love me." 
 
 " Silly wench ! There — I do smile." 
 
 " That smile chills me — freezes me. Oh, Eeginald ! could 
 you but know what I have endured this morning, on your 
 account. My brother Lionel has been here." 
 
 "Indeed!" 
 
 " Nay, look not so. He insisted on knowing tho reason of 
 my altered appearance." 
 
 " And no doubt you made him acquainted with the cause- 
 You told him your version of the story." 
 
 " Not a word, as I hope to live." 
 
 " A lie !" 
 
 " By my truth, no." 
 
 " A lie, I say. He avouched it to me himself." 
 
 " Lnpossible ! He could not — would not disobey me." 
 
 Sir Eeginald laughed bitterly. 
 
 " He would not, I am sure, give utterance to any scandal," 
 continued Lady Eookwood. " Yovi say this but to try me, do 
 you not ? — ha ! what is this ? Your hand is bloody. You
 
 38 ROOKWOOD. 
 
 have not harmed him ? He is safe ? Whose blood is 
 this ?" 
 
 " Your brother spat -upon my cheek. I hare washed out 
 the stain," replied Sir Reginald, coldly. 
 
 " Then it is his," shrieked Lady Rookwood, pressing her 
 hands shudderingly before her eyes. " Is he dead — dead?" 
 
 Sir Reginald turned away. 
 
 " Stay," she cried, exerting her feeble strength to retain 
 him, and becoming white as ashes, " abide and hear me. You 
 have killed me, I feel, by your unkindness. I have striven 
 against it, but it would not avail. I am sinking fast — dying. 
 I, who loved you, only you ; yea, one beside — my brother, 
 and you have slain him. Your hands are dripping in his 
 blood, and I have kissed them — have clasped them. And 
 now," continued she, with an energy that shook Sir Regi- 
 nald, " I hate you — I abhor you — I renounce you — for ever ! 
 May my dying words ring in your ears on your deathbed, for 
 that hour will come. You cannot shun that. Then, think of 
 htm ! think of me .'" 
 
 " Away !" interrupted Sir Reginald, endeavouring to shake 
 her off. 
 
 "I will ?iO(! away ! 1 will cHng to you — will curse you. 
 My unborn child shall live to curse you — to requite you — to 
 visit my wrongs on you and yours. Weak as I am, you shall 
 not cast me off. You shall learn to fear even me^ 
 
 " I fear nothing living, much less a frantic woman." 
 
 " Fear the dead, then." 
 
 " Hence ! or by the God above us •" 
 
 " Never !" 
 
 There was a struggle — a blow — and the wi*etched 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 became her father's idol — her father's 
 bane. All the love he had to bestow was centred in her. She 
 returned it not. She fled from his caresses. With all her 
 mother's beauty, she had all her father's pride. Sir Regi- 
 nald's every thought was for his daughter — for her aggran- 
 disement. In vain. She seemed only to endure him, and 
 while his affection waxed stronger, and entwined itself round 
 her alone, she withered beneath his embraces as the shrub 
 withers in the clasjiing folds of the parasite plant. She grew 
 towards womanhood. Suitors thronsred around her — orentle
 
 ROOKWOOD. 39 
 
 and noble ones. Sir EeginaLI v/a,tclied them with a jealons 
 eye. He was wealthy, jiowcvful, high in royal favour, — and 
 could make his own election. He did so. For the first time, 
 Eleanor promised obedience to his wishes. They accorded 
 with her own humour. The day was appointed. It came. 
 But with it came not the bride. She had fled, with the 
 humblest and the meanest of the pretenders to her hand — 
 with one xipon whom Sir Eeginald supposed she had not 
 deigned to cast her eyes. He endeavoured to forget her, 
 and, to all outward seeming, was successful in the effort. 
 But he felt that the curse was upon him, the undying flame 
 scorched his heart. Once and once only they met again, in 
 France, whither she had wandered. It was a dread encounter 
 terrible to both ; but most so to Sir Eeginald. He spoke 
 not of her afterwards. 
 
 Shortly after the death of his first wife, Sir Eeginald had 
 made px'oposals to a dowager of distinction, with a handsome 
 jointure, one of his early attachments, and was, without 
 scruple, accepted. The power (jf the family might then be 
 said to be at its zenith ; and but for certain untoward circum- 
 stances, and the growing influence of his enemies. Sir Eeginald 
 would have been elevated to the peerage. Like most reformed 
 spendthrifts, he had become proportionately avaricious, and 
 his mind seemed engrossed in accumulating wealth. In the 
 mean time, his second wife followed her predecessor ; dying, 
 it was said, of vexation and disappointment. 
 
 The propensity to matrimony, always a distinguishing 
 characteristic of the Eookwoods, largely displayed itself in 
 Sir Eeginald. Another dame followed — equally rich, younger, 
 and far more beautiful than her immediate predecessor. She 
 was a prodigious flirt, and soon set her husband at defiance. 
 Sir Eeginald did not condescend to expostulate. It was not 
 his way. He effectually prevented any recurrence of her 
 indiscretions. She was removed, and with her expired Sir 
 Eeginald'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 him- 
 self. One anomaly in Sir Eeginald's otherwise utterly selfish 
 character was uncompromising devotion to the house of Stuart ; 
 and shortly after the abdication of James the Second, he 
 followed that anonarch to St. GeiTaains, having previously 
 mixed larg>dy in secret political intrigues ; and only returned 
 from the French court to lay his bones with those of hiB 
 ancestiy, in the family vault at Eookwood.
 
 40 ROOKWOOD. 
 
 VI. 
 
 SIR PIERS ROOKWOOD. 
 
 My old master kept a good house, and twenty 
 Or thirty tall sword and bnckler men about 
 Him ; and in faith his son differs not much ; 
 He will have metal too ; thoiTg:h he has no 
 Store of cutlers' blades, he will have plenty 
 Of vintners' pots. His father kept a good 
 House for honest men, his tenants that brought 
 Him in part ; and his son keeps a bad house 
 With knaves that help to consume all : 'tis but 
 The change of time : why should any man repine 
 At it P Crickets, good loving and lucky worms, 
 Were wont to feed, sing, and rejoice in the 
 Father's chimney ; and now carrion crows bnild 
 In the son's kitchen. 
 
 WiLKiNS. — Miseries of Enforced Marriage. 
 
 Sir Reginald died, leaving issue three children, a daughter, 
 the before-mentioned Eleanor (who, entirely discountenanced 
 by the family, had been seemingly forgotten by all but her 
 father), and two sons by his third wife. Reginald, the eldest, 
 whose military 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 Killie- 
 cranMe, under the banners of William. Piers, therefore, the 
 second son, succeeded to the title. 
 
 A very different character, in many resj)ects, from his 
 father and brother, holding in suj^reme dislike courts and 
 courtiers, party warfare, political intrigue, and all the subtle- 
 ties of Jesuitical diplomacy ; neither having any inordinate 
 relish for camps or campaigns ; Sir Piers Rookwood yet dis- 
 played in early life one family propensity, viz., unremitting 
 devotion to the sex. Among his other inistresses was the 
 unfortunate Susan Bradley, to whom by some he was sup- 
 posed to have been clandestinely united. In early youth, as 
 has beea stated. Sir Piers professed the faith of Rome, but 
 shortly after the death of his beautiful mistress (or wife, as it 
 might be), having quarrelled with his father's confessor, 
 Checkley, he publicly abjured his heresies. Sir Piers subse- 
 quently allied himself to Maud, only daughter of Sir Thomas 
 D'Aubeny, the last of a hne as proud and intolerant as his 
 own. The tables were then turned. Lady Rookwood usurped 
 sovereign sway over her lord, and Sir Piers, a cipher in his 
 own house, scarce master of himself, much less of liis dame, 
 enduied an existence so miserable, that he was often heard to
 
 ROOKWOOD. 41 
 
 regret, in liis cups, that he had not inherited, with the estate 
 of his forefathers, the family secret of shaking off the matri- 
 monial yoke, when fomid to press too hardly. 
 
 At the onset, Sir Piers struggled hard to burst his bondage. 
 But in vain — he was fast fettered ; and only bruised himself, 
 liked the caged lark, against the bars of his 2:)rison house. 
 Abandoning all further effort at emancipation, he gave him- 
 self up to the usual resource of a weak mind, debauchery ; 
 and drank so deeply to ctrown his cares, that, in the end, his 
 hale constitution yielded to his excesses. It was even said, 
 that remorse at his abandonment of the faith of his fathers 
 had some share in his misery ; and that his old spiritual, and 
 if report spoke truly, sinful adviser. Father Checkley, had 
 visited him secretly at the hall. Sir Piers was observed to 
 shudder, whenever the priest's name was mentioned. 
 
 Sir Piers Eookwood was a good-humoured man in the 
 main, had little of the old family leaven about him, and was 
 esteemed by his associates. Of late, however, his temper 
 became soured, and his friends deserted him ; for, between 
 his domestic annoyances, remorseful feelings, and the inroads 
 already made upon his constitution by constant inebriety, he 
 grew so desperate and insane in his revels, and committed 
 such fearful extravagances, that even his boon companions 
 shrank from his orgies. Fearful were the scenes between 
 him and Lady Eookwood upon these occasions — appalling to 
 the witnesses, dreadful to themselves. And it was, perhaps, 
 their frequent recurrence, that, more than anything else, 
 banished all decent society from the hall. 
 
 At the time of Sir Piers's decease, which brings us down 
 to the date of our story, his son and successor, Ranulph, was 
 absent on his travels. Shortly after the completion of his 
 academical education, he had dej)arted to make the tour of 
 the Continent, and had been absent rather better than a year. 
 He had quitted his father in displeasure, and was destined 
 never again to see his face while living. The last intelligence 
 received of young Kookwood was from Bordeaux, whence it 
 was thought he had departed for the Pyrenees. A special 
 messenger had been despatched in search of him, with tidings 
 of the melancholy event. But, as it was deemed improbable 
 by Lady Eookwood that her son could return within any 
 reasonable space, she gave directions for the acconiplishment 
 of the funeral rites of her husband on the sixth night, after 
 his decease (it being the custom of the Eookwoods ev(.'i- to 
 inter their dead at midnight), intrusting their solemiiizatiou
 
 42 ROOKWOOD. 
 
 entirely to the care of one of Sir Piers's liangers-on (Doctor 
 Titus Tyrconnel) , for "wliicli slie was greatly scandalized in the 
 neighbourhood. 
 
 Eanulph Eookwood was a youth of goodly promise. The 
 stock from which he sprang would on neither side warrant 
 such conclusion. But it sometimes happens, that from the 
 darkest elements are compoianded the brightest and subtlest 
 substances ; and so it occurred in this instance. Fair, frank, 
 and free — generous, open, unsuspicious — he seemed the very 
 opposite of all his race — their antagonizing principle. Ca- 
 priciously indulgent, his father had allowed him ample means, 
 neither curbing nor restraining his expenditure ; acc(;ding at 
 one moment to every inclination ; and the nest irresolutely 
 opposing it. It was impossible, therefore, for him, in such a 
 state of things, to act decidedly, without incurring his father's 
 displeasure ; and the only measure he resolved upon, which 
 was to absent himself for a time, was conjectured to have 
 brought about the result he had endeavoured to avoid. 
 Other reasons, however, there were, which secretly influ- 
 enced him, v/hich it will be our business in due time to 
 detail. 
 
 VII. 
 
 THE RETURN. 
 
 Flam. How croaks the raven? 
 
 Is our good Dueliess dead ? 
 Lod. Dead. Webster. 
 
 The time of the sad ceremonial drew nigh. The hurrying 
 of the domestics to and fro ; the multifarious arrangements 
 for the night ; the distiibution of the melancholy trappings, 
 and the discussion of the " funeral baked meats" furnished 
 abundant occupation within doors. Without, there was a 
 constant stream of the tenantry, thronging down the avenue, 
 mixed with an occasional horseman, once or twice intercepted 
 by a large lumbering carriage, bringing friends of the de- 
 ceased, some really anxious to pay the last tribute of regard, 
 but the majority attracted by the anticipated spectacle of a 
 funeral by torchlight. There were others, indeed, to whom it 
 was not matter of choice ; who were compelled, by a vassal 
 tenure of their lands, held of the house of Eookwood, to lend 
 a shoulder to the coffin, and a hand to the torch, on the burial
 
 KOOKWOOD. 43 
 
 j/)f its lord. Of these there was a plentiful muster collected 
 
 I /in the hall ; they were to be marshalled by Peter Bradley, 
 
 if who was deemed to be well sldlled in the proceedings, having 
 
 I been present at two solemnities of the kind. That mysterious 
 
 ' personage, however, had not made his aj^pearance — to the 
 
 great dismay of the assemblage. Scouts were sent in search 
 
 of him, biit they returned with the intelligence that the 
 
 door of his habitation was fastened, and its inmate appai'ently 
 
 absent. No other tidings of the truant sexton could be 
 
 obtained. 
 
 It was a sultry August evening. No breeze was stirring 
 in the garden ; no cool dews refreshed the parched and 
 heated earth ; yet from the languishing flowers rich sweets 
 exhaled. The plash of a fountain fell pleasantly upon the 
 ear, conveying in its sound a sense of freshness to the fervid 
 air ; while deep and drowsy murmurs hummed heavily 
 beneath the trees, making the twilight slumbrously musical. 
 The westering sun, which had filled the atmosphere with flame 
 throughout the day, was now wildly setting ,- and, as he sank 
 behind the hall, its varied and picturesque tracery became 
 each instant more darkly and distinctly defined against the 
 ciimson sky. 
 
 At this juncture a little gate, communicating with the 
 chase, was thrown open, and a young man entered the garden, 
 passing through the shrubbery, and hurrying rapidly forward 
 till he arrived at a vista opening upon the house. The spot 
 at which the stranger halted was marked by a little basin, 
 scantily supplied with water, streaming from a lion's kingly 
 jaws. His dress was travel-soiled and dusty ; and his whole 
 appearance betokened great exhaustion, from heat and fatigue. 
 Seating himself upon an adjoining bench, he threw off his 
 riding cap, and unclasped his collar, displaying a finely-turned 
 head and neck ; and a countenance which, besides its beauty, 
 had that rare nobility of feature which seldom falls to the 
 lot of the aristocrat, but is never seen in one of an inferior 
 order. A restless disquietude of manner showed that he was 
 • suffering from over-excitement of mind, as well as from 
 bodily exertion. His look was wild and hurried ; his black 
 ringlets were dashed heedlessly over a pallid, lofty brow, upon 
 which care was prematurely wi'itten, while his larg e melan- ,. 
 choly eyes were bent, with a look almost orsigouy, upon 
 the house before him. 
 
 After a short pause, and as if struggling against violent 
 emotions, and some overwhelming remembrance, the youth
 
 44 ROOKWOOD. 
 
 arose, and plunged his hand into the basin, applying the 
 moist element to his burning brow. Apparently becoming 
 more calm, he bent his steps towards the hall, when two 
 figures suddenly issuing from an adjoining copse, arrested 
 his progress ; neither saw him. Muttering a hui'ried fare- 
 well, one of the figures disappeared within the shrubbery, 
 and the other, confronting the stranger, displayed the harsh 
 features and gaunt form of Peter Bradley. Had Peter ;i 
 encountered the dead Sir Piers in corporeal form, he could j 
 not have manfested more surprise than he exhibited, for au | 
 instant or two, as he shrunk back from the stranger's path. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 AN IRISH ADVENTURER. 
 
 f^capin. A most outrageous, roaring fellow, with a swelled red face inflamed 
 with hranilj.— Cheats of Scapin. 
 
 An hour or two prior to the incident just narrated, in a 
 small cosy apartment of the hall, nominally devoted to jus- 
 ticiary business by its late owner, but, in reality, used as a 
 sanctum, snuggery, or smoking-room, a singi;lar trio wei-e 
 assembled, fraught with the ulterior purpose of attending the 
 obsequies of their deceased patron and friend, though imme- 
 diately occupied in the discussion of a magnum of excellent 
 claret, the bouquet of which perfumed the air, like the fra- 
 grance 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 jjipe and punch, 
 beguile the flagging hours, secure from interrujjtion. A snug, 
 old-fashioned apartment it was ; wainscoted with rich black 
 oak ; with a fine old cabinet of the same material, and a line 
 or two of crazy, worm-eaten book-shelves, laden with sundry 
 dusty, unconsulted law tomes, and a slight sprinkling of the 
 elder divines, ec[ually neglected. The only book, indeed. Sir 
 Piers ever read was the " Ajiatomie of Melancholy," and he 
 merely studied Burton because the quaint, racy style of the 
 learned old hypochondriac suited his himiour at seasons, and 
 gave a zest to his sorrows, such as the olives lent to his wine. 
 
 Four portraits adorned the walls ; those of Sir Reginald 
 Rookwood and his wives. The ladies were attired in the 
 flowing di-apery of Charles the Second's day, the snow of
 
 ROOKWOOD. 45 
 
 their radiant bosoms being somewhat sullied by over-exposure, 
 and the vermeil tinting of their cheeks darkened by the fumes 
 of tobacco. There was a shepherdess, with her taper crook, 
 whose large, languishing eyes, ripe, pouting lips, ready to 
 melt into kisses, and air of voluptuous abandonment, scarcely 
 suited the innocent simplicity of her costume. She was por- 
 trayed tending a flock of downy sheep, with azure inbands 
 rounds their necks, accompanied by one of those invaluable 
 little dogs, whose length of ear, and silkiness of skin, evinced 
 him perfect in his breeding ; but whose large-eyed indifference 
 to his charge proved him to be as much out of character with 
 his situation as the refined and luxuriant charms of his mis- 
 tress were out of keeping with her artless attire. This was 
 Sir Piers's mother, the third wife, a beautiful woman, an- 
 swering 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 improvement, we leave to the 
 consideration of the lovers of the beautiful) — this was the 
 dowager. Lastly, there was the lovely and ill-fated Eleanor. 
 Every gentle grace belonging to this unfortunate lady had 
 been stamped in undying beauty on the canvas by the hand 
 of Lely, breathing a spell on the picture, almost as powerful 
 as that which had dwelt around the exquisite original. Over 
 the high carved mantelpiece was suspended the portrait of 
 Sir Reginald. It had been paintecl in early youth ; the 
 features were beautiful, disdainful — with a fierceness breaking 
 through the courtly air. The eyes were rery fine, black as 
 midnight, and piercing as those of Csesar Borgia, in Eaphael's 
 wonderful picture of the fratricide duke, in the Borghese 
 Palace at Rome. They seemed to fascinate the gazer — to 
 rivet his glances — to follow him whithersoever he went — and 
 to search into his soul, as did the dark orbs of Sir Reginald 
 in his lifetime. It was the work likewise of Lely, and had 
 all the fidelity and graceful refinement of that great master ; 
 nor was the haughty countenance of Sir Reginald unworthy 
 the patrician j)ainter. 
 
 No portrait of Sir Piers was to be met with. But, in lieu 
 ^thereof, depending from a pair of buck's horns, hung the 
 
 ff^orthy knight's stained scarlet coat. (the same in which he 
 ad ridden forth, with the intent to hmit, on the eventful 
 ccasion detailed by Peter Bradley), his velvet cap, his buck- 
 bandied whip, and the residue of his equipment for the chase.
 
 46 ROOKWOOD. 
 
 This attire was reviewed with melancholy interest and un- 
 affected emotion by the company, as reminding them forcibly 
 of the departed, of which it seemed a portion. 
 
 The party consisted of the vicar of Rookwood, Doctor Poly- 
 phemus Polycarp Small, Doctor Titus Tyrconnel, an emigrant, 
 and empirical professor of medicine, from the sister isle, 
 whose convivial habits had first introduced him to the hall, 
 and afterwards retained him there, and Mr. Codicil Coates, 
 clerk of the peace, attornej^-at-law, bailiff, and receiver. We 
 were wrong in saying that Tyrconnel was retained. He was 
 an impudent, intrusive fellow, whom, having once gained a 
 footing in the house, it was impossible to dislodge. He cared 
 for no insult ; perceived no slight, and professed, in her pre- 
 sence, the profoundest respect for Lady Eookwood : in short, 
 he was ever ready to do anything but depart. 
 
 Sir Piers was one of those people who cannot dine alone. 
 He disliked a sohtary repast almost as much as a tete-a-tete 
 with his lady. He would have been recognised at once as the 
 true Amphitryon, had any one been hardy enough to play 
 the part of Jupiter. Ever ready to give a dinner, he found a 
 difficulty arise, not usually experienced on such occasions — 
 there was no one upon whom to bestow it. He had the best 
 of wine ; kept an excellent table ; was himself no niggard 
 host ; but his own merits, and those of his cuisine, were for- 
 gotten in the invariable ^je?;o?rtH^ to the feast ; and the best of 
 wine lost its flavour when the last bottle found its way to the 
 guest's head. Dine alone Sir Piers would not. And as his 
 old friends forsook him, he plunged lower in his search of 
 society; collecting within his house a class of persons whom 
 no one would have exj)ected to meet at the hall, nor even its 
 owner have chosen for his companions, had any choice re- 
 mained to him. He did not endm-e this state of things 
 without much outward show of discontent. " Anything for 
 a quiet life," was his constant saying ; and, like the generality 
 of people with whom those words form a favourite maxim, he 
 led the most uneasy life imaginable. Endurance, to excite 
 commiseration, must be uncomplaining — an axiom the ag- 
 grieved of the gentle sex should remember. Sir Piers 
 endured, but he grumbled lustily, and was on all hands voted 
 a bore ; domestic grievances, es2:>ecially if the husband be the 
 plaintiff, being the most intolerable of all mentionablo miseries. 
 No wonder that his friends deserted him ; still there was 
 Titus Tyrconnel -, his ears and lips were ever open to pathos 
 and to punch ; so Titus kept his station. Immediately after
 
 BOOKWOOD. 47 
 
 her husband's demise, it had been Lady Eookwood's intention 
 to clear the house of all the "vermin," so she exj)ressed her- 
 self, that had so long infested it ; and forcibly to eject Titus, 
 and one or two other intruders of the same class. But, in 
 consequence of certain hints received from Mr. Coates, who 
 represented the absolute necessity of complying with Sir 
 Piers's testamentary instructions, which were particular in. 
 that respect, she thought proper to defer her intentions until 
 after the ceremonial of interment should be completed, and, 
 in the mean time, strange to say, committed its arrange- 
 ment to Titus Tyrconnel ; who, ever ready to accommodate, 
 accepted, nothing loth, the charge, and quitted himself 
 admirably well in his undertaking : especially, as he said, " in 
 the aitiug and drinking dejjartment — the most essential part 
 of it all." He kept open house — open dining-room — open 
 cellar ; resolved that his patron's funeral should emulate as 
 much as possible an Irish burial on a grand scale, " the finest 
 sight," in his opinion, " in the whole world." 
 
 Inflated with the importance of his office, inflamed with 
 heat, sat Titus, like a " robustious perriwig-pated" alderman 
 after a civic feast. The natural rubicundity of his counte- 
 nance was darkened to a deep purple tint, like that of a 
 full-blown peony, while his ludicrous dignity was augmented 
 by a shining suit of sables, in which his portly person was 
 invested. 
 
 The first magnum had been discussed in solemn silence; 
 the cloud, however, which hung over the conclave, disap- 
 peared under the genial influence of " another and a better" 
 bottle, and gave place to a denser vapour, occasioned by the 
 introduction of the pipe and its accompaniments. 
 
 Ensconced in a comfortable old chair (it is not every old 
 chair that is comfortable), with pipe in mouth, and in full 
 unbuttoned ease, his bushy cauliflower wig laid aside, by 
 reason of the heat, reposed Doctor Small. Small, indeed, was 
 somewhat of a misnomer, as applied to the worthy doctor, 
 who, besides being no diminutive specimen of his kind, en- 
 tertained no insignificant opinion of himself. His height 
 was cetainly not remarkable ; but his width of shoulder — his 
 sesquipedality of stomach — and obesity of calf — these were 
 unique ! Of his origin we know nothing ; but presume he 
 must in some way or other have been connected with the 
 numerous family of " the Smalls," who, according to Chris- 
 toj)her North, form the predominant portion of mankind. In 
 appearance, the doctor was short-necked and puffy, with a
 
 48 ROOKWOOD. 
 
 Bodden, pasty face, wherein were set eyes, whose obliquity ol 
 vision was, in some measm*e, redeemed by their expression 
 of humour. He was accounted a man of parts and erudition, 
 and had obtained high honovirs at his university. Rigidly 
 orthodox, he abominated the very names of Papists and 
 Jacobite ; amongst which heretical herd he classed his 
 companion, Mr. Titus Tyrconnel — Ireland being with him 
 synonymous with superstition and Catholicism — and every 
 Irishman rebellious and schismatical. On this head he was 
 inclined to be disputatious. His prejudices did not prevent 
 him from passing the claret, nor from laughing as heartily as 
 a plethoric asthma and sense of the decorum due to the occa- 
 sion would permit, at the quips and C[uirhs 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 that Small yearned for his afternoon's solace, yet 
 scrupled to ask for it ; when the door had been made fast, 
 and the first whiff exhaled, all his misgivings vanished, and 
 he surrendered himself to the soft seduction. In this elysian 
 state we find him. 
 
 " Ah ! you may say that. Doctor Small," said Titus, in 
 answer to some observation of the vicar, " that's a most 
 original apophthegm. We all of us hould our lives by a thrid. 
 Och ! many's the sudden finale I have seen. Many's the fine 
 fellow's heels tripped up 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 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 small man, in a 
 scratch wig, with a face red and round as an apple, and 
 almost as diniinutive. " It is to be regretted that his over 
 conviviality should so much have hastened his lamented 
 demise." 
 
 " Conviviality !" replied Titus ; " no such thing — it was 
 apoplexy — extravasation of sarum." 
 
 " Extra vase-ation of rum-and-water, you mean," rephed 
 Coates, who, like aU his tribe, rejoiced in a quibble. 
 
 "The squire's ailment," continued Titus, "was a sangui- 
 neous effusion, as we call it — positive determination of blood 
 
 * Qnery, Damocles ? — Frinter's Deril.
 
 ROOKWOOD. 40 
 
 to tlie lieacl, occasioned by a low way lie got into, just before 
 his attack — a confii*med case of liypochondriasis, as that ould 
 book Sir Piers was so fond of terms the blue devils. He 
 neglected the bottle, which, in a man who has been a hard 
 drinker all his life, is a bad sign. The lowering system never 
 answers — never. Doctor, I'll just trouble yoa" — for Small, 
 in a fit of absence, had omitted to pass the bottle, though 
 not to help himself. "Had he stuck to this'^ — holding uji a 
 glass ruby bright — " the elixir vitse — the grand panacea— he 
 might have been hale and hearty at this pi'esent 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 spcrretual advice ; and his 
 conscience having been relieved, by confession and absolu- 
 tion, he might have opened a fresh account with an aisy heart 
 and clane breast." 
 
 " I trust, sir," said Small, gravely withdrawing his pipe 
 from his lips, " that Sir Piers Eookwood addressed him- 
 self to a higher source than a sinning creature of clay like 
 himself for remission of his sins ; but, if there was any load 
 of seci'et guilt that might have weighed heavy upon his con- 
 science, it is to be regretted that he refused the last offices 
 of the church, and died incommunicate. I was denied all 
 admittance to his chamber." 
 
 " Exactly my case," said Mr. Coates, pettishly. " I was 
 refused entrance, though my business was of the utmost 
 importance — certain dispositions — special bequests — matter 
 connected with his sister — for though the estate is entailed, 
 yet still there are charges — you understand me — very strange 
 to refuse to see me. Some people may I'egret it — may live to 
 regret it, I say — that's all. I've just sent up a package to 
 Lady Eookwood, which was not to be delivered till after Sir 
 Piers's death. Odd circumstance that — been in my custody 
 a long while — some reason to think Sir Piers meant to alter 
 his will — ought to have seen me — sad neglect !" 
 
 " More's the pity. But it was none of poor Sir Piers's 
 doing !" replied Titus ; " he had no will of his own, poor 
 fellow, during his life, and the devil a will was he likely to 
 have after his death. It was all Lady Rookwood's doing," 
 added he, in a whisper. " I, his medical adviser and conli- 
 dential 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 believe it, as I left the room, I heard high words. Yes, 
 
 E
 
 50 ROOKWOOD. 
 
 f doctor, as I liope to be saved, words of anger from her at 
 I that awfiil juncture." 
 
 The latter part of this speech was uttered in a low tone, 
 and very mysterious manner. The speakers drew so closely 
 together that the bowls of their pipes formed a common 
 centre, whence the stems radiated. A momentary silence 
 ensued, during which each man puffed for very life. Small 
 next knocked the ashes from his tube, and began to replenish 
 it, coughing significantly. Mr. Coates expelled a thin, cml- 
 ing stream of vapour from a minute orifice in the corner of 
 his almost invisible mouth, and arched his eyebrows, in a 
 singular manner, as if he dared not trust the expression of 
 his thoughts to any other feature. Titus shook his huge head, 
 and, ujjon the strength of a bumper which he swallowed, 
 mustered resokition enough to unburden his bosom. 
 
 " By my sow/," said he, mysteriously, " I've seen enough 
 lately to frighten any cjuiet gentleman out of his senses. I'll 
 not get a wink of sleep, I fear, for a week to come. There 
 must have been something dreadful upon Sir Piers's mind ; 
 sui'e — nay, there's no use in mincing the matter with you — in 
 a word, then, some crime too deep to be divulged." 
 
 " Crime !" echoed Coates and Small, in a breath. 
 
 " Ay, crime !" repeated Titus. " Wliist ! not so loud, lest 
 any one should overhear us. Poor Sir Piers, he's dead now. 
 I'm sure you both loved him as I did ; and pity and pardon 
 him if he was guilty ; for certain am I that no soul ever took 
 its flight more heavily laden than did that of our poor friend. 
 Och ! it was a terrible ending. But you shall hear how he 
 died, and judge for yourselves. When I returned to his 
 room, after Lady Eookwood's departure, I found him quite 
 dehrious. I knew death was not far off then. One minute 
 lie was in the chase, cheering on the hounds. ' Halloo ! 
 tallyho !' cried he ; ' who clears that fence ! — who swims that 
 stream ?' The next, he was drinking, carousing, and hurra- 
 ing, at the head of his table, ' Hip ! hip ! hip !' — as mad, and 
 wild, and frantic as ever he used to be when wine had got the 
 better of him ; and then all of a sudden, in the midst of his 
 shouting, he stopped, exclaiming, ' What ! here again ? — who 
 let her in ?~the door is fast— I locked it myself. Devil ! 
 why did you open it ! — you have betrayed me — she will poi- 
 son me — and I cannot resist. Ha ! another ! Who—who 
 is that ? — her face is white — her hair hangs about her 
 shoulders. Is she alive again ? Susan ! Susan ! why that 
 look ? You loved me well — too well. I'ou will not di-ag me
 
 ROOKWOOD. 51 
 
 to perdition ! You Avill not appeal* against me ! No, no, n« 
 
 — it is not in your nature — you whom I doated on, whom I 
 
 loved — whom I — but I rej)ented — I sorrowed — I prayed — 
 
 i prayed ! Oh ! oh ! no prayers would avail. Pray for me, 
 
 I Susan — for ever ! Your intercession may avail. It is not too 
 
 1 late. I will do justice to all. Bring me pen and ink — paper 
 
 \ — I will confess — he shall have all. Where is my sister ? I 
 
 \ would speak with her — would tell her — tell her. Call Alan 
 
 \ Eookwood — I shall die before I can teU it. Come hither,' 
 
 \ said he to me. ' There is a dark, dreadful secret on my mind 
 
 \ — it must forth. Tell my sister — no, my senses swim — Susan 
 
 is near me — fury is in her eyes — avenging fury — keep her off. 
 
 What is this white mass in my arms ? what do I hold ? is it 
 
 the corpse by my side, as it lay that long, long night ? It 
 
 is — it is. Cold, stiff, stirless as then. White — horribly white 
 
 — as when the moon, that would not set, showed all its ghast- 
 
 liness. Ah ! it moves, embraces me, stifles, suffocates me. 
 
 Help ! remove the pillow. I cannot breathe — I choke — oh !' 
 
 And now I am coming to the strangest part of my story — 
 
 and, strange as it may sound, every word is as true as the 
 
 Holy Gospel." 
 
 " Ahem !" coughed Small. 
 
 " AVeli, at this moment — this terrible moment —what should 
 I hear but a tap against the wainscot. Holy Virgin ! how it 
 startled me. My heart leapt to my mouth in an instant, and 
 then went thump, thump, against my ribs. But I said no- 
 thing, though you may be sure I kept my ears wide open — 
 and then presently I heard the tap repeated somewhat louder, 
 and shortly afterwards a third — I should still have said 
 nothing, but Sir Piers heard the knock, and raised himself at 
 the summons, as if it had been the last trumpet. * Come in,' 
 cried he, in a dying voice, and Heaven forgive me if I confess 
 that I expected a certain person, whose company one would 
 rather dispense with u])on such as occasion, to step in How- 
 ever, though it wasn't the ould gentleman, it was somebody 
 near akin to him ; for a door I had never seen, and never even 
 dreamed of, opened in the wall, and in stepped Peter Bradley 
 • — aye, you may well stare, gentlemen ; but it was Peter, look- 
 ing as stiff as a crowbar, and as blue as a mattock. Well, 
 he walked straight up to the bed of the dying man, and bent 
 his great diabolical grey eyes ujion him — laughing all the 
 while — yes, laughing — you know the cursed grin he has. To 
 proceed. ' You have called me,' said he to Sir Piers ; ' I am 
 here. What would you with me ?' — ' We are not alone,' 
 
 E 2
 
 5-2 ROOK WOOD. 
 
 groaned the dying man. ' Leave us, Mr. Tyi'connel — ^leave 
 fnie for five minutes — only five, mark me.' — 'I'll go,' tliinks 
 I, ' but I shall never see you again alive.' And true enough 
 it was — I never did see him again with breath in his body. 
 Without more ado, I left him, and I had scarcely reached the 
 corridor when I heard the door bolted behind me. I then 
 stopped to listen ; and I am sure you'll not blame me when I 
 Bay I clapped my eye to the keyhole ; for I suspected some- 
 i thing wrong. But, Heaven save us ! that crafty gravedigger 
 had taken his precautions too well. I could neither see nor 
 hear anything, except, after a few minutes, a wild unearthly 
 screech. And then the door was thrown open, and I, not 
 expecting it, was precipitated head foremost into the room, 
 to the great damage of my nose. When I got up, Peter had 
 vanished, I suppose, as he came ; and there was poor Sir 
 Piers leaning back upon the pillow, with his hands stretched 
 out as if in supplication ; his eyes unclosed and staring ; and 
 his limbs stark and stiff !" 
 
 A profound silence succeeded Tyi'connel's narrative. Mr. 
 Coates would not venture upon a remark. Doctor Small 
 seemed, for some minutes, lost in painful reflection ; at length 
 he spoke. " You have described a shocking scene, Mr. Tyr- 
 connel, and in a manner that convinces me of its fidelity. 
 But I trust you will excuse me, as a friend of the late Sir 
 Piers, in requesting you to maintain silence in future on the 
 subject. Its repetition can be productive of no good, and may 
 do infinite harm, by giving currency to unpleasant reports, 
 and harrowing the feelings of the survivors. Every one 
 acquaint-Gcl with Sir Piers's history must be aware, as I dare 
 say you are already, of an occurrence which cast a shade over 
 his early life, blighted his character, and endangered his per- 
 sonal safety. It was a dreaclfrd accusation. But I believe,^ 
 nay, I am sure, it was imfounded. Dark suspicious attach | 
 to a Romish priest of the name of Checkley. He, I believe, \ 
 is also beyond the reach of human justice. Erring, Sir Piers \ 
 was undoubtedly. But I trust he was more weak than sinful. ' 
 I have reason to think he was the tool of others, especially 
 of the wretch I have named. And it is easy to perceive how 
 that incomprehensible lunatic, Peter Bradley, has obtained 
 an ascendancy over him. His daughter, you are aware, was 
 Sir Piers's mistress. Our friend is now gone, and with 
 him let us bury his offences, and the remembrance of them. 
 That his soul was heavily laden, would appear from your 
 account of his last moments ; yet I fervently trust, that his
 
 ROOKAVOOD. 53 
 
 repentance was sincere, in whicli case there is hope of forgive- 
 ness for liim. ' At what time soever a sinner shall repent 
 him of his sins, from the bottom of his heart, I will blot out 
 all his wicheJncss out of my remembrance, s:iid tho Lord.' 
 God's mercy is greater than man's sins. And there is hope 
 of salvation even for Sir Piers." 
 
 " I trust so, indeed," said Titus, with emotion ; " and as to 
 relocating a syllable of what I have just said, devil a word 
 more will I utter on the subject. My lips shall be shut and 
 sealed, as close as one of Mr. Coates's bonds, for ever and a 
 day : but I thought it just right to make you acquainted 
 with the circumstances. And now, having dismissed the bad 
 for ever, I am ready to speak of Sir Piers's good qualities, 
 and not few they were. What was there becoming a gentle- 
 man that he couldn't do, Pd like to know ? Couldn't he hunt 
 as well as ever a one in the county ? and hadn't he as good 
 a pack of hounds ? Couldn't he shoot as Avell, and fish as 
 well, and drink as well, or better — only he couldn't carry his 
 wine, which was his misfortune, not his faiilt. And wasn't 
 he always ready to ask a friend to dinner with him, and 
 didn't he give him a good dinner when he cauiC, barring the 
 cross-cups afterwards ? Aiid hadn't he everything agreeable 
 about him, except his wife, which was a great drawback ? 
 And with all his peculiarities and humours, wasn't he as 
 kind-hearted a man as needs be ? and an Ii'ishman at the 
 core ? And so, if he wern't dead, I'd say long life to him. 
 But as he is, here's peace to his memory !" 
 
 At this juncture, a knocking was heard at the door, which 
 some one without had vainly tried to open. Titus rose to 
 unclose it, ushering in an individual known at the hall as 
 Jack Palmer. 
 
 IX. 
 
 AN ENGLISH ADVENTUEER. 
 
 Mrs. Peachum. Sure the captain's tlie finest gentleman on the road. 
 
 Beggar's Opera. 
 
 Jack Palmer was a good-humoured, good-looking man, 
 with immense "bushy, red whiskers, a freckled, florid com- 
 plexion, and sandy hair, rather inclined to scantiness towards 
 the scalp of the head, which garnished the nape of his neck
 
 54 PtOOKWOOD. 
 
 with a ruff of crisp little curls, like the ring on a monk's 
 shaven crown. Notwithstanding this tendency to baldness, 
 Ja,ck could not be more than thirty, though his looks were 
 some five years in advance. His face was one of those in- 
 explicable countenances, which appear to be proper to a 
 peculiar class of men — a regular Newmarket physiognomy — 
 compounded chiefly of cunning and assurance ; not low 
 cunning, nor vulgar assurance, but crafty sporting subtlety, 
 careless as to results, indifferent to obstacles, ever on the 
 alert for the main chance, game and turf all over, eager, yet 
 easy, keen, yet quiet. He was somewhat showily dressed, in 
 such wise that he looked half like a fine gentleman of that 
 day, half like a jockey of our own. His nether man appeared 
 in well-fitting, well-worn buckskins, and boots with tops, not 
 unconscious of the saddle ; while the airy extravagance of his 
 broad- skirted, sky-blue riding coat, the richness of his vest 
 (the pockets of which were beautifully exuberant, according 
 to the mode of 1737), the smart luxuriance of his shirt-frill, 
 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 im worthy of decollation ; nor, in justice 
 to Jack, can we allow that he was in error. He was a model 
 of a man for five feet ten : square, compact, capitally built in 
 every particular, excepting that his legs toere slightU/ im- 
 bowed, which defect probably arose from his being almost 
 constantly on horseback ; a sort of exercise in which Jack 
 greatly delighted, and was accounted a superb rider. It was, 
 indeed, his daring horsemanship), upon one particular occa- 
 sion, when he had outstripped a whole field, that had pro- 
 cured him the honour of an invitation to Eookwood. Who 
 he was, or whence he came, was a cjuestion not easily 
 answered — Jack, himself, evading all solution to the inquiry. 
 Sir Piers never troubled his head about the matter : he waa 
 
 a " d d good fellow — rode devilish well, and stood on no 
 
 sort of ceremony ;" that was enough for him. Nobody else 
 knew anything about him, save that he was a capital judge 
 of horseflesh, kept a famous black mare, and attended every 
 hunt in the West Eiding — that he could sing a good song, 
 was a choice companion, and could drink three bottles with- 
 out 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 
 arranged his wig. Bvit when he saw who was the intruder, 
 with a grunt of defiance, he resumed his occupation, without
 
 KOOKWOOD. 55 
 
 returning tlie bow of the latter, or bestowing further notice 
 upon him. Nothing discomposed at the churchman's dis- 
 pleasure, Jack greeted Titus cordially, and carelessly saluting 
 Mr. Coates, threw himself into a chair. He next filled a 
 tumbler of claret, and drained it at a draught. ' 
 
 " Have you ridden far, Jack ?" asked Titus, noticing the 
 dusty state of Palmer's azure attire. 
 
 " Some dozen miles," replied Palmer ; " and that, on such 
 a sultry afternoon as the present, makes one feel thirstyish. 
 I'm as dry as a sandbed. Famous wine this — beautiful 
 tipple — better than all your red fustian. Ah, how j^oor Sir 
 Piers used to like it ! Well, that's all over — a glass like this 
 might do him good in his pi'esent quarters ! I'm afraid I'm 
 intruding. But the fact is, I wanted a little information 
 about the order of the procession, and missing you below, 
 came hither in search of you. You're to be chief mourner, I 
 suppose, Titus — reliearsin(j your part, eh ?" 
 
 " Come, come. Jack, no joking," replied Titus ; " the sub- 
 ject's too serious. I am to be chief mourner — and I expect 
 you to be a mourner— and everyltody 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 iviJl attend, or what is the eating and drink- 
 ing to go for ? I sha'n't leave a soul in the house." 
 
 " Excepting one," said Jack, slyly. " She won't attend, I 
 think." 
 
 " Ay, excepting one — Lady Eookwood and her abigail. All 
 the rest go with me, and form part of the procession. You 
 go too." 
 
 " Of course. What time do you start ?" 
 
 " Twelve precisely. As the clock strikes, we set out — all 
 in a line, and a long line we'll make. I'm waiting for that 
 ould coffin-faced rascal, Peter Bradley, to arrange the order." 
 
 " How long will it occupy, think you," asked Jack, care- 
 lessly. 
 
 " That I can't say," returned Titus ; " jiossibly an horn-, 
 more or less. But we shall start to the minute — that is, if 
 we can get all together, so don't be out of the way. And 
 hark ye. Jack, you must contrive to change your toggery. 
 That sky-blue coat won't do. It's not the thing at all, at all." 
 
 " Never fear that," replied Palmer. " But who were thosf 
 in the carria.cjftR P"
 
 56 ROOKWOOD. 
 
 " Is it the last carriage you mean ? Squire Forester and 
 his sons. They're dining with the other gentlefol'c, in the 
 great room up-stairs, to be out of the way. Oh, we'll have a 
 grand hcrrin'. And by Saint Patrick ! I must be looking 
 after it." 
 
 " Stay a minute," said Jack ; " let's have a cool bottle first. 
 They are all taking care of themselves below, and Peter 
 Bradley has not made his appearance, so you need be in 
 no hurrv. I'll go with you presently. Shall I riuc for the 
 claret?"' 
 
 " By all means," replied Titus. 
 
 Jack accordingly arose ; and a butler answering the sum- 
 mons, a long-necked bottle was soon placed before them. 
 
 " You heard of the affray last night, I presume," said 
 Jack, renewing the conversation. 
 
 " With the poachers ? To be sure I did. Wasn't I called 
 in to examine Hugh Badger's wounds the first thing this 
 morning ; and a deep cut there was, just over the eye, besides 
 other bruises." 
 
 " Is the wound dangerous ?" inquired Palmer. 
 
 " Not exactly mortal, if you mean that," replied the Irish- 
 man; "dangerous, certainly." 
 
 " Humph !" exclaimed Jack ; " they'd a pretty hardish bout 
 of it, I understand. Anything been heard of the body ?" 
 
 "What body ?" inquired Small, who was half-dozing. 
 
 " The body of the drowned poacher," replied Jack; " they 
 were off to search for it this morning." 
 
 "Found it — not they!" exclaimed Titus. "Ha, ha! — I 
 can't help laughing, for the life and soivl of me ; a capital 
 trick he played 'em, — capital — ha, ha ! What do you think 
 the fellow did ? Ha, ha ! — after leading 'em the devil's 
 dance, all round the park, killing a hound as savage as a 
 wolf, and breaking Hugh Badger's head, which is as hard 
 and thick as a butcher's block, what does the fellow do but 
 dive into a pool, with a great rock hanging over it, and make 
 his way to the other side, through a subterranean cavern, 
 which nobody knew anything about, till they came to drag it, 
 thinlving him snugly drowned all the while — ha, ha !" 
 
 "Ha, ha, ha!" chorused Jack; "bravo! he's a lad of the 
 right sort — ha, ha !" 
 
 " He ! who ?" inquired the attorney. 
 
 " Why, the poacher, to be sure," replied Jack ; " who else 
 ■were we talking abjvit ?" 
 
 "Beg pardon," returned Coates; "I thought you might
 
 KOOKWOOD. 57 
 
 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." 
 
 " Zounds !" cried Titus ; " you don't say it was he ? 
 Murder in Ii-ish ! that hates everything ; why he was Sir 
 Piers's " 
 
 " Natural son," replied the attorney ; " he has not been 
 heard of for some time — shockingly incorrigible rascal — im- 
 possible to do anything with him." 
 
 " You don't say so," observed .Jack. " I've heard Sir Piers 
 speak of the lad ; and, by his account, he's as fine a fellow as 
 ever crossed tit's back ; only a little wildish and unreasonable, 
 as the best of us may be ; wants breaking, that's all. Your 
 skittish colt makes the best horse, and so would he. To speak 
 the truth, I'm glad he escaped." 
 
 " So am I," rejoined Titus; " for, in the first place, I've a 
 foolish partiality for poachers, and am sorry when any of 'em 
 come to hurt ; and, in the second, I'd be mightily displeased 
 if any ill had hapj)ened to one of Sir Piers's fiesh and blood, 
 as this young chap appears to be." 
 
 " Appears to be !" repeated Palmer ; " there's no appearing 
 in the case, I take it. This Bradley's an undoubted offshoot 
 of the old squire. His mother was a servant-maid at the 
 hall, I rather think. You, sir," continued he, addressing 
 Coates, " perhaps can inform us of the real facts of the case." 
 
 " She was something better than a servant," replied the 
 attorney, with a slight cough and a knowing wink. " I re- 
 member her cjuite well, though I was but a boy then ; a 
 lovely creature, and so taking, I don't wonder that Sir Piers 
 was smitten with her. He was mad after the women in those 
 days, and pretty Sue Bradley above all others. She lived 
 with him quite like his lady." 
 
 " So I've heard," returned Jack ; " and she remained with 
 him till her death. Let me see, wasn't there something 
 rather odd in the way in which she died, rather suddenish 
 and unexpected — a noise made about it at the time, eh ?" 
 
 " Not that I ever heard," replied Coates, shaking his head, 
 and appearing to be afflicted with an instantaneous ignorance ; 
 while Titus affected not to hear the remark, but occupied him- 
 self with his wine-glass. Small snored audibly. " I was too 
 young, then, to pay any attention to idle rumoui-s," continued 
 Coates, " It's a long time ago. May I ask the reason of 
 your inquiry ?"
 
 58 ROOKWOOD. 
 
 " Nothing f urtlier than simple curiosity," replied Jack, en- 
 joying the consternation of his companions. " It is, as you 
 say, a long while since. But it's singular how those sort of 
 things are remembered. One would think people had some- 
 thing 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 Coates. "So much the worse 
 for him. Let me once lay hands upon him, and I'U put a gag 
 in his mouth that shall spoil his talking in future." 
 
 " That's precisely the point I desire 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 ma,tter amicably, were I you. Just 
 let the fellow go his way, he won't return here again in a 
 hurry, I'll be bound. As to clapping him in quod, he might 
 prattle — turn stag." 
 
 "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 signifies it what he says ? Let me lay hands upon him, 
 that's all." 
 
 " Well, well," said Jack, " no offence. I only meant to 
 offer a suggestion. I thought the family, young Sir Eanulph, 
 I mean, mightn't like the story to be revived. As to Lady 
 Rookwood, she don't, I suppose, care much about idle reports. 
 Indeed, if I've been rightly informed, she bears this youngster 
 no particular goodAvili 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 onhj talk. Sir Piers is dead and 
 gone." 
 
 " Humph !" muttered Coates, peevishly. 
 
 " But it does seem a little hard that a lad should swing for 
 killing a bit of venison in his 'own father's park." 
 
 " Which he'd a naf'ral right to do," cried Titus. 
 
 " He had no natural right to bruise, violently assault, and 
 endanger the life of his father's, or anybody else's, game- 
 keej^er," retorted Coates. "I tell you, sir, he's committed a 
 capital offence, and if he's taken " 
 
 " No chance of that, I hope," interrupted Jack. 
 
 " That's a wish I can't lielp wishing myself," said Titus ; 
 " on my conscience these poachers are fine boys, when all's 
 said and done."
 
 ROOKWOOD. 59 
 
 " The finest of all boys," exclaimed Jack, -with a Irindrecl 
 enlbusiasra, " are tliose birds of the nigbt, and minions of the 
 moon, whom we call, most unjustly, poachers. They are, 
 after all, only jirofcssional sportsmen, making a business of 
 what we make a pleasure ; a nightly pursuit of what is to us 
 a daily relaxation ; there's the main distinction. As to the 
 rest, it's all in idea ; they merely thin an overstocked park, as 
 you would redvice a plethoric patient, doctor ; or as you would 
 work a moneyed client, if you got him into Chancery, Mister 
 A-ttorney. And then how much more scientifically and syste- 
 matically they set to work 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 
 license, except that of a good eye, and a swift pair of legs ; 
 how unnecessary is it for them to ask permission to shoot 
 over Mr. So-and-So's grounds, or my Lord That's preserves ; 
 they are free of every cover, and indifferent to any alteration 
 in the game laws. I've some thoughts, when everything else 
 fails, of taking to poaching myself. In my opinion, a j)oacher's 
 a highly respectable character. What say you, Mr. Coates ?" 
 turning very gravely to that gentleman. 
 
 " Such a question, sir," replied Coates, bridling up, " scarcely 
 deserves a serious answer. I make no doubt you will next 
 maintain that a highwayman is a gentleman." 
 
 " Most undoubtedly," replied Palmer, in the same givave 
 tone, which might have passed for banter, had Jack ever 
 bantered. " I'll maintain and prove it. I don't see how he 
 can be otherwise. It is as necessary for a man to be a gentle- 
 man 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, 
 Ilannum, 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 him- 
 self in every way like a gentleman. Of course, there are pre- 
 tenders, in this line, as in everything else. But these are 
 only exceptions, and prove the rule. What are the distin- 
 guishing characteristics of a fine gentleman ? — perfect know- 
 ledge of the world — perfect independence of character — 
 notoriety — command of cash - and inordinate success with 
 the women. You grant all these premises. First, then, it is 
 part of a highwayman's business to bo thoroughly acquainted 
 with the world. He is the easiest and 2:)leasantest fellow going. 
 There is Tom King, for example : he is the handsomest man 
 about town, and the best-bred fellow on the road. Then
 
 60 ROOKWOOD 
 
 whose inclinations are so uncontrolled as the highwajnian's, 
 so long as the mopuses last ? Who produces so great an 
 effect by so few words ? — ' Stand and deliver^ is sure to arrest 
 attention. Every one is captivated by an address so taking. 
 As to money, he wins a purse of a hundred guineas as easily 
 as you would the same sum from the faro table. And wherein 
 lies the difference ? Only in the name of the game. Who so 
 little need of a banker as he ? all he has to apprehend is a 
 check — all he has to draw is a trigger. As to the women, 
 they dote upon him : not even your red-coat is so successful. 
 Look at a highwayman mounted on his flying steed, with his 
 pistols in his holsters, and his mask upon his face. What 
 can be a more gallant sight ? The clatter of his horse's heels 
 is like music to his ear — he is in full quest — he shouts to tho 
 fugitive horseman to stay — the other flies all the faster — 
 what chase can be half so exciting as that ? Suppose he 
 overtakes his prey, which ten to one he will, how readily his 
 summons to deliver is obeyed ; how satisfactory is the appro- 
 priation 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 
 l^eculiar to her chme, and are as much before the brigand of 
 Italy, the contrabandist of Sj)ain, or the cut-purse of France — 
 as her sailors are before all the rest of the world. The day 
 will never come, I hope, when we shall degenerate into the 
 footpad, and lose our niijlit errantry. Even the French borrow 
 from us — they have only one highwayman of eminence, and 
 he learnt and jjractised his art in England." 
 
 " And who was he, may I ask?" said Coates. 
 
 " Claude Du-Val," replied Jack ; " and though a French- 
 man, he was a deuced fine fellow in his day — quite a tip-top 
 macaroni — he could skip and twirl like a figurant, warble 
 like an opera singer, and play the flageolet better than any 
 man of his day — he always carried a lute in his pocket, along 
 with his snappers. And then his dress— it was quite beau- 
 tiful to see how smartly he was rigg'd out, all velvet and lace ; 
 and even with his vizard on his face, the ladies used to cry out 
 to see him. Then he took a purse with the air and grace of a 
 receiver-general. All the women adored him — and that, bless 
 their pretty faces, was the best proof of his gentility. I 
 wish he'd not been a Mounseer. The women never mistake. 
 ^JJheij can always discover the true gentleman, and they were
 
 ROOKWOOD. CI 
 
 all, of every degree, from the countess to the kitchen-maid, 
 over head and ears in love with him." 
 
 " But he was taken, I suppose ?" asked Coates. 
 
 " Aj," responded Jack, " the women were hitj undoing as 
 they've been many a bravo fellow's before, and will be again." 
 Touched by which reflection. Jack became for once in his life 
 sentimental, and sighed, " Poor Duval ! he was seized at the 
 Hole-in-the-Wall in Chandos-street by the bailiff of West- 
 minster when dead drunk, his liquor having been drugged by 
 his dells — and was shortly afterwards hanged at Tyburn." 
 
 " It was a thousand pities," said Mr. Coates, with a sneer, 
 " that so fine a gentleman should come to so ignominious an 
 end." 
 
 " Quite the contrary," returned Jack. " As his biographer, 
 Doctor Pope, properly remarks, ' Who is there worthy of the 
 name of man, that would not prefer such a death before a 
 mean, solitary, inglorious life ?' By the bye, Titus, as Ave're 
 upon the subject, if you like, Pll sing you a song about high- 
 waymen !" 
 
 " I should like it of all things," replied Titus, who enter- 
 tained a favourable opinion of Jack's vocal powers, and was 
 by no means an indifferent performer ; " only let it be in a 
 minor key." 
 
 Jack required no further encouragement, but, disregarding 
 the hints and looks of Coates, sang with much unction the 
 following ballad to a good old tune, then very popular — the 
 merit of which " nobody can deny." 
 
 A CHAPTER OF HIGHWAYMEN. 
 
 Of every rascal of every kind, 
 
 The most notorious to my mind, 
 
 Was the Cavalier Captain, gay Jemmy Hind !* 
 
 Which nobody can deny. 
 16ut the pleasantest coxcomb among them all 
 For lute, coranto, and madrigal, 
 Was the galliard Frenchman, Claude Du-Val !+ 
 
 Which nobody can deny. 
 And Tobygloak never a coach could rob, 
 Could lighten a pocket or empty a fob, 
 With a neater hand than Old Mob, Old Mob IJ 
 
 Wliich nobody can deny. 
 
 * James Hind (the " Prince of Prigs"), a royalist captain of some disbinc- 
 tion, was hanged, drawn, and quartered, in 1652. Some good stories are 
 told of him. He had the credit of robbing Cromwell, Bradshaw, and Peters. 
 His discourse to Peters is particularly edifying. 
 
 t See Du-Val's life by Doctor Pope, or Leigh Hunt's brilliant sketch of 
 him in The Indicator. 
 
 X We cannot say much in favour of this worthy, whose name was Thomas
 
 62 KOOKWOOD. 
 
 Nor did housebreaker ever deal harder knocks 
 
 On the stubboru lid of a good strong box, 
 
 Than that prince of good fellows, ToM Cox, ToM Cox !* 
 
 Which nobody can deny, 
 
 A blither fellow on broad highway, 
 Did never with oath bid traveller stay, 
 Than devil-may-care Will Holloway If 
 
 Which nobody can deny. 
 
 And in roguci-y nought could exceed the tricks 
 Of Gettings and Grey, and the five or six, 
 Who trod in the steps of bold Neddy Wicks 1% 
 
 Which nobody can deny. 
 
 Nor could any so handily break a lock 
 
 As Sheppahd, who stood on the Newgate dock, 
 
 And nicknamed the gaolers around him " his flocL /"§ 
 
 Which nobody can deny. 
 
 Nor did highwayniiin ever before possess, 
 
 For ease, for security, danger, distress, 
 
 Such a mare as Dick Tuhpin's Black Bess ! Black Bess ! 
 
 Whicli nobody can deny. 
 
 " A capital song, by tlie powers !" cried Titus, as Jack's 
 ditty came to a close. "But your English robbers are 
 nothing at all, compared with our Tories|l and Eapparees — 
 
 Simpson. The reason of his sobriquet does not appear. He was not par- 
 ticularly scrupulous as to his mode of appropriation. One of his sayings is, 
 however, on recoi-d. He told a widow wliom he robbed, "that the end of a 
 woman's husband begins in tears, but the end of her tears is another hus- 
 band." " Upon which," says his chronicler, " the gentlewoman gave him 
 about fifty guineas." 
 
 * Tom was a sprightly fellow, and carried his sprightliness to the gallows ; 
 for just before he was turned off he kicked Mr. Smith, the ordinary, and the 
 hangman, out of the cart -a piece of pleasantry which created, as may be 
 supposed, no small sensation. 
 
 f Many agreeable stories are related of Holloway. His career, however, 
 closed with a murder. Uo contrived to break out of Newgate, but relurned 
 to witness the trial of one of his associates ; when, upon the attempt of a 
 turnkey, one Eichard Spurting, to seize huu. Will knocked him on the head 
 in the presence of the whole court. For this offence he suffered the extreme 
 pemdty of the law in 1712. 
 
 X Wicks's adventures with Madame Tolyare highly diverting. It was this 
 hero, not Turpin, as has been erroneously stated, who stopped the celelirated 
 Lord Mohun. Of Gettings and Grey, and " the five or six," the less said the 
 better. 
 
 § One of Sheppard's recorded mots. When a Bible was pressed upon his 
 acceptance by Mr. Wagstaff, the chaplain. Jack refused it, saying, " that in 
 his .situation one file would be worth all the Bibles in the world." A gentle- 
 man who visited Newgate asked him to dinner; feheppard replied, " that he 
 would take an early opportunity of waiting upon him." And we believe he 
 kept his word. 
 
 II The word Tory, as here applied, must not be confounded with the term 
 of party distinction now in general use in the political world. It simply means 
 a thief on a grand scale, something more than " a snapper up of unconsidered 
 trifles," or petty larceny rascal. We have classical authority for this : — 
 Tory- " an .advocate for absolute monarchy, also an Irish vagabond, robber, 
 or rapparee." — (Jiwi-E' s Dictionary.
 
 ROOKWOOD. ()3 
 
 nothing at all. They were the raal gentlemen — they were 
 
 the hoys to cut a throat asil//.^' 
 
 " Pshaw !" exclamied Jack in disgust, "the gentlemen I 
 /speak of never maltreated any one, except in self-defence." 
 / " Mayhe not," replied Titus, " I'll not dispute the point — 
 ■ hut these Eapparees were true brothers of the blade, and 
 
 gentlemen every inch. I'll just sing you a song I made 
 
 (about them myself. Bvit meanwhile don't let's forget the 
 bottle — talking' s dry work — my service to you, doctor !" 
 added he, winking at the somnolent Small. And, tossing off 
 his glass, Titus delivered himself with much joviality of the 
 following ballad ; the words of which he adapted to the tune 
 of the Groves of the Fool : — 
 
 THE RAPPAEEES. 
 
 [ Let the Englishman boast of his Turpins and Sheppards, as cocks of the 
 
 ! walk, 
 
 His Mulsacks, and Cheneys, and Swiftnecks* — it's all botheration and talk ; 
 Compared with the robbers of Ireland, they don't come within half a mile, 
 There never were yet any rascals like those of my own native isle ! 
 
 First and foremost comes Redmond O'Uanlon, allowed the first thief of 
 
 the world, + 
 That O'er the broad province of Ulster the Eapparee banner unfurled ; 
 Och ! he was an elegant fellow, as ever you saw in your life, 
 At fingering the blunderbuss trigger, or handling the throat-cutting knife. 
 
 * A trio of famous High-Toby gloaks. Swiftneck was a captain of Irish 
 dragoons, by the bye. 
 
 t Kedmond O'Hanlon was the Eob Eoy of Ireland, and his adventures, 
 many of which are exceedingly curious, would furnish as rich 7naterials for 
 the novelist, as they have already done for the ballad-mongers : some of them 
 are, however, sufficiently well narrated in a pleasant little tome, published at 
 Belfast, entitled The History of the Bapparees. We are also in possession 
 of a funeral discourse preached at the obsequies of the " noble and renowntd" 
 Henry St. John, Esq., who was unfortunately killed by the Tories (the 
 Destructives of those days), in the induction to which we fi.nd some allusion 
 to Redmond. After describing the thriving condition of the north of Ireland, 
 about 1680, the Eev. Lawrence Power, the author of the sermon, says, " One 
 mischief there was, which indeed in .a great measure destroyed all, and that 
 was, a pack of insolent bloody outlaws, whom they here call Tories. These 
 had so rivettcd themselves in these parts, that by the interest they had among 
 the natives, and some English, too, to their shame he it spoken, they exercise 
 a kind of sepai-ate sovereiguty in three or four counties in the north of Ireland. 
 Uedmond O'Hanlon is their chief, and has been these many years ; a cun- 
 ning, dangerous fellow, who, though proclaimed an outlaw with the rest of 
 his crew, and sums of money set upon their heads, yet he reigns still, and 
 keeps all in subjection, so far that 'tis credibly reported he raises more in a 
 year hy conlribidion d-la-mode de FrcDico than the hinc/s land faxes and 
 chimney -money come to, and thei-ehy is enabled to bribe clerks and officers, 
 IP NOT THKiE MASTEEs, (!) and makes all too much truckle to him." Agi- 
 tation, it seems, was not confined to our own days — but the " finest country 
 in the world" has been, and ever will be the same. The old gume i: played 
 under a new colour— the only difference being, that had Etdmond lived in oitr
 
 (54 ROOKWOOD. 
 
 And then sucli a dare-devil squadron as that whicli composed ReCMond's 
 
 (ail! 
 Meel, Mactigh, Jack Reilly, Slian Bernagh, Phil Galloge, and Arthur O'Neal; 
 Shtire never were any boys like 'em, for rows, agitation, and sprees : 
 Not a rap did tbey leave in the country, and hence they were called -Z?ap- 
 
 parees.* 
 Next comes Power, the great TORTf of Munster, a gentleman born every 
 
 inch, 
 And strong Jack Macpherson, of Leinster, a horse-shoe v?ho broke at a 
 
 pinch ; 
 The last was a fellow so lively, not death e'en his courage could damp, 
 For as he was led to the gallows, he played his own " march to the camp.";}; 
 Paddy Flemming, Dick Bale, and Mulhoni, I think are the next on my 
 
 list, 
 All adepts in the beautiful science of giving a pocket a twist ; 
 Jemmy Cakrick must follow his leaders, ould Purney who put in a huff. 
 By dancing a hornpipe at Tyburn, and bothering the hangman for snuff. 
 There's Paul Liddy, the curlj^-pate Tory, whoso noddle was stuck on a 
 
 epike, 
 Anil liiLLY Delany, the " Sonffster,"^ we never shall meet with his like ; 
 For his neck by a witch was anointed, and warranted safe by her charm, 
 No hemp that was ever yet twisted his wonderful throttle could harm. 
 
 time, he would, in all probability, not only have pillaged a county, but repre- 
 sented it in parliament. The spirit of the Rapparee is still abroad — though 
 we f;;ar there is little of the Tory left about it. AVo recommend this note to 
 tlio serious consideration of the declaimers against the sufferings of the " six 
 uiillious." 
 
 * Here Titus was slightly in error. He mistook the cause for the effect. 
 '' They were called Rapparecs," Mr. Malone says, " from being armed with 
 a r,'. if-pike, called by the Irish a rapparee." — 1 odd's Johnson. 
 
 + Tory, so called from the Irish word Toree, give me your money. — Todd's 
 Johnson. 
 
 X As he was carried to the gallows, Jack played a fine tune of his own 
 composing on the bagpipe, which retains the name of Macpherson's tune to 
 this day. — History of the Rapparees. 
 
 § " Notwithstanding he was so great a rogue, Delany was a handsome 
 portly man, extremely diverting in company, and could behave himself before 
 gentlemen very agreeably. He had a political genius (not altogether sur- 
 prising in so eminent a Tory), and would have made a great proficiency in 
 learning if he had rightly applied his time. He composed sscveral songs, and 
 put tunes to them ; and by his skill in music gained the favour of some of the 
 leading musicians in the country, who endeavoured, to get him reprieved." — 
 History of the Kapparees. The particulars of the Songster's execution are 
 singular : — " When he was brought into court to receive sentence of death, 
 the judge told him that he was informed he should say ' that there was not 
 a rope in Ireland sufiicient to hang him. But,' says he, ' I'll try if Kilkenny 
 can't afford one strong enough to do your business ; and if that will not do, 
 you shall have another and another. Then ho ordered the sheriff to choose 
 a rope, and Delany was ordered for execution the next day. The sheriff 
 having notice of his mother's boasting that no rope could hang her son (and 
 pursuant to the judge's desii-e), provided two ropes, but Delany broke them 
 one after another ! The sheriff was then in a rage, and went for three bed 
 cords, which he plaited three-fold together, and they did his b^lsiness ! Yet 
 the sheriff was afraid he was not dead ; and in a passion, to make trial, 
 stabbed him with his sword in the soles of his feet, and at last cut the rope. 
 After he was cut down, his body was carried into the court-house, where it
 
 HOOKWOOD. 65 
 
 /nd lastly, tlicre's Cahik na Capful, the handiest rogac of them all, 
 "Who only need whisper a word, and your horse will trot out of his stall ; 
 Your tit is not safe in your stable, though you or your frroom should be near. 
 And devil a bit in the paddock, if Cauik gets hould of his ear. 
 
 Then success to the Tories of Ireland, the generous, the gallant, the gay ! 
 With them the best liumpads* of England arc not to be named the 
 
 Fame day ! 
 And were further proof wanting to show what precedence we take with 
 
 onr prir/s, 
 Recollect that our robbers are Tories, while those of your counti'y are 
 
 WiitGs ! 
 
 " Bravissimo !" crietl Jack, drumming upon tlie table. 
 
 " Well," said Coates, " we've had enough about the Irish 
 highwaymen, in all conscience. But there's a rascal on our 
 side of the Channel, whom you have only incidentally 
 mentioned, and who makes more noise than them all put 
 together." 
 
 *' Wbo's that ?" asked Jack, with some curiosity. 
 
 "Dick Turpin," replied the attorney: "he seems to me 
 quite as worthy of mention as any of the Hinds, the Du-Vals, 
 or the O'Hanlons, you have either of you enumerated.'' 
 
 " I did not think of him," replied Palmer, 
 
 smiling ; 
 " thovigh if I had, he scarcely deserves to be ranked with 
 those illustrious heroes." 
 
 "Gads bobs!" cried Titus; "they tell me Turpin keeps 
 the best nag in the United Kingdom, and can ride faster and 
 further in a day than any other man in a week." 
 
 " So I've heard," said Palmer, with a glance .of satisfac- 
 tion, "I shovild like to try a run with him. I warrant me, 
 I'd not be far behind." 
 
 " I should like to get a peep at him," quoth Titus. 
 
 " So should J," added Coates. " Vas/lij .'" 
 
 " You may both of you be gratified, gentlemen," said 
 Palmer. " Talking of Dick Turpin, they say, is like speak- 
 ing of the devil, he's at your elbow ere the word's well out 
 of your mouth. He may be within hearing at this moment, 
 for anything we know to the contrary." 
 I "Body o' me !" ejaculated Coates, "you don't say so. 
 
 i Turpin in Yorkshire ! I thought he confined his exploits 
 to the neighbourhood of the metropolis, and made Epping 
 Forest his head- quarters." 
 
 
 remained in the coffin for two days, standing up, till the judge and all the 
 spectators were fully satisfied that he was stiff and dead, and then permission 
 was given to his friends to remove the corpse and bury it." — History of the 
 B-a-pj) (trees . 
 * Highwaymen, as contradistinguished from footpads.
 
 66 KOOKWOOD. 
 
 " So he did," replied Jack, "but the cave is all up now. 
 The whole of the great North Road, from Tottenham Cross 
 to York gates, comes within Dick's present range ; and Saint 
 Nicholas only knows in which part of it he is most likely to 
 be foimd. He shifts his quarters as often and as readily as 
 a Tartar ; and he who looks for him may chance to catch a 
 Tartar— hill ha!" 
 
 " It's a disgrace to the country that such a rascal should 
 remain unhanged," returned Coates, peevishly. " Govern- 
 ment ought to look to it. Is the whole kingdom to be kept 
 in a state of agitation by a single highwayman ? — Sir Robert 
 Walpole should take the affair into his own hands." 
 
 " Fudge !" exclaimed Jack, emj^tying his glass. 
 
 "I have already addressed a letter to the editor of the 
 Common Sense on the subject," said Coates, " in which I 
 have spoken my mind pretty plainly : and I rej)eat, it is per- 
 fectly disgraceful that such a rascal should be suffered to 
 remain at large." 
 
 " You don't happen to have that letter by you, I suppose," 
 said Jacis, "or I should beg the favour to hear it ?— I am 
 not acquainted with the newspaper to which you aUude ; — I 
 read Forfs Journal." 
 
 " So I thought," replied Coates, with a sneer ; "that's the 
 reason you are so easily mystified. But luckily I have the 
 paper in my pocket ; and you are quite welcome to my 
 opiiiions. Here it is," added he, drawing forth a newspaper. 
 " I shall waive my preliminary remarks, and come to the 
 point at once." 
 
 " By all means," said Jack. 
 
 " ' I thank God,' " began Coates, in an authoritative tone, 
 " * that I was born in a country that hath formerly emulated 
 the Romans in their public spirit ; as is evident from their 
 conquests abroad, and their struggles for liberty at home.' " 
 
 " What has all this got to do with Turpin ?" interposed 
 Jack. 
 
 " You will hear," replied the attorney — ■" no interruptions, 
 if you please. ' But this noble princij^le,' " continued he, 
 with great emphasis, " ' though not utterly lost, I cannot 
 think at present so active as it ought to be in a nation so 
 jealous of her liberty. ' " 
 
 "Good!" exclaimed Jack. " There is more than ' co?«?«o;i 
 sense' in that observation, Mr. Coates." 
 
 " ' My susj)iciou,' " proceeded Coates, "'is foimded on a 
 late instance. I mean the flagrant, undisturbed success of
 
 ROOKWOOD. 67 
 
 the notorious Turpin, wlio liatli robljM in a nianuci' scarce 
 ever known before for several years, and is grown so insolent 
 and impudent as to threaten particular persons, and become 
 openly dangerous to the lives as well as fortunes of the 
 people of England.' " 
 
 "Better and better," shouted Jack, laughing immoderately. 
 "Pray go on sir." 
 
 " ' That a fellow,' " continued Coates, " ' who is known to 
 be a thief by the whole kingdom, shall for so long a time 
 continue to rob us, and not only rob us, but make a jest 
 of us.' " 
 
 " Ha — ha — ha— capital ! Excuse me, sir," roared Jack, 
 laughing till the tears ran down his cheeks — " pray, pray, 
 go on." 
 
 " I see nothing to laugh at," replied Coates, somewhat 
 offended ; " however, I will conclude my letter, since I have 
 begun it — ' not only rob us, but make a jest of us, shall defy 
 the laws, and laugh at justice, argues a want of public spirit, 
 which should make every particular member of the com- 
 munity sensible of the public calamity, and ambitioiis of the 
 honour of extirpating such a notorious highwayman from 
 society, since he owes his long success to no other cause than 
 his immoderate impudence, and the sloth and pusilla,nimity 
 of those who ought to bring him to justice.' I will not 
 deny," continued Coates, " that, professing myself, as I do, 
 to be a stanch new Whig, I had not some covert political 
 object in penning this epistle.* Nevertheless, setting aside 
 my principles " 
 
 " Eight," observed Jack ; " you Whigs, new or old, ahvays 
 set aside your principles." 
 
 " Setting aside any political feeling I may entertain," con- 
 tined Coates, disregarding the interruption, " I repeat, I am 
 ambitious of extirpating this modern Cacus — this Autolycus 
 of the eighteenth century." 
 
 " And what course do you mean to pursue ?" asked Jack, 
 " for I suppose you do not expect to catch this ' ouijlit-fo-liclc- 
 us,' as you call him, by a line in the newspapers." 
 
 " I am in the habit of keeping my own counsel, sii'," replied 
 
 * SlncG Mr. Coates here avows himself the writer of this diatribe against 
 Sir Roljert Walpole, attacked under the guiae of Turpin in the Coinmon 
 Sense of July 3Uth, 1737, it is useless to iniiuire further into its authorship. 
 And it remains only to refer the reader to the Gents. Maj., vol. vii., p 1-58, 
 for the article above quoted ; and for a reply to it in the Daily Ga~etleer, 
 contained in p. 499 of the same volume. 
 
 F 2
 
 68 IIOOKWOOD. 
 
 Coates, pettisTily ; " and to be plain with you I hope to fiiigef 
 all the rewai'd myself." 
 
 " Oons, is there a reward offered for Turpin's apprehen- 
 sion ?" asked Titus. 
 
 "No loss than two hundred pounds," answered Coates, 
 " and that's no trifle, as you Avill both admit. Have you 
 not seen the king's proclamation, Mr. Palmer ?" 
 
 " Not I," replied Jack, with affected indifference. 
 
 " Nor I," added Titus, witli some ap2")earance of curiosity ; 
 " do you happen to have that by you too ?" 
 
 " I always carry it about with me," replied Coates, " that 
 I may refer to it in case of emergency. My father, Chris- 
 topher, or Kit Coates, as he was familiarly called, was a 
 celebrated thief -taker. He apprehended Spicket and Child, 
 and half a dozen others, and always 'kept their descriptions 
 in his pocket. I endeavour to tread in my worthy father's 
 footsteps. I hope to signalise myself by caj^turing a high- 
 wayman. By the bye," added he, surveying Jack more nar- 
 rowly, " it occurs to me that Turpin must be rather like you, 
 Mr. Palmer ?" 
 
 " Like me," said Jack, regarding Coates askance ; " like 
 me— how am I to understand you, sir, eh ?" 
 
 "No offence; none whatever, sir. Ah! stay, you won't 
 object to my comparing the description. That can do no 
 harm. Nobody would take you for a highwayman — nobody 
 whatever — ha ! ha ! Singular resemblance — he — he ! These 
 things do happen sometimes : not very often, though. But 
 here is Turpiu^s description in the Gazette, June 2QtJi, a.d. 
 1737 : — * It having been represented to the King that Richard 
 Turpin did, on JVednesda>i, the 4th of May last, rob on his 
 Majesty^S Inr/hivay Vavasotir Moiohray, Esq., Major of the 
 2nd troop of Horse Grenadiers' (that Major Mowbray, by 
 the bye, is a nephew of the late Sir Piers, and cousin of the 
 present baronet), ^ and commit other notorious felonies and 
 ivhberies near London, his Majesty is pleased to promise his 
 most gracious pardon to any of his accomplices, and a reward 
 of two hundred pounds to any person or persons ivho shall 
 discover him, so as he may be appreliended and convicted.^ " 
 
 " Odsbodikins !" exclaimed Titus, " a noble reward ! I 
 should like to lay hands upon Turpin," added he, slapping 
 Palmer's shoulder : " I wish he were in your place at this 
 moment. Jack." 
 
 " Thank you !" replied Palmer, shifting his chair. 
 
 " * Turpin,' " continued Coates, " ' was born at ThacJcated,
 
 ROOKWOOD. 69 
 
 in Essex ; is about thirty''— yon, sir, I believe, are about 
 thirty ?" added be, addressing Pahner. 
 
 " Thereabouts," said Jack, bluffly. " But what has my age 
 to do with that of Turjiin?" 
 
 " Nothing — nothing at all," answered Coates — " suffer mo, 
 however, to proceed. ? — ' Is by trade a hutchcr,' — you, sir, I 
 believe, never had any dealings in that lino ?" 
 
 " I have some notion how to dispose of a troublesome calf," 
 returned Jack. " But Turpin, though described, as a butcher, 
 is, I understand, a lineal descendant of a great French arch- 
 bishop of the same name." 
 
 " Who wrote the chronicles of that royal robber Charle- 
 magne ; I know him," replied Coates — " a terrible liar ! — The 
 modern Turpin ' is about jive feet nine inches high' — exactly 
 your height, sir — exactly !" 
 
 " I am five feet ten," answered Jack, standing bolt up- 
 right. 
 
 " You have an inch, then, in your favour," returned the 
 unperturbed attorney, deliberately proceeding with his ex- 
 amination — " ' he has a broivn complexion, marked ivith the 
 small-pox.^ " 
 
 " My complexion is florid — my face without a seam," quoth 
 Jack. 
 
 " Those whiskers would conceal anything," replied Coates, 
 with a grin. " Nobody wears whiskers now-a-days, except a 
 highwayman." 
 
 " Sir !" said Jack, sternly. "You are personal." 
 
 " I don't mean to be so," replied Coates ; " but you must 
 allow the description tallies with your own in a remarkable 
 manner. Hear me out, however—' his cheek-hones are hroad 
 — his facii is thinner toivards the bottom — his visage short — 
 pretty vpright — and broad about the shoidders.' Now I appeal 
 to Mr. Tyrconnel if all this does not sound like a portrait of 
 yourself ?" 
 
 " Don't appeal to me," said Titus, hastily, " upon such a 
 delicate point. I can't say that I approve of a gentleman 
 being likened to a highwayman. But if ever there was a 
 highwayman I'd wish to resemble, it's either Kedmond 
 O'Hanlon or Eichard Turpin ; and may the devil btu'u me if 
 I know which of the two is the greater rascal !" 
 
 "Well, Mr. Palmer," said Coates, "I repeat, I mean no 
 offence. Likenesses are unaccountable, I am said to be 
 like my Lord North, whether I am or not, the Lord knows. 
 But if ever I meet with Turpin I shall bear you in mind— he
 
 70 ROOKWOOD. 
 
 — lie ! Ah ! if ever I should have the good luck to stumble 
 upon him, I've a plan for his capture which couldn't fail. Only 
 let me get a glimpse of him, that's all. You shall see how 
 I'll dispose of him." 
 
 " Well, sir, we shall see," observed Palmer. " And for 
 your own salce, I wish you may never be nearer to him than 
 you are at this moment. With his friends, they say Dick 
 Turpin can be as gentle as a lamb ; with his foes, especially 
 with a limb of the law like yourself, he's been found but an 
 ugly customer. I once saw him, as I told you, at Newmarket, 
 where he was collared by two constable culls, one on each 
 side. Shaking ofl: one, and dealing the other a blow in the 
 face with his heavy-handled whip, he stuck spurs into his 
 mare, and though the whole field gave chase, he distanced 
 them all easily." 
 
 " And how came you not to try your pace with him, if 
 you were there, as you boasted a short time ago ?" asked 
 Coates. 
 
 " So I did, and stuck closer to him than any one else. We 
 were neck and neck. I was the only person who could have 
 dehvered him into the hands of justice, if I'd felt inclined." 
 
 "Zounds!" cried Coates; "if I had a similar opj)ortunity 
 it should be neck or nothing. Either he or I should reach 
 the scragging-post first. I'd take him, dead or alive." 
 
 " Voit take Turpin !" cried Jack, with a sneer. 
 
 " I'd engage to do it," replied Coates. " I'll bet you a 
 hundred guineas I take him, if I ever have the same chance." 
 
 " Done !" exclaimed Jack, rapping the table at the same 
 time, so that the glasses danced ujjon it. 
 
 " That's right," cried Titus. " I'll go your halves." 
 
 "What's the matter — what's the matter?" exclaimed 
 Small, awakening from his doze. 
 
 " Only a trifling bet about a highwayman," re2:)lied Titus. 
 
 "A highwayman!" echoed Small. "Eh! what? thex*e 
 are none in the house, I hope." 
 
 " I hope not," answered Coates. " But this gentleman has 
 taken up the defence of the notorious Dick Tui'pin in so sin- 
 gvilar a manner, that — — " 
 
 " iluod facta fccdum esf, idem est et Dictu Tiirpe,^^ returned 
 Small. " The less said about that rascal the better." 
 
 " So I think," replied Jack. " The fact is as you say, sir 
 — were Dick here, he would, I am siu'e, take the freedom to 
 hide '<'?/;." 
 
 Further discourse was cut short by the sudden opening of 
 the door, followed by the abrupt entrance of a tall, slender
 
 ROOKWOOD. 71 
 
 young man, who hastily advanced towards the table, around 
 which the company were seated. His appearance excited the 
 utmost astonishment in the whole group : curiosity was exhi- 
 bited in every countenance — the magnum remained poised 
 midway in the hand of Palmer — Doctor Small scorched his 
 thumb in the bowl of his pipe ; and Mr. Coates was almost 
 choked, by swallowing an inordinate whiff of vapour. 
 
 " Young Sir Eanulph !" ejaculated he, so soon as the syn- 
 cope would permit him. 
 
 " Sh- Ranulph here ?" echoed Palmer, rising. 
 
 "Angels and ministers !" exclaimed Small. 
 
 " Odsbodildns !" cried Titus, with a theatrical start ; " this 
 is more than I expected." 
 
 " Gentlemen," said Eanulph, " do not let my unexpected 
 arrival here discompose you. Doctor Small, you will excuse 
 the manner of my greeting ; and you, Mr. Coates. One of 
 the present party, I believe, was my ftither's medical attendant, 
 Doctor Tyrconnel." 
 
 " I had that honour," replied the Irishman, bowing pro- 
 foundly — " I am Doctor Tyrconnel, Sir Eanuljih, at your ser- 
 vice." 
 
 " When, and at what hour, did my father breathe his last, 
 sir ?" inquired Ranulph. 
 
 I" Poor Sir Piers," answered Titus, again bowing, " de- 
 parted this life on Thursday last." 
 " The hour — the precise minute ?" asked Ranulph, eagerly. 
 " Troth, Sir Ranulph, as nearly as I can recollect, it might 
 , be a few minutes before midnight." 
 
 " The very hour !" exclaimed Ranulph, striding towards 
 the window. His steps were arrested as his eye fell upon the 
 attire of his father, which, as we have before noticed, hung 
 at that end of the room. A slight shudder passed over his 
 frame. There was a momentary pause, during which Ranulph 
 continued gazing intently at the apparel. " The very dress, 
 too !" muttered he ; then turning to the assembly, who were 
 watching his movements with surprise, " Doctor," said he, 
 addressing Small, " I have something for your jn-ivate ear. 
 Gentlemen, will you spare us the room for a few minutes ?" 
 
 " On my conscience," said Tyrconnel to Jack Palmer, as 
 they Cjuitted the sanctum, " a mighty fine boy is this young 
 Sir Ranulj^h ! — and a chip of the ouhl block ! — he'll be as good 
 a fellow as his father." 
 
 "No doubt," replied Palmer, shutting the door. "But 
 what the devil brought him back, just in the nick of it ?"
 
 72 ROOKWOOD. 
 
 liANTJLPH EOOICWOOD. 
 
 Fer. Yes, Francisco, 
 
 He hnth left bis curse upon me. 
 Fran. How ? 
 Fer. His curse ! dost comprelaend wbat that word carries, 
 
 Sliot from a father's atigry breath P Unless 
 
 I tear poor Felisarda from my heart, 
 
 He hath pronounced me heir to all his curses. 
 
 Shirley. — The Brofhers. 
 
 " There is nothing, I trust, mj dear young friend, and 
 quondam pupil," said Doctor Small, as the door was closed, 
 " that Aveighs 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 ever felt for you — an interest which, I assure 
 you, is nowise diminished, and which will excuse my urg- 
 ing you to unbui'den your mind to me ; assuring yourself, 
 that whatever may be your disclosure, you will have my 
 sincere sympathy and commiseration. I may bo better able 
 to advise with you, should counsel be necessary, than others, 
 from my knowledge of your character and temperament. I 
 would not anticipate evil, and am, perhaps, unnecessarily 
 apprehensive. But I own, I am startled at the incoherence 
 of your expressions, coupled with your sudden and almost 
 mysterious appearance at this distressing conjuncture. 
 Answer me : has your return been the result of mere acci- 
 dent? is it to be considered one of those singular cir- 
 cumstances which almost look like fate, and baffle our 
 comprehension ? or were you nearer home than we expected, 
 and received the news of your father's demise through some 
 channel unknown to us ? Satisfy my curiosity, I beg of you, 
 upon this point." 
 
 " Your curiosity, my dear sir," replied Eanulph, gravely 
 and sadly, " will not bo decreased, when I tell you, that my 
 return has neither been the work of chance (for I came fully 
 anticipating the dread event, which I find realised), nor has 
 it been occasioned by any intelligence derived from yourself, 
 or others. It was only, indeed, upon my arrival here that I 
 received full confirmation of my apprehensions. I had an- 
 other, a more terrible summons to return." 
 
 " What summons ? you perplex me !" exclaimed Small,
 
 ROOKWOOD. 73 
 
 gazing with some misgiving into the face of his young 
 friend. 
 
 "I am myself perplexed — sorely perplexed," returned 
 Ranulph. " I have much to relate ; but I pray you bear 
 with me to the end. I have that on my mind which, like 
 guilt, niust be revealed," 
 
 " Speak, then, fearlessly to me," said Small, affectionately 
 pressing Kanidph's hand ; " and assure yourself, beforehand, 
 of my sympathy." 
 
 " It will be necessary," said Eanulph. " to preface my 
 narrative by some slight allusion to certain painful events 
 (and yet I know not why I should call them painful, except- 
 ing in their consequences) which influenced my conduct in my 
 final interview between my father and myself — an interview 
 which occasioned my departure for the Continent — and which 
 was of a character so dreadful, that I would not even revert 
 to it, were it not a necessary px'eliminary to the circumstance 
 I am about to detail 
 
 " When I left Oxford, I passed a few weeks alone, in Lon- 
 don. A college friend, whom I accidentally met, introduced 
 me, during a promenade in St. James's Pai'k, to some ac- 
 quaintances of his own, who were taking an airing in the 
 Mall at the same time — a family whose name was Mowbray, 
 consisting of a widow lady, her son, and daughter. This 
 introduction was made in compliance with my own request. 
 I had been struck by the singular beauty of the younger lady, 
 whose countenance had a peculiar and inexpressible charm to 
 me, from its marked resemblace to the portrait of the Lady 
 Eleanor Eoolcwood, whose charms, and unhappy fate, I have 
 so often dwelt upon and deplored. The picture is there," 
 continued Ranulph, pointing to it : " look at it, and you 
 have the fair creature I speak of before you ; the colour of 
 the hair — the tenderness of the eyes. No — the expression is 
 not so sad, except when — but no matter ! I recognised her 
 features at once. 
 
 " It struck me, that upon the mention of my name, the 
 party betrayed some surprise, especially the elder lady. For 
 my own j^art, I was so attracted by the beauty of the 
 daughter, the effect of which upon mo seemed rather the 
 fulfilment of a predestined event, origniating in the strange 
 / fascination which the family portrait had wrought in my 
 heart, than the operation of what is called ' love at first sight,' 
 that I was insensible to the agitation of the mother. In vain 
 I endeavoured to rally myself ; my efforts at convevsation
 
 74 ROOKWOOD. 
 
 were fruitless ; I could not talk — all I could do was silently 
 to yield to the soft witchery of those tender eyes : my ad- 
 miration increasing each instant that I gazed upon them. 
 
 " I accompanied them home. Attracted as by some irre- 
 sistible spell, I could not tear myself away ; so that, although 
 I fancied I could perceive symptoms of displeasvu'e in the 
 looks of both the mother and the son, yet, regardless of con- 
 sequences, I ventured, uninvited, to enter the house. In 
 order to shake off the restraint which I felt my society im- 
 posed, I found it absolutely necessary to divest myself of 
 bashfulness, and to exert such conversational powers as I 
 possessed. I succeeded so well that the discourse soon 
 became lively and animated ; and what chiefly dehghted me 
 was, that she, for whose sake I had committed my present 
 rudeness, became radiant with smiles. I had been all eager- 
 ness to seek for some explanation of the resemblance to which 
 I have just alluded, and the fitting moment had, I conceived, 
 arrived. I called attention to a peculiar expression in the 
 features of Miss Mowbray, and then instanced the likeness 
 that subsisted between her and my ancestress. ' It is the 
 more singular,' I said, turning to her mother, ' because there 
 could have been no affinity, that I am aware of, between 
 them, and yet the likeness is really surprising.' — ' It is not so 
 singular as you imagine,' answered Mrs. Mowbray ; ' there is 
 a close affinity. That Lady Eookwood was my mother. 
 Eleanor Mowbray does resemble her ill-fated ancestress.' 
 
 " Words cannot paint my astonishment. I gazed at Mrs. 
 Mowbray, considering whether I had not misconstrued her 
 speech — whether I had not so shaped the sounds, as to suit 
 my own quick and passionate conceptions. But no ! I read 
 in her calm, collected countenance — in the downcast glance 
 and sudden sadness of Eleanor, as well as in the changed 
 and haughty demeanour of the brother, that 1 had heard her 
 rightly. Eleanor Mowbray was my cousin — the descendant 
 of that hapless creature whose image I had almost wor- 
 shipped. 
 
 " Recovering from my surprise, I addressed Mrs. Mowbray, 
 endeavouring to excuse my ignorance of our relationship, on 
 i the plea that I had not been given to understand that such 
 had been the name of the gentleman she had espoused. ' Nor 
 was it,' answered she, ' the name he bore at Eookwood ; cir- 
 cumstances forbad it then. From the hour I quitted that 
 -house until this moment, excejjting one interview with my — 
 with Sir Reginald Eookwood — I ha\'e seen none of my family
 
 EOOKWOOD. 75 
 
 —have held no communication with them. My brothers 
 have been stranp;ers to me ; the very name of Rookwood has 
 been unheard, unknown ; nor would you have been admitted 
 here, had [not accident occasioned it,' I ventured now to 
 interrupt her, and to express a hope that she would suffer an 
 acquaintance to be kept up, which had so fortunately com- 
 menced, and which might most probably bring about an 
 entire reconciliation between the families. I was so earnest 
 in my expostulations, my whole soul being in them, that she 
 inclined a more friendly ear to me. Eleanor, too, smiled 
 encouragement. Love lent me eloquence ; and, at length, as 
 a token of my success and her own relenting, Mrs. Mowbray 
 held forth her hand : I clasped it eagerly. It was the 
 hajjpiest moment of my hfe. 
 
 " 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 tlius 
 much I may be allowed to say, that her rare endowments of 
 person Avere only equalled by the graces of her mind. 
 
 " Educated abroad, she had all the vivacity of our livelier 
 neighbours, combined with every sohd qualification which we 
 claim as more essentially our own. Her light and frolic 
 manner was French, certainly ; but her gentle, sincere heart 
 was as surely Enghsh. The foreign accent that dwelt upon 
 her tongue commimicated 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 prohxity. And yet I am sure you will pardon it. 
 Ah, those bright, brief days ! too quickly wei'e they fled ! I 
 could expatiate upon each minute — recal each word — revive 
 each look. It may not be. I must hasten on. Darker 
 themes await me. 
 
 "My love made rapid progress — I became each hour more 
 enamoured 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 in- 
 dulgence in this blissful state. One happy week was its 
 extent. I received a peremptory summons from my father 
 to return home 
 
 " Immediately upon commencing this acquaintance, I had 
 written to my father, explaining every particular attending
 
 76 ROOKWOOD. 
 
 it. This I should have done of my own free will ; but I was 
 urged to it by Mrs. Mowbray. Unaccustomed to disguise, I 
 had expatiated upon the beauty of Eleanor, and in such 
 terms, I fear, that I 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 com- 
 manded me to retvirn. 
 
 " The bitter hour was at hand. I could not hesitate to 
 comply. Without my father's sanction, I was assured Mrs. 
 Mowbray would not permit any continuance of my acquaint- 
 ance. 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 utterly adverse to my wishes. Agonized, there- 
 fore, with a thousand apj^rehensions, I presented myself on 
 the morning of my departure. It was then I made the 
 declaration of my passion to Eleanor ; it was then that every 
 hope was confirmed, every apprehension 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 dejjendent on the will of 
 two others, whose assenting voices, she feared, could never be 
 obtained. From Mrs. Mowbray I received a more decided 
 reply. All her haughtiness was aroused. Her farewell words 
 assured me that it was indifferent to her whether we met 
 again as relatives or as strangers. Then was it that the 
 native tenderness of Eleanor displayed itself, in an outbreak 
 of feeling peculiar to a heart keenly sympathetic as hers. 
 She saw my suffering — the reserve natural to her sex 
 gave way — she flung herself into my arms — and so we 
 parted. 
 
 " With a heavy foreboding, I returned to Eookwood ; and, 
 oppressed with the gloomiest anticipations, endeavovired to 
 prepare myself for the worst. I arrived. My reception was 
 such as I had calculated upon ; and, to increase my distress, 
 my parents had been at variance. I wiU not pain you and 
 myself with any recital of their disagreement. My mother 
 had espoused my cause, chiefly, I fear, with the view of 
 thwarting my poor father's inclinations. He was in a terrible 
 mood, exasj^erated by the fiery stimulants he had swallowed, 
 which had not, indeed, drowned his reason, but roused and 
 inflamed every dormant emotion to violence. He was as one 
 insane. It was evening when I arrived. I would willingly
 
 \ 
 
 ROOK WOOD. 77 
 
 have postponed the interview till the morrow. It could not 
 be. He insisted upon seeing me. 
 
 "My motlier was present. You know tlie restraint she 
 usually had over my father, and how she maintained it. On 
 this occasion she had none. He questioned me as to every 
 particular ; probed my secret soul ; dragged forth every 
 latent feeling, and then thundered out his own determina- 
 tion 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 myself.' This I mention, 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 ash his 
 consent to cut off that entail. Let him dare to disobey me 
 in this particular, and I will so divert the channel of my 
 wealth, that no drop shall reach him. I will — but why 
 threaten ? — let him do it, and approve the consequences.' 
 
 " On the morrow I renewed my importunities Avith no 
 better success. We were alone. 
 
 " ' Ranulph,' said he, ' joxi 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 yours. Forget her as speedily 
 las 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 yuu object 
 to one whom you have never beheld ? At least, consent to 
 see her.' 
 
 " ' Never !' he replied. * The tie is sundered, and cannot 
 be reunited ; 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 proj^hecy which I have heard 
 has said, " that lohen a Rookiooud shall marry a Roolcwood 
 the end of the house drawetli nigh.'" That I regard not. It 
 may have no meaning, or it may have much. To me it 
 imports nothing further, than that if you Aved 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.*
 
 7S liOOKWOOD. 
 
 " I could not avoid malcing some reply, representing to 
 him Low unjustifiable sucli a procedure was to me, in a case 
 where the happiness of my life was at stake, and how incon- 
 sistent it was with the charitable prccejits of our faith, to 
 allow feelings of resentment to influence his conduct. My 
 remonstrances, as in the preceding meeting, were ineffectual. 
 The more I spoke, the more intemperate he grew. I there- 
 fore desisted. 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 look 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 reqiiest, for the fulfilment of which I 
 could never cease to hope. Time, I hojicd, might befriend 
 me. He approved of my plan of travelling, requesting me 
 not to see Eleanor before 1 set out ; adding, in a melancholy 
 tone — ' We may never meet again, Eanulph, in this life ; 
 in that case, farewell for ever. Indulge no vain hopes. 
 Eleanor never can be youi-s, but upon one condition, and to 
 that you. would never consent!' — 'Propose it!' I cried; 
 ' there is no condition I could not accede to.' — ' Eash boy !' 
 he replied ; ' you know not what you say ; that pledge you 
 would never fulfil, were I to propose it to you ; but no — • 
 should I survive till you return, you shall learn it then — and 
 now, farewell.' — ' Sj^eak now, I beseech you!' I exclaimed; 
 'anything, everything — what you will!' — 'Say no more,' 
 rejjlied he, walking towards the house ; ' when you return 
 we will renew this subject; farewell — perhaps for ever.' 
 His words were prophetic— that parting ivas for ever.' I 
 remained in the garden till nightfall. I saw my mother, but 
 he came not again. I quitted England without beholding 
 Eleanor." 
 
 " Did you not acquaint her by letter with what had oc- 
 curred, and your consequent intentions r"' asked Small. 
 
 " I did," replied Eanul2:)h ; " but 1 received no reijly. My 
 earliest inquiries will be directed to ascertain whether the 
 family are still in London. It will be a question for our 
 consideration, whether I am not justified in departing from 
 my father's express wishes, or whether I should violate hia 
 commands in so doing." 
 
 " We will discuss that point hereafter," replied Small, 
 adding as he noticed the growing paleness of his companion,
 
 nooKwooD. vy 
 
 "you are too much exhausted to proceed — you had better 
 defer the remamder of your story to a future period." 
 
 " No," replied Eanulph, swallowing a glass of water ; " I 
 am exhausted, yet I cannot rest — my blood is in a fever, 
 which nothing will allay. I shall feel more easy when I have 
 made the present communication. I am approaching the 
 sequel of my narrative. You are now in possession of the 
 story of my love — of the motive of my departure. You shall 
 learn what was the occasion of my return. 
 
 " I had waudei'ed from city to city diu'ing my term of exile 
 — consumed by hopeless passion — with little that could amuse 
 me, though surrounded by a thousand objects of interest to 
 others, and only rendering life endurable by severest study, 
 or most active exertion. My steps conducted me to Bor- 
 deaux ; 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 (jiaronne, within a 
 few leagues of the city. It was an old chateau, with iine 
 gardens bordering the blue waters of the river, and com- 
 manding 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 chateau had been the resi- 
 dence of the Mowbrays. This intelligence decided me at 
 once— I took up my abode in the house ; and a new and un- 
 expected source of solace and delight was opened to me. I 
 traced the j^aths she had traced ; occupied the room she had 
 occupied ; tended the flowers she had tended ; and, on the 
 golden summer evenings, would watch the rapid waters, 
 tinged with all the glorious hues of sunset, sweeping past my 
 feet, and think how she had watched them. Her presence 
 seemed to pervade the place. I was now comparatively 
 happy, and, anxious to remain unmolested, wrote home that 
 I was leaving Bordeaux for the Pyrenees, on my way to 
 Spain. 
 
 " That account arrived," observed 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 even- 
 ing — so lovely, that I lingered there, wrapped in the heavenly 
 contemplation of its beauties. I watched each rosy tint 
 reflected uj^ou the sui-face of the rapid stream — now fading
 
 80 ROOKWOOD. 
 
 into yellow — now sliining silvery 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 scarcely discern a leaf — all was darkness — 
 when, lo ! another change ! The moon was up — a flood of 
 light deluged all around — the stream was dancing again in 
 reflected radiance, and I still lingering at its brink. 
 
 " I had been musing for some moments, with my head 
 resting upon my hand, when, hai3i:)ening 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 besides myself could be in the garden. The presence of 
 the figure inspired me with an undefinable awe ! and, I can 
 scarce tell why, but a thrilling presentiment convinced me 
 that it was a supernatural visitant. Without motion— with- 
 out life — without substance, it seemed ; yet still the outward 
 character of life was there. I started to my feet. God ! what 
 did I behold ? The face was turiied to me — mij fathej^s face. 
 And what an aspect — what a look ! Time can never efface 
 that terrible expression ; it is graven upon my memory— I 
 cannot describe it. It was not anger — it was not pain ; it was 
 as if an eternity of woe wei'e stamped x\i)on its featiires. 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 ajjproached. I could not retreat. 
 It stood obstinately beside me. I became as one half dead. 
 The phantom shook its head with the deepest despair ; and 
 as the word ' Keturn !' sounded hollowly in my ears, it gra- 
 dually melted from my view. I cannot tell how I I'ecovered 
 from the swoon into which I fell, but daybreak saw me on 
 my way to England. I am here. On that night — at that 
 same hour my father died." 
 
 " It was, after all, then, a supernatural summons that you 
 received ?" said Small. 
 
 " Undoubtedly," replied Ranulph. 
 
 "Humph! — the coincidence, I own, is sufficiently curious," 
 returned Small, musingly ; " but it would not be difficult, I 
 think, to discover a satisfactory explanation of the delusion." 
 
 " There was no delusion," replied Eanulph, coldly ; " the 
 figure was as palpable as your own. Can I doubt, when I 
 behold this result ? Could any deceit have been practised
 
 ROOKWOOD. 81 
 
 upon me at that distance ?— the precise time, moreover, 
 agreeing. Did not the phantom bid me return? — I liave re- 
 turned — he is dead. I have gazed upon a being of another 
 worLl. To doubt were impious, after that look." 
 
 " Whatever my oj)inions may be, my dear young friend," 
 returned Small, gravely, " I will suspend them for the pre- 
 sent. You are still greatly excited. Let me advise you to 
 seek some rejioso." 
 
 "I am easier," replied Eanulph ; "but you are right, I 
 will endeavour to snatch a little rest. Something within tells 
 me all is not yet accomplished. What remains ? I shudder 
 to think of it. I will rejoin you at midnight. I shall myself 
 attend the solemnity. Adieu !" 
 
 Ranulph quitted the room. Small sighingly shook his 
 head, and having lighted his pipe, was presently buried in a 
 profundity of smoke and metaphysical speculation. 
 
 XI. 
 
 LADY EOOKWOOD, 
 
 Fran, de Med. Your nnhappy husband 
 
 Is dead. 
 Yit. Cor. Oh, lie's a happy husband ! 
 
 Now he owes nature nothing. 
 Man, And look upon this creature as his wife. 
 
 She comes not like a ■widow— she comes armed 
 
 With scorn and impudence. Is this a mourning habit? 
 
 27(6 While Devil. 
 
 The progress of our narrative demands our presence in 
 another apartment of the hall — a large, lonesome chamber, 
 situate in the eastern wing of the house, already described as 
 the most ancient -j>axt^of the building — the sombre appear- 
 i ance of which was greatly mcrcased "by the dingy discoloured 
 tapestry that clothed its walls ; the record of the patience 
 and industry of a certain Dame Dorothy Eookwood, who 
 flourished some cent-uries ago, and whose skilful needle had 
 illustrated the slaughter of the Innocents, with a severity of 
 gusto, and sanguinary minuteness of detail, truly surprising 
 in a lady so amiable as she was represented to have been. 
 Grim-visaged Herod glared from the ghostly woof, with his 
 shadowy legions, executing their murderous purposes, grouped 
 like a troop of Sabbath-dancing witches aroinid him. Mys- 
 terious twilight, admitted through the deep, dark, mull'oned 
 
 Q
 
 82 ROOKWOOD. 
 
 windows, revealed the antique furniture of tlie room, whicli 
 still Ijoasted a sort of mildewed splendour, more imposing, 
 perhaps, than its original gaudy magnificence ; and showed 
 the lofty hangings, and tall, hearse-like canojjy of a bedstead, 
 once a couch of state, but now destined for the repose of Lady 
 Kookwood. The stiff crimson hangings were embroidered in 
 gold, with the arms and cipher of Elizabeth, from whom the 
 apartment, having once been occupied by that sovereign, 
 obtained the name of the " Queen's Room." 
 
 The sole tenant of this chamber Avas a female, in whose 
 countenance, if time and strong emotion had written strange 
 defeatures, they had not obliterated its striking beaiity and 
 classical grandeur of expression. It was a face majestical 
 and severe. Pride was stamped in all its lines ; and though 
 each passion was, by turns, developed, it was evident that all 
 were subordinate to the sin by which the angels fell. The 
 contour of her face was formed in the jiurest Grecian mould, 
 and might have been a model for Medea ; so well did the 
 gloomy grandeur of the brow, the severe chiselling of the lip, 
 the rounded beauty of the throat, and the faultless sym- 
 metry of her full fonn, accord with the beau ideal of antique 
 perfection. Shaded by smooth folds of raven hair, which still 
 maintained its jetty dye, her lofty forehead would have been 
 displayed to the greatest advantage, had it not been at this 
 moment knit and deformed, by excess of passion, if that pas- 
 sion can be said to deform wliich only calls forth strong and 
 vehement expression. Her figure, which wanted only height 
 to give it dignity, Avas arrayed in the garb of widowhood ; 
 and if she exhibited none of the desolation of heart, which 
 such a bereavement might have been exj)ected to awaken, 
 she was evidently a pi'ey to feelings scarcely less harrowing. 
 At the particular time of which we speak. Lady Rookwood, 
 for she it was, was occupied in the investigation of the con- 
 tents of an escritoir. Examining the papers which it contained 
 with great deliberation, she threw each aside, as soon as she 
 had satisfied herself of its purport, until she arrived at a 
 little package, carefully tied uj) with black riband, and sealed. 
 This, Lady Rookwood hastily broke open, and drew forth a 
 small miniature. It Avas that of a female, young and beau- 
 tiful, rudely, yet faithfully executed — faithfully, we say, for 
 there was an air of sweetness and simjjlicity — and, in short, a 
 look of reality and nature about the picture (it is seldom, 
 indeed, that Ave mistake a likeness, even if we are unacqviainted 
 with the original), that attested the artist's fidelity. The
 
 ROOKWOOD. 83 
 
 face was as radiaut with smiles as a bi-iglit day witli sun- 
 beams. The portrait was set in gold, and behind it was 
 looped a lock of the darkest and finest hair. Underneath 
 the miniature were written, in Sir Piers's hand, the words 
 " Lady Bookicood." A slip of folded paper was also attached 
 to it. 
 
 Lady Eookwood scornfully scrutinized the features for a few 
 moments, and then unfolded the paj:)er, 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 
 Eanulph's return. This document will give me a power 
 over him such as I could never otherwise obtain." Placing 
 the marriage certificate, for such it was, within her breast. 
 and laying the miniature upon the table, she next proceeded, 
 deliberately, to arrange the disordered contents of the box. 
 
 All outward traces of emotion had, ere this, become so ' 
 subdued in Lady Eookwood, that although she had, only a 
 few moments previously, exhibited the extremity of pas- 
 sionate indignation, she now, apparently without effort, re- 
 sumed 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 these letters I gather," exclaimed she, 
 " that their wretched offspring knows not of his fortune. So 
 far well. There is no channel whence he can derive informa- 
 tion, and my first care shall be to j^revent his obtaining 
 any clue to the secret of his birth. I am directed to provide 
 for him — ha ! ha ! I will provide — a grave ! There will ] 
 bury him and his secret. My son's security and my owi 
 wrong demand it. I must choose siu-er hands — the worL 
 must not be half done, as heretofore. And now I bethink 
 me, he is in the neighbovirhood, connected with a gang of 
 poachers — 'tis as I could wish it." 
 
 At this moment a knock at the chamber door broke vipon 
 her meditations. " Agnes, is it you ?" demanded Lady Eook- 
 wood. 
 
 Thus summoned, the old attendant entered the room. 
 
 " Why are my orders disobeyed ?" asked the lady, in a 
 severe tone of voice. " Did I not say, when you delivered me 
 this package from Mr. Coates, which he himself wished to 
 present, that I would not be disturbed ?" 
 
 " You did my lady, but " 
 
 a 2
 
 81 KOOKWOOD. 
 
 " Speak out," said Lady Eookwoocl, somewhat more mildly, 
 perceiving from Agnes' s mamier, tliat she had something of 
 importance to communicate. " What is it brings you hither ?" 
 
 " I am sorry," returned Agnes, " to disturb your ladyship, 
 but— but " 
 
 " But what?" interrupted Lady Eookwood, impatiently, 
 
 " I could not help it, my lady — he would have mo come ; 
 he said he was resolved to see your ladyship, whether you 
 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 would 
 not dare to tamper with these seals. Agnes, I will not see 
 him." 
 
 " But he swears, my lady, that he will not leave the house 
 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! I promise you he shall not 
 display an equal anxiety to rej)eat the visit. Tell Mr. Coates 
 I will see him." 
 
 " Mr. Coates ! Mercy on us, my lady, it's not he. He'd 
 never have intruded upon you unasked. No such thing. He 
 knows his place too well. No, no ; it's not Mr. Coates " 
 
 " If not he — who is it ?" 
 
 " Luke Bradley ; your ladyship knows whom I mean." 
 
 " He here — now ? " 
 
 " Yes, my lady ; and looking so fierce and sti*ange, I 
 was quite frightened to see him. He looked so like his — • 
 his " 
 
 " His father, you would say. Speak out." 
 
 " No, my lady, his grandfather — old Sir Keginald. He'ft 
 the very image of him. But had not your ladyship better 
 ring the alarm bell ? and when he comes in, I'll run and fetcli 
 the servants — he's dangerous, I'm sure." 
 
 " I have no fears of him. He will see me, you say " 
 
 " Ay, icill" exclaimed Luke, as ho threw open the door, 
 and shut it forcibly after him, striding towards Lady Rook- 
 wood, " 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 inquiry, upon the bold intruder, 
 who, nothing daunted, confronted her glances Avith a gaze as 
 Btern and steadfast as her own. 
 
 *' Who ai'e you, and what seek you ?" exclaimed Lady
 
 ROOKWOOD. 85 
 
 Eoolcwoocl, after a brief pause, and, in spite of herself, her 
 voice sounded tremulously. " What would you have, that 
 you venture to appear before me at this season, and in this 
 fashion ?" 
 
 " I might have chosen a fitter opportunity," returned Luke, 
 " were it needed. My business will not brook delay — you 
 must be pleased to overlook this intrusion on your privacy at 
 a seasoji of sorroiv like the present. As to the fashion of my 
 visit, you must be content to excuse that. I cannot help 
 myself. I may amend hereafter. WJio I am, you are able, 
 I doubt not, to divine. What I seek, you shall hear, when 
 this old woman has left the room, unless you would have a 
 witness to a declaration that concerns you as nearly as 
 myself." 
 
 An indefinite feeling of appi'ehension had, from the first 
 instant of Luke's entrance, crossed Lady Eookwood's mind. 
 She, however, answered with some calmness — 
 
 " What you can have to say is of small moment to me — nor 
 does it sigmify who may hear it. It shall not, however, be 
 said that LadyEookwood feared to be alone, even though she 
 endangered her life." 
 
 " I am no assassin," replied Luke, " nor have sought the 
 destruction of my deadliest foe — though 'twere but retributive 
 justice to have done so." 
 
 Lady Rookwood started. 
 
 " Nay, you need not fear me," replied Luke ; "my revenge 
 will be otherwise accomplished." 
 
 "Go," said Lady Eookwood to Agnes — "yet — stay with- 
 out, in the antechamber." 
 
 " My lady," said Agnes, scarcely able to articulate, " shall 
 I- 
 
 " Hear me. Lady Eookwood," interrupted Luke. " I repeat, 
 I intend you no injury. My object here is solely to obtain a 
 private conference. You can have no reason for denying me 
 this request. I will not abuse your j^atience. Mine is no 
 idle mission. Say you refuse me, and I will at once depart. 
 I will find other means of communicating with you — less 
 direct, and therefore less desirable. Make your election. 
 But we must be alone — undisturbed. Summon your house- 
 hold — let them lay hands upon me, and I will proclaim aloud 
 what you would gladly hide, even from yourself." 
 
 " Leave us, Agnes," said Lady Eookwood. " I have no 
 fear of this man. I can deal with him myself, should I see 
 occasion."
 
 86 ROOKWOOD. 
 
 " Agnes," said Lulce, in a stern, deep whisper, arresting 
 the ancient handmaiden as she passed him, " stir not from 
 the door till I come forth. Have you forgotten your former 
 mistress ! — my mother ? Have you forgotten Barbara Lovel, 
 and that night T^ 
 
 " In Heaven's name, hush !" replied Agnes, with a shudder. 
 
 " Let that be fresh in your memory. Move not a footstep, 
 whatever you may hear," added he, in the same tone as 
 before. 
 
 " I will not — I will not." And Agnes departed. 
 
 Luke felt some wavering in his resolution when he found 
 himself alone with the lady, whose calm, collected, yet 
 haughty demeanour, as she resumed her seat, prepared for 
 his communication, could not fail to inspire him with a 
 certain degree of awe. Not unconscious of her advantage, 
 nor slow to profit by it. Lady Rookwood remained perfectly 
 silent, with her eyes steadily fixed upon his face, while 
 his embarrassment momentarily increased. Summoning, at 
 length, courage sufiicient to address her, and ashamed of 
 his want of nerve, he thus broke forth — - 
 
 " When I entered this room, you asked my name and 
 object. As to the first I answer to the same designation as 
 your ladyship. I have long borne my mother's name. I 
 now claim my father's. My object is the restitution of my 
 rights." 
 
 " Soh ! — it is as I suspected," thought Lady Eookwood, 
 involvmtarily casting her large eyes down. " Do I hear you 
 rightly?" exclaimed she, aloud; " your name is " 
 
 " Sir Luke Eookwood. As my father's elder born ; by 
 right of his right to that title." 
 
 If a glance could have slain him, Luke had fallen lifeless 
 at the lady's feet. With a smile of ineffable disdain, she 
 replied, " I know not why I hesitate to resent this indignity, 
 even for an instant. But I would see how far your audacity 
 will carry you. The name you bear is Bradley ?" 
 
 " In ignorance I have done so," replied Luke. " I am the 
 son of her whose maiden name was Bradley. She was -" 
 
 " 'Tis false — I will not hear it — she was ?io<," cried Lady 
 Rookwood ; her vehemence getting the master of her 
 prudence. 
 
 " Youi- ladyship anticipates my meaning," returned Luke. 
 " Susan Bradley was the first wife of Sir Piers Rookwood." 
 
 " His minion — his mistress, if you will ; nought else. Is 
 it new to you, that a village wench, who lends herself to
 
 ROOKWOOD. (87 
 
 shame, should be beguiled by such shallow pveteuees ? That 
 she was so duped I doubt not. But it is too late now to 
 complaiu, aud I would counsel you not to repeat your idle 
 boast. It will serve no other purpose, trust me, than to 
 blazon forth your own, your mother's dishonour." 
 
 " Lady Eoolcwood," sternly answered Luke, " my mother's 
 fame is as free from dishonour as your own. I repeat, she 
 was the first wife of Sir Piers ; and that I, her child, am first 
 in the inheritance ; nay, sole heir to the estates and title of 
 Eookwood, to the exclusion of youi* son. Ponder upon that 
 intelligence. Men say they fear you, as a thing of ill. / 
 fear you not. There have been days when the Eook woods 
 held their dames in subjection. Discern you nought of that 
 in me ?" 
 
 Once or twice during this speech Lady Eookwood's glances 
 had wandered towards the bell-cord, as if about to summon 
 aid ; but the intention was abandoned almost as soon as 
 formed, probably from apprehension of the consequences of 
 any such attempt. She was not without alarm as to the 
 result of the interview, and was considering how she could 
 bring it to a termination without endangering herself, and, if 
 possible, secure the person of Luke, when the latter, turning 
 sharply round upon her, and drawing a pistol, exclaimed — 
 
 "Follow me!" 
 
 " Whither?" asked she, in alarm. 
 
 " To the chamber of death !" 
 
 " Why there ? what would you do ? Villain ! I will not 
 trust my Ufe with you. I will not follow you." 
 
 " Hesitate not, as you value your life. Do aught to alarm 
 the house, and I fire. Tour safety depends upon yourself. 
 I would see my father's body, ere it be laid in the grave. I 
 will not leave you here." 
 
 " Go," said Lady Eookwood ; " if that be all, I pledge 
 myself you shall not be interrupted." 
 
 " I will not take your pledge ; your presence shall be my 
 surety. By my mother's unavenged memory, if you play me 
 false, though all your satellites stand around you, you die 
 upon the spot ! Obey me, and you are safe. Om* way leads 
 to the room by the private staircase — we shall pass unob- 
 served — you see I know the road. The room, by your own 
 command, is vacant — save of the dead. We shall, therefore, 
 be alone. This done, I depart. You will then be free to 
 act. Disobey me, and your blood be upoii your owe. 
 head."
 
 38 ROOKWOOD. 
 
 " Lead on," said Lady Eookwood, pressing towards Ibe 
 antechamber. 
 
 " The door I mean is there," pointing to another part of 
 the room — " that panel " 
 
 " Ha ! how know you that ?" 
 
 " No matter ; follow." 
 
 Luke touched a spring, and the panel, flying open, disclosed 
 a dim recess, into which he entered ; and, seizing Lady Eook- 
 wood's hand, dragged her after him. 
 
 xn. 
 
 THE CHAMBEE OF DEATH. 
 
 It is tlie body — I li.ave orders given 
 
 That here it should be laid. Be Montfort. 
 
 The recess uj^on which the panel opened had been a small 
 oratory, and, though entirely disused, still retained its 
 cushions and its crucifix. There were two other entrances to 
 this place of prayer, the one communicating with a further 
 bedchamber, the other leading to the gallery. Through the 
 latter, after closing the aperture, without relinquishing his 
 grasp, Luke passed. 
 
 It was growing rajiidly dark, and at the brightest seasons 
 this gloomy corridor was but imperfectly lighted from narrow, 
 painted, and wire-protected windows, that looked into the old 
 quadrangular court-yard below ; and as they issiied from the 
 oratory a dazzling flash of lightning (a storm having suddenly 
 arisen) momentarily illumined the whole length of the passage, 
 disclosing the retreating figure of a man, wrapped in a large 
 sable cloak, at the other extremity of the gallery. Lady 
 /Rookwood uttered an outcry for assistance; but the man, 
 whoever he might be, disapjDeared in the instantaneously 
 Bucceeding gloom, leaving her in doubt whether or not her 
 situation had been perceived. Luke had seen this dark figure 
 at the same instant ; and, not without ajiprehensions lest his 
 plans should be defeated, he griped Lady Eookwood's arm 
 still more strictly, and placing the muzzle of the pistol to her 
 breast, hurried her rapidly forwards. 
 
 All was now in total obscurity ; the countenance of neither 
 could be perceived as they trod the dark passage ; but Luke's 
 unrelaxed grasp indicated no change in his purposes, nor did
 
 ROOKWOOD. 89 
 
 tlie slow, dignified in arch of the lady betray any apprehension 
 on her part. Descending a spiral staircase, which led from 
 the gallery to a lower story, their way now lay beneath the 
 entrance-hall, a means of communication little used. Their 
 tread sounded hollowly on the flagged floor ; no other sound 
 was heard. Mounting a staircase, similar to the one they 
 had just descended, they arrived at another passage. A few 
 paces brought them to a door, Luke turned the handle, and 
 they stood within the chamber of the dead. 
 
 The room which contained the remains of poor Sir Piers 
 was arrayed in all that mockery of state, which, vainly at- 
 tempting to deride death, is itself a bitter derision of the 
 living. It was the one devoted to the principal meals of the 
 day ; a strange choice, but convenience had dictated its adoj)- 
 tion by those with whom this jjart of the ceremonial had 
 originated, and long custom had rendered its usage, for this 
 purpose, almost prescriptive. This room, which was of some 
 size, had originally formed part of the great hall, from which 
 it was divided l)y a thick screen of black lustrously varnished 
 oak, enriched with fanciful figures carved in bold relief. The 
 walls were paneled with the same embi'owned material, and 
 sustained sundry portraits of the members of the family, in 
 every possible costume, from the steely gear of Sir Ranulph, 
 down to the flowing attire of Sir Reginald. Most of the race 
 were ranged around the room ; and, seen in the yellow light 
 shed upon their features by the flambeaux, they looked like 
 an an-ay of stern and silent witnesses, gazing upon their 
 departed descendant. The sides of the chamber were hung 
 with black cloth, and upon a bier in the middle of the room 
 rested the body. Broad escutcheons, decked out in glowing 
 colours, pompously set forth the heraldic honours of the 
 departed. Tall lights burnt at the head and feet, and fra- 
 grant perfumes diffused their odoui's from silver censers. 
 
 The entrance of Luke and his unwilling companion had 
 been abrupt. The transition from darkness to the glare of 
 light was almost blinding, and they had advanced far into 
 the room ere Lady Kookwood perceived a man, whom she 
 took to be one of the mutes, leaning over the bier. The coffin 
 lid was entirely removed, and the person whose back was 
 towards them, appeared to be wrapt in mournful contempla- 
 tion of the sad si^ectacle before him. Suddenly bursting 
 from Luke's hold. Lady Eookwood rushed forward with a 
 scream, and touched the man's shoulder. He started at the 
 summons, and disclosed the features of her son !
 
 90 ROOKWOOT). 
 
 Rapidly as her own act, Luke followed. He levelled a pistol 
 at lier head, but his hand dropped to his side, as he en- 
 countered the glance of Eanulph. All three seemed paralyzed 
 by surprise. Eanulph, in astonishment, extended his arm to 
 his mother, who, placing one arm over his shoulder, pointed 
 ' with the other to Luke ; the lattei i«tared sternly and inquir- 
 ingly at both — yet none sjioke. 
 
 xin. 
 
 THE BROTHERS. 
 
 We're sorry 
 His violent act has e'en drawn blood of bononr, 
 And stained our honours ; 
 Thrown ink npon the forehead of our fame, 
 Which envious spirits will dip their pons into 
 After our death, and blot us in oiu- 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. 
 
 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 composure, abiding the result with his arms folded 
 upon his breast. 
 
 " Seize him," cried Lady Rookwood, as soon as she could 
 command her speech. 
 
 " He rushes on his death if he stirs," exclaimed Luke, 
 pointing his pistol. 
 
 " Bethink you where you are, villain," cried Eanulph; 
 " you are entrapped in your own toils. Submit yourself to 
 our mercy — resistance is vain, and will not secure yovir 
 safety, while it will aggravate your offence. Surrender your- 
 self " 
 
 " Never !" answered Luke. " Know you whom you ask to 
 yield ?" 
 
 " How should I ?" answered Eanulph. 
 
 " By that instinct which tells me who yoti are. Ask Lady 
 Rookwood — she can inform you, if she will." 
 
 " Parley not with him^seize him," cried Lady Eookwood. 
 ''He is a robber, a murderer, who has assailed my life." 
 
 " Beware," said Luke to Eanuljjh, who was preparing to
 
 HOOK WOOD. 01 
 
 obey Lis another's commaivls ; "I am no roLber— no nanr- 
 derer. Do not you make mo a fratricide." 
 
 " Fratricide !" echoed Eanulph, 
 
 " Heed him not," ejacidated Lady Eookwood. " It is false 
 — he dares not harm thee, for his soul. I will call assist- 
 ance." 
 
 "Hold, mother!" exclaimed Eanidph, detaining Lady 
 Eookwood; "this man may be what he represents himself. 
 Before we proceed to extremities I would question him. I 
 wovdd not have mentioned it in your hearing could it have 
 been avoided, but my father had another son." 
 
 " Lady Eookwood frowned. She would have checked him, 
 but Luke rejoined — 
 
 " You have spoken the truth ; he had a son — I am he. 
 I " 
 
 " Be silent, I command you," said Lady Eookwood. 
 
 "Death!" cried Luke, in a loud voice. "Why should I 
 be silent at your bidding — at yours — who regard no laws, 
 human or divine ; who pursue your own fell pm-poses, without 
 fear of God or man ? Waste not your frowns on me — I heed 
 them not. Do you think I am like a tame hound, to be 
 cowed to silence ? I icill speak. Eanul^^h Eookwood, the 
 name you bear is mine, and by aright as good as is your own. 
 From his loins, who lies a corpse before us, I sprang. No 
 brand of shame is on my birth. I am your father's son — his 
 first-born — your elder brother. Hear me !" cried he, rush- 
 ing to the bier. " By this body, I swear that I have avouched 
 the truth — and though to me the dead Sir Piers Eookwood 
 hath never been what a father should be to a son — though I 
 have never known his smile, felt his caresses, or received his 
 blessing, yet now be all forgiven, all forgotten." And he 
 cast himself with frantic violence uj^on the coffin. 
 
 It is difficult to describe the feelings with which Eanulph 
 heard Luke's avowal. Amazement and dread predominated. 
 Unable to stir, he stood gazing on in silence. Not so Lady 
 Eookwood. The moment for action was arrived Address- 
 ing her son in a low tone, she said, " Your prey is within 
 yoTU' power, Secui'e him." 
 
 "Wherefore?" rejoined Eanulph; " if he be my brother, 
 shall I raise my hand against him ?" 
 
 " Wherefore not ?" returned Lady Eookwood. 
 
 " 'Twere an accursed deed," replied Eanulph. " The 
 mysteiy is resolved. 'Twas for this that I was summoned 
 home."
 
 92 ROOKWOOD. 
 
 Ha ! wliat say you ? sumnioued ! by wliom ?" 
 
 " My father !" 
 
 " Your father ?" echoed Lady Rookwood, in great sur- 
 prise. 
 
 " Ay, my dead father ! He has ajDpcared to me since his 
 decease." 
 
 " Ranul2:)h, you rave — you are distracted with grief — with 
 astonishment." 
 
 "No, mother; but I will not struggle against my 
 destiny." 
 
 " Pshaw ! your destiny is Rookwood, its manors, its land, 
 its rent-roll, and its title ; nor shall you yield it to a base- 
 born churl like this. Let him prove his rights. Let the law 
 adjudge them to him, and we will yield — but not till then, I 
 tell thee he has not the right, nor can he maintain it. He is 
 a deluded dreamer, who, having heard some idle tale of his 
 birth, believes it, because it chimes with his wishes. I 
 treated him with the scorn he deserved. I would have driven 
 him from my presence, but he was armed, as you see, and 
 forced me hither, perhaps to murder me ; a deed he might 
 have accomplished, had it not been for your intervention. 
 His life is already forfeit, for an attempt of the same sort last 
 night. Why else came he hither ? for what else did he di'ag 
 me to this sjjot ? Let him answer that !" 
 
 " I ivill answer it," replied Luke, raising himself from the 
 bier. His face was of an ashy paleness, and ghastly as the 
 corpse over which he leaned. " I had a deed to do, which I 
 wished you to witness. It was a wild conception. But the 
 means by which I have acquired the information of my rights 
 were wild. Ranulph, we are both the slaves of fate. You 
 have received your summons hither — I have had mine. Your 
 father's ghost called you ; my mother'e spectral hand beckoned 
 me. Both are arrived. One thing more remains, and my 
 mission is completed." Saying which, ho drew forth the 
 skeleton hand ; and having first taken the wedding-ring from 
 the finger, he placed the withered limb upon the left breast of 
 Lis father's body. " Rest there," he cried, "for ever." 
 
 "Will you suffer that?" said Lady Rookwood, tauntingly, 
 to her son, 
 
 " No," replied Ranulph ; " such jirofanation of the dead 
 shall not be endured, were he ten times my brother. Stand 
 aside," added he, advancing towards IIjc bier, and motioning 
 Luke away. " Withdraw your hand from my father's body, 
 and remove what you have jjlaced upon it.''
 
 ROOKWOOD. 03 
 
 " I will iicitlier remove it nor suffer it to be removed," 
 returned Luke. " 'Twas for tliat purpose I came hither. 
 'Twas to that hand he was united in life, in death ho shall not 
 be divided from it." 
 
 " Such irreverence shall not be," exclaimed Ranulph, seiz- 
 ing Luke with one hand, and snatching at the cereclothes 
 ■with the other. " Remove it, or by Heaven " 
 
 "Leave go your hold," said Luke, in a voice of thunder; 
 "you strive in vain." 
 
 Eanulph ineffectually attempted to push him backwards ; 
 and shaking away the gi'asp that was fixed upon his collar, 
 seized his brother's wrist, so as to prevent the accomjilish- 
 ment of his purpose. In this unnatural and indecorous strife, 
 the corpse of their father was reft of its covering, and the 
 hand discovered lying upon the pallid breast. 
 j And as if the wanton impiety of their conduct called forth 
 an immediate rebuke, even from the dead, a frown seemed to 
 pass over Sir Piers's features, as their angry glances fell in 
 that direction. This startling effect was occasioned by the ap- 
 proach of Lady Eookwood, whose shadow, falling over the 
 brow and visage of the deceased, produced the ajjpearance 
 we have described. Simultaneously quitting each other, 
 with a deep sense of shame, mingled with remorse, both 
 remained, their eyes fixed upon the dead, whose repose they 
 had violated. 
 
 Folding the graveclothes decently over the body, Luke pre- 
 pared to depart. 
 
 " Hold," cried Lady Rookwood; "you go not hence." 
 
 " My brother Eanulph will not oppose my departure," re- 
 turned Luke ; " who else shall prevent it ?" 
 
 " That will I," cried a sharj) 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 jjinioned his arms. 
 This was scarcely the work of a moment, and he was a pri- 
 soner before he could oftV'r any resistance. A strong smile of 
 exultation evinced Lady Eookwood's satisfaction. 
 
 " Bravo, my lads, bravo !" cried Coates, stepping forward, 
 for he it was under whose skilful superintendence the seizure 
 had been effected : " famously managed ; my father the thief- 
 taker's runners couldn't have done it better — hand me that 
 pistol — loaded, I see— slugs, no doubt — oh, he's a precious 
 rascal — search him — turn his pockets inside out while I spenk 
 to he:!: ladyship." Saying which, the brisk attorney, enchanted
 
 94 ROOKWOOD. 
 
 with the feat he had performed, approached Lady Eookwood 
 with a profound bow, and an amazing smirk of self-satisfac- 
 tion. "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 
 horrible outrage must have occasioned ; excessively disagree- 
 able this sort of thing to a lady at any time, but at a period 
 like this more than usually provoking. However, we have 
 the villain safe enough. Very lucky I happened to be in the 
 way. Perhaj^s your ladyship would like to know how I dis- 
 covered " 
 
 " Not now," replied Lady Rookwood, checking the volu- 
 bility of the man of law. "I thank you, Mr. Coates, for the 
 service you have rendered me ; you will now add materially 
 to the obligation by removing the prisoner with all convenient 
 despatch." 
 
 " Certainly, if your ladyship wishes it. Shall I detain him 
 a close prisoner in the hall for the night, or remove him at 
 once to the lock-up house in the village ?" 
 
 " Where you please, so you do it quickly," replied Lady 
 Rookwood, noticing, with great uneasiness, the agitated 
 manner of her son, and ajjprehensive lest, in the presence 
 of so many witnesses, he might say or do something pre- 
 judicial to their interests. Nor were her fears groundless. 
 As Coates was about to return to the prisoner, he was 
 arrested by the voice of Ranulph, commanding him to stay. 
 
 " Mr. Coates," said he, " however appearances may be 
 against this man, he is no robber — you must, therefore, re- 
 lease him." 
 
 " Eh day, what's that? release him. Sir Ranulph ?" 
 
 " Yes, sir ; I tell yon he came here neither with the intent 
 to rob nor to oft'er violence." 
 
 " That is false, Ranulph," replied Lady Rookwood. " I 
 was dragged hither by him, at the peril of my life. lie is 
 Mr. Coates's prisoner on another charge." 
 
 " Unquestionably, your ladyship is perfectly right ; I have 
 a warrant against him for assaulting Hugh Badger, the 
 keeper, and for other misdemeanours." 
 
 " I will myself bo responsible for his appearance to that 
 charge," rcj)lied Ranulpli. " Now, sir, at once release hini." 
 
 "At your peril !" exclaimed Lady Rookwood. 
 
 " Well, really," muttered the astonished attorney, " this is 
 the most perplexing proceeding I ever witnessed." 
 
 "Ranulph," said Lady Rookwood, sternly, to her son, 
 " beware how you thwart me !"
 
 EOOKWOOD. 95 
 
 " Yes, Sir Eanulph, let me venture to advise you, as a 
 friend, not to thwart her ladyship," whispered the attorney ; 
 *' indeed, she is in the right." But, seeing his advice un- 
 heeded, Coates withdrew to a little distance. 
 
 " I will not see injustice done to my father's son," replied 
 Ranulph, in a low tone. " Why would you detain him ?" 
 
 "Why?" returned she, "our safety demands it — our 
 honour." 
 
 " Our honou.r demands his instant liberation ; each moment 
 he remains in those bonds sullies its purity. I will free him 
 myself from his fetters." 
 
 " And brave my curse, foolish boy ? You incurred your 
 miserable father's anathema for a lighter cause than this. 
 Our honour cries aloud for his destruction. Have I not been 
 injured in the nicest point a woman can be injured ? Shall I 
 lend my name to mockery and scorn, by base acknowledg- 
 ment of such deceit, or will you? "Where would be my 
 honour, then, stripped of my fair estates — my son — myseK — 
 beggars — dependent on the bounty of an upstart ? Does 
 honour ask you to bear this ? It is a phantom sense of 
 honour, unsubstantial as your father's shade, of which you 
 just now spoke, that would i)rompt you to do otherwise." 
 
 " Do not evoke his awful spirit, mother," cried Ranulph, 
 with a shudder ; " do not arouse his wrath." 
 
 " Do not arouse mi/ wrath," returned Lady Rook wood. 
 ** I am the more to be feared. Think of Eleanor Mowbray ; 
 the bar betwen jowx nuptials is removed. Would you raise 
 up a greater impediment ?" 
 
 " Enough, mother ; more than enough. You have decided, 
 though not convinced me. Detain him within the house, if 
 you will, until the morrow ; in the mean time, I will consider 
 over my line of conduct." 
 
 " Is this, then, your resolve ?" 
 
 "It is. Mr. Coates," said Ranulph, calling the attorney, 
 who had been an inquisitive sj)ectator, though, luckily, not 
 an auditor of this interview, " unbind the prisoner, and bring 
 him hither." 
 
 " Is it your ladyship's pleasure ?" asked Mr. Coates, who 
 regretted exceedingly that he could not please both parties. 
 
 Lady Rookwood signified her assent by a slight gesture in 
 the afiirmative. 
 
 " Yom- bidding shall be done, Sir Ranulph," said Coates, 
 bowing and departing. 
 
 " Sir Ranulph .'" echoed Lady Rookwood, with strong 
 emphasis ; " marked you that ?"
 
 96 ROOKWOOD. 
 
 " Body o' me," muttered the attorney, " this i« tlie most 
 extraordinary family to ho sure. Make way, gentlemen, if 
 you please," added he, pushing through the crowd, toward 
 the prisoner. 
 
 Having described what took place between Lady Rook- 
 wood and her son in one part of the room, we must now 
 briefly narrate some incidental occurrences in the other. The 
 alarm of a robber having been taken, spread with great 
 celerity through the house, and almost all its inmates rushed 
 into the room, including Doctor Small, Titus Tyrconnel, and 
 Jack Pahner. 
 
 " Odsbodikins ! are you there, honey?" said Titus, who 
 discovered his ally ; " the bird's caught, you see." 
 
 " Caught be d — d," replied Jack, bluffly ; " so I see ; all his 
 own fault ; infernal folly to come here, at such a time as 
 this. However, it can't be helped now ; he must make the 
 best of it. And as to that sneaking, gimlet-eyed, parchment- 
 skinned quill-driver, if I don't serve him out for his officious- 
 ness, one of these days, my name's not Jack Palmer." 
 
 '' Och ! cushlamacree ! did I ever ; why, what the devil's 
 the boy to you. Jack ? Fair play's a jewel, and surely Mr. 
 Coates only did his duty. I'm sorry he's captured, for his 
 relationship to Sir Piers, and because I think he'll be tucked 
 up for his pains ; and, moreover, I could forgive the jjoach- 
 ing ; but as to the breaking into a house, on such an 
 occasion as this, och ! it's a plaguy bad look. I'm afraid he's 
 worse than I thought him." 
 
 A group of the tenantry, many of whom were in a state of 
 intoxication, had, in the mean time, formed themselves round 
 the prisoner. Whatever might be the nature of his thoughts, 
 no apprehension was visible in Luke's countenance. He stood 
 erect amidst the assemblage, his tall form towering above 
 them all, and his eyes fixed upon the movements of Lady 
 Tlookwood 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, of the hinds who thronged around him, 
 passed unheeded ; yet one voice in his ear, sharp as the sting 
 of a serpent, made him start. It was that of the sexton. 
 
 " 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 Avill be 
 content to follow my advice. You must now free yourself, 
 the best way you can, from these Moabites, and I promise 
 you it will be no easy matter. Ha, ha !"
 
 iioukWoul). 07 
 
 Peter withdrew into the crowd ; and Lidvo, vaiuly endea- 
 VouriiiQ," to discover his retreating figure, caught the eye of 
 Jack Pahuer fixed upon himself, Avith a peculiar and very 
 significant expression. 
 
 At this moment Mr. Coates made his appearance. 
 
 " Bring forward the prisoner," said the man of law to his 
 two assistants ; and Luke was accordingly hurried along, Mr. 
 Coates using his best efforts to keep back the crowd. It was 
 during the pressure that Luke heard a voice whisper in his 
 ear, " Never fear, all's right ;" and turning his head, he 
 became aware of the propinquity of Jack Palmer. The latter 
 elevated his eyebrows with a gesture of silence, and Luke 
 passed on as if nothing had occurred. He was pi'esently 
 confronted with Lady Rookwood and her son ; and, notwith- 
 standing 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 i-emoved. 
 
 " You will consent to remain here a prisoner till to-mor- 
 row?" 
 
 " I consent to nothing," replied Luke ; •' I am in your 
 hands." 
 
 " He does not deserve your clemency, Sir Ranulph," inter- 
 posed Coates. 
 
 "Let him take his own course," soid Lady Rookwood; 
 " he will reap the benefit of it anon." 
 
 " Will yon pledge yourself not to dcpai't ?" asked Ranulph. 
 
 "Of coui'se," cried the attorney; "to be sure he will. 
 Ha, ha !" 
 
 " No," returned Luke, haughtily, " I will not — and you 
 will detain me at your proper peril." 
 
 " Better and better," exclaimed the attorney. " This is the 
 highest joke I ever heard." 
 
 " I shall detain you, then, in custody, until proper in- 
 quiries 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. 
 You understand me, sir." 
 
 " Ranulph Rookwood," said Luke, sternly, as he departed, 
 
 II
 
 98 ' KOOKWOOU. 
 
 "you have another — a more sacred office, to perforin. Fulfil 
 your duty to your father's son." 
 
 " Away with him," cried Lady Koolcwood. " I am out of 
 all patience with this trifling. Follow me to my chamber," 
 added she to her son, passing towards the door. The con- 
 course of spectators, who had listened to this extraordinary 
 scene in astonishment, made way for her instantly, and she 
 left the room, accomj)anied by Kanulph. 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 lose the funeral 
 entirely by his arrangement." 
 
 " That you will," replied Palmer. " Shall I be your 
 deputy ?" 
 
 "No, no," returned Coates. "I will have no other than 
 Mr. Tyrconnel. It was Sir Eanulph's express wish." 
 
 " That's the devil of it," returned Titus ; " and I who was 
 to have been chief mourner, and have made all the prepara- 
 tions, am to be omitted. I wish Sir Ranulph had stayed till 
 to-morrow — what could bring him here, to spoil 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-humoiu'ed Irishman. 
 
 " Body o' me," said Coates, " there's something in all this 
 that I can't fathom. As to keeping the prisoner here, that's 
 all moonshine. But I suppose we shall know the whole drift 
 of it to-morrow." 
 
 " Ay," rei^lied Jack, with a meaning smile, " to-morrow!"
 
 liOOKWOOD. 99 
 
 ^]ook tirt Scconir, 
 
 THE SEXTON. 
 
 Duchess. Thou art very plain. 
 
 Bosola. My trade is to flatter tbe dead— not the living — 
 
 I am a tomb-maker. Webster. 
 
 THE STOEM. 
 
 Come, list, and hark ! the bell doth towle 
 
 For some but now departing sowle ; 
 
 And was not that some ominous fowle ? 
 
 The bat, the night-crow, or screech-owle? 
 
 To these I hear the wild wolfe howle, 
 
 In this dark night that seems to scowle ; — 
 
 All these my blacke booke shall eurowle. 
 
 For hark ! still hark ! the Ijell doth towle 
 
 For some but new-departed sowle ! — Haywood. — Rape of Lucrece. 
 
 Tke nitrht was wild and stormy. The day had been sultry, 
 with a lurid, nietallie-looking sky, hanging like a vast gal- 
 vanic plate over the face of nature. As evening drew on, 
 everything betokened the coining tempest. Unerring indica- 
 tions of its approach were noted by the weatherwise at the 
 hall. The swallow was seen to skim the surface of the pool 
 so closely, that he ruffled its placid mirror as he passed ; 
 and then sharply darting round and round, with twittering 
 scream, he winged his rapid flight to his clay-built home 
 beneath the bam eaves. The kine that had herded to the 
 margin of the water, and sought, by splashing, to relieve 
 themselves from the keen persecution of their myriad insect 
 tormentors, wended stallwards, undriven, and deeply lowing. 
 The deer, that at twilight had trooped thither also for refresh- 
 ment, suddenly, " with expanded nostrils, snuffed the air," and 
 bounded off to their coverts, amidst the sheltering fernbi'ake. 
 The rooks, " obstreperous of wing, in crowds combined," 
 cawed in a way that, as plainly as words could have done, 
 bespoke their apj)rehension ; and were seen, some hovering 
 and beating the air with flajjping pinion, others shooting 
 upwards in mid space, as if to reconnoitre the weather ; while 
 others, again, were croaking to their mates, in loud discordant 
 tone, from the highest branches of the lime-trees ; all, 
 
 H 2
 
 100 ROOKWOOD. 
 
 seemingly, as anxious and as busy as mariners before a gale 
 of wind. At sunset, the hazy vapours, which had obscured 
 the horizon through the day, rose up in spiral volumes, 
 like smoke from a burning forest, and, becoming gradually 
 condensed, assumed the form of huge, billowy masses, which, 
 reflecting the sun's light, changed, as the sinking orb de- 
 clined, from j^urple to flame colour, and thence to ashy, angiy 
 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 rose. At once the grey clouds turned 
 to an inky blackness. A single, sharp, intensely vivid flash 
 shot from the bosom of the rack, sheer downwai'ds, and 
 struck the earth with a report like that of a piece of ord- 
 nance. In ten minutes it was dunnest night, and a rattling 
 thunderstorm. 
 
 The progress of the storm was watched with infinite appre- 
 hension by the crowd of tenantry assembled in the great 
 hall; and loud and frequent were the ejaculations uttered, as 
 each succeeding peal 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 comj^anions with consternation, and 
 made all shrink trembling into the recesses of the room. 
 Peter's conduct was not unobserved, nor his reputation for 
 unholy dealing forgotten. To some he was almost as much 
 an object of dread as the storm itself. 
 
 " Didst ever see the like o' that $" said Farmer Burtenshaw 
 (one of the guests, whose romid, honest face, good wine had 
 recently empurpled, but fear had now mottled white), ad- 
 dressing a neighbour. " Didst ever hear of any man that 
 were a Christian laughing in the very face o' a thunderstonn, 
 with the lightnin' fit to put out his eyes, and the rattle above 
 ready to break the drmus o' his ears ? I always thought 
 Peter Bradley was not exactly what he ought to be, and now 
 I am sure on it." 
 
 " For my part, I think, neighbour Burtenshaw," returned 
 the other, "that this great burst of weather's all of his 
 raising, for iu all my born days 1 never see'd such a hurly.
 
 EOOKWOOD. 101 
 
 burly, and hope never to see the like of it again. I've heard 
 my grandfather tell of folk as could command wind and rain ; 
 and, mayhap, Peter may have the power — we all know he 
 can do more nor any other man." 
 
 " We know, at all events," replied Burtenshaw, " that he 
 lives like no other man ; that ho spends night after niglit by 
 himself in that dreary churchyard ; that he keeps no Lvang 
 thing, except an old terrier dog, in his crazy cottage ; and 
 that he never asks a body into his house from one year's end 
 to another. I've never crossed his threshold these twenty 
 years. But," continued he, mysteriously, " I happened to 
 pass the house one dark dismal night, and there what dost 
 think I see'd through the window i^" 
 
 " What — what didst see ?" 
 
 " Peter Bradley sitting with a great book open on his 
 knees ; it were a Bible, I think, and he crying like a child." 
 
 "Art sure o' that?" 
 
 " The tears were falling fast upon the leaves," returned 
 Burtenshaw ; " but when I knocked at the door, he hastily 
 shut up the book, and ordered me to be gone, in a surly tone, 
 as if he were ashamed of being caught in the fact." 
 
 " I thought no tear had ever dropped from his eye," said 
 the other. "Why, he laughed when his daughter Susan 
 went off at the hall ; and Avhen she died, folks said he re- 
 ceived hush-money to say nought about it. That were a bad 
 business anyhow ; and now that his grandson Lidce be taken 
 in the fact of housebreaking, he minds it no more, not he, 
 than if nothing had haj^pcned." 
 
 " Don't be too sure of that," replied Burtenshaw ; " he 
 may be scheming summat all this time. Well, I've laiown 
 Peter Bradley now these two-and-fifty years, and, excepting 
 that night, I never saw any good about him, and never 
 heard of nobody who could tell who he be, or where lie do 
 come from." 
 
 ; " One thing's certain, at least," replied the other farmer — 
 " he were never born at Rookwood. How he came here the 
 devil only knows. Save us ! Avhat a crash ! — this stomi be 
 I all of his raising, I tell 'ee." 
 
 " He be — what he certainly will be," interposed another 
 speaker, in a louder tone- and with less of apprehension in 
 his manner than his coniride, probably from his nerves being 
 better fortified with strong liquor. " Dost thou think, 
 Sammul Plant, as how Providence woidd intnist the like o' 
 him with the command of the elements ? No — no, it's ramk 
 
 LIBRARY 
 UNIVERiSn Y OF CALIFORNIA
 
 102 ROOKWOOD. 
 
 blasphemy to suppose such a thing, aud I've too much of the 
 tr«e Cathohc and apostate church about me, to stand by and 
 hear that said." 
 
 " Maybe, then, he gets his power from the Prince of Dark- 
 ness," I'eplied Plant ; " no man else could go on as he does 
 — only look at him. He seems to be watching for the 
 thunderbowt." 
 
 " I wish he may catch it, then," returned the other. 
 
 " That's an evil wish, Simon Toft, and thou mayst re- 
 pent it." 
 
 " Not I," replied Toft ; "it would be a good clearance to 
 the neighbourhood to get rid o' th' old croaking curmud- 
 geon." 
 
 Whether or not Peter overheard the conversation we pre- 
 tend not to say, but at that moment a blaze of lightning 
 showed him staring fiercely at the group. 
 
 " As I live, he's overheard you, Simon," exclaimed Plant. 
 " I wouldn't be in yoiu* skin for a trifle." 
 
 "Nor I," added Burtenshaw. 
 
 " Let him overhear me," answered Toft; "who cares ? he 
 shall hear summat worth listening to. I'm not afraid o' him 
 or his arts, were they as black as Beelzebuth's own; and to 
 show you I'm not, I'll go and have a crack with him on the 
 spot."* 
 
 " Thou'rt a fool for thy pains, if thou dost, friend Toft," 
 returned Plant, " that's all I can say," 
 
 " Be advised by me, and stay here," seconded Burtenshaw, 
 endeavouring to hold him back. 
 
 But Toft would not be advised — 
 
 Kings may be blest, but he was gloriouj, 
 O'er all tlie ills of life victorious. 
 
 Staggering up to Peter, he laid a hard grasp upon his shoulder, 
 and, thus forcibly soliciting his attention, burst into a loud 
 horse-laugh. 
 
 But Peter was, or affected to be, too much occupied to look 
 at him. 
 
 " What dost see, man, that thou starcst so ?" 
 " It comes, it comes — the rain — the rain — a torrent — a 
 deluge — ha, ha ! Blessed is the corpse the rain rains on. Sir 
 Piers may be drenched through his leaden covering by such 
 a downfall as that — splash, splash — fire and water and thunder, 
 all together — is not that tine P— ha, ha! The heavens will 
 weep for him, though friends shed not a tear. When did a
 
 KOOKWOOD. 103 
 
 great mean's heir feel sympathy for his sire's decease ? When 
 did his widow motirn ? When doth any man regret his 
 fellow ? Never ! He rejoiceth— he maketh glad in his inmost 
 heart — he cannot help it — it is his nature. We all pray for, 
 we all delight in each other's destruction. We were created 
 to do so ; or why else should we act thus ? I never wept for 
 any man's death, but I have often laughed. Natural sym- 
 pathy ! — out on the phrase. The distant heavens — the sense- 
 less trees — the impenetrable stones — shall regret you more 
 than man — shaU bewail your death with more sincerity. Ay, 
 'tis well — rain on — splash, splash ; it will cool the hell-fever. 
 Down, down — buckets and pails — ha, ha !" 
 
 There was a pause, during which the sexton, almost ex- 
 hausted by the frenzy in which he had suffered himself to be 
 involved, seemed insensible to all around him. 
 
 "I tell you what," said Burtenshaw to Plant; "I have 
 always thought there was more in Peter Bradley nor ajipears 
 on the outside. He is not what he seems to be, take my word 
 on it. Lord love you ! do you think a man such as he pre- 
 tends to be could talk in that sort of way — about nat'ral 
 simpering? — no such thing." 
 
 When Peter recovered, his insane merriment broke out 
 afresh, having only acquired fury l)y the pause. 
 
 " Look out, look out," cried he ; " hark to the thunder — list 
 
 ; to the rain. Marked ye that flash — marked ye the clock-house 
 
 — and the bird upon the roof ? 'tis the rook — the great bird 
 
 of the house, that hath borne away the soul of the departed. 
 
 There, there — can you not see it ? it sits and croaks through 
 
 1 storm and rain, and never heeds at all — and wherefore should 
 
 lit heed? See, it flaps its broad black wings — it croaks 
 
 — ha ! ha ! It comes — it comes." 
 
 And driven, it might be, by flie ten-or of the storm, from 
 more secure quarters, a bird, at this instant, was dashed 
 against the window, and fell to the ground. 
 
 " That's a call," continued Peter ; " it will be over soon, and 
 we must set out. The dead will not need to tarry. Look 
 at that trail of fire along the avenue ; dost see yon line of 
 sparkles, like a rocket's tail? That's the path the corpse 
 will take. St. Hermes' flickering fire, Eobin G-oodfellow's 
 dancing light, or the blue flame of the corpse-candle, which I 
 saw flitting to the churchyard last week, was not so pretty a 
 sight — ha, ha ! You asked me for a song a moment ago — ■ 
 you shall have one now without asking." 
 
 And without waiting to consult the inclinations of his com-
 
 104 EOOKWOOD. 
 
 rades, Peter broke into the following wild strain with all the 
 fervour of a half-crazed improvisatore. 
 
 THE COEPSE-CANDLE. 
 
 Lambere flamma raipog et circum funera pasci. 
 
 Through tho mi(lni<;ht gloom flkl a pale blue light 
 
 To the clmi'chyai'd mirk wing its lonesome flight :— 
 
 Thrice it floated those old (valls i-oimd — 
 
 Thrice it paused — till the grave it found. 
 
 Over the grass-green sod it glanced, 
 
 Over tho fresh-turned earth it danced, 
 
 Like a torch in the night-breeze quivering — 
 
 Never was seen so gay a thing ! 
 
 Never was seen so blithe a sight 
 
 As the midnight dance of that pale blue light ! 
 
 Now what of that pale blue flame dost know ? 
 
 Canst tell where it comes from, or where it will go? 
 
 Is it tho soul, released from clay, 
 
 Over the earth that takes its way. 
 
 And tarries a moment in mirth and glee 
 
 Where the corse it hath quitted interr'd shall be? 
 
 Or is it the trick of some fanciful sprite, 
 
 That taketli in mortal mischance delight, 
 
 And marketh the road the cottin shall go, 
 
 And the spot where the dead shall be soon laid low ? 
 
 Ask him who can answer these questions aright ; 
 
 I know not the caiise of that pale blue light ! 
 
 "I can't say I like thy song, Master Peter," said Toft, as 
 the sexton finished his stave, " but if thou didst see a corpse- 
 candle, as thou call'st thy j)ale blue flame, whose death doth 
 it betoken? — eh !" 
 
 " Thy own," returned Peter, sharply. 
 
 " Mine ! thou lying old cheat — dost dare to say that to my 
 face ? Why, I'm as hale and hearty as ever a man in the 
 house. Dost think there's no life and vigour in this arm, 
 thou drivelling old dotard?" 
 
 Upon which, Toft seized Peter by the throat, with an 
 energy that, but for the timely intervention of the company, 
 who rushed to his assistance, the prophet might himself have 
 anticipated the doom he prognosticated. 
 
 Released from the grasp of Toft, who was held back by the 
 bystanders, Peter again broke forth into his eldritch laugh ; 
 and staring right into the face of his adversary, with eyes 
 glistening, and hands uplifted, as if in the act of calling down 
 an imprecation on his head, he screamed, in a shrill and dis- 
 cordant voice, " Soh ! you will not take warning? you revile 
 me — you flout me ! 'Tis well ! your fate shall prove a warn- 
 ing to all unbelievers — they shall I'emember this night, though 
 you will not. Fool ! fool ! your doom has long been sealed !
 
 ROOKWOOD. 105 
 
 I saw your wraith cVyOso out its last lodgment on Halloween ; 
 I know the spot. Your grave is dug already — ha, ha!" And, 
 with renewed laughter, Peter rushed out of the room. 
 
 " Did I not caution thee not to provoke him, friend Toft ?" 
 said Plant ; " it's ill playing with edge tools ; but don't let 
 him fly off in that tantrum — one of ye go after him." 
 
 " That will I," replied Burtenshaw ; and he departed in 
 search of the sexton. 
 
 *' I'd advise thee to make it up with Peter so soon as thou 
 canst, neighbour," continued Plant ; " he's a bad friend, but 
 a worse enemy." 
 
 " Why, what harm can he do me ?" returned Toft, who, 
 however, was not without some misgivings. " If I must die, 
 I can't help it — I shall go none the sooner for him, even if he 
 speak the truth, which I don't think he do ; and if I must, I 
 shan't go imprepared ; only I think as how, if it pleased 
 Providence, I could have wished to keep my old missis com- 
 pany some few years longer, and see those bits of lasses of 
 mine grow up into women, and respectably provided for. 
 But His will be done. I shan't leave 'em quite penniless, 
 and there's one eye at least, I'm sure, won't be dry at my 
 departure." Here the stout heart of Toft gave way, and he 
 shed some few " natiu-al tears ;" which, however, he speedily 
 brushed away. " I tell you what, neighbours," continued he, 
 " I think we may all as well be thinking of going to our own 
 homes, for, to my mind, wo shall never reach the churchyard 
 to-night." 
 
 " That you never will," exclaimed a voice behind him; and 
 Toft turning round, again met the glance of Peter. 
 
 " Come, come, Master Peter," cried the good-natured 
 farmer, " this be ugly jesting — ax pardon for my share of 
 it — sorry for what I did ; so give us thy hand, man, and 
 think no more aboiit it." 
 
 Peter extended his claw, and the parties were, apparently, 
 once more upon terms of friendship.
 
 106 ROOKWOOD. 
 
 n. 
 
 THE FUNERAL ORATION. 
 
 In northern customs duty was exprest 
 
 To friends departed by their funeral feast ; 
 
 Though I've consulted Holingshead and Stow, 
 
 I find it very difficult to know, 
 
 Who, to i-efresh the attendants to the grave. 
 
 Burnt claret first, or Naples' biscuit gave. 
 
 King. — Art of Cookery. 
 Ceterum pi'iusquam corpus hnmo injecta contegatur, defunctus oratione 
 fnnebri laudabatur. — Duband. 
 
 A SUPPLY of spirits was here introduced ; lights were 
 brought at the same time, and placed upon a long oak table. 
 The party gathering round it, ill-humour was speedily dissi- 
 pated, and even the storm disregarded, in the copious liba- 
 tions 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 
 bo discovered, to eye the storm with great impatience. He 
 then paced the hall rajjidly baclnvards and forwards, and 
 Peter fancied he could detect sounds of disappointment, in 
 his muttered exclamations. Again he returned to the window, 
 as if to ascertain the probalile duration of the shower. It 
 was a hopeless endeavour ; all was pitch dark without ; the 
 lightning was now only seen at long intervals, but the rain 
 still audibly descended in torrents. Api>arently, seeing the 
 impossibility of controlling the elements, the person ap- 
 proached the table. 
 
 "What think you of the night, Mr. Palmer?" asked the 
 sexton of Jack, for he was the anxious investigator of 
 the weather. 
 
 " Don't know — can't say — set in, I think ; cursed unlucky 
 - — for the funeral, I mean ; we shall be drowned if we go." 
 
 " And drunk if we stay," rejoined Peter. " But never 
 fear, it will hold up, depend upon it, long liefore we can start. 
 Where have they put the prisoner ?" asked he, with a sudden 
 change of manner. 
 
 " I know the room, but can't describe it ; it's two or three 
 doors dovra. the lower con-idor of the eastern gallery." 
 
 " Good. Who are on guard?" 
 
 " Titus Tyrconnel, and that swivel-eyed quill-driver, Coates," 
 
 " Enough."
 
 EOOKWOOD. 107 
 
 "Come, come, Mastei- Peter," roared Toft, "let's have an- 
 other stave. Grive us one of your okl snatches. No more 
 corpse-candles, or that sort of thing. Something lively — 
 something jolly — ha, ha !" 
 
 "A good move," shouted Jack. " A lively song from you 
 — lillibullero from a death's head — ha, ha !" 
 
 " My songs are all of a sort," returned Peter ; " I am 
 seldom asked to sing a second time. However, you are 
 welcome to the merriest I have." And preparing himself, 
 like certain other accomplished vocalists, with a few preli- 
 minary hems and haws, he struck forth the following doleful 
 ditty: 
 
 THE OLD OAK COFFIN. 
 Sic egfo componi versus in ossa velim. — Tibullus, 
 
 In a cliurcliyard, upon tlio sward, a coffin tliero was laid, 
 
 And Inauino- stood, beside the wood, a sexton on bis spade. 
 
 A coffin old and Ijlack it was, and fasluoucd curiously. 
 
 With quaint device of carved oak, in hideous fautasic. 
 
 For here was wrought the sculptured thought of a tormented face, 
 
 With serpents lithe that round it writhe, in folded strict embrace. 
 
 Grim visages of grinning fiends were at each corner set, 
 
 And emblematic scrolls, mort-heads, and bones together met. 
 
 " Ah, well-a-day !" that sexton grey unto himself did cry, 
 
 " Beneath that lid much lieth hid — much awful mysterio. 
 
 It is an ancient coffin from the .abbey that stood here ; 
 
 Perchance it holds an abbot's bones, perchance those of a frere. 
 
 " In digging deep, where monks do sleep, beneath yon cloister shrined, 
 
 That coffin old, within the mould, it was my chance to find ; 
 
 Tlie costly carvings of the lid I scraped full carefully, 
 
 In hope to get at name or date, yet nothing could I see. 
 
 " With pick and spade I've plied my trade for sixty years and more, 
 
 Yet never found, beneath the ground, shell strange as that before ; 
 
 Full many coffins have I seen — have seen them deep or flat, 
 
 Fantastical iu fashion — none fantastical as that." 
 
 And saying so, with heavy blow, the lid he shattered wide. 
 
 And, pale with fright, a ghastly sight that sexton grey espied ; 
 
 A miserable sight it was, that loathsome corpse to see. 
 
 The last, last, dreary, darksome stage of fall'n humanity. 
 
 Though all was gone, sa\e reeky bono, a green and grisly heap, 
 
 With scarce a trace of fleshy face, strange posture did it keep. 
 
 The hands were clench'd, the teetla were wrench'd, as if the wretch had I'isen, 
 
 E'en after death had ta'en his breath, to strive and burst his prison. 
 
 The neck was bent, the nails were rent, no limb or joint was straight ; 
 
 Together glued, with blood imbued, black and coagulate. 
 
 And, as the sexton stooped him down to lift the coffin plank, 
 
 His fingers were defiled all o'er with slimy substance dank. 
 
 " Ah, well-a-day !" that sexton grey unto himself did cry, 
 
 " Pull well I see how Fate's decree foredoomed this wretch to die; 
 
 A living man, a breathing man, within the coffin thrust. 
 
 Alack ! alack ! the agony ere he retavned to dust."
 
 108 ROOKWOOD. 
 
 A vision drear did then appear unto that sexton's eyes ; 
 Like that poor wight before him straiglit he in a coffin lies- 
 He lieth in a trance within that coffin close and fast ; 
 Yet though he sleepeth now, he feels he shall awake at last. 
 
 The coffin then, by reverend men, is borne with footsteps slow. 
 Where tapers shine before the shrine, where breathes the requiem low} 
 And for the dead the prayer is said, for the soul that is 710^ flown — 
 Then all is drown'd in hollow sound, the earth is o'er him thrown I 
 
 He draweth breath — he wakes from death to life more horrible ; 
 To agony ! such agony ! no living tongue may tell. 
 (Die ! die he must, that wretched one ! he struggles — strives in vain I 
 No more heaven's light, nor sunshine bright, shall he behold again. 
 
 " Gramercy, Lord !" the sexton roar'd, awakening suddenly, 
 " If this be dream, yet doth it seem most dreadful so to die. 
 Oh, cast my body in the sea ! or hurl it on the shore ! 
 But nail me not in coffin fast — no grave will I dig more." 
 
 It was not difficult to discover the effect produced by this 
 Rong, in the lengthened faces of the greater part of the 
 audience. Jack Palmer, however, laughed loud and long. 
 
 " Bravo, bravo !" cried he ; " that suits my humour ex- 
 actly. I can't abide the thoughts of a coffin. No deal box 
 ;for me." 
 
 ; " A gibbet might, perhaps, serve your turn as well," mut- 
 tered the sexton ; adding aloud, " I am now entitled to call 
 upon you ; — a song ! — a song !" 
 
 " Ay, a song, Mr. Palmer, a song," reiterated the hinds. 
 " Yours will be the right sort of thing." 
 
 " Say no more," replied Jack. " I'll give you a chant com- 
 posed upon Dick Turpin, the highwayman. It's no great 
 shakes, to be sure, but it's the best I have." And with a 
 knowing wink at t he sexton, he commenced in the true nasal 
 whine the followin^~straiir: 
 
 ONE FOOT IN THE STIREUP; 
 
 OB, turpin's first flinq. 
 
 " Cum esset proposita Tur])i{n)s." - Cicero. 
 
 " One foot in the stirrup, one hand in the rein 
 
 And the noose be my portion, or freedom I'll gain ! 
 
 Oh ! give me a seat in my saddle once more. 
 
 And these bloodhounds shall find that the chase is not o'er !" 
 
 Thus muttered Dick Turpin, who found, while he slept. 
 
 That the Philistines old on his slumbers had crept ; 
 
 Had entrapped him as puss on her form you'd ensnare. 
 
 And that gone were his snappers — and gone was his mare. Hilloahl 
 
 How Dick had been captured is readily told. 
 
 The pursuit had been hot, though the night had been cold : 
 
 So at daybreak, exhausted, he sought brief repose 
 
 Mid the thick of a cornfield, away from his foes,
 
 ROOKWOOD. 109 
 
 But in rain was bis caution — in vain did his steed, 
 
 Ever watchful and wakeful in moments of need, 
 
 With lip and with hoof on her master's cheek press — 
 
 He slept on, nor heeded the warning of Bess. IliUoah ! 
 
 "Zounds ! gem'men !" cried Turpin, "you've found me at fault, 
 
 And the highflying highwayman's come to a lialt ; 
 
 You have turned up a trump (for I weigh well my weight), 
 
 And the forty is yours, though the halter's my fate. 
 
 Well, come on't what will, you shall own when all's past, 
 
 That Dick Turpin, the Dauntless, was game to the last. 
 
 But, before we go further, I'll hold you a bet. 
 
 That one foot in my stirrup you won't let me set. Hilloahl 
 
 " A hundred to one is the odds J will stand, 
 
 A hundred to one is the odds you command; 
 
 Here's a handful of goldfinches ready to fly 1 
 
 May I venture a foot in my stirrup to try?" 
 
 As he carelessly spoke, Dick directed a glance 
 
 At his courser, and motioned her slyly askance :— 
 
 You might tell by the singular toss of her head. 
 
 And the prick of her ears, that his meaning she read. Hilloahl 
 
 With derision at first was Dick's wager received, 
 
 And kis error at starting as yet unrotrieved ; 
 
 But when from his pocket the sliiners ho drew. 
 
 And offered to " make up the hundred to two," 
 
 There were havers in plenty, and each whispered each, 
 
 The same thing, though varied in figure of speech, 
 
 " Let the fool act his folly -the stirrup of Bess ! 
 
 He has put his foot in it already we guess !" Hilloahl 
 
 Bess was brought to her master— Dick steadfastly gazed 
 At the eye of his mare, then his foot quick upraised : 
 His toe touched the stirrup, his hand grasped the rein- 
 He was safe on the back of his courser again ! 
 As the clarion, fray-sounding and shrill, was the neigh 
 Of Black Bess, as she answered his cry " hark-away I" 
 " Beset me, ye bloodhounds 1 in rear and in van ; 
 My foot's in the stirrup, now catch me who can?" Hilloahl 
 
 There was riding and gibing mid rabble and rout. 
 
 And the old woods re-echoed the Philistines' shout ! 
 
 There was hurling and whirling o'er brake and o'er brier, 
 
 But the course of Dick Turpin was swift as heaven's fire. 
 
 Whipping, spurring, and straining, would nothing avail, 
 
 Dick laughed at their curses, and scoffed at their wail ; 
 
 " My foot's in the stirrup !" — thus rang his last cry ; 
 
 " Bess has answered my call ; now her mettle we'll try !" Hilloah ! 
 
 Uproarious applause followed Jack's song, wheii the jovi- 
 ality of the mourners was interrupted by a summons to attend 
 in the state room. Silence was at once completely restored ; 
 and, in the best order they could assnme, they followed their 
 leader, Peter Bradley. Jack Palmer was amongst the last to 
 enter, and remained a not incurious spectator of a by no 
 means common scene. 
 
 Preparations had been made to give due solemnity to tha
 
 110 EOOKWOOD, 
 
 ceremonial. The leaden coffin was fastened down, and en- 
 closed in an onter case of oak, upon the lid of which stood a 
 richly -chased massive silrer flagon, filled with burnt claret, 
 called the grace- cuj). All the lights were removed, save two 
 lofty wax flaml:)eaux, which were placed to the hack, and 
 threw a lurid glare upon the group immediately about the 
 body, consisting of Ranulph Eookwood and some other friends 
 of the deceased.. Doctor Small stood in front of the bier ; 
 and, under the directions of Peter Bradley, the tenantry and 
 household were formed into a wide half-moon across the 
 chamber. There was a hush of expectation, as Doctor Small 
 looked gravely round ; and even Jack Palmer, who was as 
 little likely as any man to yield to an impression of the kind, 
 felt himself moved by the scene. 
 
 The very orthodox Small, as is well known to our readers, 
 held everything savouring of the suporstitions,of the Scarlet 
 Lady 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, candle, and cuj) ; 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 miilcted 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 his cloth. 
 Was he, the intolerant of Papistry, to tolerate this ? Was 
 he, who could not endure the odour of Catholicism, to have 
 his nostrils thus polluted, his garments thus defiled by actual 
 contact with it. It was not to be thought of : and he had 
 formally signified his declination to Mr. Coates, when a little 
 conversation with that gentleman, and certain weighty con- 
 siderations therein held forth (the advowson of the church of 
 Eookwood residing with the family) , and represented by him, 
 as weU as the placing in juxtaposition of penalties to be in- 
 curred 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 readilly conceived that the 
 doctor was not in the best jDOssible frame of mind for the de- 
 livery of his exhortation. His temper had been rufiled by a 
 variety of petty annoyances, amongst the greatest of which 
 was the condition to which the good cheer had reduced his 
 clerk, Zachariah Trundletext, whose reeling eye, pendulous
 
 ROOKWOOl). Ill 
 
 position and open month, proclaimed him absolutely inca- 
 pable of office. Zachariah was, in consequence, dismisseil, 
 and Small commenced his discourse unsupported. But as our 
 recording- it would not probably conduce to the amusement 
 of our readers, whatever it might be 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 intimately acquainted, 
 and which he moreover delighted to qixote, that his auditors 
 were absolutely mystified and perplexed, and probably not 
 without design. Countenances of such amazement Avere 
 turned towards him, that Small, who had a keen sense of the 
 ludicrous, could scarcely forbear smihng as he proceeded ; 
 and if we could susjject so grave a personage of waggery, 
 we should almost think that, by way of retaliation, he had 
 palmed some abstruse monkish epicedium upon his astounded 
 auditors. 
 
 The oration concluded, biscuits and confectionery were, 
 according to old observance, handed to such of the tenantry 
 as chose to partake of them. The serving of the grace-cup, 
 which ought to have formed part of the duties of Zachariah, 
 had he been capable of office, fell to the share of the 
 sexton. The bowl was kissed, first by R-anulph, with lips 
 I that trembled with emotion, and afterwards by his surround- 
 ing friends ; but no drop was tasted — a circumstance which 
 did not escape Peter's observation. Proceeding to the 
 tenantry, the first in order happened to be farmer Toft. 
 Peter presented the cup, and as Toft was about to drain a deep 
 jdraught of the wine, Peter whispered in his ear, " Take my 
 advice for once, friend Toft, and don't let a bubble of the 
 |liquid pass you.r lips. For every drop of the wine you drain, 
 'Sir Piers will have one sin the less, and you a load the heavier 
 on your conscience. Didst never hear of sin swallowing? 
 ]Por what else was this custom adopted ? Seest thou not the 
 tup's brim hath not yet been moistened? Well, as you will 
 — ha, ha !" And the sexton passed onwards. 
 
 His work being nearly completed, he looked round for Jack 
 Palmer, whom he had remarked during the oration, but 
 could nowhere 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.
 
 112 nooivWooD. 
 
 " ' III 2^ociiU fiiuclo residuum non rellnque,' admonislietli 
 Pythagoras," said he, returning the cup drained of its con- 
 tents to the sexton. 
 
 " My task here is ended," muttered Peter, " Lut not else- 
 where. Poul weather or fine, thunder or rain, I must to the 
 church." 
 
 Bequeathing his final instructions to certain of the house- 
 hold who were to form part of the procession, in case it set 
 out, he opened the hall door, and, the pelting shower dashing 
 heavily in his face, took his way up the avenue, screaming, 
 as he strode along, the following congenial rhymes : 
 
 EPHIALTES. 
 
 I am tlie liag wlio ride by night 
 
 Through the moonless air on a courser white ! 
 
 Over the dreaming earth I fly, 
 
 Here and there — at my phantasy ! 
 
 My frame is withered, my visage old, 
 
 My locks are froro, and my bones ice-cold. 
 
 The wolf will howl as I pass his lair, 
 
 The b.an-dog moan, and the screech-owl stare. 
 
 For breath, at my coming, the sleeper strains. 
 
 And the freezing current forsakes his veins ! 
 
 Vainly for pity the wretch may sue — 
 
 Mei'ciless Mara no prayers subdue ! 
 
 To his couch I flit- 
 On Ids breast I sit ! 
 
 Astride! astride! astride I 
 And one charm alone 
 {A holloiu stone !*) 
 
 Can scare me from his side! 
 
 A thousand antic shapes I take ; 
 
 The stoutest heart at my touch will quake. 
 
 The miser dreams of a Itag of gold, 
 
 Or a ponderous chest on his bosom roll'd. 
 
 The drunkard groans 'neath a cask of wine ; 
 
 The reveller swelts 'neath a weighty chine. 
 
 The recreant turns, by his foes assailed, 
 
 To flee 1 — but his feet to the ground are nailed. 
 
 The goatherd dreams of his mountain-tops, 
 
 And, dizzily reeling, downward drops. 
 
 The murderer feels at his throat a knife. 
 
 And gasps, as his victim gasp'd, for life I 
 
 • In reference to this imaginary charm, Sir Thomas Browne observes, in 
 hiB Vulgar Errors, " What natural effects can reasonably be expected, when, 
 to prevent the Ephialtes, or Nightmare, Me hang a liollow stone in our 
 stables r" Grose also states, " that n stone with a hole in it, hung at the 
 bed's head, will prevent the nightmare, and is therefore called a hag-stone." 
 The belief in this charm still lingers in some districts, and maintains, like the 
 horse- shoe afiixed to the barn-door, a feeble stand against the supei-stition- 
 destroying " march of intellect."
 
 ROOKWOOD. 113 
 
 The tliief recoils from the scorching- hi'and ; 
 The marinor drowns in sight of land ! 
 — Thus sinful man have I power to fray, 
 Torture and rack — but not to slay ! 
 But ever the couch of purity, 
 With shuddering' glance I hurry by. 
 
 Then mount! aioay ! 
 
 To horse ! I say, 
 
 To horse ! astride ! astride ! 
 
 The fire-drake shoots — 
 
 The so-eech-oivl hoots — 
 
 As through the air I glide! 
 
 III. 
 
 THE CHURCHYARD. 
 
 Methought I walked, about the iriid of night, 
 
 Into a churchyard. Webster. — The IVlxile Devil. 
 
 Lights streamed through the chancel window as the sexton 
 entered the churchyard, darkly defining all the ramified 
 tracery of the noble Gothic arch, and illumining the gor- 
 geous dyes of its richly-stained glass, profusely decorated 
 with the armorial bearings of the founder of the fane, and 
 th(; 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 dis- 
 played, (i lowing colourings, chequered hke rainbow tints, 
 were shed upon the broken leaves of the adjoining yew-trees, 
 and upon the rounded grassy tombs. 
 
 Opening the gate, as he looked in that direction, Peter 
 became aware of a dark figure, enveloped in a large black 
 cloak, and covered with a slouched hat, standing at some 
 distance, between the window and the tree, and so interven- 
 ing as to receive the full influence of the stream of radiance 
 which served to dilate its ahnost superhuman stature. The 
 sexton stopped. The figui-e remained stationary. There 
 was something singular both in the costume and situation of 
 the persoD. Peter's curiosity was speedily aroused, and, 
 familiar with every inch of the churchyard, he determined to 
 take the nearest cut, and to ascertain to whom the mysterious 
 cloak and hat belonged. Making his way over the undulat- 
 ing gi'aves, and instinctively rounding the headstones that 
 intercepted his path, he quickly drew near the object of his 
 inquiry. From the moveless postiu'o it maintained, the 
 
 J
 
 114 EOOKWOOD. 
 
 figure appeared to be unconscious of Peter's approach. To 
 his eyes it seemed to exi:)and as he advanced. He was now 
 almost close upon it, when his progress was arrested by a 
 violent grasp laid on his shoulder. He started, and uttered 
 an exclamation of alarm. At this moment a vivid flash of 
 lightning illuminated the whole churchyard, and Peter then 
 thought he beheld, at some distance from him, two other 
 figures, bearing upon their shoulders a huge chest, or, it 
 might be, a coffin. The garb of these figures, so far as it could 
 be discerned through the drenching rain, was fantastical in 
 the extreme. The foremost seemed to have a long white 
 beard descending to his girdle. Little leisure, however, was 
 allowed Peter for observation. The vision no sooner met his 
 glance than it disappeared, and nothing was seen but the 
 glimmering tombstones, nothing heard but the whistling 
 wind and the heavily-descending shower. He rubbed his eyes. 
 The muffled figure had vanished, and not a trace could be 
 : discovered of the mysterious coffin-bearers, if such they were. 
 
 " What have I seen ?" mentally ejaculated Peter : "is this 
 sorcery or treachery, or both ? No body-snatchers would 
 visit this place on a night like this, when the whole neigh- 
 bourhood is aroused. Can it be a vision I have seen. Pshaw ! 
 shall I juggle myself as I deceive th-ese hinds? It was no 
 bearded demon that I beheld, but the gipsy j)atrico, Bal- 
 thazar. I knew him at once. But what meant that muffled 
 figure ; and whose arm could it have been that griped my 
 shoulder ? Ha ! what if Lady Rookwood should have given 
 orders for the removal of Susan's body. No, no ; that 
 cannot be. Besides, I have the keys of the vault ; and there 
 are hundreds now in the church who would permit no such 
 desecration. I am perplexed to think what it can mean. 
 But I will to the vault." Saying which, he hastened to the 
 church porch, and after wringing the wet from his clothes, 
 as a water-dog might shake the moisture from his curly hide, 
 and doffing his broad felt hat, he entered the holy edifice. 
 The interior seemed one blaze of light to the sexton, in his 
 sudden transition from outer darkness. Some few persons 
 were assembled, probably such as were engaged in the pre- 
 parations ; but there was one group which immediately 
 attracted his attention. 
 
 Near the communion table stood three persons, habited in 
 deep mourning, apparently occupied in examining the various 
 monumental carvings that enriched the walls. Peter's office 
 ied him to that part of the church. About U» descend into
 
 ROOKWOOD, 115 
 
 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 at- 
 tracted their notice. 
 
 Peter started as he beheld the face of one of the three, and 
 relaxing his hold upon the key, the strong bolt shot back in 
 the lock. There was a whisper amongst the party. A light 
 step was heard advancing towards him ; and ere the sexton 
 could sufficiently recover his surprise, or force open the door> 
 a female figure stood by his side. 
 
 The keen, inquiring stare which Peter bestowed upon the 
 countenance of the young lady so mvich abashed her, that she 
 hesitated in her purpose of addressing him, and hastily 
 retired. 
 
 " She here," muttered Peter ; " nay. then, I must no 
 longer withhold the dreaded secret from Luke, or Eanulph 
 may, indeed, wrest his possessions from him." 
 
 Reinforced by her companions, an elderly lady and a tall 
 handsome man, whose bearing and deportment bespoke him 
 to be a soldier, the fair stranger again ventured towards 
 Peter. 
 
 " You are the sexton," said she, addressing him in a voice 
 sweet and musical. 
 
 " I am," returned Peter. It was harmony succeeded by 
 dissonance. 
 
 " You, perhajjs, can tell us, then," said the elderly lady, 
 " whether the funeral is hkely to take place to-night ? we 
 thought it possible that the storm might altogether prevent 
 it." 
 
 " The storm is over, as nearly as may be," replied Peter. 
 " The body will soon be on its way. I am but now arrived 
 from the hall." 
 
 " Indeed !" exclaimed the lady. " None of the family will 
 jbe jiresent, I suppose. Who is the chief mourner ?" 
 
 "Young Sir lianulph !" answered the sexton. "There 
 will be more of the family than were expected,"' 
 
 " Is Sir Eanulph returned ?" asked the young lady, with 
 great agitation of manner. " I thought he was abroad ; that 
 he was not expected. Are you sure you are rightly in- 
 formed?" 
 
 " I parted with him at the haU not ten minutes since," re- 
 plied Peter. " He returned from France to-night most 
 unexpectedly."
 
 11 G ROOKWOOD. 
 
 " Oh, inotlier !" exclaimed the younger lady, " that this 
 should be — that I should meet him here. Why did we 
 come ? — let us depart." 
 
 "Impossible," replied her mother; "the storm forbids it. 
 This man's information is so strange, I scarce can credit 
 it. Are you sure you have asserted the truth ?" said she, 
 addressing Peter. 
 
 " I am not accustomed to be doubted," answered he. 
 " Other things as strange have happened at the hall." 
 
 *' What mean you ?" asked the gentleman, noticing this 
 last remark. 
 
 " You would not need to ask the question of me had you 
 been there, amongst the other guests," retorted Peter. 
 " Odd things, I tell you, have been done there this night, and 
 stranger things may occvir before the morning." 
 
 "You are insolent, sirrah. I comprehend you not." 
 
 " Enough ! I can comprehend i/mi," replied Peter, signi- 
 ficantly ; "I know the count of the mourners invited to this 
 ceremonial, and I am aware that there are three too many." 
 
 " Know you this saucy knave, mother ?" 
 
 " I cannot call him to mind, though I fancy I have seen 
 him before." 
 
 " My recollection serves me better, lady," intei^posed 
 Peter. " I remember one, who was once the proud heiress 
 of Rookwood — ay, proud and beautiful. Then the house was 
 filled with her gallant sviitors. Swords were crossed for her. 
 Hearts bled for her. Yet she favoured none, until one hap- 
 less hour. Sir Reginald Rookwood had a daughter ; Sir 
 Reginald lost a daughter. Ha ! — I see I am right. Well, 
 he is dead and buried ; and Reginald, his son, is dead like- 
 wise ; and Piers is on his road hither ; and you are the last, 
 as in the course of nature you miglit have been the first. 
 And, now that they are all gone, you do rightly to bury your 
 grievances with them." 
 
 " Silence, sirrah," exclaimed the gentleman, " or I will 
 beat your brains out with your own spade." 
 
 "No; let him sj^eak. Vavasour," said the lady, with an 
 expression of anguish ; " he has awakened thoughts of other 
 days." 
 
 " I have done," said Peter, "and must to work. Will you 
 descend with me, madam, into the sepulchre of your ancestry ? 
 All your family lie within— ay, and the Lady Eleanor, your 
 mother, amongst the numlier." 
 
 Mrs. Mowbray signified her assent, and the party pre- 
 pared to follow him.
 
 HOOKWOOD. 117 
 
 'I'tie sexton held the lantern, so as to throw its light upon 
 the steps as they entered the gloomy receptacle of the de- 
 parted. Eleanor half repented having ventured within its 
 dreary limits, so much did the appearance of the yawning 
 catacombs, surcharged with mortality, and, above all, the 
 ghostly figure of the grim knight, affect her with dread, as 
 she looked wistfully around. She required all the support 
 her brother's arm could afford her; nor was Mrs. Mowbray 
 altogether unmoved. 
 
 " And all the family are here interred, you say ?" inquired 
 the latter. 
 
 " All," replied the sexton. 
 
 " Where, then, lies Sir Eeginald's younger brother ?" 
 
 "Who?" exclaimed Peter, starting. 
 
 " Alan Rook wood." 
 
 " What of him ?" 
 
 " Nothing of moment. But I thought you could, perhaps, 
 inform me. He died young." 
 
 " He did," rej)lied 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, sin'ah ; even here I will not have him named so 
 to me." 
 '^ "Your pardon, madam," returned the sexton. "Great 
 cruelty was shown to the Lady Eleanor, and may well call 
 forth implacable 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." 
 
 " With what particular wrong dost thou charge Sir Regi- 
 nald ?" demanded Major Mowbray. " What injury did he 
 inflict upon his brother Alan ?" 
 
 " He wronged his brother's honour," replied the sexton ; 
 "he robbed him of his wife, poisoned his existence, and 
 hurried him to an untimely grave." 
 
 Eleanor shudderingly held back during this horrible nar- 
 ration, the hearing of which she would willingly have shunned, 
 had it been possible. 
 
 " Can this be true ?" asked the major. 
 
 " Too true, my son," replied Mrs. Mowbray, sorrowfully. 
 
 " And where lies the unfortunate Alan ?" asked Major 
 Mowbray.
 
 118 EOOKWOOD. 
 
 " 'Twixt two cross roads. Wliero else should the suicide 
 lie ?" 
 
 Evading any further question, Peter hastily tra.versed the 
 vault, elevating the light, so as to reveal the contents of each 
 
 fcell. One circumstance filled him with surj^rise and dismay 
 — he could nowhere perceive the coffin of his daughter. In 
 vain he peerecTifTto every catacomb — they were apparently 
 undisturbed ; and, with much internal marvelling and mis- 
 giving, Peter gave up the search. " That vision is now ex- 
 plained," muttered he ; " the body is removed, but by whom ? 
 Death ! can I doubt ? It must be Lady Eookwood — who else 
 can have any interest in its removal. She has acted boldly. 
 But she shall yet have reason to repent her temerity." As 
 he continued his search, his companions silently followed. 
 Suddenly he stopped, and signifying that aU was finished, 
 they not unwillingly quitted this abode of horror, leaving 
 him behind them. 
 
 •' It is a dreadful place," whispered Eleanor to her mother ; 
 " nor would I have visited it, had I conceived anything of its 
 hoiTors. And that strange man ! who or what is he ?" 
 
 " Ay, who is he ?" rejDeated Major Mowbray. 
 
 " I recollect him now," replied Mrs. Mowbray; " he is one 
 who has ever been connected with the family. He had a 
 daughter, whose beauty was her ruin : it is a sad tale ; I 
 caiinot tell it now : you have heard enough of misery and 
 guilt : but that may account for his bitterness of speech. He 
 was a dej)endent upon my poor brother." 
 
 " Poor man !" replied Eleanor ; " if he has been unfortu- 
 nate, 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 Eanulj)h Eookwood again. I can 
 scarcely support myself; I am sure I shall not venture to 
 look uj)on him." 
 
 " Had I dreamed of the likelihood of his attending the 
 ceremony, rest assured, dear Eleanor, we should not have 
 been here : but I was informed there was no possibility of 
 his return. Compose yourself, my child. It will be a trying 
 time to both of us ; but it is now inevitable." 
 
 At this moment the bell began to toll. " The procession 
 has started," said Peter, as he passed the Mowbrays. " That 
 hell 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."
 
 KOOKWOOD. lli^ 
 
 Peter hastened to tlie eliureh door, wliere lie stationed 
 himself, in company with a host of others equally ciu'ious. 
 Flickering lights in the distance, shining like stars through 
 the trees, showed them that the procession was collecting in 
 front of the hall. The rain had now entirely ceased; the 
 thunder muttered from afar, and the lightning seemed only 
 to lick the moisture fi'om the trees. The bell continued to 
 toll, and its loud booming awoke the drowsy echoes of the 
 valley. On the sudden, a solitary, startling concussion of 
 
 i thunder was heard ; and presently a man rushed down from 
 the belfry, with the tidings that he had seen a ball of fire fall 
 from a cloud right over the hall. Every ear was on the alert 
 for the next sound : none was heard. It was the crisis of 
 the storm. Still the funeral procession advanced not. The 
 strong sheen of the torchlight was still visible from the 
 bottom of the avenue, now disaj^pearing, now brightly glim- 
 mering, as if the bearers were hurrying to and fro amongst 
 the trees. It was evident that much confusion prevailed, and 
 that some misadventure had occurred. Each man muttered 
 to his neighbour-, and few were there who had not in a 
 measure surmised the cause of the delay. At this juncture, 
 a person without his hat, breathless with haste, and almost 
 palsied with fright, rushed through the midst of them, and, 
 stumbling over the threshold, fell headlong into the church. 
 
 " What's the mattei% Master Plant ? What has happened ? 
 Tell us ! Tell us !" exclaimed several voices simultaneously. 
 "Lord have mercy upon us!" cried Plant, gasping for 
 utterance, and not attempting to raise himself, " It's hor- 
 rible ! dreadful ! oh ! — oh !" 
 
 " What has happened ?" inquired Peter, approaching the 
 falle;i. man. 
 
 "And dost tlton need to ask, Peter Bi-adley? thou, who 
 foretold it all ? but I will not say what I think, though my 
 I tongue itches to tell thee the truth. Be satisfied, thy wizard's 
 I lore has served thee right — he is dead." 
 
 I "Who? Eanulph Rookwood! Has anything befallen 
 Vhim, or the prisoner, Luke Bradley ?" asked the sexton, with 
 eagerness. 
 
 A scream here burst forth from one who was standing 
 behind the group ; and, in spite of the efforts of her mother 
 to withhold her, Eleanor Mowbray rushed forward. 
 h Has aught happened to Sir Eanulph ?" asked she. 
 y Noa — noa — not to Sir Eanulph — he be with the body." 
 " Heaven be thanked for that !" exclaimed Eleanor. And 
 then, as ashamed of her own vehemence, and, it might seem,
 
 120 IIOOKWOOD. 
 
 apparent indifference to another's fate, she anquired who was 
 hurt ? 
 
 "It be poor neighbour Toft, that bo killed by a thmider- 
 bolt, ma'am," replied Plant. 
 
 Exclamations of horror burst from all arouiad. 
 
 No one was more surprised at this intelligence than the 
 sexton. Like many other seers, he had not, in all proba- 
 bility, calculated upon the fulfilment of his predictions, and 
 he now stared aghast at the extent of his own foreknoAvledge. 
 
 " T tell'ee what. Master Peter," said Plant, shaking his 
 bullet-head, "' it be well for thee thou didn't live in my 
 grandfather's time, or thou'dst ha' been ducked in a blanket ; 
 or maybe burnt at the stake, like Ridley and Latimer, as we 
 read on ; but however that may be, ye shall hear how poor 
 Toft's death came to pass, and nobody can tell'ee better nor 
 I, seeing I were near to him, poor fellow, at the time. Well, 
 we thought as how the storm were all over, and had all got 
 into order of march, and were just beginning to step up the 
 avenue, the coffin-bearers pushing lustily along, and the 
 torches shining grandly, when poor Simon Toft, who could 
 never travel well in liquor in his life, reeled to one side, and 
 staggering against the first huge lime-tree, sat himself down 
 beneath it — thou knowest the tree I mean." 
 
 " The tree of fate," returned Peter. " I ought, methinks, 
 to know it." 
 
 " Well, I were just stepping aside, to pick him up, when 
 all at once there comes such a crack of thunder, and whizzing 
 through the trees, flashed a great globe of red fire, so bright 
 and dazzlin', it nearly blinded me ; and when I opened my 
 eyes, winkdn' and waterin', I see'd that which blinded me 
 more even than the flash — that which had just afore been 
 poor Simon, but which was now a mass o' black smouldering 
 ashes, clean consumed and destroyed — his clothes rent to a 
 thousand tatters — the earth and stones tossed up, and 
 scattered all about, and a great splinter of the tree lying 
 beside him." 
 
 " God's will be done !" said the sexton ; " this is an awful 
 judgment." 
 
 " And Sathan cast down ; for this is a spice o' his handi- 
 work," muttered Plant ; adding, as he slunk away, " If ever 
 Peter Bradley do come to the blanket, dang me if I don't 
 lend a helpin' hand."
 
 ROOKWOOD. 121 
 
 IV. 
 
 THE FUNERAIi. 
 
 How Wee a silent stream , shaderl by night. 
 
 And gliding' softly with our windy sighs, 
 
 Moves the whole frame of this solemnity ! 
 
 Tears, sighs, and Llacks, filling the simile I 
 
 Whilst I, the only murmur in this grove 
 
 Of death, thus hollowly break forth. The Fa^al Dowry. 
 
 WoED being given that the funeral train was fast approach- 
 ing, the church door was thrown open, and the assemblage 
 divided in two lines to allow it admission. 
 
 Meanwhile, a striking change had taken place, even in this 
 brief period, in the appearance of the night. The sky, here- 
 tofore curtained with darkness, was now illumined by a 
 serene, soft moon, which, floating in a watery halo, tinged 
 
 I' with silvery radiance the edges of a few ghostly clouds that 
 hurried along the deep and starlit skies. The suddenness of 
 the change could not fail to excite surprise and admiration, 
 mingled with regret that the procession had not been delayed 
 until the present time. 
 
 Slowly and mournfully the train was seen to approach the 
 churchyard, winding, two by two, with melancholy step, 
 around the corner of the road. First came Doctor Small ; 
 then the mutes, with their sable panoply ; next, the torch- 
 bearers ; next, those who sustained the coffin, bending beneath 
 their ponderous burden, followed by Sir Ranidph, and a long 
 line of attendants, all plainly to be distinguished by the 
 flashing torchlight. There was a slight halt at the gate, and 
 the coffin changed supporters. 
 
 "Ill luck betide them!" ejaculated Peter; "could they 
 find no other place except that to halt at ? Must Sir Piers 
 be gatekeeper till next Yule? No," added he, seeing what 
 followed ; " it will be poor Toft, after all." 
 
 Following close upon the coffin came a rude shell, contain- 
 ing, as Peter rightly conjectured, the miserable remains of 
 Simon Toft, who had met his fate in the manner described by 
 Plant. The bolt of death glanced fi'om the tree -^vhich it first 
 struck, and reduced the unfortunate farmer to a heap of dust. 
 Universal consternation prevailed, and doubts were enter- 
 tained as to what course should be pursued. It was judged 
 best by Doctor Small to remove the remains at once to the 
 charnel-house. Thus, " unanointed, unaneled, with all his
 
 122 JROOKWOOD. 
 
 imperfections on his head," was poor Simon Toft, in one 
 brief second, in the twinkling of an eye, plunged from the 
 height of festivity to the darkness of the grave, and so 
 horribly disfigured, that scarce a vestige of humanity was 
 discernible in the mutilated mass that remained of him. 
 Truly may we be said to walk in blindness, and amidst deep 
 pitfalls ! 
 
 The chui'chyard was thronged by the mournful train. The 
 long array of dusky figures — the waving toi'chlight, gleaming 
 ruddily in the white moonshine — now glistening upon the 
 sombre habiliments of the bearers, and on their shrouded 
 load, now reflected upon the jagged branches of the yew- 
 trees, or falling upon the ivied buttresses of the ancient 
 church, constituted no unimpressive picture. Over all, like a 
 lamp hung in the still sky, shone the moon, shedding a sooth- 
 ing, spiritual lustre over the scene. 
 
 The organ broke into a solemn strain, as the coffin was 
 borne along the mid-aisle — the mourners following, with re- 
 verent step, and slow. It was deposited near the mouth of 
 the vault, the whole assemblage circling around it. Doctor 
 Small proceeded with the performance of that magnificent 
 service ajijiointod for the burial of the dead, in a tone as re- 
 markable for its sadness, as for its force and fervour. There 
 was a tear in every eye — a cloud on every brow. 
 
 Brightly illumined as was the whole building, there were 
 still some recesses which, owing to the intervention of heavy 
 pillars, were thrown into shade ; and in one of these, sup- 
 ported by her mother and brother, stood Eleanor, a weei>ing 
 witness of the scene. She beheld the coffin silently borne 
 along ; she saw one dark figure slowly following ; she knew 
 those pale features — oh, how pale they were ! A year had 
 wrought a fearful alteration ; she could scarce credit what she 
 beheld. He must, indeed, have suffered — deeply suffered ; 
 and her heart told her that his sorrows had been for her. 
 
 Many a wistful look, besides, was directed to the principal 
 figure in this ceremonial, Ranulph Eookwood. He was a 
 prey to unutterable anguish of soul ; his heart bled inwardly 
 for the father he had lost. Mechanically following the body 
 down the aisle, he had tak-eu his station near it, gazing with 
 confused vision upon the bystanders ; had listened, with a sad 
 composure, to the expressive delivery of Small, until he read 
 — " For man toalketh in a vain sliadoiv and dlfiquieteth himself 
 in vain; he heapeth np riches, and cannot tell ivho shall gather 
 them."
 
 ROOK WOOD. 123 
 
 " Verily !" exclaimed a deep voice ; and Eannlpli looking 
 round, met the eyes of Peter Bradley fixed full upon him. 
 But it was evidently not the sexton who had spoken. 
 
 Small continued the service. He arrived at tliis verse : — ■ 
 " Tliou hast set our misdeeds before thee ; and our secret sins in 
 the iif/hf of Thy countenance." 
 
 " Even so !" exclaimed the voice ; and as Ranulph raised 
 his eyes in the direction of the sound, he thought he saw a 
 dark figure, muffled in a cloak, disappear behind one of the 
 pillars. He bestowed, however, at the moment, little thought 
 upon this incident. His heart melted within him ; and lean- 
 ing his face upon his hand, he wept aloud. 
 
 " Command yourself, I entreat of you, my dear Sir 
 Eanulph," said Doctor Small, as soon as the service was 
 finished, " and suffer this melancholy ceremonial to be com- 
 pleted." Saying which, he gently withdrew Ranulph from 
 his supp»ort, and the coffin was lowered into the vault. 
 
 Ranulph remained for some time in the extremity of sor- 
 row. 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 !" 
 
 " Ranulph !" 
 
 " Is it possible ? Do I indeed behold you, Eleanor !" 
 
 No other word was spoken. They rushed into each other's 
 arms. Oh ! sad — sad is the lover's parting — no pang so keen ; 
 but if life hath a zest more exquisite than others— if felicity 
 hath one drop more racy than the rest in her honeyed cup, it 
 is the hajipiness enjoyed in such a union as the present. To 
 say that he was as one raised from the depths of misery, by 
 some angel comforter, were a feeble comparison of the trans- 
 port of Ranulph. To paint the thrilling delight of Eleanor — 
 the trembling tenderness — the fond abandonment which van- 
 quished all her maiden scruples, would be impossible. Re- 
 luctantly yielding — fearing, yet complying, her lips were 
 sealed in one long, loving kiss, the sanctifying pledge of their 
 tried affection. 
 
 "Eleanor, dear Eleanor," exclaimed Ranulph, "though I 
 hold you within my arms — though each nerve within my 
 frame assures me of your presence — though I look into those 
 eyes, which seem fi'aughb with greater endearment than ever 
 I have known them wear — though I see and feel, and know
 
 124 ROOKWOOD. 
 
 all this, so sudden, so -unlooked for is the happiness, that I 
 could almost doubt its reality. Say to what blessed circum- 
 stance I am indebted for this unlooked-for happiness." 
 
 " We are staying not far hence, with friends, dear Eanulph ; 
 and my mother, hearing of Sir Piers Eookwood's death, and 
 wishing to bury all animosity with him, resolved to be pre- 
 sent at the sad ceremony. We were told you could not be 
 here." 
 
 " And would my presence have prevented your attendance, 
 Eleanor ?" 
 
 " Not that, dear Eanulph ; but " 
 
 "But what?" 
 
 At this moment the advance of Mrs. Mowbray offered an 
 interruption to their further discourse. 
 
 " My son and I appear to be secondary in your regards, Sir 
 Eanulph," said she, gravely. 
 
 " Sir Eanulph !" 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 ; the delight of a 
 meeting, so unexpected, with your daughter must plead my 
 apology." 
 
 " None is wanting, Sir Eanidph," 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 
 Eanulph, looking at Eleanor ; " it rs now past, and I would 
 fain hope that a brighter day is dawning." His heart an- 
 swered, 'twas but a hope. 
 
 " You were unlooked for here to-night, Sir Eanulph," said 
 Mrs. Mowbray ; " by us, at least : we were told you were 
 abroad." 
 
 " You were rightly informed, madam," replied Eanulph. 
 '" I only arrived this evening from Bordeaux." 
 
 " I am glad you are returned. We are at present on a 
 visit with your neighbours, the Davenhams, at Braybrook, 
 and t list we shall see you there." 
 
 " I will ride over to-morrow," replied Eanulph ; " there is 
 much on which I would consult you all. I would have ven- 
 tured to request the favour of your company at Eookwood, 
 had the occasion been other than the present." 
 
 " And I would willingly have accepted your invitation," 
 returned Mrs. Mowbray ; "I should like to see the old house 
 once mor . During your father's lifetime I could not approach
 
 ROOKWOOD. 125 
 
 it. Tou are lord of broad lands, Sir Ranulph — a goodly 
 inheritance." 
 
 '' Madam !" 
 
 " And a proud title, whicli you will grace well, I doubt not. 
 The first, the noblest of our house, was he from whom you 
 deris^e your name. You are the third Sir Ranulph ; the first 
 founded the house of Roolcvvood ; the next advanced it ; 'tis 
 for you to raise its glory to its height." 
 
 " Alas ! madam, I have no such thought." 
 
 " Wherefore not ? You are young, wealthy, powerful. 
 With such domains as those of Eookwood — with such a title 
 as its lord can claim, nought should be too high for your 
 aspirations." 
 
 "I aspire to nothing, madam, but your daughter's hand; 
 and even that I will not venture to solicit until you are 
 acquainted with " And he hesitated. 
 
 " With what ?" asked Mrs. Mowbray, in surprise. 
 
 " A singular, and to me most perplexing event has occurred 
 to-night," replied Eanulph, " which may materially affect my 
 future fortunes." 
 
 "Indeed!" exclaimed Mrs. Mowbray. "Does it relate to 
 your mother ?" 
 
 " Excuse my answering the question now, madam," replied 
 Eanulph ; " you shall know all to-morrow." 
 
 " Ay, to-morrow, dear Eanulph," said Eleanor ; " and 
 whatever that morrow may bring forth, it will bring happi- 
 ness to me, if you are bearer of the tidings." 
 
 " I shall expect your coming with impatience," said Mrs. 
 Mowbray. 
 
 " And I," added Major Mowbray, who had listened thus 
 far in silence, " would offer you my services in any way you 
 think they would be useful. Command me as you think 
 fitting." 
 
 " I thank you heartily," returned Eanulph. " To-morrow 
 you shall learn all. Meanwhile, it shall be my business to 
 investigate the truth or falsehood of the statement I have 
 heard, ere I report it to you. Till then, farewell !" 
 
 As they issued from the church it was grey dawn. Mrs. 
 Mowbray's carriage stood at the door. The party entered it ; 
 and, accompanied by Doctor Small, whom he found within, in 
 the vestry, Eanulph walked towards the hall, where a fresh 
 surprise awaited him
 
 126 ROOKWOOD. 
 
 THE CAPTIVE. 
 
 Black Will. Whicli is the place where we're to be concealed P 
 
 Green. This inner room. 
 
 Bladi Will. 'Tis well. The word is, " Now I take you." 
 
 Arden of Feversham. 
 
 Guarded by the two young farmers who had displayed so 
 much address in seizing him, Luke, meanwhile, had been 
 conveyed in safety to the small chamber in the eastern wing, 
 destined by Mr. Coates to be his place of confinement for the 
 night. The room, or rather closet, opening from another 
 room, was extremely well adapted for the purpose, having no 
 perceptible outlet ; being defended, on either side, by thick 
 partition walls of the hardest oak, and at the extremity by 
 the solid masonry of the mansion. It was, in fact, a remnant 
 of the building anterior to the first Sir Rauulph's day ; and 
 the narrow limits of Luke's cell had been erected long before 
 the date of his earliest progenitor. Having seen their prisoner 
 safely bestowed, the room was carefully examined, every board 
 sounded, every crevice and corner peered into, by the curious 
 eye of the little lawyer ; and nothing being found insecure, 
 the light was removed, the door locked, the rustic constables 
 dismissed, and a brace of pistols having been loaded and laid 
 on the table, Mr. Coates pronounced himself thoroughly satis- 
 fied, and quite comfortable. 
 
 " Comfortable !" Titus heaved a sigh as he echoed the 
 word. He felt anything but comfortable. His heart was 
 with the body all the while. He thought of the splendour 
 of the funeral, the torches, the illumined church, his own 
 dignified march down the aisle, and the effect he expected to 
 produce amongst the bewildered rustics. He thought of all 
 these things, and cursed Luke by all the saints in the calendar. 
 The sight of the musty old apartment, hung round with faded 
 arras, which, as he said, " smelt of nothing but rats and 
 ghosts, and such like varmint," did not serve to inspirit him ; 
 and the proper equilibrium of his temper was not completely 
 restored until the appearance of the butler, with all the 
 requisites for the manufacture of punch, afforded him some 
 prospective solace. 
 
 "And what are they about now, Tim?" asked Titus. 
 
 " All as jolly as can be," answered the domestic ; " Doctor 
 Small is just about about to pronounce the funeral 'ration."
 
 ROOKWOOD. 127 
 
 " Devil take it," ejaculated Titus, " there's another miss. 
 Couldn't I just slip out and hear that ?" 
 
 " On no account," said Coates. " Consider, Sir Eanulph 
 is there." 
 
 " Well, well," rejoined Titus, heaving a deep sigh, and 
 squeezing a lemon; " are you sure this is biling water, Tim? 
 You know, I'm mighty particular." 
 
 " Perfectly aware of it, sir." 
 
 " Ah, Tim, do you recollect the way I used to brew for 
 poor Sir Piers, with a bunch of red ciu-rants at the bottom of 
 the glass ? And then to think that, after all, I should be left 
 out of his funeral — it's the height of barbarity. Tim, this 
 rum of yours is poor stuff — there's no punch worth the 
 trouble of drinking, except whisky pmich. A glass of right 
 potheen, straw-colour, peat-flavoiu-, ten degrees over proof, 
 would be the only thing to drown my cares. Any such thing 
 in the cellar ? There used to be an odd bottle or so, Tim — 
 in the left bin, near the door." 
 
 " Pve a notion there be," retui-ned Timothy. " I'll try the 
 bin your honour mentions, and if I can lay hands upon a 
 bottle, you shall have it, you may depend." 
 
 The butler dejxirted, and Titus, emulating Mr. Coates, who 
 had already enveloped himself, like Juno at the approach of 
 Ixion, in a cloud, proceeded to light his pipe. 
 
 Luke, meanwhile, had been left alone, without light. He 
 had much to meditate upon, and with nought to check the 
 current of his thoughts, he pensively revolved his present 
 situation and futm-e prospects. The future was gloomy 
 enough — the present fraught with danger. And now that 
 the fever of excitement was passed, he severely reproached 
 himself for his precipitancy. 
 
 His mind, by degrees, assumed a more tranquil state ; and, 
 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 Cofites 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 retii'ed. 
 
 " One may see, with half an eye, that you're not used to a 
 feather bed, my fi-iend," said Titus, as the door was locked. 
 " By the powers, he's a tall chap, any how — why his feet 
 almost touch the door. I should say that room was a matter 
 of six feet long, Mr. Coates." 
 
 " Exactly six feet, sir."
 
 128 ROOKWOOD. 
 
 " Well, that's a good guess. Curse that ugly rascal, Tim ; 
 he's never brought the whisky. But I'll be even with him 
 to-morrow. Couldn't you just see to the prisoner for ten 
 minutes, Mr. Coates ?" 
 
 " Not ten seconds. I shall report you, if you stir from 
 your post." 
 
 Here the door was opened, and Tim entered with the whisky. 
 
 " Arrah ! by my soul, Tim, and here you are at last — 
 imcork it, man, and give us a thimbleful — blob ! there goes 
 the stopper — here's a glass" — smacking his lips — " whist, 
 Tim, another drop — stuff like this will aiever hurt a body. 
 Mr. Coates, try it— no — I thought you'd be a man of more 
 taste." 
 
 " I must limit you to a certain quantity," replied Coates, 
 " or you will not be fit to keep gviard — another glass must be 
 the extent of yoiir allowance." 
 
 " Another glass ! and do you think I'll submit to any such 
 iniquitous proposition ?" 
 
 " Beg pardon, gentlemen," said Tim ; " but her ladyship 
 desires me to tell you both, that she trusts you will keep the 
 strictest watch upon the prisoner. I have the same message 
 also from Sir Eanulph." 
 
 " Do you hear that P" said Coates. 
 
 " And what are they all about now, Tim ?" groaned Titus. 
 
 " Just starting, sir," returned Tim ; " and, indeed, I must 
 not lose my time gossiping here, for I be wanted below. You 
 must be pleased to take care of yourselves, gentlemen, for an 
 hour or so, for there will be only a few women-kind left in 
 the house. The storm's just over, and the men are all 
 lighting their torches. Oh, it's a grand sight!" And off set 
 Tim. 
 
 " Bad luck to myself, anyhow," ejaculated Titus ; " this is 
 more than I can bear — I've had enough of this watch and 
 ward business — if the prisoner stirs, shoot him, if you think 
 proper — I'll be back in an hour." 
 
 " I tell you what, Mr. Tyrconnel," said Coates, coolly, 
 taking up the pistol from the table, " I'm a man of few 
 words, but those few are, I hope, to the purpose, and I'd 
 have you to know, if you stir from that chair, or attempt to 
 leave the room, dammee but I'U send a brace of bullets after 
 you. I'm serious, I assure you. Saying which, he cocked 
 the pistol. 
 
 By way of reply to this menace, Titus deliberately filled a 
 stiff glass of whisky and water.
 
 ROOKWOOi). 129 
 
 " That's your last glass," said the inexorable Coates. 
 
 To return once more to Luke. He slept uneasily for some 
 short space, and was awakened by a sound which reached his 
 dreaming ears, and connected itself with the visions that 
 slumber was weaving around him. It was some moments 
 before he could distinctly remember where he was. He 
 would not venture to sleep again, though he felt over- 
 v/helmed by drowsiness — there was a fixed pain at his heart, 
 as if circulation were suspended. Changing his posture, he 
 raised himself upon one arm ; he then became aware of a 
 scratching noise, somewhat similar to the sound he had heard 
 in bis di'eam, and perceived a light gleaming through a cre- 
 vice in the oaken partition. His attention was immediately 
 arrested, and placing his eye close to the chink, distinctly saw 
 a dark lantern burning ; and by its light, a man filing some 
 implements of house-breaking. The light fell before the 
 hard features of the man, with whose countenance Luke was 
 familiar ; and although only one person came within the 
 scope of his view, Luke could make out, from a muttered 
 conversation that was canned on, that he had a companion. 
 The parties were near to him, and though speaking in a low 
 tone, Luke's quick ear caught the following : 
 
 " What keeps Jack Palmer, I wonder ?" said he of the 
 file. " We're all ready for the fakement — pops primed — ^^and 
 I tell you what, Rob Kust, I've made my clasp-knife as sharp 
 as a razor, and dammee, if Lady Rookwood offers any resist- 
 ance, I'll spoil her talking in future, I promise you." 
 
 Suppressed laughter, from Rust, followed this speech. That 
 laugh made Luke's blood run cold within his veins. 
 
 " Harkee, Dick Wilder, you're a reg'lar out-and-outer, and 
 stops at nothing, and cm*se me if I'd think any more of 
 it than yourself. But Jack's as squeamish of bloodshed as 
 young miss that cries at her cut finger. It's the safer plan. 
 Say what you will, nothing but that will stop a woman's 
 tongue." 
 
 " I shall make short work with her ladyship to-night, any 
 how. Hist ! here Jack comes." 
 
 A footstep crossed in the room, and, presently afterwards, 
 exclamations of surprise and smothered laughter were heard 
 from the parties. 
 
 " Bravo, Jack ! famous ! That disguise would deceive the 
 devil himself." 
 
 " And now, my lads," said the new comer, " is all right?" 
 
 " Right and tight,"
 
 130 EOOKWOOt). 
 
 " Nothing forgotten ?" 
 
 "Nothing." 
 
 " Then off with your stamps, and on with your list slippers ; 
 not a word. Follow me, and for your lives, don't move a 
 step, but as I direct you. The word must be, ' Sir Piers 
 Bookivood calls.' We'll overhaul the swag here, when the 
 speak is spoken over. This crack may make us all for life ; 
 and if you.'ll follow my directions implicitly, we'll do the trick 
 in style. This slum must be our rendezvous, when all's over ; 
 for hark ye, my lads, I'll not budge an inch till Luke 
 Bradley be set free. He's an old friend, and I always stick 
 by old friends. I'd do the same for one of you if you were 
 in the same scrape, so damn you, no flinching ; besides, I owe 
 that spider-shank'd, snivelling, split-cause Coatcs, who stands 
 sentry, a grudge, and I'll pay him off, as Paul did the 
 Ephesians. You may crop his ears, or slit his tongue as you 
 would a magpie's, or any other chattering varmint ; make 
 him sign his own testament, or treat him with a touch of 
 youi- Habeas Co7jnts Act, if you think proper, or give him a 
 taste of blue plumb. One thing only I stipulate, that you 
 don't hurt that fat, mutton-headed Broganeer, whatever he 
 may say or do ; he's a devihsh good fellow. And now to 
 business." 
 
 Saying which, they noiselessly departed. But carefully as 
 the door was closed, Liike's ear could detect the sound. His 
 blood boiled with indignation ; and he exj)erienced what all 
 must have felt, who have been similarly situated, with the 
 will, but not the power, to assist another — a sensation almost 
 approaching to torture. At this moment a distant scream 
 burst upon his ears — another — he hesitated no longer. With 
 all his force, he thundered at the door. 
 
 " What do you want, rascal ?" cried Coates from without. 
 
 " There are robbers in the house." 
 
 " Thank you for the information. There is one I know of 
 already." 
 
 " Fool, they are in Lady Eookwood's room ; run to her 
 assistance." 
 
 " A bkeiy story, and leave you here." 
 
 " Do you hear that scream ?" 
 
 " Eh, what's that ? I do hear something." 
 
 Here Luke dashed with all his force against the door. It 
 yielded to the blow, and he stood before the astonished 
 attorney. 
 
 "Advance a footstep, villain," exclaimed Coates, present-
 
 ROOKV/OOD. lol 
 
 ing both his pistols, " and I lodge a brace of balls in your 
 head." 
 
 "Listen to me," said Luke; "the robbers are in Lady 
 Eookwood's chamber — they will plunder the place of every- 
 thing — perhaps murder her. Fly to her assistance, I will 
 accompany you — assist you — it is your only chance." 
 
 " J/y only chance — i/our only chance. Do you take me for 
 a greenhorn ? This is a poor subterfuge ; could you not 
 have vamped up something better ? Get back to your own 
 room, or I shall make no more of shooting you than I would 
 of snuffing that candle." 
 
 "Be advised, sir," continued Luke. " There are three of 
 them — give me a pistol, and fear nothing." 
 
 " Give you a pistol ! Ha, ha ! — to be its mark myself. 
 You are an amusing rascal, I will say." 
 
 " Sir, I tell you not a moment is to be lost. Is life 
 nothing ? Lady Eookwood may be murdered." 
 
 " I tell you, once for all, it won't do. Go back to your 
 room, or take the consequences." 
 
 " By the powers ! but it shall do, anyhow," exclaimed 
 Titus, flinging himself upon the attorney, and holding botl/ 
 his arms ; " you have bullied me long enough. I'm sure th4 
 lad's in the right." 
 
 Luke snatched the pistols from the hands of Coates. 
 
 " Very well, Mr. Tyrconnel ; very well, sir," cried the at- 
 torney, boiling with vsrath. 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." 
 
 " Eepent be d — d," replied Titus. " I shall never repent 
 a good-natured action." 
 
 " Follow me," cried Luke ; " settle your disputes hereafter. 
 Quick, or we shall be too late." 
 
 Coates bustled after him, and Titus, putting the neck of 
 the forbidden whisky bottle to his lips, and gulping down a 
 hasty mouthful, snatched up a rusty poker, and followed the 
 party with more alacrity than might have been expected from 
 BO portly a personage. 
 
 E 2
 
 132 noOKWOOD. 
 
 VI. 
 
 THE APPARITION. 
 
 Oihhet. Well, gentlemen, 'tis a fine night for our entei-prise. 
 
 Hounslow. Dark as bell. 
 
 BagsJiot. And blows like tlie devil. 
 
 Boniface. You'll have no creature to deal with but the ladies. 
 
 Gibbet. And I can assure you, friend, thei-e's a great deal of address, and 
 good manners, in robbing a lady. I am the most of a gentleman, that way, 
 that ever travelled the road. Beaux Utralagem. 
 
 Accompanied bylier son, Lady Eookwood, on quitting the 
 chamber of the dead, returned to her own room. She then 
 renewed all her arguments ; had recourse to passionate sup- 
 plications — to violent threats ; but without effect. Ranulph 
 maintained profound silence. Passion, as it ever doth, de- 
 feated its own ends ; and Lady Eookwood, seeing the ill 
 effect her anger would probably produce, gradually softened 
 the asperity of her manner, and suffered him to depart. 
 
 Left to herself, and to the communings of her own troubled 
 spirit, her fortitude, in a measure, forsook her, under the 
 pressure of the difficulties by which she was environed. 
 There was no plan she could devise — ^no scheme adopt, tin- 
 attended with peril. She nnist act alone — with promptitude, 
 and secrecy. To win her son over was her chief desire, and 
 that, at all hazards, she was resolved to do. But how ? She 
 knew of only one point on which he was vuhierable — his love 
 for Eleanor Mowbray. By raising doubts in his mind, and 
 placing fresh difficulties in his path, she might compel him 
 to acquiesce in her machinations, as a necessary means of 
 accomplishing his own object. This she hoped to effect. 
 Still there was a depth of resolution in the placid <^tream of 
 Ranulph's character, which she had often noticed with appre- 
 hension. Aware of his firmness, she dreaded lest his sense 
 of justice should be stronger than his passion. 
 
 As she wove these webs of darkness, fear hitherto unknown, 
 took possession of her soul. She listened to the howling of 
 the wind — to the vibration of the rafters — to the thunder's 
 roar, and to the hissing rain ; till she, who never trembled 
 at the thought of danger, became filled with vague uneasi- 
 ness Lights were ordered ; and when her old attendant 
 returned, Lady Eookwood fixed a look so wistful upon her, 
 that Agnes ventured to address her. 
 
 "Bless you, my lady," said the ancient handmaiden, trem-
 
 KOOKWOOI). 133 
 
 bling:, " you loolc vory iia]c, and no wonder. I feel sick at 
 heart, too. Oh ! 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 r 
 
 " Of Sir Piers, my lady ; for though he's dead, I don't 
 think he's gone." 
 
 " How ?" 
 
 " 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 am 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. Oh, it's a blessed thing to live with an easy con- 
 science — a thrice blessed thing to die with an easy one, and 
 that's what I never shall, I'm afearcl. Poor Sir Piers ! I'd 
 mumble a prayer for him, if I durst." 
 
 " Leave me," said Lady Rookwood, impatiently. 
 
 And Agnes quitted the room. 
 
 " What if the dead can return ?" thought Lady Eookwood. 
 "All men doubt it, yet all men believe it. I would not 
 believe it, were there not a creeping horror that overmasters 
 me, when I think of the state beyond the grave — that inter- 
 mediate state, for such it must be, betwixt heaven or hell, 
 when the body lieth mouldering in the ground, and the soul 
 survives, to wander, unconfined, until the hour of doom. And 
 doth the soul survive when disenthralled ? Is it dependent 
 on the body ? Does it perish with the body ? These are 
 doubts I cannot resolve. But if I deemed there was no 
 future state, this hand should at once liberate me from my 
 own weaknesses — my fears — my life. There is but one ■path to 
 acquire that knowledge, which once taken can neve» !he re- 
 traced. I am content to live — while living to be feared — it 
 maybe, hated; when dead, to be contemned— yet still re- 
 j membered. Ha ! what sound was that ? A stifled scream ! 
 1 Agnes ! — without there ! She is full of fears. I am not free 
 Ifrom them myself, but I will shake them off. This will divert 
 itheir channel," continued she, drawing from her bosom the 
 imarriage certificate. " This will arouse the torpid current 
 j jof my blood — ' Ficrs liookioood to Susan Bradley.' And by 
 jw^hom was it solemnized ? The name is Checklej — Richard
 
 134 ROOKWOOD. 
 
 Checkley. Ha ! I bethink me, a Papist priest — a recusant — 
 who was for some time an inmate of the hall. I have heard 
 of this man — he was afterwards imprisoned, but escaped— he 
 is either dead, or in a foreign land. No witnesses — 'tis well ! 
 Methinks Sir Piers Eookwood did well to preserve this. It 
 shall light his funeral pyre. Would he could now behold me, 
 as I consume it !" 
 
 She held the paper in the direction of the candle ; but, ere 
 it could touch the flame, it dropped from her hand. As if her 
 horrible wish had been granted, before her stood the figure 
 of her husband ! Lady Eookwood started not. Wo sign of 
 trepidation or alarm, save the sudden stiffening of her form, 
 was betrayed. Her bosom ceased to palpitate — her respira- 
 tion stopped — her eyes were fixed upon the apparition. 
 
 The figure appeared to regard her sternly. It was at some 
 little distance, within the shade cast by the lofty bedstead. 
 Still she could distinctly discern it. There was no ocidar de- 
 ception ; it was attired in the costume Sir Piers was wont to 
 wear — a hunting dress. All that her son had told her rushed 
 to her recollection. The phantom advanced. Its countenance 
 was pale, and wore a gloomy frown. 
 
 "What would you destroy?" demanded the apparition, in 
 a hollow tone. 
 
 " The evidence of " 
 
 " What ?" 
 " Your marriage." 
 " With yourself, accursed woman ?" 
 " With Susan Bradley." 
 
 "Blood and thunder," shouted the figure, in an altered 
 tone. " Married to her ! then Luke is legitimate, and heir 
 to this estate !" Whereupon the apj^arition rushed to the 
 table, and laid a very svibstantial grasp upon the document. 
 "A marriage certificate !" ejaculated the spectre; " here's a 
 piece of luck ! It ain't often in our lottery life we draw a 
 prize like this. One way or the other, it must turn up a few 
 cool thousands." 
 
 " Restore that paper, villain," exclaimed Lady Eookwood, 
 recovering all the audacity natiiral to her character, the in- 
 stant she discovered the earthly natiu-e of the intruder; 
 "restore it, or, by Heaven, you shall rue your temerity." 
 
 " Softly, softly," replied the pseudo-phantom, with one 
 hand j)ushing back the lady, while the other conveyed the 
 precious document to the custody of his nether man — 
 "softly," said he, giving the buckskiii pocket a slap — "two
 
 ROOKWUOD. 135 
 
 words to that, my lady. I know its value as well as your- 
 self, and must make my market. The highest offer has me, 
 your ladyship ; he's but a poor auctioneer that knocks down 
 his ware when only one bidder is present. Luke Bradley, or, 
 as 1 find he now is, Sir Luke Rookwood, may come down 
 more handsomely." 
 
 " Who are you, ruf&an, and to what end is this masque- 
 rade assumed ? If for the purpose of terrifying me into 
 compliance with the schemes of that madman, Luke Bradley, 
 whom I presume to be your confederate, your labour is mis- 
 spent — ^yoi/r stolen disguise has no more weight with me than 
 his forged claims." 
 
 " Forged claims. Egad, he must be a clever hand to have 
 forged that certificate. Tour ladyship, however, is in error. 
 Sir Luke Eookwood is no associate of mine ; I am his late 
 father's fi'icnd. But I have no time to bandy talk. What 
 money have you in the house ? Be alive." 
 
 " You are a robber, then ?" 
 
 " Not I. I'm a tax-gatherer — a collector of Rich-Rates — 
 ha ! ha ! What plate have you got ? Nay, don't be alarmed 
 — take it quietly — these things can't be helped— better make 
 up your mind to it without more ado — much the best plan — 
 no screaming, it may injure your lungs, and can alarm no- 
 "body. Tour maids have done as much before— it's beneath 
 your dignity to make so much noise. So, you will not 
 heed me ? As you. will." Saying which, he deliberately cut 
 the bell-cord, and drew out a brace of pistols at the same time. 
 
 " Agnes !" shrieked Lady Rookwood, now seriously alarmed. 
 
 " I must caution your ladyship to be silent," said the rob- 
 ber, who, as our readers will no doubt have already con- 
 jectured, was no other than the redoubted Jack Palmer. 
 "Agnes^is already disposed of," said he, cocking a pistol. 
 " 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 like rudeness. I must 
 use a little force of the gentlest kind. Perhaps you wiU 
 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. What ho ! ' Sir Piers Rookwood 
 calls ' "
 
 136 ROOKWOOD. 
 
 " Ready," cried a voice. 
 
 " That's the word," rejoined another ; " ready," and imme- 
 diately two men, their features entirely hidden by a shroud 
 of black crape, accoutred in rough attii*e, and each armed 
 with pistols, rushed into the room. 
 
 " Lend a hand," said Jack. 
 
 Even in this perilous extremity, Lady Rookwood's courage 
 did not desert her. Anticipating their purpose, ere her 
 assailants could reach her, she extricated herself from Pal- 
 mer's grasp, and rushed upon the foremost so unexpectedly, 
 that, before the man could seize her, she snatched a pistol 
 from his hand, and presented it at the group with an aspect 
 like that of a tigress at bay — her eye wandering from one to 
 the other, as if selecting a mark. 
 
 There was a pause of a few seconds, in which the men 
 glanced at the lady, and then at their leader. Jack looked 
 blank. 
 
 " Hem !" said he, coolly ; " this is something new — dis- 
 armed—defied by a petticoat. Hark ye, Rob Rust; the 
 disgrace rests with you. Clear your character by securing 
 her at once. What ! afraid of a woman ?" 
 
 " A woman ?" repeated Rust, in a surly tone ; " devilish 
 like a woman, indeed. Few men could do what she has 
 done. Give the word, and I fire. As to seizmg her, that's 
 more than I'll engage to do," 
 
 " Then damn you for a coward," said Jack. " I will steer 
 clear of blood — if I can heljD it. Come, madam, suiTender, 
 like the more sensible part of your sex, at discretion. Tou 
 will find resistance of no avail." And he stepped boldly to- 
 wards her. 
 
 Lady Rookwood pulled the trigger. The pistol flashed in 
 •(he 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 ho, 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, madam, I must take the liberty of again handing 
 you to a seat. Dick Wilder, the cord — quick. It distresses 
 me to proceed to such lengths with your ladyship — but saf© 
 bind, safe find, as Mr. Coates would say." 
 
 " Tou will not bind me, yuffiazi."
 
 EOOKWOOD. 137 
 
 " Your ladysliip is very much mistaken — I have no alter- 
 native — your ladyship's wi*ist is far too dexterous to be at 
 liberty. I must furthermore request of your ladyship to 
 be less vociferous — you iuteiTupt business, which should be 
 transacted with silence and deliberation." 
 
 Lady Eookwood'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 iipon her recollection, for the first 
 time, that Coatos and Tyrconnel, who were in charge of 
 her captive in the lower corridor, might be summoned to her 
 assistance. This idea no sooner crossed her mind than she 
 uttered a loud and prolonged scream. 
 
 " Damnation !" cried Jack ; " civility is wasted here. Givt> 
 me the gag, Bob !" 
 
 " Better slit her squeaking-pipe at once," replied Rust, 
 drawing his clas2:>ed knife ; " she'll thwart everything." 
 
 " The gag, I say, not that." 
 
 " I can't find the gag," exclaimed Wilder, savagely. " Leave 
 Rob Rust to manage her — he'll silence her, I warrant you, 
 while you and I rummage the room." 
 
 " Ay, leave her to me," said the other miscreant. " Go 
 about your business, and take no heed. Her hands are fast — 
 she can't scratch — I'll do it with a single gash — send her to 
 join her lord, whom she loved so well, before he's under 
 ground. They'll have something to see when they come 
 home from the master's funeral — their mistress cut and dry 
 for another. Ho, ho !" 
 
 " Mercy, mercy !" shrieked Lady Rookwood. 
 
 " Ay, ay, I'll be merciful," said Rvist, 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 ; no bloodshed," said Jack, authoritatively ; 
 " I'll find some other way to gag the jade." 
 
 At this moment, a noise of rapid footsteps was heard within 
 the passage. 
 
 " Assistance comes," screamed Lady Rookwood. " Help ! 
 help !" 
 
 " To the door," cried Jack. The words were scarcely out 
 of his mouth before Luke dashed into the room, followed by 
 Coates and Tyrconnel. 
 
 Palmer and his companions levelled their pistols at the 
 intruders, and the latter would have fired ; but Jack's keen 
 eye having discerned Luke amongst the foremost, checked
 
 138 EOOKWOOD. 
 
 further hostilities for the present. Lady Eookwood, mean- 
 while, finding herself free from restraint, rushed towards her 
 deliverers, and crouched beneath Luke's protecting arms, 
 which were extended, pistol in hand, over her head. Behind 
 them stood Titus Tyrconnel, flourishing the poker, and Mr. 
 Coates, who, upon the sight of so much warlike preparation, 
 began somewhat to repent having rushed so precipitately 
 into the lion's den. 
 
 " Luke Bradley !" exclaimed Palmer, stepping forward, 
 
 " Luke Bradley !" echoed Lady Eookwood, recoiling, and 
 staring into his face. 
 
 " Fear nothing, madam," cried Luke. " I am here to assist 
 you — I will defend you with my life," 
 
 " Vim defend me !" exclaimed Lady Rookwood, doubtfully. 
 
 " Even J," 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 hfe again ? A ghost ! a ghost !" 
 
 " By mji soul," cried Titus, " it's the first ghost I ever 
 heard of that committed a burglary in its own house, and on 
 the night of the body's burial, too. But who the devil are 
 these ? maybe they're ghosts Hkewiso." 
 
 " They are," said Palmer, in a hollow tone, mimicking the 
 voice of Sir Piers, " attendant spirits. We are come for this 
 woman ; her time is out ; so no more palavering, Titus. 
 Lend a hand to take her to the chiirchyard, and be d — d 
 to you." 
 
 " Upon my conscience, Mr. Coates," cried Titus, " it's 
 either the devil or Sir Piers. We'll only be in the way here. 
 He's only just settling his old scores with his lady, I 
 thought it would come to this long ago. We'd best beat a 
 retreat." 
 
 Jack took advantage of the momentary confusion created 
 by this incidental alarm at his disguise, to direct Rust to- 
 wards the door by which the new comers had entered ; and, 
 this being accomplished, he burst into aloud laugh. 
 
 "What! not know me ?" cried he ; "not know your old 
 friend with a new face, Luke ? Nor you, Titus ? Nor you, 
 who can see through a millstone, lawyer Coates, don't you 
 recognise " 
 
 " Jack Palmer, as I'm a sinner !" cried Titus. " Why, 
 this beats Banaghan. Arrah ! Jack, honey, what does this
 
 EOOKWOOD. 139 
 
 mean ? Is it yourself I see in sucli comjjany ? You're not 
 robbing in earnest ?" 
 
 " Indeed but I am, friend Titus," exclaimed Jack ; " and it 
 is my own self you see. I just took the liberty of borrowing 
 Sir Piers's old hunting-coat from the justice-room. You said 
 my toggery wouldn't do for the funeral. I'm no o.ther than 
 plain Jack Palmer, after all." 
 
 " With half-a-dozen aliases at your back, I dare say," cried 
 Coates. " / suspected you all along. All your praise of 
 highwaymen was not lost upon me. No, no ; I can. see into 
 a millstone, be it ever so thick." 
 
 " Well," replied Jack, " I'm sorry to see you here, friend 
 Titus. Keep quiet, and you shall come to no harm. As to 
 you, Luke Bradley, you have anticipated my intention by 
 half an hour ; I meant to set you free. For you, Mr. Coates, 
 you may commit aU future care of your affairs to your exe- 
 cutors, administrators, and assigns. You will have no 
 further need to trouble yourself with worldly concerns," 
 added he, levelling a pistol at the attorney, who, however, 
 shielded himself, in an- agony of apprehension, behind Luke's 
 person. " Stand aside, Luke." 
 
 "I stir not," replied Luke. "I thank you for your good 
 intention, and will not injure you — that is, if you do not force 
 me to do so. I am here to defend her ladyship." 
 
 " What's that you say ?" returned Jack, in surprise — ■ 
 " defend her ladyship ?" 
 
 " With my life," replied Luke. " Let me counsel you to 
 depart." 
 
 "Are you mad? Defend her! — Lady Eookwood— your 
 enemy — who would hang you ? Tut, tut ! Stand aside, I 
 say, Luke Bradley, or look to yourself." 
 
 "You had better consider well ere you proceed," said 
 Luke. " You know me of old. I have taken odds as great, 
 and not come off the vanquished." 
 
 " The odds are even," cried Titus, " if Mr. Coates will but 
 show fight. I'll stand by you to the last, my dear joy. 
 You're the right son of your father, though oii the wrong 
 side. Och ! Jack Palmer, my jewel, no wonder you resemble 
 Dick Turpin." 
 
 " You hear this ?" cried Luke. 
 
 " Hot-headed fool !" mvittered Jack. 
 
 " Why don't you shoot him on the spot ?" said Wilder. 
 
 " And mar my own chauce," thought Jack. " No, that 
 will never do ; his life is not to be thrown away. " Be quiet,"
 
 140 ROOKWOOD. 
 
 Baid he, in a whisper to Wilder ; " I've another card to play, 
 which shall serve lis better than all the plunder here. No 
 harm mnst come to that yoimgster ; his life is worth thou- 
 sands to yis." Then, turning to Luke, he continued, " I'm 
 loth to hurt YOU ; yet what can I do ? You must have the 
 worst of it if we come to a jiitched battle. I therefore advise 
 you, as a friend, to draw off your forces. We ai'e three to 
 three, it is true ; but two of i/our party are unarmed." 
 
 " Unarmed !" interrupted Titus, " Devil burn me ! this 
 iron shillelah shall convince you to the contrary, Jack, or any 
 of yotu' friends." 
 
 " Make ready then, my lads," cried Palmer. 
 
 "Stop a minute," exclaimed Coates; "this gets serious; it 
 will end in homicide — in murder. We shall all have our throats 
 cut to a certainty ; and though these rascals will as certainly 
 be hanged for it, that will be poor satisfaction to the sufferers. 
 Had we not better refer the matter to arbitration ?" 
 
 " I'm for fighting it out," said Titus, whisking the poker 
 round his head, like a flail in action. " My blood's up. Come 
 on, Jack Palmer, I'm for you." 
 
 " I should vote for retreating," chattered the attorney, "if 
 that cursed fellow had not placed a ne exeat at the door." 
 
 " Give the word, captain," cried Rust, impatiently. 
 
 " Ay, ay," echoed Wilder. 
 
 "A skilful general always parleys," said Jack. "A word 
 in your ear, Luke, ere that be done which cannot be undone." 
 
 " You mean me no treachery ?" retxu'ned Luke. 
 
 Jack made no answer, but uncocking his pistols, deposited 
 them within his pockets. 
 
 " Shoot him as he advances," whispered Coates ; " he is in 
 your power now." 
 
 " Scoundrel!" replied Luke, " do you think me as base as 
 yourself ?" 
 
 " Hush, hush ! for God's sake don't expose me," said 
 Coates. 
 
 Lady Eookwood had apparently listened to this singular 
 conference with sullen composure, though in reality she was 
 racked with anxiety as to its results ; and, now apprehending 
 that Palmer was about to make an immediate disclosure to 
 Luke, she accosted him as he passed her. 
 
 " Unbind me !" cried she, " and what you wish shall be 
 yours — money — jewels " 
 
 " Ha ! may I depend ?" 
 
 " 1 pledge my word." 
 
 Palmer untied the cord, and Lady Eookwood, approaching
 
 rvOOKWOOD. 141 
 
 a table wtereon stood the escritoir, touched a spring, and a 
 secret drawer flew open. 
 
 "You do this of your own free will?" asked Luke. 
 " Speak, if it be otherwise." 
 
 " I do," returned the lady, hastily. 
 
 Palmer's eyes glistened at the treasures exposed to his view. 
 
 " They are jewels of countless price. Take them, and rid 
 me," she added in a whisper, " of him." 
 
 " Luke Bradley ?" 
 
 "Ay." 
 
 " Grive them to me." 
 
 " They are yours freely on those terms." 
 
 " You hear that, Luke," cried he aloud ; " you hear it, 
 Titus ; this is no robbery, Mr. Coates — ' Know all men by 
 these presents' — I call you to witness, Lady Eookwood gives 
 me these pretty things." 
 
 " I do," returned she ; adding, in a whisjier, " on the 
 teiins which I proposed." 
 
 " Must it be done at once ?" 
 
 ** Without an instant's delay." 
 
 " Before your own eyes ?" 
 
 " I fear not to look on. Each moment is precious. He is 
 off his guard now. You do it, you know, in self-defence." 
 
 " And you ?" 
 
 " For the same cavise." " 
 
 " 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 ?" 
 
 *' Will be useless then." 
 
 " Will not that suffice ; why aim at life ?" 
 
 " You trifle with me. You fear to do it." 
 
 " Fear .'" 
 
 " About it, then ; you shall have more gold." 
 
 " I will about it," cried Jack, throwing the casket to 
 Wilder, and seizing Lady Rookwood's hands. I am no 
 ItaHan bravo, madam — no assassin — no remorseless cut- 
 throat. What are you — devil or woman — who ask me to 
 do this ? Luke Bradley, I say." 
 
 " Would you betray me ?" cried Lady Rootwood. 
 
 " You have betrayed yourself, madam. ISTay, nay, Luke, 
 hands off. See, Lady Rookwood, how you would treat a 
 friend. This strange fellow would blow out my brains for 
 laying a finger upon your ladyship."
 
 142 ROOKWOOD. 
 
 " I will suffer no injuiy to be doue to her," said Luke ; 
 " release her." 
 
 "Your ladyship hears him," said Jack. "And you, Luke, 
 shall learn the value set upon your generosity. You will not 
 have her injured. This instant she has proposed, nay, paid 
 for your assassination." 
 
 " How ?" exclaimed Luke, recoiling. 
 
 " A lie, as black as hell," cried Lady Eookwood. 
 
 " A truth, as clear as heaven," returned Jack. " I will 
 speedily convince you of the fact." Then turning to Lady 
 Eookwood, he whispered, " Shall I give him the marriage 
 document ?" 
 . " Beware !" said Lady Eoolcwood. 
 
 " Do I avouch the truth, then ?" 
 
 She was silent. 
 
 " I am answered," said Luke. 
 
 " Then leave her to her fate," cried Jack. 
 
 " No," replied Luke ; " she is still a woman, and I will not 
 abandon her to ruffianly violence. Set her free." 
 
 " You are a fool," said Jack. 
 
 " Hiu'rah, hurrah !" vociferated Coates, who had rushed to 
 the window. " Rescue, rescue ! they are returning from the 
 church ; I see the torchlight in the avenue ; we are saved !" 
 
 " Hell and the devil !" cried Jack ; " not an instant is to 
 be lost. Alive lads ; bring off all the plunder you can ; be 
 handy !" 
 
 " Lady Rookwood, I bid you farewell," said Luke, in a 
 tone in which scorn and sorrow were blended. " We shall 
 meet again." 
 
 " We have not parted yet," returned she ; " will you let 
 this man pass ? A thousand pounds for his life." 
 
 " Upon the nail ?" asked Rust. 
 
 " By the living Grod, if any of you attempt to touch him, I 
 will blow his brains out upon the spot, be he friend or foe," 
 cried Jack. " Luke Bradley, loe shall meet again. You shall 
 hear from me." 
 
 " Lady Rookwood," said Luke, as he departed, " I shall 
 not forget this night." 
 
 " Is all ready ?" asked Palmer of his comrades. 
 
 "All." 
 
 " Then budge." 
 
 " Stay," said Lady Rookwood, in a Vt'^hisper to him. 
 <* What will purchase that document?'' 
 
 "Hem!" 
 
 " A thousand pounds ?"
 
 ROOKWOOD. 143 
 
 " Double it." 
 
 "It sltall be doubled." 
 
 " I will turn it over." 
 
 " Resolve me now." 
 
 *' You shall hear from me." 
 
 "In what manner ?" 
 
 " I will find speedy means." 
 
 " Your name is Palmer ?" 
 
 " Palmer is the name he goes by, your ladyship," replied 
 Coates ; " but it is a fashion with these rascals to have an 
 alias." 
 
 " Ha ! ha !" said Jack, thrusting the ramrod into his pistol- 
 barrel, as if to ascertain there was a ball within it ; " are you 
 there Mr. Coates ? Pay your wager, sir." 
 
 " What wager ?" 
 
 " The hundred we bet you would take me if ever you 
 had the chance." 
 
 " Take you ! — it was Dick Turpin I betted to take." 
 
 " / am Dick Turpin — that's my alias !" replied Jack. 
 
 " Dick Turpin ! then I'll have a snap at yovi at all hazards," 
 cried Coates, springing suddenly towards him. 
 
 "And I at you," said Turpin, discharging his pistol right 
 in the face of the rash attorney ; " there's a quittance in 
 fuU." 
 
 §oafi Wit ijjir^, 
 
 THE GIPSY. 
 
 Lay a garland on my hearse 
 
 Of the dismal yew ; 
 Maidens, willow branches hear, 
 
 Say I died true. 
 My love was false, but I was firm 
 
 From my hour of birth ; 
 Upon my buried body lie 
 
 Lightly, gentle earth. Beaumont and Plbtchkb. 
 
 I. 
 
 A MORNING RIDE. 
 
 I had a sister, who among the race 
 Of gipsies was the fairest. Fair she was 
 In gentle blood, and gesture to her beanty. Beome. 
 
 On quitting Lady Eookwood's chamber, Luke speeded 
 along the gloomy corridor, descended the spir al stairs, and,
 
 144 nooinvooD. 
 
 swiftly traversing sundry other dark passages, issued froni a 
 door at the back of the house. Day Avas just beginning to 
 break. His first object had been to furnish himself with 
 means to exj^edite his flight ; and perceiving no one in the 
 yard, he directed his hasty steps towards the stable. The 
 door was fortunately unfastened ; and, entering, he found a 
 strong roan horse, which he knew, from description, had been 
 his father's favourite hunter, and to the use of which he now 
 considered himself fully entitled. The animal roused him- 
 self as he approached, shook his glossy coat, and neighed, as 
 if he recognised the footsteps and voice. 
 
 " Thou art mistaken, old fellow," said Luke ; " I am not 
 he thou thinkest ; nevertheless, I am glad thy instinct would 
 have it so. If thou bearest my father's son as thou hast 
 borne thy old master, o'er many a field for many a day, he 
 need not fear the best mounted of his pursuers. Soho ! come 
 hither, Rook." 
 
 The noble steed turned at the call. Luke hastily saddled 
 him, vaulted upon his back, and, disregarding every impedi- 
 ment in the shape of fence or ditch, shaj^ed his course across 
 the field towards the sexton's cottage, which he reached just 
 as its owner was in the act of unlocking the door. Peter 
 testified his delight and surprise at the escape of his grand- 
 son by a greeting of chuckling laughter. 
 
 " How ? — escaped !" exclaimed he. " Who has delivered 
 you from the hands of the Moabites ? Ha, ha ! But why do 
 I ask ? Who could it have been but Jack Palmer ?" 
 
 " My own hands have set me free," returned Luke. "I 
 am indebted to no man for liberty ; still less to him. But I 
 cannot tarry here ; each moment is precious. I came to 
 request you to accompany me to the gipsy encampment. 
 Will you go, or not ? 
 
 " And mount behind you ?" replied Peter : " I like not the 
 manner of conveyance." 
 
 " Farewell, then," and Luke turned to depart. 
 
 " Stay ; that is Sir Piers's horse, old Eook. I care not if I 
 do ride him." 
 
 " Quick, then ; mount." 
 
 " I will not delay you a moment," rejoined the sexton, 
 opening his door ancl throwing his implements into the 
 cottage. " Back, Mole ; back, sir," cried he as the dog rushed 
 out to greet him. " Bring your steed nigh this stone, gi'and- 
 son Luke — there — a little nearer — all's right. And away 
 they galloped.
 
 EOOKWU(JD. 145 
 
 The sextou's first inquiries were directed to ascertain how 
 Lnke had accomplished his escape ; and, having satisfied 
 himself in this particular, he was content to remain silent ; 
 musing, it might be, on the incidents detailed to him. 
 
 The road Luke chose was a rough, unfrequented lane, tha.t 
 skirted, for nearly a mile, the moss-grown palings of the park. 
 It then diverged to the right, and seemed to bear towards a 
 range of hills rising in the distance. High edges impeded 
 the view on either hand ; but there were occasional gaps, 
 affording glimpses of the tract of country through which he 
 was riding. Meadows were seen steaming with heavy dews, 
 intersected by a deep channelled stream, whose course was 
 marked by a hanging cloud of vapour, as well as by a row of 
 tnelancholy pollard-willows, that stood like stripped, shiver- 
 ing urchins by the river side. Other fields succeeded, yellow 
 with golden grain, or bright with flowering clover (the 
 autumnal crop), coloured with every shade, from the light 
 green of the turnip to the darker verdure of the bean, the 
 various products of the teeming land. The whole was backed 
 by round drowsy masses of trees. 
 
 Luke spoke not, nor abated his furious course, till the road 
 began to climb a steej) ascent. He then drew in the rein, 
 and from the heights of the acclivity surveyed the plain over 
 which he had passed. 
 
 It was a rich agricultural district, with little picturesque 
 beauty, but much of true English endearing loveliness to 
 recommend it. Such a quiet, pleasing landscape, in short, as 
 one views, at such a season of the year, from every eminence 
 in every coimty of our merry isle. The picture was made up 
 of a tract of land, filled with corn ripe for the sickle, or 
 studded with sheaves of the same golden produce, enlivened 
 with green meadows, so deeply luxuriant as to claim the 
 scythe for the second time ; each divided from the other by 
 thick hedgerows, the uniformity of which was broken ever 
 and anon by some towering elm, tall poplar, or wide-branching 
 oak. Many old farmhouses, with their broad barns and 
 crowded haystacks (forming little villages in themselves), 
 ornamented the landscape at different points, and by their 
 substantial look evidenced the fertility of the soil, and the 
 thriving condition of its inhabitants. Some three miles dis- 
 tant might be seen the scattered hamlet of Rookwood ; the 
 dark russet thatch of its houses scarcely perceptible amidst 
 the embrowned foliage of the surrounding timber. The site 
 pf the village was, however, pointed out by the n'r-'T^xe tower of 
 
 J*
 
 146 ROOKWOOD. 
 
 the antique church, that ci'ested the summit of the adjoining 
 hill ; and although the hall was entirely liidden from view, 
 Luke readily traced out its locality amidst the depths of the 
 dark grove in which it was embosomed. 
 
 This goodly prospect had other claims to attention in 
 Luke's eyes besides its agricultural or pictorial merit. It 
 was, or he deemed it was, his own. Far as his eye ranged, 
 yea, even beyond the line of vision, the estates of Rookwood 
 extended. 
 
 "Do you see that house below us in the valley?" asked 
 Peter of his companion. 
 
 " I do," rej)lied Luke ; " a snug old house — a model of a 
 farm. Everything looks comfortable and well to do about it. 
 There are a dozen lusty haystacks, or thereabouts ; and the 
 great barn, with its roof yellowed like gold, looks built for a 
 granary ; and there are stables, kine-houses, orchards, dove- 
 cots, and fishponds, and an old circular garden, with wall- 
 fruit in abundance. He should be a haj^i^y man, and a 
 wealthy one, who dwells therein." 
 
 " He dwells therein no longer," returned Peter ; " ho died 
 last night." 
 
 " How know you that ? None are stirring in the house as 
 
 yet." 
 
 " The owner of that house, Simon Toft," replied Peter, 
 "was last night struck by a thunderbolt. He was one of the 
 coffin-bearers at your father's funeral. They are sleeping 
 within the house, you say. 'Tis well. Let them sleep on — 
 they will awaken too soon, wake when they may — ha, ha !" 
 
 " Peace," cried Luke ; " you blight everything — even this 
 Bmihng landscape you would turn to gloom. Does not this 
 morn awaken a happier train of thoughts within your mind ? 
 With me it makes amends for want of sleep, effaces resent- 
 ment, and banishes every black misgiving. 'Tis a joyous 
 thing, thus to scoiu' the country at earliest dawn ; to catch 
 all the spirit and freshness of the morning; to be abroad 
 before the lazy world is half awake ; to make the most of 
 brief existence ; and to have spent a day of keen enjoyment, 
 almost before the day begins with some. I like to anticipate 
 the rising of the glorious luminary ; to watch every line of 
 light changing, as at this moment, from shuddering grey 
 to blushing rose ! See how the heavens are dyed ! Who 
 would exchange yon gorgeous spectacle," continued he, 
 pointing towards the east, and again urging his horse to full 
 speed down the hill, endangering the sexton's seat, and 
 threatening to impale him upon the crupper of the saddle^
 
 ROOKWOOD. 147 
 
 " who would exchange that sight, and the exhilarating feeling 
 of this fresh morn, for a couch of eiderdown, and a headache 
 in reversion ?" 
 
 " I for one," returned the sexton, sharply, " would willingly 
 exchange it for that, or any other couch, provided it rid me of 
 this accursed crupper, which galls me sorely. Moderate your 
 pace, grandson Luke, or I must throw myself of£ the horse in 
 self-defence." 
 
 Luke slackened his charger's pace, in compliance with the 
 sexton's wish. 
 
 "Ah! well," continued Peter, restored in a measure to 
 comfort ; " now I can contemplate the sunrise, which you laud, 
 somewhat at mine ease. 'Tis a fine sight, I doubt not, to the 
 eyes of youth ; and, to the sanguine soul of him upon whom 
 life itself is dawning, is, I dare say, inspiriting : but when 
 the heyday of existence is past ; when the blood flows slug- 
 gishly 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 ex- 
 perienced sailor, sees oft in the brightest skies a forecast of 
 the tempest. To such a one, there can be no new dawn 
 of the heart ; no sun can gild its cold and cheerless horizon ; 
 no breeze can revive pulses that have long since ceased to 
 throb with any chance emotion. I am too old to feel fresh- 
 ness in this nipping air. It chills me more than the damps 
 of night, to which I am accustomed. Night — midnight ! is 
 my season of delight. Nature is instinct then with secrets 
 dark and dread. There is a language which he who sleepeth 
 not, but will wake, and watch, may haply learn. Strange 
 organs of speech hath the invisible world ; strange 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 I have then learnt that makes that season dear to me. 
 Like your cat, mine eye expands in darkness. I blink at the 
 sunshine, like your owl." 
 
 " Cease this forbidding strain," returned Luke ; " it sounds 
 as harshly as your own screech-owl's cry. Let your thoughts 
 take a more sprightly turn, more in unison with my own and 
 the fair aspect of nature." 
 
 " Shall I direct them to the gipsies' camp, then ?" said 
 Peter, with a sneer. " Do your own thoughts tend thi- 
 ther?"
 
 148 ROOKWOOD. 
 
 " You are not altogotlier in the wrong," replied Lnke. " I 
 was thinking of the gipsies' camp, and of one who dwells 
 amongst its tents." 
 
 " I knew it," replied Peter. " Did you hope to deceive 
 me, by attributing all your joyousness of heart to the dawn? 
 Your thoughts have been wandering all this while upon one 
 who hath, I will engage, a pair of sloe-black eyes, an olive 
 skin, and yet withal a clear one — ' black, yet comely, as the 
 tents of Kedar, as the curtains of Solomon' — a mesh of jetty 
 hair, that hath entangled you in its network — ripe hps, and a 
 cunning tongue— one of the plagues of Egypt. Ha, ha !" 
 
 " You have guessed shrewdly," replied Luke ; " I care not 
 to own that my thoughts were so occupied." 
 
 " I was assured of it," replied the sexton. " And what 
 may be the name of her towards whom your imagination was 
 straying?" 
 
 " Sibila Perez," rej^lied Luke. Her father was a Spanish 
 Gitano. She is known amongst her people by her mother's 
 name of Level." 
 
 " She is beautiful, of course ?" 
 
 " Ay, very beautiful ! — but no matter ! You shall judge of 
 her charms anon." 
 
 " I will take your word for them," retui*ned the sexton ; 
 " and you love her ?" 
 
 " Passionately." 
 
 " You are not married ?" asked Peter, hastily. 
 
 ^''T^ot as yet," replied Luke; " but my faith is plighted." 
 " Heaven be praised ! The mischief is not then inseparable, 
 wovild have you married — though not to a gipsy girl." 
 " And whom would you select ?" 
 
 " One before whom Sybil's beauty would pale as stars at 
 day's approach." 
 
 " There lives not such a one." 
 
 " Trust me there does. Eleanor Mowbray is lovely beyond 
 parallel. I was merely speculating upon a possibility, when 
 I wished her yours — it is scarcely likely she would cast her 
 eyes upon you." 
 
 " I shall not heed her neglect. Graced with my title, I 
 doubt not, were it my pleasure to seek a bride amongst those 
 of gentle blood, I should not find all indifferent to my 
 suit." 
 
 " Possibly not. Yet what might weigh with others, would 
 not weigh with her. There are qualities you lack which she 
 has discovered in another."
 
 ROOKWOOD. 149 
 
 "In whom?" 
 
 " In Ranulph Eookwood." 
 
 " Is he her suitor ?" 
 
 " I heave reason to think so." 
 
 " And you would have nie abandon my own betrothed love, 
 to beguile from my brother his destined bride ? That were to 
 imitate the conduct of my grandsire, the terrible Sir Reginald, 
 towards his brother Alan." 
 
 The sexton answered not, and Luke fancied he coidd per- 
 ceive a quivering in the hands that grasped his body for 
 support. There was a brief pause in their conversation. 
 
 " And who is Eleanor Mowbray ?" asked Luke, breaking 
 the silence. 
 
 " Your cousin. On the mother's side a Eookwood. 'Tis 
 therefore I would \irge your union with her. There is a 
 prophecy relating to your house, which seems as though it 
 svould be fulfilled in youi* person and in hers : 
 
 QH^en tfte sftra^ IRooS gfiall pcrcTj on Uje topmogt Bougl), 
 "QEftcic sijall be clamour ant) screaming, 31 troto ; 
 But of riffljt, nntJ of rule, of tfte ancient nest, 
 '^'^t IRoob tljat toitS IRooU mates! gjall ijolo Jim possiesft. 
 
 i*' I place no faith in such fantasies," replied Luke ; " and 
 et the lines bear strangely upon my present situation." 
 
 " Their application to youi'self and Eleanor Mowbray is 
 unquestionable," replied the sexton. 
 
 " It would seem so, indeed," i-ejoined Luke ; and he again 
 sank into abstraction, from which the sexton did not care to 
 arouse him. 
 
 The aspect of the country had materially changed since 
 then' descent of the hill. In place of the richly-cultivated 
 district which lay on the other side, a broad brown tract of 
 waste land spread out before them, covered with scattered 
 patches of gorse, stunted fern, and low brushwood, presenting 
 an unvaried surface of unbaked turf. The shallow coat of 
 sod was manifested by the stones that clattered under the 
 horse's hoofs as he rapidly traversed the arid soil, clearing 
 with ease to himself, though not without discomfort to the 
 sexton, every gravelly trench, natural chasm, or other inequality 
 of ground that occurred in his course. Clinging to his grand- 
 son with the tenacity of a bird of prey, Peter for some time 
 kept his station in secui-ity ; but, miluckily, at one dike 
 rather wider than the rest, the horse, owing possibly to the 
 mismanagement, intentional or otherwise, of Luke, swerved,
 
 150 ROOKWOOD. 
 
 and the sexton dislodged from his " high estate," fell at the 
 edge of the trench, and rolled incontinently to the bottom. 
 
 Luke drew in the rein to inquire if any bones were broken ; 
 and Peter presently upreared his dusty person from the abyss, 
 and without condescending to make any reply, yet muttering 
 curses, " not loud, but deep," accepted his grandson's prof- 
 fered 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 aj)proached the heath — he beheld a 
 single horseman, spiu'riug in their direction, at the top of his 
 speed; and to judge from the rate at which he advanced, 
 it was evident he was anythmg but indifferently mounted. 
 Apprehensive of pursuit, Luke expedited the sexton's ascent ; 
 and that accomplished, without bestowing further regard 
 upon the object of his solicitude, he resumed his headlong 
 flight. He now thought it necessary to bestow more atten- 
 tion to his choice of road, and, perfectly acquainted with the 
 heath, avoided all unnecessary hazardous passes. Li spite of 
 his knowledge of the ground, and the excellence of his horse, 
 the stranger sensibly gained upon him. The danger, how- 
 ever, was no longer imminent. 
 
 " We are safe," cried Luke ; " the limits of Hardchase are 
 past. In a few seconds we shall enter Davenham Wood. I 
 will tm'n the horse loose, and we will betake ourselves to 
 flight amongst the trees. I will show you a place of conceal- 
 ment. He cannot follow us on horseback, and on foot I defy 
 him." 
 
 " Stay," cried the sexton. " He is not in pursuit ; he takes 
 another course ; he wheels to the right. By Heaven ! it is 
 the fiend himself upon a black horse, come for Bow-legged 
 Ben. See, he is there already." 
 
 The horseman had turned, as the sexton stated, careering 
 towards a revolting object, at some little distance on the right 
 hand. It was a gibbet, with its grisly burden. He rode 
 swiftly towards it, and, reining in his horse, took off his hat, 
 bowing profoundly to the carcase that swimg in the morning 
 breeze. Just at that moment a gust of air catching the flesh- 
 less skeleton, its arms seemed to be waved in reply to the 
 salutation. A solitary crow winged its flight over the horse- 
 man's head as he paused. After a moment's halt, he wheeled 
 about, and again shouted to Luke, waving his hat. 
 
 " As I live," said the latter, " it is Jack Palmer." 
 
 " Dick Turpin, you mean," rejoined the sexton. *' He has
 
 KOOKWOOD. 151 
 
 been ^^^ying his respects to a brotlier blade. Ha, ha ! Dick 
 will never have the honour of a gilibet ; he is too tender of 
 the knife. Did yon mark the crow ? But here he comes." 
 And in another instant Turpin was by their side. 
 
 n. 
 
 A GIPSY ENCAMPMENT. 
 
 I see a column of slow-rising smoke 
 O'ertop the lofty wood, that skirts tbe wild. 
 
 CowPEE. — The Task. 
 
 " The top of the morning to you, gem'men," said Turpin, 
 as he rode wp at an easy canter. " Did you not hear my 
 halloo ? I caught a glimpse of you on the hill yonder. I 
 knew you both, two miles off ; and so, having a word or two 
 to say to you, Luke Bradley, before I leave this part of the 
 country, I put Bess to it, and she soon brought me within 
 hail. Bless her black skin," added he, affectionately patting 
 his horse's neck, " there's not her match in these parts, or in 
 any other ; she wants no coaxing to do her work — no bleeders 
 for her. I should have been up with you before this had I 
 not taken a cross-cut to look at poor Ben. 
 
 One night, when mounted on my mare, 
 To Bagshot Heath I did repair, 
 And saw Will Davies hanging there, 
 Upon the gibbet bleak and bare, 
 
 With a rustijied, fustified, mustijied air. 
 
 Excuse my singing. The sight of a gibbet always puts me in 
 mind of the Golden Farmer. May I ask whither you are 
 bound, comrades ?" 
 
 " Comrades !" whispered the sexton to Luke ; " you see he 
 does not so easily forget his old friends." 
 
 " I have business that will not admit of delay," rejoined 
 Luke ; " and, to speak plainly " 
 
 " You want not my society," returned Turpin ; " I guessed 
 as much. Natviral enough ! You have got an inkling of 
 youi' good fortune. You have found out you are a rich man's 
 heir, not a poor wench's bastard. No offence, I'm a plain- 
 spoken man, as you will find, if you know it not already. I 
 have no objection to your playing these fine tricks on others, 
 though it won't answer your turn to do so with me."
 
 152 liOOKWOOD. 
 
 " Sir !" exclaimed Luke, sharply. 
 
 " Sir to you," rejilied Turpin. " Sir Lute — as I suppose 
 you would now choose to be addressed. I am aware of all. 
 A nod is as good as a wink to me. Last night I learnt the 
 fact of Sir Piers' s marriage from Lady Eookwood — ay, from 
 her ladyship. Tou stare, and old Peter, there, opens his 
 ogles now. She let it out by accident ; and I am in posses- 
 sion of what can alone substantiate your father's first mar- 
 riage, and establish your claims to the property." 
 
 "The devil!" cried the sexton; adding, in a whisper to 
 Luke, " You had better not be precipitate in dropping so 
 obliging an acquaintance." 
 
 " You are jesting," said Luke to Turpin, 
 
 " It is ill jesting before breakfast," returned Dick : " I am 
 seldom in the mood for a joke so early. What if a certain 
 marriage certificate had fallen into my hand ?" 
 
 "A marriage certificate!" echoed Luke and the sexton 
 simultaneously. 
 
 " The only existing proof of the union of Sir Piers Rook- 
 wood with Susan Bradley," continued Turpin. " What if I 
 had stumbled upon such a document — nay more, if I knew 
 where to direct you to it ?" 
 
 " Peace !" cried Luke to his tormentor; and then address- 
 ing Turjiin, " If what you say be true, my quest is at an end. 
 All that I need you appear to possess. Other proofs are 
 secondary to this. I know with whom I have to deal. What 
 do you demand for that certificate ?" 
 
 " We will talk about the matter after breakfast," said 
 Turpin. " I wish to treat with you as friend with friend. 
 Meet me on those terms, and I am your man ; reject my 
 offer, and I turn my mare's head, and ride back to Eook- 
 wood. With me now rest all yoiu* hopes. I have dealt 
 fairly with you, and I expect to be fairly dealt with in return. 
 It were idle to say, now I have an opportunity, that I should 
 not 'turn this luck to my account. I were a fool to do other- 
 wise. You cannot exj)ect it. And then I have Eust and 
 Wilder to settle with. Though I have left them behind, they 
 know my destination. We have been old associates. I like 
 your spirit — I care not for your haughtiness ; but I will not 
 help you up the ladder to be kicked down myself. Now you 
 understand me. Whither are you bound ?" 
 
 " To Davenham Priory, the gipsy camp." 
 
 " The gipsies are your friends ?" 
 
 ♦' They are."
 
 nooKwoou. 153 
 
 " I am alone." 
 
 " You are safe." 
 
 " You pledge your word that all shall be on the square. 
 You will not mention to one of that canting crew what I have 
 told you ?" 
 
 " With one exception, you may rely upon my secrecy." 
 
 " Whom do you except ?" 
 
 *' A woman." 
 
 " Bad ! never ti'ust a petticoat." 
 
 " I will answer for her with my life." 
 
 *' And for your granddad there ?" 
 
 "He will answer for himself," said Peter. "You need 
 not fear treachery in me. Honour among thieves, you 
 know." 
 
 "Or where else should you seek it?" rejoined Turjjin; 
 " for it has left all other classes of society. Your highway- 
 man is your only man of honour. I will trust you both ; and 
 you shall find you may trust me. After breakfast, as I said 
 before, we will bring the matter to a conclusion. Tip us 
 your daddle, Sir Luke, and I am satisfied. You shall rule in 
 Eookwood, I'll engage, ere a week be flown ; and then — but 
 so much parleying is dull work; let's make the best of our 
 way to bi'eakfast." 
 
 And away they cantered. 
 
 A narrow bridle-road conducted them singly thi'ough the 
 defiles of a thick wood. Their route lay in the shade, and 
 the air felt chilly amidst the trees, the sun not having at- 
 tained suflicient altitude to penetrate its depths, while over- 
 head all was warmth and light. Quivering on the tops of the 
 timber, the horizontal sunbeams created, in their refraction, 
 brilliant prismatic colourings, and filled the air with motes 
 like golden dust. Our horsemen heeded not the sunshine or 
 the shade. Occupied each with his own train of thought, 
 they silently rode on. 
 
 Davenham Wood, through which they urged their course, 
 had, in the olden time, been a forest of some extent. It was 
 then an appendage to the domains of Rookwood, but had 
 passed from the hands of that family to those of a wealthy 
 adjoining landowner and lawyer, Sir Edward Davenham, in 
 the keeping of whose descendants it had ever after continued. 
 A noble wood it was, and numbered many patriarchal trees. 
 Ancient oaks, with broad gnarled limbs, which the storms of 
 five hundred years had vainly striven to uproot, and which 
 were now sternly decaying ; gigantic beech-trees, with silvery
 
 154 ROOKWOOD. 
 
 stems shooting smoothly vijiwards, sustaining- branches of 
 such size, that each, dissevered, would in itself have formed a 
 tree, populous with leaves, and variegated with rich autumnal 
 tints ; the sprightly sycamore, the dark chestnut, the weird 
 wych-elm, the majestic elm itself, festooned with ivy, every 
 variety of wood, dark, dense, and intricate, composed the 
 forest through which they rode ; and so multitudinous was 
 the timber, so closely planted, so entirely filled up with a 
 thick matted vegetation, which had been allowed to collect 
 beneath, that little view was afforded, had any been desired 
 by the parties, into the labyrinth of the grove. Tree after 
 tree, clad in the glowing livery of the season, was passed, and 
 as rapidly succeeded by others. Occasionally a bough pro- 
 jected over their path, compelling the riders to incline their 
 heads as they passed ; but, heedless of such difficulties, they 
 pressed on. 
 
 Now the road grew lighter, and they became at once 
 sensible of the genial influence of the sun. The transition 
 was as agreeable as instantaneous. They had opened upon 
 an extensive plantation of full-grown pines, whose tall, 
 branchless stems grew up like a forest of masts, and freely 
 admitted the pleasant simshine. Beneath those trees, the 
 soil was sandy and destitute of all midergrowth, 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 distui-bers of his haunts, beating the branches with 
 his fore-feet, in expression of displeasure ; the rabbit darted 
 across their path ; the jays flew screaming amongst the 
 foliage ; the blue cushat, scared at the clatter of the horses' 
 hoofs, sped on swift wing into quarters secure from their 
 approach ; while the parti-coloured pies, like curious village 
 gossips, congregated to peer at the strangers, expressing their 
 astonishment by loud and continuous chattering. Though so 
 gentle of ascent as to be almost imperceptible, it was still 
 evident that the path they were pursuing gradually mounted 
 a hill-side ; and when at length they reached an opening, the 
 view disclosed the eminence they had insensibly won. Pausing 
 for a moment upon the brow of the hill, Luke pointed to a 
 stream that wound through the valley, and, tracing its course, 
 indicated a particular spot amongst the trees. There was no 
 appearance of a dwelling house ; no cottage roof, no white 
 canvas shed, to point out the tents of the wandering tribe
 
 ROOKWOOD. 155 
 
 wlioso abode tliey were seokin^:^. The only circumstance I e- 
 tokening that it had once been the haunt of man, were a few 
 grey monastic ruins, scarce distinguishable from the stony 
 barrier by which they were surrounded ; and the sole evi- 
 dence that it was still frequented by human beings was a 
 thin column of pale blue smoke, that arose in curling wi'eaths 
 from out the brake, the light-coloured vapour beautifully 
 contrasting with the green umbrage whence it issued. 
 
 " Our destination is yonder," exclaimed Luke, pointing in 
 the direction of the vapour. 
 
 " I am glad to hear it," cried Turpin, " as well as to per- 
 ceive there is some one awake. That smoke holds out a 
 prospect of breakfast. No smoke without fire, as old Lady 
 Scanmag said ; and I'll wager a trifle that fire was not lighted 
 for the fayter fellows to coimt their fingers by. We shall 
 find three sticks, and a black pot with a kid seething in it, 
 I'll engage. These gipsies have picked out a pi-ettyish spot 
 to quarter in — quite picturesque, as one may say — and but 
 for that tell-tale smoke, which looks for all the world like a 
 Dutch skipper blowing his morning cloud, no one need know 
 of their vicinity. A pretty place, upon my soul." 
 
 The spot, in sooth, merited Turpin's eulogium. It was a 
 little valley, in the midst of wooded hills, so secluded, that 
 not a single habitation appeared in view. Clothed with tim- 
 ber to the very summits, excepting on the side where the 
 party stood, which verged upon the declivity, these moun- 
 tainous ridges presented a broken outhne of foliage, varie- 
 gated with tinted masses of bright orange, imiber, and deepest 
 green. Four hills hemmed in the valley. Here and- there, a 
 grey slab of rock might be discerned amongst the wood, and 
 a mountain-ash figured conspicuously upon a jutting crag 
 immediately below them. Deep sunken in the ravine, and 
 concealed in part from view by the wild herbage and dwarf 
 shrubs, ran a range of precipitous rocks, severed, it would 
 seem, by some diluvial convulsion, from the opposite moun- 
 tain side, as a corresponding rift was there visible, in which 
 the same dip of strata might be observed, together with cer- 
 tain ribbed cavities, matching huge bolts of rocks which had 
 once locked these stony walls together. Washing this cliff, 
 swept a clear stream, well known and well regarded, as it 
 waxed in width, by the honest brethren of the angle, who 
 seldom, however, tracked it to its rise amongst these hills. 
 The stream found its way into the valley through a chasm 
 far to the left, and rushed thundering down the mountain
 
 156 EOOKWOOD. 
 
 side in a boiling cascade. The valley was approaclied in this 
 direction from Rookwood by an unfreqnented carriage-road, 
 which Luke had, from prudential reasons, avoided. All 
 seemed consecrated to silence — to solitude — to the hush of 
 nature ; yet this quiet scene was the chosen retreat of lawless 
 depredators, and had erstwhile been the theatre of feudal 
 oppression. We have said that no habitation was visible ; 
 that no dwelling tenanted by man could be seen ; but follow- 
 ing the spur of the furthest mountain hill, some traces of a 
 stone wall might be discovered ; and upon a natural platform 
 of rock stood a stern square tower, which had once been the 
 donjon of the castle, the lords of which had called the four 
 hills their own. A watch-tower then had crowned each emi- 
 nence, every vestige of w^hich had, however, long since dis- 
 appeared. Sequestered in the vale, stood the priory before 
 alluded to (a monastery of Grey Friars, of the order of St. 
 Francis), some of the venerable walls of which were still 
 remaining ; and if they had not reverted to the bat and owl, 
 as is wont to be the fate ©f such sacred structures, their 
 cloistered shrines were devoted to beings whose nature par- 
 took, in some measure, of the instincts of those creatm-es of 
 the night — a people whose deeds were of darkness, and whose 
 eyes shunned the light. Here the gipsies had pitched their 
 tent ; and though the place was often, in part, deserted by 
 the vagrant horde, yet certain of the tribe, who had grown 
 into years (over whom Barbara Lovel held queenly sway), 
 made it their haunt, and were suffered, by the authorities of 
 the neighbourhood, to remain immolested — a lenient j)iece of 
 policy, w'hich, in our infinite regard for the weal of the tawny 
 tribe, we recommend to the adoption of all other justices and 
 knights of the shire. 
 
 Bidding his grandsire have regard to his seat, Luke leaped 
 a high bank ; and, followed by Turpin, began to descend the 
 hill. Peter, however, took care to provide for himself. The 
 descent was so perilous, and the footing so insecm-e, that he 
 chose rather to trust to such conveyance as nati;re had fur- 
 nished him with, than to hazard his neck by any false step of 
 the horse. He contrived, therefore, to slide off from behind, 
 shaping his own course in a more secure direction. 
 
 He who has wandered amidst the Alps must have often had 
 occasion to witness the wonderful surefootedness of that 
 mountain pilot, the mule. He must have remarked how, 
 with tenacious hoof, he will claw the rock, and drag himself 
 from one impending fragment to another, with perfect security
 
 UOOKWOOD. 157 
 
 to his I'lclcr ; bow lie will breast tlie roaring cvirrents of air, 
 and stand unshrinking at the verge of almost unfathomable 
 ravines. But it is not so with the horse : fleet on the plain, 
 careful over rugged ground, he is timid and ruacertain on the 
 hill-side, and the risk incurred by Luke and Turpin, in their 
 descent of the almost perpendicular sides of the cliff, was 
 tremendous. Peter watched them in their descent, with some 
 admiration, and with much contempt. 
 
 "He will break his neck, of a surety," said he; "but 
 what matters it ? As well now as hereafter." 
 
 So saying, he apin'oached the verge of the precipice, where 
 he could see them more distinctly. 
 
 The passage along which Luke rode had never before been 
 traversed by horse's hoof. Cut in the rock, it presented a 
 steep zigzag path amongst the cliffs, without any defence for 
 the foot traveller, except such as was afforded by a casual 
 clinging shrub, and no protection whatever existed for a 
 horseman ; the possibility of any one attempting the passage 
 not having, in all probability, entered into the calculation of 
 those who framed it. Added to this, the steps were of such 
 Tinequal heights, and withal so narrow, that the danger was 
 proportionately increased. 
 
 " Ten thousand devils !" cried Turpin, staring downwards, 
 " is this the best road you have got ?" 
 
 " You will find one more easy," replied Luke, " if you ride 
 for a quarter of a mile down the wood, and then return by 
 the brook side. You will meet me at the priory." 
 
 " No," answered the highwayman, boldly ; " if you go, I 
 go too. It shall never be said that Dick Turpin was afraid 
 to follow where another would lead. Proceed." 
 
 Luke gave his horse the bridle, and the animal slowly and 
 steadily commenced the descent, fixing his forelegs upon the 
 steps, and drawing his hinder limbs carefully after him. 
 Here it was that the lightness and steadiness of Turpin's 
 mare was completely shown. No Alpine mule could have 
 borne its rider with more apparent ease and safety. Turpin 
 encouraged her by hand and word ; but she needed it not. 
 The sexton saw them, and, tracking their giddy descent, he 
 became more interested than he anticipated. His attention 
 was suddenly drawn towards Luke. 
 
 " He is gone," cried Peter. " He falls — he sinks — my 
 plans are all defeated — the last link is snapped. No," added 
 he, recovering his wonted composure, " his end is not go 
 fated."
 
 158 ROOKWOOD. 
 
 Rook had missed Ms footing. He rolled stumbling down 
 the precijiice a few yards. Luke's fate seemed inevitable. 
 His feet were entangled in the stirrup, he could not free 
 himself. A birch-tree, growing in a chink of the precipice, 
 arrested his further fall. But for this timely aid aU had been, 
 over. Here Luke was enabled to extricate himself from the 
 stirrup, and to regain his feet ; seizing the bridle, he dragged 
 his faulty steed back again to the road. 
 
 " You have had a narrow escape, by Jove," said Turpin, 
 who had been thunderstruck with the whole proceeding. 
 " Those big cattle are always clumsy ; devilish lucky it's no 
 worse." 
 
 It was now comparatively smooth travelling ; but they had 
 not as yet reached the valley, and it seemed to be Luke's 
 object to take a circuitous path. This was so evident, that 
 Turpin could not help commenting upon it. 
 
 Luke evaded the question. " The crag is steep there," 
 said he ; " besides, to tell you the truth, I want to surprise 
 them." 
 
 " Ho, ho !" laughed Dick. " Surprise them, eh ? What a 
 pity the birch-tree was in the way ; you would have done it 
 properly then. Egad, here's another svirprise." 
 
 Dick's last exclamation was caused by his having suddenly 
 come upon a wide gully in the rock, through which dashed a 
 headlong torrent, crossed by a single plank. 
 
 " You must be mad to have taken this road," cried Turpin, 
 gazing down into the roaring depths in which the waterfall 
 raged, and measuring the distance of the pass with his eye. 
 " So, so, Bess ! — Ay, look at it, wench. Curse me, Luke, if I 
 think your horse will do it ; and, therefore, turn him loose." 
 
 But Dick might as well have bidden the cataract to flow 
 backwards. Luke struck his heels into his horse's sides. The 
 steed galloped to the brinlc, snorted, and refused to leap. 
 
 " I told you so — he can't do it," said Tm-i^in. " Well, if 
 you are obstinate, a wilful man must have his way. Stand 
 aside, while I try it for you." Patting Bess, he put her to 
 a gallop. She cleared the gulf bravely, landing her rider 
 safely upon the opposite rock. 
 
 " Now then," cried Turpin, from the other side of the 
 chasm. 
 
 Luke again urged his steed. Encouraged by what he had 
 seen, this time the horse sprang across without hesitation. 
 The next instant they were in the valley. 
 
 For some time they rode along the banks of the stream
 
 KOOKWOOD, 
 
 159 
 
 in silence. A sound at length caught the quick ears of the 
 highwayman. 
 
 " Hist !" cried he ; " some one sings. Do you hear it ?" 
 
 " I do," replied Luke, the hlood rushing to his cheeks. 
 
 " And could give a guess at the singer, no doubt," said 
 Turpin, with a knowing look. " Was it to hear yon wood- 
 lark that you nearly broke your own neck, and put mine in 
 jeopardy !" 
 
 " Prithee, be silent," whispered Luke. 
 
 " I am dumb," replied Turpin ; " I like a sweet voice as 
 well as another." 
 
 Clear as the note of a bird, yet melancholy as the distant 
 dole of a vesper-bell, arose the sound of that sweet voice 
 from the wood. A fragment of a Spanish gipsy song it 
 warbled : Luke knew it well. Thus ran the romance : 
 
 LA GITANILLA.* 
 
 By the Guadalquivir, 
 
 Ero the sun be flown, 
 By that glorious river 
 
 Sits a maid alone. 
 Like the sunset splendour 
 Of that current bright, 
 Shone her dark eyes tender 
 
 As its witching light ; 
 Like the ripple flowing, 
 
 Tinged with xiurple sheen, 
 Darkly, richly glowing, 
 Is her warm cheek seen. 
 'Tis the Gitauilla 
 
 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 1 
 
 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 accompani- 
 ment 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 his horse's tread became 
 inaudible, he presently arrived at a spot where, through the 
 boughs, the object of his investigation could plainly be dis- 
 tinguished, though he himself was concealed from view. 
 
 IJpon a platform of rock, rising to the height of the trees, 
 nearly perpendicularly from the river's bed, appeared the 
 figure of the gipsy maid. Her footstep rested on the extreme 
 edge of the abrupt cliff, at whose base the water boiled in a 
 
 * Set to music by Mr. F. Romer.
 
 160 EOOKWOOD. 
 
 deep whirlpool, and the bounding chamois could not have 
 been more lightly poised. One small hand rested upon her 
 guitar, the other pressed her brow. Braided hair, of the 
 jettest die and sleekest texture, was twined around her brow, 
 in endless twisted folds : 
 
 Eowlerl it was in many a curious fret, 
 Mucli like a ricli and curious coronet, 
 Upon whose arches twenty Cupids lay, 
 And were as tied, or loth to fly away. 
 
 And so exuberant was this rarest feminine ornament, that, 
 after encompassing her brow, it was passed behind, and hung 
 down in long thick plaits almost to her feet. Sparkling as 
 the sunbeams that played upon her dark yet radiant features, 
 were the large black. Oriental eyes of the maiden, and shaded 
 with lashes long and silken. Hers was a Moorish counte- 
 nance, in which the magnificence of the eyes eclipses the face, 
 be it ever so beautiful (an effect to be observed in many of 
 the paintings of Murillo), and the lovely contour is scarcely 
 noticed in the gaze which those long, languid, luminous orbs 
 attract. Sybil's features were exquisite, yet you looked only 
 at her eyes — they were the loadstars of her countenance. 
 Her costume was singular, and partook, like herself, of other 
 climes. Like the Andalusian dame, her choice of colour in- 
 clined towards black, as the material of most of her dress 
 was of that sombre hue. A bodice of embroidered velvet 
 restrained her delicate bosom's swell ; a rich girdle, from 
 which depended a silver chain, sustaining a short poniard, 
 bound her waist ; around her slender throat was twined a 
 costly kerchief ; and the rest of her dress was calculated to 
 display her slight, yet faultless, figure to the fullest ad- 
 vantage. 
 
 Unconscious that she was the object of regard, she raised 
 her guitar, and essayed to touch the chords. She struck a 
 few notes, and resumed her romance : 
 
 Swift that stream flows on, 
 
 Swift the night is wearing,— 
 Yet she is not gone, 
 
 Though with heart despairing. 
 
 Her song died away. Her hand was needed to brush off 
 the tears that were gathering in her large dark eyes. At 
 once her attitude was changed. The hare could not have 
 started more suddenly from her form. She heard accents 
 well known concluding the melody :
 
 ROOKWOOD. ^ 161 
 
 Pips an oar-plash— bark I— 
 
 Geutly on the river ; 
 'Tis her lover's bark, 
 
 On the Guaclalquiv'r. 
 Hark ! a song she hears ! 
 
 Every note she snatches. 
 As the singer nears, 
 Her own name she catches. 
 Now the Gitanilla 
 
 Stays not by the water, 
 For the midnight hour 
 Hath her lover brought her. 
 
 It was her lover's voice. She caught the sound at once, 
 and, starting, as the roe would arouse herself at the hunter's 
 approach, bounded down the crag, and ere he had finished 
 the refrain, was by his side. 
 
 Fhnging the bridle to Tiu-pin, Lute sprang to her, and 
 caught her in his arms. Disengaging herself from his ardent 
 embrace, Sybil drew back, abashed at the sight of the high- 
 wayman. 
 
 " Heed him not," said Luke ; " it is a friend." 
 
 " He is welcome here, then," replied Sybil. " But where 
 have you taiTied so long, dear Luke ?" continued she, as they 
 walked to a little distance from the highwayman. " AVTiat 
 hath detained you ? The hours have passed wearily since 
 you departed. You bring good news ?" 
 
 " Good news, my girl ; so good, that I falter even in the 
 telling of it. You shall know all anon. And see, our friend 
 yonder grows impatient. Are there any stirring ? We must 
 bestow a meal upon him, and that forthwith : he is one of 
 those who brook not much delay." 
 
 " I came not to spoil a love meeting," said Turpin, who 
 had good-humouredly witnessed the scene ; " but, in sober 
 sei'iousness, if there is a stray capon to be met with in the 
 land of Egypt, I shall be glad to make his acquaintance. 
 Methinks I scent a stew afar off." 
 
 " Follow me," said Sybil ; " your wants shall be supplied." 
 
 " Stay," said Luke ; " there is one other of our party, 
 whose coming we must abide." 
 
 " He is here," said Sybil, observing the sexton at a dis- 
 tance. " Who is that old man ?" 
 
 " My grandsire, Peter Bradley." 
 
 " Is that Peter Bradley ?" asked Sybil. 
 
 " Ay, you may well ask whether that old dried-up otomy, 
 who ought to grin in a glass case for folks to stare at, be kith 
 and kin of such a bang-up cove as your fancy man, Luke," 
 said Turpin, laughing — " but i'faith he is." 
 
 M
 
 ;. 
 
 
 162 ROOKWOOD. 
 
 Thougli he is your graiidsire, Luke," said Sybil, " I like 
 him not. His glance resembles that of the Evil Eye." 
 
 And, in fact, the look which Peter fixed upon her was such 
 as the rattlesnake casts upon its victim, and Sybil felt like a 
 poor fluttering bird under the fascination of that venomous 
 reptile. She could not remove her eyes from his, though she 
 trembled as she gazed. We have said that Peter's orbs were 
 like those of the toad. Age had not dimmed their brilliancy. 
 In his harsh features you could only read bitter scorn or 
 withering hate ; but in his eyes resided a magnetic influence 
 of attraction or repulsion. Sybil underwent the former feel- 
 ing in a disagreeable degree. She was drawn to him as 
 by the motion of a whirlpool, and involuntarily clung to her 
 lover. 
 
 " It is the Evil Eye," dear Luke. 
 
 " Tut, tut, dear Sybil ; I tell you it is my grandsire." 
 
 " The girl says rightly, however," rejoined Turjiin ; " Peter 
 has a confounded ugly look about the ogles, and stares 
 enough to put a modest wench out of countenance. Come, 
 come, my old earthworm, crawl along ; we have waited for 
 you long enough. Is this the first time you have seen a 
 pretty lass, eh ?" 
 
 " It is the first time I have seen one so beautiful," said 
 Peter ; " and I crave your pardon if my freedom has offended 
 her. I wonder not at your enchantment, grandson Luke, 
 now I behold the object of it. But there is one piece of 
 council I would give to this fair maid. The next time she 
 trusts you from her sight, I would advise her to await you at 
 the hill-top, otherwise the chances are shrewdly against your 
 reaching the ground with neck unbroken." 
 
 There was something, notwithstanding the satirical manner 
 in which Peter delivered this sjjeech, calculated to make a 
 more favoui-able impression upon Sybil than his previous 
 conduct had inspired her with ; and, having ascertained from 
 Luke to what his speech referred, she extended her hand to 
 him, yet not without a shudder, as it was enclosed in his 
 skinny grasp. It was like the fingers of Venus in the grasp 
 of a skeleton. 
 
 " This is a little hand," said Peter, '' and I have some skill 
 myself in palmistry. Shall I peruse its lines ?" 
 
 " Not now, in the devil's name !" said Turpin, stamping 
 impatiently. " We shall have Old Euffin himself amongst us 
 presently, if Peter Bradley grows gallant." 
 
 Leading their horses, the party took their way through the
 
 ROOKWOOD. 1G3 
 
 trees. A few minutes' walking brought them in sight of the 
 gipsy encampment, the spot selected for which might be 
 termed the Eden of the valley. It was a small green plain, 
 smooth as a well-shorn lawn, kept ever verdant (save in such 
 places as the frequent fires had scorched its surface) by the 
 flowing stream that rushed past it, and surrounded by an 
 amphitheatre of wooded hills. Here might be seen the 
 canvas tent with its patches of varied colouring ; the rude- 
 fashioned hut of primitive construction ; the kettle slung 
 
 Between two poles, upon a stick transverse ; 
 
 the tethered beasts of burden, the horses, asses, dogs, carts, 
 caravans, wains, blocks, and other movables and immovables 
 belonging to the wandering tribe. Glimmering through the 
 trees, at the extremity of the plain, appeared the ivy-mantled 
 walls of Davenham Priory. Though much had gone to 
 decay, enough remained to recal the pristine state of this 
 once majestic pile, and the long, though broken line of Saxon 
 arches, that still mai'ked the cloister wall ; the piers that yet 
 supported the dormitory ; the enormous horse-shoe arch that 
 spanned the court ; and, above all, the great marigold, or 
 circular window, which terminated the chapel, and which, 
 though now despoiled of its painted honours, retained, like 
 the skeleton leaf, its fibrous intricacies entire, — all eloquently 
 spoke of the glories of the past, while they awakened re- 
 verence and admiration for the still-enduring beauty of the 
 present. 
 
 Towards these ruins Sybil conducted the party. 
 
 " Do you dwell therein ?" asked Peter, pointing towards 
 the priory. 
 
 " That is my dwelling," said Sybil. 
 
 " It is one I should covet more than a modern mansion," 
 returned the sexton. 
 
 " I love those old walls better than any house that was 
 ever fashioned," replied Sybil. 
 
 As they entered the Prior's Close, as it was called, several 
 swarthy figures made their appearance from the tents. Many 
 a greeting was bestowed upon Luke, in the wild jargon of the 
 tribe. At length an uncouth dwarfish figure, with a shock 
 head of black hair, hopped towards them. He seemed to 
 acknowledge Luke as his master. 
 
 " What, ho ! Grasshopper," said Luke ; "take these horses, 
 and see that they lack neither dressing nor provender." 
 
 " And hark ye, Grasshopper," added Turpin ; " I give you 
 
 M 2
 
 164 ROOKWOOD. 
 
 a special charge about this mare. Neither dress nor feed her 
 till I see both done myself. Just walk her for ten minutes, 
 and if you have a glass of ale in the place, let her sip it." 
 
 " Your bidding shall be done," chirped the human insect, 
 as he fluttered away with his charges. 
 
 A motley assemblage of tawny-skinned varlets, dark-eyed 
 women and children, whose dusky limbs betrayed their 
 lineage, in strange costume, and of wild deportment, checked 
 the path, muttering welcome upon welcome into the ear of 
 Luke as he passed. As it was evident he was in no mood for 
 converse, Sybil, who seemed to exercise considerable autho- 
 rity over the crew, with a word dispersed them, and they 
 herded back to their resj^ective habitations. 
 
 A low door admitted Luke and his companions into what 
 had once been the garden, in which some old moss-encrusted 
 apple and walnut trees were still standing, bearing a look 
 of antiquity almost as venerable as that of the adjoining 
 fabric. 
 
 Another open door gave them entrance to a spacious 
 chamber, formerly the eating-room, or refectory of the holy 
 brotherhood ; and a goodly room it had been, though now its 
 slender lanceolated windows were stuffed with hay, to keep 
 out the air. Large holes told where huge oaken rafters had 
 once crossed the roof, and a yawning aperture marked the 
 place where a cheering fire had formerly blazed. As regarded 
 this latter spot, the good old custom was not even now 
 totally abrogated. An iron plate, covered with crackling 
 wood, sustained a ponderous black caldron, the rich steam 
 from which gratefully affected the olfactoiy organs of the 
 highwayman. 
 
 " That augurs well," said he, rubbing his hands. 
 
 " Still hungering after the fleshpots of Egypt," said the 
 sexton, with a ghastly smile. 
 
 " We will see what that kettle contains," said Luke. 
 
 " Handassah — Grace !" exclaimed Sybil, calling. 
 
 Her summons was answered by two maidens, habited, not 
 tmbecomingly, in gipsy gear. 
 
 " Brnig the best oiu- larder can furnish," said Sybil, " and 
 use despatch. You have appetites to provide for sharpened 
 by a long ride in the open air." 
 
 " And by a night's fasting," said Luke, "and solitary con- 
 finement to boot." 
 
 •'And a night of business," added Turpin, " and plaguing, 
 perplexing business into the bargain."
 
 EOOKWOOD. 165 
 
 " And the night of a funeral, too," doled Peter ; " and that 
 funeral a father's. Let us have breakfast speedily, by all 
 means. We have rare appetites." 
 
 An old oaken table (it might have been the self- same upon 
 which the holy friars had broken their morning fast) stood in 
 the middle of the room. The ample board soon groaned 
 beneath the weight of the savoury caldron, the vmctuous 
 contents of which proved to be a couple of dismembered 
 pheasants, an equal proportion of poultry, great gouts of 
 ham, mushrooms, onions, and other piquant condiments, so 
 satisfactory to Dick Turpin, that, upon tasting a mouthful, 
 he absolutely shed tears of delight. The dish was indeed 
 the triumph of gij)sy cookery ; and so sedulously did Dick 
 apply himself to his mess, and so complete was his abstrac- 
 tion, that he perceived not he was left alone. It was only 
 when about to wash down the last drumstick of the last fowl 
 with a can of excellent ale that he made this discovery. 
 
 " What ! all gone ? And Peter Bradley, too ? What the 
 devil does this mean ?" mused he. " I must not muddle my 
 brain with any more Pharaoh, though I have feasted like a 
 king of Egypt. That will never do. Caution, Dick, caution. 
 Suppose 1 shift yon brick from the wall, and place this pre- 
 cious document beneath it. Pshaw ! Luke would never play 
 me false. And now for Bess ! Bless her black skin ! she'll 
 wonder where I've been so long. It's not my way to leave 
 her to shift for herself, though she can do that on a pinch." 
 
 Sohloquizing thus, he arose and walked towards the door. 
 
 III. 
 
 The wiving vine, that round the friondly elm 
 Twines her soft limbs, and weaves a leafy mantle 
 For her supporting lover, dares not venture 
 To mis her hutnhle boughs with the embraces 
 Of the more lofty cedar. 
 
 ALBEiiTUS Wallenstein. — G?flj:)?7iorn0. 
 
 Beneath a mouldering wall, whither they had strayed, to 
 be free from interruption, and upon a carpet of the greenest 
 moss, sat Sybil and her lover. 
 
 With eager cm-iosity she listened to his tale. He recounted 
 all that had befallen him since his departure. He told her
 
 166 ROOKWOOD. 
 
 of the awful revelations of tlie tomb ; of the Yins; that, like a 
 talisman, had conjured up a thousand brilliant prospects ; of 
 his subsequent perils ; his escapes ; his rencontre with Lady 
 Eookwood ; his visit to his father's body ; and his meeting 
 with his brother. All this she heard with a cheek now 
 flushed with expectation, now made pale with apprehension ; 
 with palpitating bosom, and suppressed breath. But when 
 taking a softer tone, love, affection, happiness, inspired the 
 theme, and Luke sought to paint the Idiss 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 plighted in his outcast days ; in lieu 
 of tender, grateful acquiescence, the features of Sybil became 
 overcast, the soft smile faded away, and, as spring sunshine 
 is succeeded by the sudden shower, the light that dwelt in 
 her sunny orbs grew dim with tears. 
 
 "Why — why is this, dear Sybil?" said Luke, gazing upon 
 her in astonishment, not unmingled with displeasure. " To 
 what am I to attribute these tears ? You do not, surely, 
 regret my good fortune ?" 
 
 " Not on your own account, dear Luke," returned she, 
 sadly. " The tears I shed were for myself — the first, the only 
 tears that I have ever shed for such cause ; and," added she, 
 raising her head like a flower surcharged with moisture, 
 " they shall be the last." 
 
 " This is inexplicable, dear Sybil. Why should you lament 
 for yourself, if not for me ? Does not the sunshine of pro- 
 sperity that now shines upon me gild you with the same 
 beam ? Did I not even now affirm that the day that saw 
 me enter the hall of my forefathers should dawn upon our 
 espousals ?" 
 
 " True ; but the sun that shines upon you, to me wears a 
 threatening asjiect. The day of those espousals will never 
 dawn. You cannot make me the lady of Rookwood." 
 
 "What do I hear?" exclaimed Luke, surprised at this 
 avowal of his mistress, sadly and deliberately delivered. 
 " Not wed you ! And wherefore not ? Is it the rank I have 
 acquired, or hope to acquire, that displeases you ? Speak, 
 that I may waste no further time in thus pursuing the sha- 
 dows of happiness, while the reality fleets from me." 
 
 "And a7'e they shadows; and is this the reality, dear 
 Luke ? Question yoiu* secret soul, and you will find it other-
 
 ROOKWOOt). 167 
 
 wise. You could not forego your triuinj^h ; it is not likely. 
 Tou have dwelt too much upon the proud title which will be 
 yours to yield it to another, when it may be won so easily. 
 And, above all, when your mother's reputation, and your 
 own stained name, may be cleared by one word, breathed 
 aloud, would you fail to utter it? 'No, dear Luke, I read 
 your heart ; you would not." 
 
 " And if I could 7iot forego this, wherefore is it that you 
 refuse to be a sharer in my trimnph ? Why will you render 
 my honours valueless when I have acquired them ? You love 
 me not." 
 
 "Not love you, Luke?" 
 
 '•' Approve it, then." 
 
 " I do approve it. Bear witness the sacrifice I am about 
 to make of all my hopes, at the shrine of my idolatry to you. 
 Bear witness the agony of this hour. Bear witness the 
 horror of the avowal, that I never can be yours. As Luke 
 Bradley, I would joyfully — oh, how joyfully ! — have been 
 your bride. As Sir Luke Rookwood" — and she shuddered 
 as she pronounced the name — "I never cau be so." 
 
 " Then, by Heaven ! Luke Bradley will I remain. But 
 wherefore — wherefore not as Sir Luke Rookwood ?" 
 
 " Because," replied Sybil, with reluctance — " be!>ause I am 
 no longer your equal. The gipsy's low-born daughter is no 
 mate for Sir Luke Rookwood. Love cannot blind me, dear 
 Luke. It cannot make me other than I am ; it cannot exalt 
 me in my own esteem, nor in that of the world, with which 
 you, alas ! too soon will mingle, and which will regard even 
 me as — no matter what ! — it shall not scorn me as your bride. 
 I will not bring shame and reproach upon you. Oh ! if for 
 me, dear Luke, the proud ones of the earth were to treat you 
 with contumely, this heart would break with agony. For 
 myself, I have pride sufficient — perchance too much. Per- 
 chance 'tis pride that actuates me now. I know not. But for 
 you I am all weakness. As you were heretofore, I would 
 have been to you the tenderest and truest wife that ever 
 breathed ; as you are now " 
 
 " Hear me, Sybil." 
 
 " Hear vie out, dear Luke. One other motive there is 
 that determines my j)resent 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 
 gatisiied with my refusal."
 
 168 ROOKWOOD. 
 
 " What a destiny is mine !" exclaimed Luke, striking hia 
 
 . forehead with his clenched hand. " 'No choice is left me. 
 
 Either way I destroy my own happiness. On the one hand 
 
 stands love — on the other ambition ; yet neither will con- 
 
 V " Pursue, then, ambition," said Sybil, energetically, " if 
 you can hesitate. Forget that I have ever existed ; forget 
 yoti have ever loved ; forget that such a passion dwells within 
 the human heart, and you may still be happy, though you 
 are great." 
 
 " And do you deem," replied Luke, with frantic impatience, 
 " that I ca7i accomplish this ; that I can forget that I have 
 loved you ; that I can forget you ? Cost what it will the 
 effort shall be made. Yet by our former love, I charge you 
 tell me what has wrought this change in you? Why do 
 you notv refuse me ?" 
 
 " I have said you are Sir Luke Eookwood," returned Sybil, 
 with painful emotion. " Does that name import nothing ?" 
 
 " Imports it aught of ill ?" 
 
 " To me, everything of ill. It is a fated house. Its line 
 are all predestined." 
 
 " To what ?" demanded Luke. 
 
 " To murder .'" replied Syl)il, with solemn emphasis. " To 
 the murder of their wives. Forgive me, Luke, if I have dared 
 to utter this. Yourself compelled me to it." 
 
 Amazement, horror, wrath, kept Luke silent for a few 
 moments. Starting to his feet, he cried : 
 
 " And can you suspect me of a crime so foul ? Think you, 
 because I shall assume the name, that I shall j)ut on the 
 nature likewise of my race ? Do you believe me capable of 
 aught so horrible ?" 
 
 " Oh, no, I believe it not. I am siu-e you would not do it. 
 Your soul would reject with horror such a deed. But if 
 Fate should guide your hand, if the avenging spirit of your 
 murdered ancestress should point the steel, you could not 
 shun it then." 
 
 " In Heaven's name ! to what do you allude ?" 
 
 " To a tradition of yoiu* house," replied Sybil. " Listen 
 to me, and you shall hear the legend." And with a pathos 
 that produced a thrilUng effect upon Luke, she saiig the 
 following ballad :
 
 ROOKWOOD. 169 
 
 THE LEGEND OF THE LADY OF ROOKWOOD. 
 
 Grim Ranulpli home Lath at. midnight come, from the long wars of the Roses, 
 Anil the squire, who waits at his ancient gates, a secret dai'k discloses ; 
 To that varlet's words no response accords his lord, but his visnge stern 
 Grows ghastly white in the wan moonlight, and his eyes like the lean wolf's 
 burn. 
 
 To his lady's bower, at that lonesome hour, unannounced, is Sir Ranulph 
 
 gone ; 
 Through the dim corridor, through the hidden door he glides — she is all 
 
 alone ! 
 Full of holy zeal doth this young dame kneel at the meek Madonna's feet, 
 Her hands are pressed on her gentle breast, and upturned is her aspect sweet. 
 
 Beats Eanulph's heart with a joyful start, as he looks on her guiltless face ; 
 And the raging fire of his jealous ire is subdued by the words of grace ; 
 His own name shares her murmured prayers- more freely can he breathe ; 
 But ah ! that look ! Why doth he pluck his poniard from its sheath ? 
 
 On a footstool thrown lies a costly gown of saye and of minevere 
 (A mantle fair for the dainty wear of a migniard cavalier). 
 And on it flung, to a bracelet hung, a picture meets his eye ; 
 "By my father's head," grim Kanulph said, "false wife, thy end draws 
 nigh." 
 
 From off its chain hath the fierce knight ta'en that fond and fatal pledge ; 
 His dark eyes blaze, no word he says, thrice gleams his dagger's edge I 
 Her blood it drinks, and, as she sinks, his victim hears his cry, 
 " For kiss impure of paramour, adult'ress, dost thou die." 
 
 Silent he stood, with hands embrued in gore, and glance of flame, 
 As thus her plaint, in accents faint, made his ill-fated dame : 
 " Kind Heaven can tell, that all too well, I've loved thee, cruel lord; 
 But now with hate commensurate, assassin, thou'rt abhorred. 
 
 " I've loved thee long, through doubt and wrong ; I've loved thee, and no 
 
 other ; 
 And my love was pure for my paramour, for alas ! he was my brother ! 
 The Red, Red Rose, on thy banner glows, on In's pennon gleams the White, 
 And the bitter feud, that ye both have rued, forbids ye to unite. 
 
 "My bower he sought, what time he thought thy jealous vassals slept. 
 Of joy we dreamed, and never deemed that watch those vassals kept ; 
 An hour flew by, too speedily ! — that picture was his boon : 
 Ah ! little thrift to me that gift : he left me all too soon ! 
 
 " Wo worth the hour ! dark fates did lower, when our hands were first 
 
 united. 
 For my heart's firm truth, 'mid tears and ruth, with death hast thou 
 
 requited : 
 In prayer sincere, full many a year of my wretched life I've spent ; 
 But to hell's control would I give my soul, to work thy chastisement !" 
 
 These wild words said, low drooped her head, and Ranulph's life-blood froze. 
 
 For the earth did gape, as an awful shape from out its depths arose : 
 
 "Thy prayer is heard, Hell hath concurred," cried the fiend, "thy soul is 
 
 mine ! 
 Like fate may dread each dame shall wed with Ranulph or his line 1" 
 
 Within the tomb to await her doom is that hapless lady sleeping. 
 And another bride by Ranulph's side through the livelong night is weeping. 
 This dame declines — a third repines, and fades, like the rest, away ; 
 Hor lot she rues, whom a Rookwood woos— curscci is her Wecldia<j Day!
 
 170 ROOKWOOD. 
 
 " And this is the legend of my ancestress ?" said Luke, as 
 Sybil's strains were ended. 
 
 " It is," replied she. 
 
 "An idle tale," observed Luke, moodily. 
 
 " Not so," answei-ed Sybil. " Has not the curse of blood 
 clung to all your line ? Has it not attached to your father — 
 to Sir Eeginald— Sir Ealph— Sir Eanulph— to all? Which 
 of them has escapee] it ? And when I tell you this, dear 
 Luke ; when I find you bear the name of this accursed race, 
 can you wonder if I shudder at adding to the list of the 
 victims of that ruthless spirit, and that I tremble for you ? 
 I would die for you willingly — but not by your hand. I 
 would not that my blood, which I would now pour out for 
 you as freely as water, should rise up in judgment against 
 you. For myself I have no fears — for yoii a thousand. My 
 mother, i;pon her deathbed, told me I should never be yours. 
 I believed her not, for I was hajjpy then. She said that we 
 never should be united ; or, if united " 
 
 " What, in Heaven's name ?" 
 
 " That you would be my destroyer ; that your love should 
 turn to hatred ; that you would slay me. How could I credit 
 her words then ? How can I doubt them now, when I find 
 vou are a Rookwood ? And think not, dear Luke, that I am 
 ruled by selfish fears in this resolution. To renounce you 
 may cost me my life ; but the deed will be my own. You 
 may call me superstitious, credulous ; I have been nurtured 
 in credulity. It is the faith of my fathers. There are those, 
 methinks, who have an insight into futurity ; and such boding 
 words have been spoken, that, be they true or false, I will 
 not risk their fulfilment in my person. I may be credulous ; 
 I may be weak ; I may be erring ; but I am steadfast in tiiis. 
 Bid me perish at your feet, and I will do it. I will not be 
 your Fate. I will not be the wretched instrument of your 
 perdition. I will love, worship, watch, serve, perish for you 
 — but I will not wed you." 
 
 Exhausted by the vehemence of her emotion, she would 
 have sunk upon the ground, had not Luke caught her in his 
 arms. Pressing her to his bosom, he renewed his jjassionate 
 protestations. Every argument was unavailing. Sybil ap- 
 peared inflexible. 
 
 "You love me as you have ever loved me ?" said she, at 
 length 
 
 " A thousand-fold more fervently," replied Luke ; " put it 
 to the test."
 
 ROOKWOOD. 171 
 
 " How if I dared to do so ? Consider well : I may ask 
 too mncli." 
 
 " Name it. If it be not to sm'render you, by my motber's 
 body 1 will obey you." 
 
 " I would propose an oatb." 
 
 "Ha!" 
 
 " A solemn, binding oatb, tbat, if you wed me not, you 
 will not wed another. Ha ! do you start ? Have I appalled 
 
 " I start ? I will take it. Hear me — by " 
 
 "Hold!" exclaimed a voice behind them. "Do not for- 
 swear yourself." And immediately afterwards the sexton 
 made his appearance. There was a malignant smile upon 
 his countenance. The lovers started at the ominous inter 
 ruption. 
 
 " Begone !" cried Luke. 
 
 " Take not that oath," said Peter, " and I leave you. Re- 
 member the counsel I gave you on our way hither." 
 
 " What counsel did he give you, Luke ?" inquired Sybil, 
 eagerly, of her lover. 
 
 " We spoke of you, fond girl," replied Peter. " I cautioned 
 him against the match. I knew not your sentiments, or I 
 had spared myself the trouble. You have judged wisely. 
 Were he to wed you, ill would come of it. But he must wed 
 another." 
 
 " Must !" cried Sybil, her eyes absolutely emitting sparkles 
 of indignation from their night-like depths ; and, unsheath- 
 ing as she spoke the short poniard which she wore at her 
 girdle, she rushed towards Peter, raising her hand to strike. 
 " Must wed another ! And dare you counsel this ?" 
 
 "Put up your dagger, fair maiden," said Peter, calmly. 
 " Had I been younger, your eyes might have had more terrors 
 for me than your weapon ; as it is I am proof against both. 
 You would not strike an old man like myself, and of your 
 lover's kin?" 
 
 Sybil's uplifted hand fell to her side. 
 
 " 'Tis true," continued the sexton, " I dared to give him 
 this advice ; and when you have heard me out, you will not, 
 I am persuaded, think me so unreasonable as, at first, I may 
 appear to be. I have been an unseen listener to your con- 
 verse ; not that I desire to pry into your secrets, far from it ; 
 I overheard you by accident. I applaud your resolution; 
 but if you are inclined to sacrifice all for your lover's weal, 
 do not let the work be incomplete. Bind him not by oaths
 
 172 KOOKWOOD. 
 
 wliicli lie will regard as spiders' webs, to be burst tlirougb at 
 pleasure. You see, as well as I do, that lie is bent on being 
 lord of Rookwood ; and, in truth, to an aspiring mind, such 
 a desire is natural- — is praiseworthy. It will be pleasant, as 
 well as honourable, to efface the stain cast upon his birth. 
 It will be an act of filial duty in him to restore his mother's 
 good name ; and I, her father, laud his anxiety on that score ; 
 though, to speak truth, fair maid, I am not so rigid as your 
 nice moralists in my view of human nature, and can allow a 
 latitiide to love, which their nicer scruples will not admit. 
 It will be a proud thing to triumjjh over his implacable 
 foe ; and this he may accomplish " 
 
 " Without marriage," interrupted Sybil, angrily. 
 
 " True," returned Peter ; " yet not maintain it. May win 
 it, but not wear it. You have said truly, the house of Rook- 
 wood is a fated house ; and it hath been said likewise, that 
 if he wed not one of his own kindred — that if Rook mate not 
 with Rook, his possessions shall pass away from his hands. 
 Listen to this proj)hetic quatrain : 
 
 U-Wjtn tijc fitra^ IRooIi slM percTj on tTjc topmo0t fiougl), 
 'iHIjcie sTjall fie clamour atiD scrcccljiiin;. 31 troto ; 
 ■But of ricftt to, nnt ' ulf of t!je ancient nest, 
 'SLJc HcoU tljat toitl) IRooU inafcis isfiall Ijolti lim j^ogstgt. 
 
 You hear what these quaint rhymes say. Luke, is, doubtless, 
 the stray rook, and a fledgling hath flown hither from a distant 
 coimtry. He must take her to his mate, or relinquish her 
 and ' the ancient nest' to his brother. For my own part, I 
 disregard such sayings. I have little faith in prophecy and 
 divination. I know not what Eleanor Mowbray, for so she is 
 called, can have to do with the tenure of the estates of Rook- 
 wood. But if Luke Rookwood, after he has lorded it for a 
 while in splendour, be cast forth again in rags and wi-etched- 
 ness, let him not blame his grandsire for his own want of 
 caution." 
 
 "Luke, I implore you, tell me," said Sybil, who had lis- 
 tened, horror-stricken, to the sexton, shuddering, as it were, 
 beneath the chilly influence of his malevolent glance, " is 
 this true ? Does your fate depend upon Eleanor Mowbray ? 
 Who is she ? What has she to do with Rookwood ? Have 
 you seen her ? Do you love her ?" 
 
 " I have never seen her," replied Luke. 
 
 " Thank Heaven for that !" cried Sybil. " Then jou love 
 her not ?"
 
 ROOKWOOB. 173 
 
 " How were tliat possible ?" returned Luke. " Do I not 
 saj I have not seen her ?" 
 
 " Who is she, then ?" 
 
 " This old man tells me she is my cousin. She is be- 
 trothed to my brother, Ranvxlph." 
 
 "How?" ejaculated Sybil. "And would you snatch his 
 betrothed from your brother's arms ? Would you do him 
 this grievous wrong ? Is it not enough that you must wrest 
 from him that which he has long deemed his own ? And if 
 he has falsely deemed it so, it will not make his loss the less 
 bitter. If you do thus wrong your brother, do not look for 
 happiness ; do not look for respect ; for neither will be your 
 portion. Even this stony-hearted old man shrinks aghast at 
 such a deed. His snake-like eyes are buried on the ground. 
 See, I have moved even him." 
 
 And in truth Peter did appear, for an instant, strangely 
 moved. 
 
 " 'Tis nothing," returned he, mastering his emotion by 
 strong effort. " What is all this to me ? I never had a 
 brother. I never had aught — wife, child, or relative, that 
 loved me. And I love not the world, nor the things of the 
 world, nor those that inhabit the world. But I know what 
 sways the world and its inhabitants ; and that is, self ! and 
 SELF-INTEREST. Let Luko reflect on this. The key to Eook- 
 wood is Eleanor Mowbray. The hand that grasj)s hers, 
 grasps those lands : thus saith the prophecy." 
 
 " It is a lying prophecy." 
 
 ** It was uttered by one of your race." 
 
 " By whom ?" 
 
 "By Barbara Lovel," said Peter, with a sneer of triumph. 
 
 "Ha!" 
 
 " Heed him not," exclaimed Luke, as Sybil recoiled at this 
 intelligence. " I am yours." 
 
 " Not mine ! not mine !" shrieked she ; " but, oh ! not 
 hers !" 
 
 "Whither go you?" cried Luke, as Sybil, half -bewildered, 
 tore herself from him. 
 
 " To Barbara Lovel." 
 
 " I will go with you." 
 
 " No ! let me go alone. I have much to ask her ; yet tarry 
 not with this old man, dear Luke, or close your ears to his 
 crafty talk. Avoid him. Oh, I am sick at heart. Follow 
 me not ; I implore you, follow me not." 
 
 And with distracted air she darted amono-st the mouldering:
 
 174 ROOKWOOD. 
 
 cloisters, leaving Luke stupefied with anguish and surprise. 
 The sexton maintained a stern and stoical composure. 
 
 " She is a woman, after all," muttered he ; " all her high- 
 flown resolves melt like snow in the sunshine, at the thought 
 of a rival. I congratulate you, grandson Lvike ; you are free 
 from your fetters." 
 
 " Free !" echoed Luke. " Quit my sight ; I loathe to look 
 upon you. Tou have broken the truest heart that ever beat 
 in woman's bosom." 
 
 " Tut, tut," returned Peter ; " it is not broken yet. Wait 
 till w£ hear what old Barbara has got to say ; and, meanwhile, 
 we must arrange with Dick Turpin the price of that certi- 
 ficate. The knave knows its value well. Come, be a man. 
 This is worse than womanish." 
 
 And at length he succeeded, half by force and half by per- 
 suasion, in dragging Luke away with him. 
 
 IV. 
 
 BAEBAEA LOVEL. 
 
 Los Gitanos son encantadoros, adivinos, magos, chyromanticos, qne dicen 
 por las rayas de las manos lo Future, que ellos llaman Bueuaventura, y gene- 
 ralmente son dados a toda supersticion. Doctor Sancho de Moncada. 
 
 Discurso sohre Espulsion de los Gitanos. 
 
 Like a dove escaped fi-om the talons of the falcon, Sybil 
 fled from the clutches of the sexton. Her brain was in a 
 whirl, her blood on fire. She had no distinct perception of 
 external objects ; no definite notion of what she herself was 
 about to do, and glided more like a flitting spirit than a 
 living woman along tbe ruined ambulatory. Her hair had 
 fallen in disorder over her face. She stayed not to adjust it, 
 but tossed aside the blinding locks with frantic impatience. 
 ^ She felt as one may feel who tries to strain his nerves, shat- 
 tered by illness, to the endurance of some dreadfrJ, yet neces- 
 ■ sary pain. 
 
 Sybil loved her granddame, old Barbara ; but it was with a 
 love tempered by fear. Barbara was not a person to inspire 
 esteem or to claim affection. She was regarded by the wild 
 tribe which she ruled as their queen-elect, with some such 
 feeling of inexplicable awe as is entertained by the African 
 slave for the Obeah woman. They acknowledged her power,
 
 1I00KW0013. 175 
 
 unhesitatingly obeyed her commands, and slirank with terror 
 from her au:ithema, which was indeed seldom pronounced ; 
 but when uttered, was considered as doom. Her tribe she 
 looked upon as her flock, and stretched her maternal hand 
 over all, ready alike to cherish or chastise ; and having 
 already survived a generation, that which succeeded, having 
 from infancy imbiljed a superstitious veneration for the 
 " cunning woman," as she was called, the sentiment could 
 never be wholly effaced. 
 
 Winding her way, she knew not how, through roofless 
 halls, over disjointed fragments of fallen pillars, Sybil reached 
 a flight of steps. A door, studded Avith iron nails, stayed her 
 progress ; it was an old strong oaken frame, surmounted by 
 a Gothic arch, in the keystone of which leered one of those 
 grotesque demoniacal faces with which the fathers of the 
 church delighted to adorn their shrines. Sybil looked up — 
 her glance encountered the fantastical visage. It recalled the 
 features of the sexton, and seemed to mock her — to revile 
 her. Her fortitude at once deserted her. Her fingers were 
 upon the handle of the door. She hesitated : she even drew 
 back, with the intention of departing, for she felt then that 
 she dare not face Barbara. It was too late — she had moved 
 the handle. A. deep voice from within called to her by name. 
 She dared not disobey that call — she entered. 
 
 The room in which Sybil found herself was the only entire 
 apartment now existing in the priory. It had survived the 
 ravages of time ; it had escaped the devastation of man, whose 
 ravages outstrij) those of time. Octagonal, lofty, yet narrow, 
 you saw at once that it formed the interior of a turret. It 
 was lighted by a small oriel window commanding a lovely 
 view of the scenery around, and panelled with oak, richly 
 wrought in ribs and groins ; and from overhead depended a 
 moulded ceiling of honeycomb plaster-work. This room had 
 something, even now, in the days of its desecration, of mo- 
 nastic beauty about it. Where the odour of sanctity had 
 breathed forth, the fumes of idolatiy prevailed ; but imagina- 
 tion, ever on the wing, flew back to that period (and a tradi- 
 tion to that effect warranted the supposition) when, perchance, 
 it had been the sanctuary and the privacy of the prior's self. 
 , Wrapped in a cloak composed of the skins of various 
 animals, nj)on a low pallet, covered with stained scarlet cloth, 
 sat Barbara. Around her head was coiffed, in folds like those 
 of an Asiatic turban, a rich, though faded shawl, and her 
 waist was encircled with the magic zodiacal zone — proper to
 
 176 KOOKWOOD. 
 
 the sorceress — tlie Mago Cineo of tlie Cingara (whence the 
 name Zingaro, according to Monjada), which Barbara had 
 brought from Spain. From her ears depended long golden 
 drops, of curious antique fashioning ; and upon her withered 
 jBngers, which looted like a coil of lizards, were hooped a 
 multitude of silver rings, of the pui'est and simplest manu- 
 facture. They seemed almost of massive unwrought metal, 
 Her skin was yellow as the body of a toad ; corrugated as its 
 back. She might have been steeped in saffron from her 
 finger tips, the nails of which were of the same hue, to such 
 portions of her neck as were visible, and which was puckered 
 up like the throat of a turtle. To look at her, one might 
 have thought the embalmer had experimented her art upon 
 herself. So dead, so bloodless, so blackened seemed the 
 flesh, where flesh remained, leather could scarce be tougher 
 than her skin. She seemed like an anmiated mummy. A 
 frame, so tanned, appeared calculated to endure for ages ; 
 and, perhaps, might have done so. But, alas ! the soul 
 cannot be embalmed. No oil can reillumine that precious 
 lamp ! And that Barbara's vital spark was fast waning, was 
 evident from her heavy, 1 ' i^ilshot eyes, once of a swimming 
 black, and lengthy as a witch's, which were now sinister and 
 sunken. 
 
 The atmosphere of the room was as strongly impregnated 
 as a museum with volatile odom's emitted from the stores of 
 drugs with which the shelves were loaded, as well as from 
 various stuffed specimens of birds and wild animals. Barbara's 
 only living companion was a monstrous owl, which, perched 
 over the old gipsy's head, hissed a token of recognition as 
 Sybil advanced. From a hook, placed in the plaster roof, 
 was suspended a globe of crystal glass, about the size and 
 shape of a large gourd, filled with a pure pellucid liquid, in 
 which a small snake, the Egyptian aspic, described perpetual 
 gyrations. 
 
 Dim were the eyes of Barbara, yet not altogether sightless. 
 The troubled demeanour of her grandchild struck her as she 
 entered. She felt the hot drops upon her hand as Sybil 
 stooped to kiss it ; she heard her vainly-stifled sobs. 
 
 " What ails you, child ?" said Barbara, in a voice that 
 rattled in her throat, and hollow as the articulation of a 
 phantom. " Have you heard tidings of Luke Bradley ? Has 
 any ill befallen him ? I told you thou wouldst either hear of 
 him or see him this morning. He is not returned, I see. 
 What have you heard ?"
 
 ROOKWOOD. 177 
 
 " He is returned," replied Sybil, faintly ; " and no ill hath 
 happened to him." 
 
 " He is returned, and you are here," echoed Barbara. " No 
 ill hath happened to him, thou sayest — am I to understand 
 there is ill to youV 
 
 Sybil answered not. She could not answer. 
 
 " I see, I see," said Barbara, more gently, her head and 
 hand shaking with paralytic affection : " a quarrel, a lovers' 
 quarrel. Old as I am, I have not forgotten my feelings as a 
 girl. What woman ever does, if she be woman ? and you, 
 like your poor mother, are a true-hearted wench. She loved 
 her husband, as a husband should be loved, Sybil ; and 
 though she loved me well, she loved him better, as was right. 
 Ah ! it was a bitter day when she left me for Spain ; for 
 though, to one of our wandering race, all countries are alike, 
 yet the soil of our birth is dear to us, and the presence of our 
 kindred dearer. Well, well, I will not think of that. She is 
 gone. Nay, take it not so to heart, wench. Luke has a hasty 
 temper. 'Tis not the first time I have told you so. He will 
 not bear rebuke, and you have questioned him too shrewdly 
 touching his absence. Is it not so ? Heed it not. Trust 
 me, you will have him seek your forgiveness ere the shadows 
 shorten 'neath the noontide sun." 
 
 " Alas ! alas !" said Sybil, sadly ; " this is no lovers' 
 quarrel, which may, at once, be forgotten and forgiven — 
 would it were so !" 
 
 " What is it, then?" asked Barbara; and, without waiting 
 Sybil's answer, she continued, with vehemence, " has he 
 wronged you ? Tell me, girl, in what way ? Speak, that I 
 may avenge you, if your wi'ong requires revenge. Are you 
 blood of mine, and think I Avill not do this for you, girl ? 
 None of the blood of Barl)ara Level were ever unrevenged. 
 When Richard Cooper stabbed my first-born, Francis, he fled 
 to Flanders, to escape my wrath. But he did not escape it. 
 I pursued him thither. I hunted him out ; drove him back 
 to his own country, and brought him to the gallows. It took 
 a power of gold ? What matter ? Revenge is dearer than 
 gold. And as it was with Richard Cooper, so it shall be with 
 Luke Bradley. I will catch him, though he run. I will trip 
 him, though he leap. I will reach him, though he flee afar. 
 I will drag him hither by the hair of his head," added she, 
 with a livid smile, and clutching at the air with her hands, as 
 if in the act of pulling some one towards her. " He shall 
 wed you withiia the hour, if you will have it, or if your honouy 
 
 N
 
 178 ROOKWOOD. 
 
 need that it should be so. My power is not departed from 
 me. My people are yet at my command. I am still their 
 queen, and woe to him that offendeth me !" 
 
 "Mother! mother!" cried Sybil, affrighted at the storm 
 she had lui wittingly aroused, " he has not injured me. 'Tis 
 I alone who am to blame, not Lt;ke." 
 
 " You speak in mysteries," said Bjirbara. 
 
 " Sir Piers Roolnvood is dead." 
 
 " Dead !" echoed Barbara, letting faU her hazel rod. " Sir 
 Piers dead I" 
 
 " And Luke Bradley " 
 
 "Ha!" 
 
 " Is his successor." 
 
 " Who told you that ?" asked Barbara, with increased 
 astonishment. 
 
 " Luke himself. All is disclosed." And Sybil hastily 
 recounted Luke's adventures. " He is now Sir Luke Rook- 
 wood." 
 
 " This is news, in truth," said Barbara; "yet not news to 
 weep for. You should rejoice, not lament. Well, well ; I 
 foresaw it. I shall live to see all accom2:)lished ; to see my 
 Agatha's child ennobled ; to see her wedded ; ay, to see her 
 well wedded," 
 
 " Dearest mother !" 
 
 " I can endow you, and I will do it. You shall bring your 
 husband not alone beauty, you shall bring him wealth." 
 
 " But, mother " 
 
 " My Agatha's daughter shall be Lady Rookwood." 
 
 "Never! It cannot be." 
 
 " What cannot be ?" 
 
 " The match you now j^ropose." 
 
 " What mean you, silly wench ? Ha ! I perceive the 
 meaning of those tears. The truth flashes upon me. He has 
 discarded you." 
 
 " No, by the Heaven of Heavens, he is still the same — un- 
 altered in affection." 
 
 " If so, your tears are out of place." 
 
 " Mother, it is not fitting that I, a gipsy born, should wed 
 with him." 
 
 " Not fitting ! Ha ! and you my child ! Not fitting ! Get 
 up, or I will spurn you. Not fitting ! This fi'om yovx to me ! 
 I tell you it is fitting ; you shall have a dower as amijle as 
 that of any lady in the land. Not fitting ! Do you say so, 
 because you think that he derives himself from a proud and
 
 ROOKWOOD. 179 
 
 ancient line ? — ancient and proud — ha, ha ! I tell you, girl, 
 that for his one ancestor I can number twenty ; for the years 
 in which his lineage hath flourished my race can boast cen- 
 turies and was a people — a kingdom I — ere the land in which 
 he dwells was known. What ! if by the curse of Heaven we 
 were driven forth, the curse of hell rests upon his house." 
 
 " I know it," said Sybil ; " a dreadful curse, which, if I wed 
 him, will alight on me." 
 
 •' No ; not on you ; you shall avoid that curse. I know a 
 means to satisfy the avenger. Leave that to me." 
 
 •' I dare not, as it never can be ; yet, tell me — you saw the 
 body of Luke's ill-fated mother. Was she poisoned ? Nay, 
 you may speak. Sir Piers's death releases jon from your 
 oath. How died she ?" 
 
 " By strangulation," said the old gipsy, i-aising her palsied 
 hand to her throat. 
 
 " Oh !" cried Sybil, gasping with horror. " Was there a 
 ring upon her finger when you embalmed the body ?" 
 
 " A ring — a wedding-ring ! The finger was crookened. 
 Listen, girl. I could have told Luke the secret of his birth 
 long ago, but the oath imposed by Sir Piers sealed fast my 
 lips. His mother was wedded to Sir Piers ; his mother was 
 murdered by Sir Piers. Luke was intrusted to my care by 
 his father. I have brought him up with you. I have affianced 
 ou together ; and I shall live to see you united. He is now 
 ir Luke. He is your husband." 
 
 '■ Do not deceive yourself, mother," said Sybil, with a 
 fearful earnestness. " He is not yet Sir Luke Rookwood ; 
 would he had no claim to be so ! The fortune that has 
 hitherto been so propitious may yet desert him. Bethink 
 you of a prophecy you uttered." 
 
 " A prophecy ? Ha !'' 
 
 And with slow enunciation Sybil pronounced the mystic 
 words which she had heard repeated by the sexton 
 
 As she spoke, a gloom, like that of a thundercloud, began 
 to gather over the brow of the old gipsy. The orbs of her 
 sunken eyes expanded, and wrath supplied her fi'aiae ^ith 
 rigour. She arose. 
 
 " Who told you that ?" cried Barbara. 
 
 "Luke's grandsire, Peter Bradley." 
 
 "How learnt he it?" said Barbara. " It was to one ^tLo 
 hath long been in his grave I told it ; so long ago, it had 
 >«5sed from my memory. Tis strange ! Old Sir Reginald 
 tiad a brother, I know. But there is no other of the house." 
 
 N 2
 
 180 llOOKWOOD. 
 
 " There is a cousin, Eleanor Mowbray." 
 
 " Ha ! I see ; a daughter of that Eleanor Rookwood who 
 fled from her father's roof. Fool, fool. Am I caught in my 
 own toils ? Those words were words of truth and power, and 
 compel the future and ' the will be' as with chains of brass. 
 They must be fulfilled, yet not by Eanulph. He shall never 
 wed Eleanor." 
 
 " Whom, then, shall she wed?" 
 
 " His elder brother." 
 
 "Mother!" shrieked Sybil. "Do you say so? Oh! recall 
 your words." 
 
 " I may not ; it is spoken. Luke shall wed her." 
 
 " Oh God, support me !" exclaimed Sybil. 
 
 " Silly wench, be firm. It must be as I say. He shall wed 
 her ; yet shall he wed her not. The nuptial torch shall be 
 quenched as soon as lighted ; the ciirse of the avenger shall 
 fall — yet not on thee." 
 
 " Mother," said Sybil, " if sin must fall upon some inno- 
 cent head, let it be on mine — not upon hers. I love him. I 
 would gladly die for him. She is young, unoffending, per- 
 haps happy. Oh ! do not let her perish." 
 
 "Peace, I say!" cried Barbara, "and mark me. This is 
 your birthday. Eighteen summers have flown over your 
 young head ; eighty winters have sown their snows on mine. 
 You have yet to learn. Years have brought wrinkles ; they 
 have brought wisdom likewise. To struggle with Fate, I tell 
 you, is to wrestle with Omnipotence. We may foresee, but 
 not avert our destiny. What will be, shall be. This is your 
 eighteenth birthday, Sybil : it is a day of fate to you ; in it 
 occurs your planetary hour — an hour of good or ill, according 
 to your actions. I have cast your horoscope. I have watched 
 your natal star ; it is under the baneful influence of Scorpion, 
 and fiery Saturn sheds his lurid glance upon it. Let me see 
 your hand. The line of life is drawn out distinct and clear ; 
 it runs — ha! what means that intersection? Beware — beware, 
 my Sybil. Act as I tell you, and you are safe. I will make 
 another trial, by the crystal bowl. Attend." 
 
 Muttering some strange words, sounding like a spell, Bar- 
 bara, with the bifurcate hazel staff which she used as a 
 divining-rod, described a circle upon the floor. Within this 
 circle she drew other lines, from angle to angle, forming 
 seven triangles, the basis of wh'ch constituted the sides of a. 
 septilateral figure. This figure she studied intently for a few 
 moments. She then raised her wand and touched the ovt'l
 
 HOOIvWOOD. 181 
 
 with it. The bird unfolded its wings, and arose in flight ; 
 then slowly circled round the pendulous globe. Each time it 
 drew nearer, until at length it touched the glassy bowl with 
 its flapping pinions. 
 
 "Enough!" ejaculated Barbara. And at another motion 
 from her rod the bird stayed its flight and returned to its 
 perch. 
 
 Barbara arose. She struck the globe with her staff. The 
 pure lymph became instantly tinged with crimson, as if blood 
 had been commingled with it. The little serpent could be 
 seen within, coiled up and knotted, as in the struggles of 
 death. 
 
 " Again I say, beware !" ejaculated Barbara, solemnly. 
 " This is ominous of ill." 
 
 Sybil had sunk, from faiutncss, on the pallet. A knock 
 was hoard at the door. 
 
 " Who is without ?" cried Barbara. 
 
 " 'Tis I, Balthazar," replied a voice. 
 
 " Thou mayst enter," answered Barbara ; and an old man 
 with a long beard, white as snow, reaching to his girdle, and 
 a costume which might be said to resemble the raiment of a 
 Jewish high-priest, made his appearance. This venerable 
 personage was no other than the patrico {irom. PattevcovH) , or 
 hierophant of the canting crew. 
 
 " I come to tell you that there are sti'angers — ladies — 
 within the priory," said the patrico, gravely. "I have 
 searched for you in vain," continued he, addressing Sybil ; 
 " the younger of them seems to need your assistance." 
 
 "Whence come they ?" exclaimed Barbara. 
 
 " They have ridden, I understand, from Rookwood," an- 
 swered 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 aud a 
 daughter ; the younger is called " 
 
 "Eleanor?" asked Sybil, with an acute foreboding of 
 calamity. 
 
 "Eleanor is the name, assuredly," rei^lied the patrico, 
 somewhat sm'prised. " I heard the elder, whom I guess to 
 be her mother, so address her." 
 
 ("Gi'acious God ! She hore !" exclaimed Sybil. 
 "Here! Eleanor Mowbray here," cried Barbara; "within 
 my power. Not a momclit i; to be lost. Balthazar, hasten
 
 182 KOOKWOOD. 
 
 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 
 accomplishment appear. It shall be done at once. I will tie 
 the knot. I will untie, and then retie it. This weak wench 
 must be nerved to the task," added she, regarding the sense- 
 less form of Sybil. " Here is that will stimulate her," opeii-' 
 ing the cujjboard, and taking a small phial ; " this will fortify 
 her ; and this," continued she, with a ghastly smile, laying her 
 hand upon another vessel, " this shall remove her rival when 
 all is fulfilled ; this liquid shall constrain her lover to be her 
 titled, landed husband. Ha, ha !" 
 
 THE INAUGURATION. 
 
 Beggar. Concert, sir! we have musicians, too, among us. True, mei'ry 
 beggars, indeed, that, being witbin the reach of the lash for singing libellous 
 songs at London, were fain to fly into one covey, and liei-e they sing all our 
 poet's ditties. Tbey can sing any thing, most tuucably, sir, but psalms. 
 What they may do hereafter, under a triple tree, is much expected ; but they 
 live very civilly and genteely among us. 
 
 Spring. But, what is here— that solemn old fellow, that neither speaks of 
 himself, or any for him ? 
 
 Beggar. O, sir, the rarest man of all : he is a prophet. See how he holds 
 up liis prognosticating nose. He is divining now. 
 
 Spring. How, a prophet? 
 
 Heggar. Yes, sir ; a cunning man, and a fortune-teller ; a very ancient 
 stroller all the world over, and has travelled with gipsies ? and is a patrico. 
 
 The Merry Beggars. 
 
 In consequence of some few words which the sexton let 
 fall, in the presence of the attendants, during breakfast, more 
 perhaps by design than accident, it was speedily rumoured 
 throughout the camj) that the redoubted Richard Turpin was 
 for the time its inmate. This intelligence produced some 
 such sensation as is experienced by the inhabitants of a petty 
 town on the sudden arrival of a prince of the blood, a com- 
 mander-in-chief, or other illustrious and distinguished j)er-
 
 ROOKWOUD. 183 
 
 sonage, whose fame has been vaunted abroad amongst bis 
 fellow-men by Rumour, " and her thousand tongues ;" and 
 who, like our highwayman, has rendered himself sufficiently 
 notorious to be an object of admiration and emulation amongst 
 his contemporaries. 
 
 All started up at the news. The uj^right man, the chief of 
 the crew, arose from his chair, donned his gown of state, a 
 very ancient brocade dressing-gown, filched, most probably, 
 from the wardrobe of some strolling-player, grasped his baton 
 of office, a stout oaken truncheon, and sallied forth. The 
 ruffler, who found his representative in a very magnificently 
 equipped, and by no means ill-favoured knave, whose chin 
 was decorated with a beard as lengthy and as black as Sultan 
 Mahmoud's, together with the dexterous hooker, issued forth 
 from the hovel which they termed their boozing-ken, eager 
 to catch a glimpse of the prince of the high-tobygloaks. The 
 limping palliard tore the bandages from his mock wounds, 
 shouldered his crutch, and trudged hastily after them. The 
 whip-jack unbuckled his strap, threw away his timber leg, 
 and " leapt exulting, like the bounding roe." " With such 
 a sail in sight," he said, " he must heave to, like the rest." 
 The dummerar, whose tongue had been cut out by the Alge- 
 rines, suddenly found the use of it, and made the welkin ring 
 with his shouts. Wonderful were the miracles Dick's advent 
 wrought. The lame became suddenly active, the blind saw, 
 the dumb spoke ; nay, if truth must be told, absolutely gave 
 utterance to " most vernacular execrations." Morts, autem 
 morts, walking morts, dells, doxies, kinching morts, and their 
 coes, with all the shades and grades of the canting crew, were 
 assembled. There were, to use the words of Brome — 
 
 Stark, errant, clownriglit beg-g-ars. Ay, 
 
 Without eqiTivocatiou, statute lieggars, 
 
 Coucbant and passant, gnardant, rampant beggars ; 
 
 Current and vagrant, stockant, v/bippant beggars !* 
 
 Each sunburnt varlet started from his shed ; each dusky 
 dame, with her brown, half-naked urchins, followed at his 
 heels ; each " ripe young maiden, with the glossy eye," lin- 
 gered but to sleek her rave i tresses, and to arrange her straw 
 bonnet, and then overtook the others ; each wrinkled beldame 
 hobbled as quickly after as her stiffened joints would permit; 
 while the ancient patrico, the priest of the crew (who joined 
 the couples together by the hedge-side, " with the nice cus- 
 
 * The Merry Beggars.
 
 184 ROOKWUOD. 
 
 torn of a dead torse between,"*) brought up tlie rear; all 
 bent on one grand object, that of having a peep at the " fore- 
 most man of all this prigging world !" 
 
 Dick Turpin, at the period of which we treat, was in the 
 zenith of his reputation. His deeds were full blown ; his 
 exploits were in every man's mouth ; and a heavy price was 
 set upon his head. That he should show himself thus openly, 
 where he might be so easily betrayed, excited no little sur- 
 prise amongst the craftiest of the crew, and augured an excess 
 of temerity on his part. Eash daring was the main feature 
 of Turpin's character. Like our great ISTelson, he knew fear 
 only by name ; and when he thus trusted himself into the 
 hands of strangers, confident in himself and in his own re- 
 sources, he felt perfectly easy as to the result. He relied 
 also in the continuance of his good fortune, which had as yet 
 never deserted him. Possessed of the belief that his hour 
 was not yet come, he cared little or nothing for any risk he 
 might incur ; and though he might, undoubtedly, have some 
 presentiment of the probable termination of his career, he 
 never suffered it to militate against his present enjoyment, 
 which proved that he was no despicalde philosopher. 
 
 Turpin was the ulthnus Eomanorujn, the last of a race, 
 which (we were almost about to say, we regret) is now alto- 
 gether extinct. Several successors he had, it is true, but no 
 name worthy to be recorded after his own. With him ex- 
 pired the chivalrous spirit which animated successively the 
 bosoms of so many knights of the road ; with him died away 
 that passionate love of enterprise, that high spirit of-devotion, 
 to the fair sex, which was first breathed upon the highway by 
 the gay, gallant Claude Du-Yal, the Bayard of the road — 
 lejilou sans peur el sans rcjrroche — but which was extinguished 
 at last by the cord that tied the heroic Turjiin to the remorse- 
 less tree. It were a subject well worthy of inquiry, to trace 
 this decline and fall of the empire of the tobymen to its 
 remoter causes ; to ascertain the why and the wherefore, 
 that — with so many half -pay captains ; so many poor curates ; 
 so many lieutenants of both services, without hopes of pro- 
 motion ; so many penny-a-liners and fashioniible novelists^ so 
 many damned dramatists, and damning critics ; so many 
 
 * Tbe parties to be wedded find out a dead horse, or any other beast, and 
 standing: one on the one side, and the other on the other, tlie patrico bi<l3 
 them live together till death do them part ; and so shaking- hands, the wed- 
 ding dinner is I-cept at the next alehouse they stumljle into, where the union 
 is nothing but knocking of Cannes, and the sauce, none but drunken brawlea. 
 — Dekkab.
 
 ROOKWOOD. 185 
 
 Edinburgh and Quarterly Reviewers ; so many detrimental 
 brothers and younger sons ; when there are horses to be 
 hired, pistols to be borrowed, pm-ses to be taken, and mails 
 are as plentiful as partridges — it were worth serious investi- 
 gation, we repeat, to ascertain why, with the best material 
 imaginable for a new race of highwaymen, we have none, not 
 so much as an amateur. Why do not some of these choice 
 spirits quit the salons of Pall Mall, and take to the road ? the 
 air of the heath is more bracing and wholesome, we should 
 conceive, than that of any " hell " whatever, and the chances 
 of success incomparably greater. We throw out this hint, 
 without a doubt of seeing it followed up. Probably the solu- 
 tion of our inquiry may be, that the supply is greater than 
 the demand ; that, in the present state of things, embryo 
 highwaymen may be more abundant than purses ; and then, 
 have we not the horse-patrol ? With such an admirably- 
 organised system of conservation, it is vain to anticipate a 
 change. The highwaymen, we fear, like their Irish brothers, 
 the Rapparees, went out with the Tories. They were averse 
 to reform, and eschewed emancipation. 
 
 Lest any one should think we have overrated the pleasures 
 of the highwayman's existence, they shall hear what " the 
 right villanous " Jack Hall, a celebrated tobyman of his day, 
 has got to say on the subject. " His life (the highwayman's) 
 has, generally, the most mirth and the least care in it of any 
 man's breathing, and all he deals for is clear profit : he has 
 that point of good conscience, that he always sells as he buys, 
 a good pennyworth, which is something rare, since he trades 
 with so small a stock. The fence* and he are like the devil 
 and the doctor, they live by one another ; and, like traitors, 
 'tis best to keep each other's counsel. He has this point of 
 honesty, that he never robs the house he frequents " (Tur- 
 pin had the same scruples respecting the Hall of Rookwood 
 in Sir Piers's lifetime) ; " and perhaps pays his debts better 
 than some others, for he holds it below the dignity of his 
 employment to commit so ungenteel a crime as insolvency, 
 and loves to pay nobly. He has another quality, not much 
 amiss, that he takes no more than he has occasion for " 
 (Jack, we think, was a little mistaken here); "which he 
 verifies this way ; he craves no more while that lasts. He 
 is a less nuisance in a commonwealth than a miser, because 
 the money he engrosses all circulates again, which the other 
 hoards as though 'twere only to be found again at the day of 
 
 * Receirer.
 
 186 ROOKWOOD. 
 
 judgment. He is the tithe-pig of his family, which the gal- 
 lows, instead of the parson, claims as its due. He has reason 
 enough to be bold in his undertakings, for, though all the 
 world threaten him, he stands in fear of but one man in it, 
 and that's the hangman ; and with him, too, he is generally in 
 fee : however, I cannot affirm he is so valiant that he dares 
 look any man in the face, for in that point he is now and then 
 a little modest. Newgate may be said to be his country- 
 house, where he frequently lives so many months in the year, 
 and he is not so much concerned to be carried thither for a 
 small matter, if 'twere only for the benefit of renewing his 
 acquaintance there. He holds a petit larcency as light as 
 a ni;n does auricular confession, though the priest has a 
 more compassionate character than the hangman. Every 
 man in this community is esteemed according to his particu- 
 lar quality, of which there are several degrees, though it is 
 contrary often to public government ; for here a man shall 
 be valued purely for his merit, and rise by it too, though it 
 be but to a halter, in which there is a great deal of glory in 
 dying like a hero, and making a decent figure in the cart to 
 the two last staves of the fifty-first psalm."* 
 
 This, we repeat, is the plain statement of a practical man, 
 and again we throw out the hint for adoption. All we regret 
 is, that we are now degenerated from the grand tobyman to 
 the cracksman and the sneak, about whom there are no re- 
 deeming features. How much lower the next generation of 
 thieves will dive it boots not to conjecture : 
 
 ^tas parentum pejor avis tulit, 
 Nos noquioros ; mox daturos, 
 Progeniein vitiosiorem. 
 
 " Cervantes laughed Spain's chivalry away," sang Byron ;. 
 and if Gay did not extinguish the failing flame of our night 
 errantry (unlike the " Robbers" of Schiller, which is said to 
 have inflamed the Saxon youth with an irrepressible mania 
 for brigandage), the " Beggar's Opera " helped not to fan the 
 dying fire. That laugh was fatal, as laughs generally are. 
 Macheath gave the highwayman his coup de rjrace. 
 
 The last of this race (for we must persist in maintaining 
 that he was the last), Turpin, like the setting sun, threw up 
 some parting rays of glory, and tinged the far highways with 
 a lustre that may yet be traced like a cloud of dust raised by 
 his horse's retreating heels. Unequalled in the command of 
 
 * Memoirs of the right villanous John Hall, the famous and notorious 
 Eohber, penned fi-om his Mouth some Time before his Death, 1708.
 
 liOOKWOOD. 187 
 
 liis steed, the most singular feat that the whole race of the 
 annals of horsemanship has to record, and of which we may 
 have more to say hereafter, was achieved by him. So perfect 
 was his jockeyship, so clever his management of the animal 
 he mounted, so intimately acquainted was he with every 
 cross-road in the neighbourhood of the meti-opolis (a book of 
 which he constructed, and carried constantly about his person), 
 as well as with many other parts of England, particularly the 
 counties of Chester, York, and Lancaster, that he outstripped 
 every pursuer, and baffled all attempts at capture. His reck- 
 less daring, his restless rapidity (for so suddenly did he 
 change his ground, and renew his attacks in other quarters, 
 that he seemed to be endowed with ubiquity), his bravery, 
 his resolution, and, above all, his generosity, woia for him a 
 high reputation amongst his compatriots, and even elicited 
 applauses from those upon whom he levied his contributions. 
 
 Beyond dispute he ruled as master of the road. Tlis hands 
 were, as yet, unstained with blood ; he was ever prompt to 
 check the disposition to outrage, and to prevent, as much as 
 lay in his power, the commission of violence by his associates. 
 Of late, since he had j)ossessed himself of his favourite mare, 
 Black Bess, his robberies had been perpetrated with a sud- 
 denness of succession, and at distances so apparently imprac- 
 ticable, that the idea of all having been executed by one man, 
 was rejected as an impossibility ; and the only way of recon- 
 ciling the description of the horse and rider, which tallied in 
 each instance, was the supposition that these attacks were 
 performed by confederates similarly mounted and similarly 
 accoutred. 
 
 There was, in all this, as much of the ^^ famce sacra fames'* 
 as of the ^^ auri ;" of the hungering after distinction, as 
 well as of the appetite of gain. Enamoured of his vocation, 
 Turpin delighted to hear himself designated as the Flying 
 Highwayman ; and it was with rapturous triumph that he 
 found his single-handed feats attributed to a band of marau- 
 ders. But this state of things could not long endure : his 
 secret was blown ; the vigilance of the police was aroused ; 
 he was tracked to his haunts ; and after a number of hair- 
 breadth 'scapes, which he only effected by miracle, or by the 
 aid of his wonder-working mare, he reluctantly quitted the 
 heathy hills of Bagshot, the Pampas plains of Hounslow 
 (over which, like an archetype of the galloping Sir Francis 
 Head, he had so often scoured), the gorsy commons of High- 
 gate, Hampstead, and Finchley, the marshy fields of Batter-
 
 188 ROOKWOOD. 
 
 sea, almost all of whicli he had been known to visit in a 
 single night, and, leaving these beaten tracks to the occupa- 
 tion of younger and less practised hands, he bequeathed to 
 them, at the same time, his own reversionary interest in 
 the gibbets thereupon erected, and betook himself to the 
 country. 
 
 After a journey of more or less success, our adventurer 
 found himself at Eookwood, whither he had been invited 
 after a grand field-day by its hospitable and by no means 
 inquisitive owner. Breach of faith and good fellowship 
 formed no part of Turpin's character ; he had his lights as 
 well as his shades ; and as long as Sir Piers lived, his purse 
 and coffers would have been free from molestation, except 
 " so far," Dick said, " as a cog or two of dice went. My 
 dice, you know, are longs for odd and even, a bale of bar'd 
 cinque deuces," a pattern of which he always carried with 
 him; beyond this, excepting a take-in at a steeple-chase, 
 Eookwood church being the mark, a " do " at a leap, or some 
 such trifle, to which the most scrupulous could not raise an 
 objection, Dick was all fair and aboveboard. But when poo^ 
 Sir Piers had "put on his wooden surtout," to use Dick'$ 
 own expressive metaphor, his conscientious scruples evapot 
 rated into thin air. Lady EookR^ood was nothing to him i 
 there was excellent booty to be appropriated — ] 
 
 " Tlie wise convey it call." 
 
 He began to look about for hands ; and having accidentally! 
 encountered his old comrades, Eust and Wilder, they were 
 let into the business, which was imperfectly accomplished in 
 the mamier heretofore described. 
 
 To return from this digression. "When Turpin presented 
 himself at the threshold of the door, on his way to inquire 
 after his mare, to his astonishment he found it closely in- 
 rested. A cheering shout from the tawny throng, succeeded 
 by a general clapping of hands, and attended by a buzzing 
 susurration of applause, such as welcomes the entrance of a 
 popular actor upon the stage, greeted the appearance of the 
 highwayman. At the first sight of the crowd he was a little 
 startled, and involuntarily sought for his pistols. But the 
 demonstrations of admiration were too unequivocal to be foA 
 a moment mistaken ; his hand was drawn from his pocket tq 
 raise his hat from his brow. f 
 
 Thunders of ajji^lause.
 
 IIOOKWOOD. 189 
 
 Turpin's external man, we have before said, was singularly 
 prepossessing. It was especially so in the eyes of the sex 
 (fair we certainly cannot say upon the present occasion), 
 amongst whom not a single dissentient voice was to be heard. 
 All concurred in thinking him a fine fellow ; could plainly 
 read his high courage in his bearing ; his good breeding in 
 his dehonnnire deportment ; and his manly beauty in his 
 extravagant red whiskers. Dick saw the effect that he pro- 
 duced. He was at home in a moment. Your true highway- 
 man has ever a passion for effect. This does not desert him 
 at the gallows ; it rises superior to death itself, and has been 
 known to influence the manner of his dangling from the 
 gibbet ! To hear some one cry, " There goes a projier hand- 
 some man," saith our previously-quoted authority. Jack Hall, 
 " somewhat amehorates the terrible thoughts of the meagre 
 tyrant Death ; and to go in a dirty shirt, were enough to save 
 the hangman a labour, and make a man die with grief and 
 shame at being in that dei^lorable condition." With a 
 gracious smile of condescension, like a popular orator — with 
 a look of blarney like that of O'Connell, and of assurance like 
 that of Hume — he surveyed the male portion of the spec- 
 tators, tipped a laiowing wink at the prettiest brunettes he 
 could select, and finally cut a sort of fling with his well- 
 booted legs, that brought down another peal of rapturous 
 applause. 
 
 " A rank scamp !"* cried the upright man , and this excla- 
 mation, however equivocal it may sound, was intended, on 
 his part, to be highly complimentary. 
 
 " I believe ye," returned the ruffler, stroking his chin — 
 " one may see that he's no half swell by the care with which 
 he cultivates the best gifts of nature, his whiskers. He's a 
 rank nib."t 
 
 " Togged out to the ruffian, no doubt," said the palliard, 
 who was incomparably the shabbiest rascal in the corps. 
 " Though a needy mizzler mysel, I likes to see a cove vot's 
 vel dressed. Jist twig his swell kickseys and pipes ;;|; if they 
 ain't the thing, I'm done. Lame Harry can't dance better 
 nor he — no, nor Jerry Juniper neither." 
 
 "I'm dumfounded," roared the dummerar, "if he can't 
 patter Romany § as vel as the best on us ! He looks hke a 
 rum 'un." 
 
 * A famoas highwayman^ f A real gentleman, 
 
 J Breeches and boots. § Gipsy flash.
 
 190 ROOKWOOD. 
 
 " And a rum 'un lie be, take my word for it," rel urned the 
 whip- jack, or sham sailor. " Look at his rigging — see how 
 he flashes his sticks* — those are the tools to rake a three- 
 decker. He's as clever a craft as I've seen this many a day, 
 or I'm no judge." 
 
 The women were equally enchanted — equally eloquent in 
 the expression of their admiration. 
 
 "What ogles !" cried a mort. 
 
 " What pins !" said an autem mort, or married woman. 
 
 " Sharp as needles," said a dark-eyed dell, who had 
 encountered one of the free and frolicsome glances which 
 our highwayman distributed so liberally amongst the petti- 
 coats. 
 
 It was at this crisis Dick took off his hat. Csesar betrayed 
 his baldness. 
 
 " A thousand pities !" cried the men, compassionating his 
 thinly-covered skull, and twisting their own ringlets, glossy 
 and luxuriant, though unconscious of Macassar. " A thou- 
 sand pities that so fine a fellow should have a sconce like a 
 cocoa-nut !" 
 
 " But then his red whiskers," rejoined the women, tired of 
 the uniformity of thick black heads of hair ; " what a warmth 
 of colouring they impart to his face, and then only look how 
 beautifully bushy they make his cheeks appear !" 
 
 La Fosseuse and the court of the queen of Navarre were 
 not more smitten with the Sieur de Croix's jolly pair of 
 whiskers. 
 
 The hawk's eye of Turpin ranged over the whole assem- 
 blage. Amidst that throng of dark faces there was not one 
 familiar to him. 
 
 Before him stood the upright man, Zoroaster (so was he 
 called), a sturdy, stalwart rogue, whose superior strength and 
 statiu'e (as has not unfrequently been the case in the infancy 
 of governments that have risen to more importance than is 
 likely to be the case with that of Lesser Egypt) had been 
 the means of his elevation to his present dignified position. 
 Zoroaster literally fonijht his way upwards, and had at first 
 to maintain his situation by the strong arm ; but he now was 
 enabled to rejiose upon his hard-won laurels, to smoke " the 
 caluniel of peace," and quaff his tij^ple with impunity. For 
 one of gipsy blood, he presented an unusually jovial, liquor- 
 l<?viug counteuance ; his eye was mirthful ; his lip moist, a£ 
 
 < H9f7 Be exposes his pistols
 
 EOOKWOOD. 191 
 
 if from oft potations ; his cheek mellow as an Orleans plum, 
 which fruit, in colour and textui'e, it mightily resembled. 
 Strange to say, also, for one of that lithe race, his person 
 was heavy and hebetudinous ; the consequence, no doubt, of 
 habitual intemj^erance. Like Cribb, he waxed obese upon 
 the championshij). There was a kind of mock state in his 
 carriage as he j)laced himself before Turpin, and with his 
 left hand twisted up the tail of his dressing-gown, while the 
 right thrust his truncheon into his hij), which was infinitely 
 diverting to the highwayman. 
 
 Turpin's attention, however, was chiefly directed towards 
 his neighbour, the rutfler, in whom he recognised a famous 
 impostor of the day, with whose history he was sufficiently 
 well acquainted to be able at once to identify the individual. 
 We have before stated, that a magnificent coal-black beard 
 decorated the chin of this worthy ; but this was not all— his 
 costume was in perfect keeping with his beard, and consisted 
 of a very theatrical-looking tunic, upon the breast of which 
 was embroidered, in golden wire, the Maltese cross ; while 
 over his shoulders were thrown the ample folds of a cloak of 
 Tyrian hue. To his side was girt a long and doughty sword, 
 which he termed, in his knightly phrase, Excalibur ; and upon 
 his profuse hair rested a hat as broad in the brim as a Spanish 
 sombrero. 
 
 Exaggerated as this description may appear, we can assure 
 our readers that it is not overdrawn ; and that a counterpart 
 of the sketch we have given of the ruffler certainly " strutted 
 his hour " upon the stage of human life, and that the very 
 ancient and discriminating city of Canterbury (to which be 
 all honour) was his theatre of action. His history is so far 
 curious, that it exemplifies, more strongly than a thousand 
 discourses could do, how prone we are to be governed by 
 appearances, and how easily we may be made the dupes of a 
 plausible imposter. Be it remembered, however, that we 
 treat of the eighteenth century, before the march of intellect 
 had commenced ; we are much too knowing to be similarly 
 practised upon in these enlightened times. But we will let 
 the kiaight of Malta, for such was the title assumed by the 
 ruffler, tell his own story in his own way hereafter ; con- 
 tenting ourselves with the moral precepts we have already 
 deduced from it. 
 
 Next to the knight of Malta stood the whip-jack, habited 
 in his sailor gear — striped shirt and dirty canvas trousers ; 
 and adjoining him was the palliard, a loathsome tatterde-
 
 192 EOOKWOOD. 
 
 mallion, his dress one heap of rags, and his discoloured sMn 
 one mass of artificial leprosy and imposthumes. 
 
 As Turpin's eye shifted from one to another of these 
 figures, he chanced upon an individual who had been long 
 endeavouring to arrest his attention. This personage was 
 completely in the back-ground. All that Dick could discern 
 of him was a brown curly head of hair, carelessly arranged 
 in the modern mode ; a handsome, impudent, sun-freckled 
 face, with one eye closed, and the other occupied by a broken 
 bottle neck, through which, as a substitute for a lorgnette, 
 the individual reconnoitred him. A cocked hat was placed in 
 a very degcu/ec manner under his arm, and he held an ebony 
 cane in his hand, very much in the style of a '■\fasswnahle" 
 as the French have it, of the present day. This glimpse was 
 sufiicient to satisfy Turpin. He recognised in this whimsical 
 personage an acquaintance. 
 
 Jerry Juniper was what the classical Captain Grrose would 
 designate a " gentleman with three outs ;" and, although he 
 was not entirely without wit, nor his associates avouched, 
 without money, nor, certainly, in his own opinion, had that 
 been asked, without manners ; yet was he assuredly without 
 shoes, without stockings, without shirt. This latter deficiency 
 was made up by a voluminous cravat, tied with proportion- 
 ately large bows. A jaunty pair of yellow breeches, some- 
 what faded ; a waistcoat of silver brocade, richly embroidered, 
 somewhat tarnished and lack-lustre, a murrey-coloured velvet 
 coat, somewhat chafed, completed the costume of this beggar 
 Brummell, this mendicant maccorani ! 
 
 Jerry Juniper was a character well known at the time as 
 a constant frequenter of all races, fairs, regattas, ship- 
 launches, bull-baits, and prize-fights, all of which he at- 
 tended, and to which ho transported himself with an expedi- 
 tion little less remarkable than that of Turpin. You met 
 him at Epsom, at Ascot, at Newmarket, at Doncaster, at the 
 Eoodee of Chester, at the Gurragh of Kildare. The most 
 remote as well as the most adjacent meeting attracted him. 
 The cock-pit was his constant haunt, and in more senses than 
 one was he a leg. No opera-dancer could be more agile, 
 more nimble ; scarcely, indeed, more graceful than was Jerry, 
 with his shoeless and stockingless feet ; and the manner in 
 which he executed a pirouette, or a pas, before a line of 
 carriages, seldom failed to procure him " golden opinions 
 from all sorts of dames." With the ladies, it must b©
 
 ROOKWOOD* 193 
 
 OA^iecl, Jerry was rather upon too easy terms ; but tlien, 
 perhaps, the ladies were iipon too easy terms with Jerry ; and 
 if a bright-eyed fair one condes<^ended to jest with him, what 
 marvel if lie oliould sometimes slightly transgress the laws 
 of decorum ? These aberrations, however, were trifling ; alto- 
 gether he was so well known, and knew everbody else so well, 
 tLiit ho seldom committed himself ; and, singular to say, 
 cculd on occasions even be serious. In addition to his other 
 faculties, no one cut a sly joke, or trolled a merry ditty, 
 better than Jerry. His pectiliarities, in short, were on the 
 pleasant side, and he was a general favourite in consequence. 
 
 No sooner did Jerry perceive that he was recognised, than, 
 after kissing his hand, with the air of a petit-maitre, to the 
 highwayman, he strove to edge his way through the crowd. 
 All his efforts were fruitless ; and, tired of a situation in the 
 rear rank, so inconsistent, he conceived, with his own im- 
 portance, he had recourse to an expedient often practised 
 with success in harlequinades, and not unfrequently in real 
 life, where a flying leap is occasionally taken over our heads. 
 lie ran back a few yards to give himself an impetus, returned, 
 and, placing his hands upon the shoulders of a stalwart vaga- 
 bond near to him, threw a summerset upon the broad cap of 
 a palliard, who was so jammed in the midst that he could 
 not have stirred to avoid the shock ; thence, without pausing, 
 he vaulted forwards, and dropped lightly upon the ground 
 in front of Zoroaster, and immediately before the high- 
 wayman. 
 
 Dick laughed immoderately at Jerry's manoeuvre. He 
 shook his old chum cordially by the hand, saying, in a 
 whisper, " What the devil brings you here, Jerry ?" 
 
 " I might retort, and ask you that question. Captain 
 Turpin," replied Jerry, soito voce. " It is odd to see me 
 here, certainly — quite out of my element — lost amongst this 
 canaille — this canting crew — all the fault of a pair of gipsy 
 eyes, bright as a diamond, dark as a sloe. Tou comprehend 
 — a little affair, ha ! Liable to these things. Bring your 
 ear closer, my boy ; be upon your guard ; keep a sharp look- 
 out ; there's a devil of a reward upon yovur head ; I won't 
 answer for all these rascals." 
 
 " I'hank you for the hint, Jerry," replied Dick, in the same 
 tone. " I calcidated my chances pretty nicely when I came 
 here. But if I should perceive any symptoms of foul play — 
 any attempt to snitch or nose, amongst this pack of pedlars 
 — I have a friend or two at hand, who won't be silent upon 
 
 o
 
 194 ROOKWOOD. 
 
 the occasion. Rest assured I shall have my eye upon the 
 gnarling scoundi'els. I won't be sold for nothing." 
 
 " Trust you for that," returned Juniper, with a wink. 
 "Stay," added he; "a thought strikes me. "I have a 
 scheme in 2)elto which, may, perhaps, afford you some fun, 
 and will at all events, insure your safety during your stay." 
 
 " What is it ?" asked Dick. 
 
 " Just amuse yourself with a flirtation for a moment or 
 two with that pretty damsel, who has been casting her ogles 
 at you for the last five minutes without success, while I effect 
 a master-stroke." 
 
 And, as Turpin, nothing loth, followed his advice, Jerry- 
 addressed himself to Zoroaster. After a little conference, 
 accompanied by that worthy and the knight of Malta, the 
 trio stepped forward from the line and approached Dick, 
 when Juniper, assuming some such attitude as our admirable 
 Jones, the comedian, is wont to display, dehvered himself 
 of the following address. Turpin listened with the gravity of 
 one of the distinguished persons alluded to, at the commence- 
 ment of the present chapter, upon their receiving the freedom 
 of a city at the hands of a mayor and corporation. Thus 
 spoke Jerry : 
 
 " Highest of High-Tobymen ; rummest of rum Padders, 
 and most scampish of Scampsmen ! We, in the name of 
 Barbara, our most tawny queen ; in the name of Zoroaster, 
 our Upright Man, Dimber Damber, or Olli Campolli, by all 
 which titles his excellency is distinguished ; in our own re- 
 spective names, as High Pads and Low Pads, Rum Grills and 
 Queer Gills, Patricos, Palliards, Priggers, Whip-Jacks, and 
 Jarkmen, from the Arch Eogue to the needy Mizzler, fully 
 sensible of the honom* you have conferred upon us in gracing 
 Stop-Hole Abbey with your presence ; and conceiving that 
 we can in no way evince our sense of your condescension so 
 entirely as by offering you the freedom of our crew, together 
 with the privileges of an Upright Man,* which you may be 
 aware are considerable, and by creating you au honorary 
 member of the Vagi'ant Club, which we have recently esta- 
 bhshed ; and in so doing, we would fain express the senti- 
 ments of gratification and pride which we experience in en- 
 rolling among our members one who has extended the glory 
 of roguery so widely over the land, and who has kicked up 
 such a dust upon the highways of England, as most effectually 
 
 * For an account of these, see Grose. They are mucli too gross to be set 
 down here.
 
 ROOKWOOD. 195 
 
 to blind the natives ; one who is in himself a legion — of high- 
 waymen ! Awaiting, with respectfu.1 deference, the acquies- 
 cence of Captain Richard Turpin, we beg to lender him the 
 freedom of our crew." 
 
 " Really, gentlemen," said Turpin, who did not exactly see 
 the drift of this harangue, " you do me a vast deal of honoui'. 
 I am quite at a loss to conceive how I can possibly have 
 merited so much attention at your hands ! and, indeed, I feel 
 
 myself so unworthy " Here Dick received an expressive 
 
 wink from Juniper, and therefore thought it prudent to alter 
 his expression. " Could I suppose myself at all deserving 
 of so much distinction," continued the modest speaker, "I 
 should at once accept yoc" very obliging offer ; but " 
 
 "None so worthy," said the i;pi-ight man. 
 
 " Can't hear of a refusal," said the knight of Malta. 
 
 " Refusal — impossible !" reiterated Juniper. 
 
 "No; no refusal," exclaimed a chorus of voices. "Dick 
 Turpin must be one of us. He shall be ourdimber damber." 
 
 " Well, gentlemen, since you are so pressing," replied 
 Turpin, " even so be it. I ivill be your dimber damber." 
 
 " Bravo ! bravo !" cried the mob, not " of gentlemen." 
 
 " About it, pals, at once," said the knight of Malta, 
 flourishing excalibur. "By Saint Thomas a Becket, we'll 
 have as fine a scene as I myself ever furnished to the Canter- 
 bury lieges." 
 
 " About what ?" asked Dick. 
 
 " Tour matriculation"' replied Jerry. " There are certain 
 forms to be gone through, with an oath to be taken ; merely 
 a trifle. We'll have a jolly boose when all's over. Come, 
 bing avast, my merry pals ; to the green, to the green ; a 
 Turpin ! a Turpin ! a new brother !" 
 
 " A Turpin ! a Turpin ! a new brother !" echoed the crew. 
 
 " I've brought you through," said Jerry, taking advantage 
 of the uproar that ensued, to whisper to his chum ; "none of 
 them will dare to lift a finger against you now. They are all 
 your friends for hfe." 
 
 " Nevertheless," returned Turpin, " I should be glad to 
 know what has become of Bess." 
 
 " If it's yoiu' prancer you are wanting," chirped a flutter- 
 ing creature, whom Turpin recognised as Luke's groom, 
 Grasshopper, " I gave her a fresh loaf and a stoup of stingo, 
 as you bade me ; and there she be under yon tree, as quiet 
 as a lamb." 
 
 *' 1 see her," replied Tiirpin ; " just tighten her girths, 
 
 o 2
 
 196 EOOKWOOD. 
 
 Grasshopper, and bring lier after me, and tliou slialt have 
 wherewithal to chirp over thy cups at supper," 
 
 Away bounded the elfin dwarf, to execute his behest. 
 
 A loud shout now rent the skies, and presently afterwards 
 was heard the vile scraping of a fiddle, accompanied by the 
 tattoo of a drum. Approaching Turpin, a host of gipsies 
 elevated the highwayman upon their shoulders ; and in this 
 way he was carried to the centre of the green, where the long 
 oaken table, which had once served the Franciscans for refec- 
 tion, was now destined for the stage of the pageant. 
 
 Upon this table three drums were placed ; and Turpin was 
 requested to seat himself on the central one. A solemn pre- 
 lude, more unearthly than the incantation in the Freischutz, 
 was played by the orchestra of the band, conducted by the 
 Paganini of the place, who elicited the most marvellous notes 
 from his shell. A couple of shawms* emitted sepulchral 
 sounds, while the hollow rolling of the drum broke ever and 
 anon upon the ear. The effect was prodigioxxsly fine. During 
 this overture, the patrico and the upright man had ascended 
 the rostrum, each taking their places ; the former on the 
 right hand of Turpin, the latter upon his left. Below them 
 stood the knight of Malta, with excalibur drawn in his hand, 
 and gleaming in the sunshine. On the whole, Dick was amused 
 with what he saw, and with the novel situation in which he 
 found himself placed. Around the table were congregated a 
 compact mass of heads ; so compact, indeed, that they looked 
 like one creature — an Argus, with each eye up-turned upon 
 the highwayman. The idea struck Turpin that the restless 
 mass of parti-coloui'ed shreds and patches, of vivid hues and 
 varied tintings, singularly, though accidentally, disposed to 
 produce such an effect, resembled an immense tiger-moth, or 
 it might be a Tui-key cai-pet, sj)read out upon the grass ! 
 
 This scene was a joyous one. It was a brilHant sunshiny 
 morning. Freshened and purifi.ed by the storm of the pre- 
 ceding night, the air breathed a balm upon the nerves and 
 senses of the robber. The wooded hills were glittering in 
 light ; the brook was flowing swiftly past the edge of the 
 verdant slope, glancing like a wi-eathed snake in the sunshine 
 — its " quiet song" lost in the rude harmony of the mum- 
 mers, as were the thousand twitterings of the rejoicing birds ; 
 the rocks bared their bosoms to the sun, or were buried 
 
 * " Tlie slialm, or shawm, was a wind instrument, like a pipe, with a 
 Bwellinjf protuberance in the middle." — Earl of Northumberland's House- 
 hold Book.
 
 ROOKWOOD. 197 
 
 in deep-cast gloom ; tlie shadows of tlie pillars and arches 
 of the old walls of the priory were projected afar, while 
 the rose-like ramifications of the magnificent marigold win- 
 dow were traced, as if by a pencil, upon the verdant tablet 
 of the sod. 
 
 The overture was finished. With the appearance of the 
 principal figures in this strange picture the reader is already 
 familiar. It remains only to give him some idea of the 
 patrico. Imagine, then, an old superannuated goat, reared 
 upon its hind legs, and clad in a white sheet, disposed in 
 folds like those of a simar about its limbs, and you will have 
 some idea of Balthazar, the patrico. This resemblance to the 
 animal before mentioned was rendered the more striking 
 by his huge, hanging, goat-like under-lip, his lengthy white 
 beard, and a sort of cap, covering his head, which was orna- 
 mented with a pair of horns, such as are to be seen in 
 Michael Angelo's tremendous statue of Moses. Balthazar, 
 besides being the patrico of the tribe, was its principal 
 professor of divination, and had been the long-tried and 
 faithful minister of Barbara Level, from whose secret in- 
 structions he was supposed to have derived much of his 
 magical skill. 
 
 Placing a pair of spectacles upon his " prognosticating 
 nose," and unrolling a vellum skin, upon which strange cha- 
 racters were written, Balthazar, turning to Turpin, thus 
 commenced, in a solemn voice : 
 
 Thou who woTildst our brother be, 
 Say how we shall enter thee ? 
 Name the name that thou wilt bear 
 Ere our livery thou wear. 
 
 " I see no reason why I should alter my designation," re- 
 plied the novitiate; "but as popes change their titles on 
 their creation, there can be no objection to a scampsman fol- 
 lowing so excellent an example. Let me be known as the 
 Night Hawk." 
 
 " The Night Eawk — good," returned the hierophant, pro- 
 ceeding to register the name upon the parchment. " Kneel 
 down," continued he. 
 
 After some hesitation, Turpin complied. 
 
 " You must repeat the ' salamon,' or oath of our creed, 
 after my dictation," said the patrico ; and Tui-]->in, signifying 
 his asssnt by a nod, Balthazar propounded the following 
 abjuration :
 
 198 
 
 EOOKWOOD. 
 
 OATH OF THE CANTING CREW. 
 
 I, Crank-Cuffin, swear to be 
 True to this fraternity ; 
 That I will in all obey 
 Rule and order of the lay. 
 Never blow the gab, or squeak ; 
 Never snitch to bum or beak ; 
 But religiously maintain 
 Authority of those who reign 
 Over Stop Hole Abbey Green, 
 Be their tawny king, or queen. 
 In their cause alone will fight ; 
 Think what they think, wrong or 
 
 right ; 
 Serve them truly, and no other. 
 And be faithful to my brother ; 
 Suffer none, from far or near. 
 With their rights to interfere ; 
 No strange Abvam, ruffler crack, 
 
 Hooker of another pack, 
 Rogue or rascal, frater, maunderer, 
 Ii'ish toyle, or other wanderer ; 
 No dimber damber, angler, dancer. 
 Prig of cackler ; prig of prancer ; 
 No swigman, swaddler, clapper- 
 dudgeon ; 
 Cadge-gloak, curtal, or curmudgeon ; 
 No whip-jack, palliard, patrico ; 
 No jarkman, be he high or low ; 
 No dummerar, or romany ; 
 No member of " the Fa.'/nily ;" 
 No ballaU-b" -ket, bounciug buffer, 
 Nor any ctli i-, will I suffer ; 
 But stall-off now and for ever, 
 All outliers whatsoever : 
 And as I keep to the fore-gone. 
 So may help me Salamon !* 
 
 " So help me Salamon !" repeated Turpin, witli emphasis, 
 
 " Zoroaster," said the patrico to the upright man, " do thy 
 part of this ceremonial." 
 
 Zoroaster obeyed ; and, taking excalibur from the knight 
 of Malta, bestowed a hearty thwack with the blade upon the 
 shoulders of the kneehng highwayman, assisting him after- 
 wards to arise. 
 
 The inauguration was complete. 
 
 "Well," exclaimed Dick, " I'm glad its all over. My leg 
 
 * Perhaps the most whimsictU laws that were ever prescribed to a gang of 
 thieves were those framed by William Holliday, one of the prigging com- 
 munity, who was hanged in IG'JS : 
 
 Art. I. directs— That none of his company should presume to wear shirts, 
 upon pain of being cashiered- 
 
 II. — That none should lie in any other places than stables, empty houses, 
 or other bulks. 
 
 III. — That they should eat nothing but what they begged, and that they 
 should give away all the money they got by cleaning boots among one another, 
 for the good of the fraternity. 
 
 IV. —That they should neither learn to read nor write, that he may have 
 them the better under command. 
 
 V. — That they should appear every morning by nine, on the parade, to re- 
 ceive necessary ord.U'S. 
 
 VI. — That none should presume to follow the scent but such as he ordered 
 on that party. 
 
 VII. — That if any one gave them shoes or stockings, he should convert 
 them into money to play. 
 
 VIII.— That they shoiild steal nothing they could not come at, for fear of 
 bringing a scandal upon the company. 
 
 IX.— That they should not endeavour to clear themselves of vermin by 
 killing or eating them. 
 
 X. — That tbcj"^ should cant better than the Newgate birds, pick pockets 
 without bungling, outlie a Quaker, outswear a lord at a gaming-table, and 
 brazen out all their villanies beyond an Irishman.
 
 EOOKWOOD. 199 
 
 feels a little stiffish, I'm not mucli given to kneeling. I must 
 dance it off ;" saying -which, he began to shuffle upon the 
 boards. "I tell you what," continued he, "most reverend 
 patrico, that same ' salmon' of yours has a cursed long tail. 
 I could scarce swallow it all, and it's strange if it don't give 
 me an indigestion. As to you, sage Zory, from the dexterity 
 with which you flourish your sword, I shovdd say you had 
 practised at court. His majesty could scarce do the thing 
 better, when, slapping some fat alderman upon the shoulder, 
 he bids him arise Sir Richard. And now, pals," added he, 
 glancing round, "as I am one of you, let's have a boose 
 together ere I depart, for I don't think my stay wiU bo long 
 in the land of Egypt." 
 
 This suggestion of Tuvpin was so entirely consonant to the 
 wishes of the assemblage, that it met with universal appro- 
 bation ; and upon a sign from Zoroaster, some of his fol- 
 lowers departed in search of supplies for the carousal. Zoro- 
 aster leaped from the table, and his example was followed by 
 Turpin, and more leisurely by the patrico. 
 
 It was rather early in the day for a drinking-bout. But 
 the canting crew were not remarkably particular. The chairs 
 were removed, and the jingling of glasses announced the 
 arrival of the preliminaries of the matutine si/mposio}i. Poles, 
 canvas, and cords were next brought ; and in almost as short 
 space of time as one scene is substituted for another in a 
 theatrical representation, a tent was erected. Benches, stools, 
 and chairs appeared with equal celerity, and the interior soon 
 presented an appearance like that of a booth at a fair. A keg 
 of brandy was broached, and the health of the new brother 
 quaffed in brimmers. 
 
 Our highwayman returned thanks. Zoroaster was in the 
 chair, the knight of Malta acting as croupier. A second toast 
 was proposed — the tawny queen. This was drunk with a like 
 enthusiasm, and with a like allowance of the potent spirit ; 
 but as l)umper8 of brandy are not to be repeated with im- 
 punity, it became evident to the president of the board that 
 he must not repeat his toasts quite so expeditiously. To 
 create a temporary diversion, therefore, he called for a song. 
 
 The (lidcet notes of the fiddle now broke through the 
 cLimour; and, in answer to the call, Jerry Juniper volun- 
 teered the following ;
 
 200 KOOKWOOD 
 
 JERRY JUNIPER'S CHANT. 
 
 In a box (1) of tlie stone ju? (2) I was bom. 
 Of a beuipcn widow (3) the kid forlorn, 
 
 Fake away. 
 And my father, as I've beard say, 
 
 Fake away. 
 Was a merchant of capers (4) gay, 
 Who cut his last fling with great applause, 
 
 (5) Nix my doll pals, fake awaym 
 
 Wbo cut bis last fling with great applause, (6) 
 
 To the tune of a " hearty choke with caper sauce." 
 
 Fake away. 
 Tbe knucks in quod (7) did my schoolmen play, 
 
 Fake away, 
 And put me up to tbe time of day ; 
 Until at last thei'e was none so knowing. 
 
 Nix my doll 2)als,fake away. 
 
 Until at last there was none so knowing, 
 
 No such sneaksman (8) or buzgloak (9) going. 
 
 Fake away. 
 Fogies (10) and fawnies (11) soon went their way, 
 
 Fake away, 
 To tbe spout (12) with the sneezers (13) in grand array. 
 No dummy hunter (M) had forks (15) so fly ; 
 
 Nix my doll i^als,fake away. 
 
 No dummy hunter bad forks so fly. 
 
 No knuckler (16) so deftly could fake a cly, (17) 
 
 Fake away. 
 No slour'd boxter (18) my snipes (10) could stay, 
 
 Fake away. 
 None knap a reader (20) like me in tlie lay. 
 Soon then I mounted in swell-street high. 
 
 Nix my doll pals, fake away. 
 
 Soon then I mounted in swell-street high, 
 And spoi"ted my flashest toggery, (21) 
 
 Fake away. 
 Firmly resolved I would make my hay, 
 
 Fake away, 
 
 (1) Cell. (2) Newgate. (3) A woman whose husband has been banged. 
 (1) A dancing-master. 
 
 (5) " Nothing, comrades ; on, on," supposed to be addressed by a thief to 
 his confederates. 
 
 (6) Thus Victor Hugo, in " Le Dernier Jour d'un Coudamn^," makes an 
 imprisoned felon sing : 
 
 " J'le ferai danser une danse 
 Oil il n'y a pas de plancher." 
 
 (7) Thieves in prison. (8) Shoplifter. (9) Pickpocket. 
 (10) Handkerchiefs. (11) Rings. (12) To the pawnbroker. 
 (13) Snuff-boxes. (14) Pickpocket. 
 
 (15) The two fore-fingers used in picking a pocket- 
 
 (16) Pickpocket. (17) Pick a pocket. _ 
 
 (18) No inside coat-pocket, buttoned up. (19) Scissors. 
 
 (20) Steal a pocket-book. (21) Best-made clotheg.
 
 ROOKWOOD. ^01 
 
 While Mercury's star shed a single i-ay ; 
 
 Aud ne'er was there seen such a dashing prig, (22) 
 
 Nix my doll pals, fake away. 
 
 And ne'er was there seen such a dashinpr prig, 
 With my strummel faked in the newest twig. (23) 
 
 Fake away. 
 With my fawnied famms, (24) and my onions gay, (25) 
 
 Fake aivay ; 
 My thimble of ridge, (26) and my driz kemesa ; (27) 
 All my togs were so niblike (28) and splash. 
 
 Nix my doll j)a?s, fake awa^ 
 
 All my togs were so niblike and splash, 
 
 Readily the queer screens I then could smash ; (29) 
 
 Fake aivay. 
 But my nuttiest blowen, (30) one fine day. 
 
 Fake aivay. 
 To the beaks (31) did her fancy man betray, 
 And thus I was bowled out at last. (32) 
 
 Nix my doll pals, fake away. 
 
 And thus I was bowled out at last 
 
 And into the jug for a lag was cast ; (33) 
 
 Fake aivay. 
 But I slipped my darbies (31) one morn in May, 
 
 Fake away. 
 And I gave to the dubsman (35) a holiday. 
 And here I am, pals, merry and free, 
 A regular rollicking romany. (3Q) 
 
 Nix my doll pals, fake away. 
 
 Much laughter and applause rewarded Jen-y's attempt to 
 please ; and though the meaning of his chant, even with the 
 aid of the numerous notes appended to it, may not be quite 
 obvious to our readers, we can assure them that it was per- 
 fectly intelligible to the canting crew. Jerry was now 
 entitled to a call ; and happening, at the moment, to meet 
 the fine dark eyes of a sentimental gipsy, one of that better 
 class of mendicants who wandered about the country with a 
 guitar at his back, his election fell upon him. The youth, 
 without prelude, struck up a 
 
 GIPSY SERENADE,* 
 
 Merry maid, merry maid, wilt thou wander with me? 
 We will roiim through the forest, the meadow, and lea ; 
 
 (22) Thief. _ (23) With my hair dressed in the first fashion. 
 
 (24) With several rings on my hands. (25) Seals. 
 
 (26) Gold watch. (27) Laced shirt. 
 
 (28) Gentlemanlike. (29) Easily then forged notes could I pass. 
 
 (30) Favourite mistress. (31) Police. 
 
 (32) Taken at length. (33) Cast for transportation. 
 
 (3i) Fetters. (35) Turnkey. (36) Gipsy. 
 
 * Set to music by Mr. AJexandei: Roche.
 
 202 ROOKWOOD. 
 
 We will haunt the sunny bowers, and when day beg^ins to flee, 
 Oar couch shall be the ferny brake, our canopy the tree, 
 
 Merry maid, merry maid, come and wander with me! 
 
 No life like the gipsy's, so joyous and free! 
 
 Merry maid, merry maid, though a roving life be onrs, 
 
 We will laugh away the laughing and quickly fleeting hours ; 
 
 Our hearts are fi-ee, as is the free and open sky above, 
 
 And we know what tamer souls know not, how lovers ought to love. 
 
 Merry maid, merry maid, come and n-ander with me! 
 
 No life like the gipsy's, so joyous and free! 
 
 Zoroaster now removed the pipe from his upright lips to 
 intimate his intention of proposing a toast. 
 
 A universal knocking of knuckles by the knucklers* was 
 followed by profoiuid silence. The sage spoke : 
 
 "The city of Canterbury, pals," said he, "and may it 
 never want a knight of Malta." 
 
 The toast was j)ledged with much laughter, and in many 
 bumpers. 
 
 The knight, upon whom all eyes were turned, rose, " with 
 stately Ijearing and majestic motion," to return thanks. 
 
 " I return you an infinitude of thanks, brother pals," said 
 he, glancing round the assemblage ; and bowing to the pre- 
 sident, " and to you, most upright Zory, for the honour you 
 have done me in associating my name with that city. Believe 
 me, I sincerely appreciate the compliment, and echo the sen- 
 timent from the bottom of my soul. I trust it never will 
 want a linight of Malta. In return for your consideration, 
 but a poor one you will say, you shall have a ditty, which I 
 composed upon the occasion of my pilgrimage to that city, 
 and which I have thought proper to name after myself :" 
 
 THE KNIGHT OF MALTA: 
 
 A Canterbury Tale.\ 
 
 Come list to me, and you shall have, without a hem or haw, sirs, 
 A Canterbury pilgimage, much better than old Chaxicer's. 
 'Tis of a hoax I once played oif , upon that city clever, 
 The memory of which I hope, will stick to it for ever. 
 
 With my coal-black beard, and purple cloak, 
 jack-boots, and broad-brimmed castor. 
 
 Hey-ho! for the Knight of Malta! 
 
 * Pickpockets. 
 
 t This song describes pi-etty accurately the career of an extraordinary 
 individual, who in the lucid intervals of a half-crazed understanding, im- 
 posed himself upon the credulous inhabitants of Canterbury, in the year 
 1832, as a certain " Sik Wii.liabi Percy HoNEYWooDCouuTENAr, Knight 
 OF Malta -," and contrived — for there was considerable " method in liis mad- 
 ness" — to support the deception during a l'>ng period. The anachronism of
 
 ROOKWOOD. 203 
 
 To execute my purpose, in the first place, you must know, sirs, 
 My locks I let hang down my neck — my beard and whiskers grow, sirs ; 
 A purple cloak I next clapped on, a sword tagged to my side, sirs, 
 And mounted on a charger black, I to the town did ride, sirs. 
 
 With my coal-hlach beard, <^c. 
 
 his character in a tale (the date of which is nearly a century back), will per- 
 haps be overlooked, when it is considered of how much value, in the illustra- 
 tion of "wise saws," are " modern instances." Imposture and credulity are 
 of all ages ; and the Courtenays of the nineteenth are rivalled by the Tofta 
 and AnHres of the eighteenth century. The subioined account of the soi'- 
 disant Sir William Courtenat is extracted from "An Essay on hia 
 Character, and Keflections on his Trial," published at the theatre of his ex- 
 ploits : " About Michaelmas last it was rumoured that an extraordinary man 
 was staying at the Kose Inn of this city (Cantei'bury), who passed under the 
 nn,me of Count Rothschild, but had been recently known in London by the 
 name of Thompsoa ! This would have been sufficient to excite attention, 
 had not other incidents matei'ially added to the excitement. His costume 
 and countenance denoted foreign extraction, while his language and conversa- 
 tion showed that he was well acquainted with almost every part of thia 
 khngdoui. He was said to live with singular frugality, notwithstanding 
 abundant samples of wealth, and professions of an almost unlimited com- 
 mand of money, lie ajipeared to study retirement, if not concealment, 
 although subsequent events have proved that society of every grade, beneath 
 the middle class, is the element in which he most freely breathes. He often 
 decked his person with a fine suit of Italian clotlung, and sometimes with the 
 more gay and imposing costume of the Eastern nations, yet these foreign 
 habits wei-e for months scarcely visible beyond the limits of the inn of his 
 abode, and the chapel not far from it, in which he was accustomed to offer 
 his Sabbath devotions. This place was the first to which he made a public 
 and frequent resort ; and though he did not always attempt to advance 
 towards the uppermost seat in the synagogue, he attracted attention from the 
 mere singularity of his appearance. 
 
 " Such was the eccentric, incongruous individual who surprised our city 
 by proposing himself as a third candidate for its representation, and who 
 created an entertaining contest for the honour, long after the sitting candi- 
 dates had composed themselves to the delightful vision of an unexpensive and 
 unopposed return. The notion of representing the city originated beyond 
 all doubt in tho fertile brain of the man himself. It would seem to have been 
 almost as sudden a thought in his mind, as it was a sudden and surprising 
 movement in the view of the city ; nor have we been able to ascertain 
 whether his soiourn at the Eose was the cause or the effect of his offering to 
 dvocate our interests in parliament — whether he came to the city with that 
 igh-minded purpose, or subsequently formed the notion, when he saw, or 
 bought he saw, an opening for a stranger of enterprise like himself. 
 • **#*«* 
 
 " As the county election drew on, we believe between the nomination on 
 Jarham Downs and the voting in the cattle market of the city, the draught 
 of a certain handbill was sent to a printer of thia city, with a request that 
 he would publish it without delay. Our readers will not be surprised that 
 he instantly declined the task ; but as we have obtained possession of the 
 copy, and its publication can now do no injury to any one, we entertain them 
 with a sight of this delectable sample of Courtenay prudence and politeness. 
 "'Oyes! yes ! O yes ! I, Lord Viscount William Courtenay, of Pow- 
 derham Castle, Devon, do hereby proclaim Sir Thomas Tylden, Sir Brook 
 Brydges, Sir Edward KnatchbuU, and Sir William Cosway, four cowards, 
 unfit to represent, or to assist in returning members of pai'liameat to serve 
 the brave men of Kent.
 
 204 KOOKWOOD. 
 
 Two iiages were there by my side, upon two little ponies, 
 Decked out in scnrlet uniform as spruce as macaronies ; 
 Caparisoned my charger was, as grandly as his master. 
 And o'er my long and curly lofks I wore a broad-brimmed castoi, 
 With my coal-black heard, S(c. 
 
 The people all flocked forth, amazed to see a man so hairy, 
 Oh ! such a sight had ne'er before been seen in CanterVtnry ! 
 My flowing robe, my flowing beard, my horse with flowing mane, sirs 1 
 They stared — the days of chivalry, they thought, were come again, sirs! 
 With my coal-black heard, ^'c. 
 
 I told them a long rigmarole romance, that did not halt a 
 Jot, that they beheld in me a real Knight of Malta ! 
 Tom a Eecket had I sworn I was, that saint and martyr hallowed, 
 I doubt not just as readily the bait they would have swallowed. 
 With my coal-black heard, <^c., 
 
 I rode about, and speechified, and everybody gullied, 
 
 The tavern-keeperH diddled, and the magistracy bullied ; 
 
 Like puppets were the townsfolk led in that show they call a raree; 
 
 The Gotham sages were a joke to those of Cauterbm-y. 
 
 With my coal-black beard, ^c. 
 
 The theatre I next engaged, where I addressed the crowd, sirs, 
 And on retrenchment, and reform, I spouted long and loud, sira; 
 On tithes, and on taxation, I enlarged with skill and zeal, sirs, 
 Who so able as a Malta knight, the malt tax to repeal, sii's? 
 With my coal-black beard, (f-c. 
 
 As a candidate I then stepped forth to represent their city, 
 And my non-election to that place was certainly a pity ; 
 For surely I the fittest was, and very proper, very. 
 To represent the wisdom and the wit of Canterbury. 
 
 With my ccal-black beard, S(C. 
 
 At the trial of some smugglers next, one thing I rather queer did, 
 And the justices upon the bench I literally bearded ; 
 For I swore that I some casks did see, though proved as clear as day, Birs, 
 That I happened at the time to be some fifty miles away, sirs. 
 With my coal-black beard, ^c. 
 
 This last assertion, I must own, was somewhat of a blunder, 
 And for perjury indicted they compelled me to knock under ; 
 To my prosperous career this slight error put a stop, sirs, 
 And thus crossed, the Knight of Malta was at lengtli obliged to hop, eiw. 
 With his coal-black beard, and -ptirple cloak, 
 jack-boots, avd broad-brimmed castor, 
 
 Good-bye to the Knight qf Malta. 
 
 " ' Percy Honeywood Courtenay, of Hales and Evington Place, Kent, and 
 Knight of Malta. 
 
 " ' Any gentleman desiring to know the reasons why Lord Courtenay so 
 publicly exposes backbiters, any man of honour shall have satisfaction at his 
 hands, and in a public way, according to the laws of our land— trial by combat ; 
 when the Almighty God, the Lord of Hosts is his name, can decide the 
 " truth," whether it is a libel or not. I worship truth as my God, and will 
 die for it— and upon this we will see who is strongest, God or man.' 
 
 "It is a coincidence too curious to be overlooked, that this doughty 
 champion of truth should soon have removed himself from public life by an 
 g,ct of deliberate and wanton perjury. We never read any of his I'hapaodiea,
 
 ROOKWOOD. 205 
 
 The knight sat down amidst the general plaudits of the 
 company. 
 
 The party, meanwhile, had been increased by the arrival of 
 Luke and the sexton. The former, who was in no mood for 
 revelry, refused to comply with his grandsire's solicitation to 
 enter, and remained sullenly at the door, with his arms 
 folded, and his eyes fixed upon Turpin, whose movements he 
 lommanded through the canvas aperture. The sexton walked 
 
 periodical or occasional, till tbe pulilication of tbis essay imposed the self- 
 denying task upon ns ; but now we find that they abound in strong and 
 solemn appeals to the truth ; in bold proclamations that ^r«!/t is his palla- 
 dium ; in evidences that he writes and raves, that he draws his sword and 
 clenches his fist, that he expends his property and the property of others 
 committed to his hands, in no cause but that of trutli! His famous 
 periodical contains much vehement declamation in defence of certain doctrines 
 of religion, which he terms the truth of the sublime system of Chi-istianity, 
 and for which alone he is content to live and also willing to die. All who 
 deviate from his standard of truth, whether theological or moral, philosophi- 
 cal or political, he appears to consider as neither lit for life or death. Now 
 it is a little strange, his warmest followers being witnesses, that such an 
 advocate of truth should have become the willing victim of falsehood, tho 
 ready and eager martyr of the worst form of falsehood— perjury. 
 
 "The decline of his influence between the city and county elections has 
 been partly attributed, and not without reason, to the sudden change in his 
 appearance from comparative youth to advancing, if not extreme age. On 
 the hustings of the city he shone forth in all the dazzling lustre of an 
 oriental chief ; and such was the effect of gay clothing on the meridian of 
 life, that his admirers, especially of the weaker sex, would insist upon it that 
 he had not passed tbe beautiful spring-time of May. There were, indeed, 
 some suspicions appearances of a near approach to forty, if not two or three 
 years beyond it ; but these were fondly ascribed to his foreign travels in 
 distant and insalubrious climes ; he had acquired his duskiness of complexion, 
 and his strength of feature and violence of gesture, and his profusion of 
 beard in Egypt and Syrui, in exploring the catacombs of the one country, and 
 bowing at the shrines of the other. On the other hand, the brilliancy of his 
 eye, the melody of his voice, and the elasticity of his muscles and limbs, were 
 sufficient arguments in favour of his having scarcely passed the limit that 
 separates manhood from youth. 
 
 "All doubts on these points were removed, when tbo .crowd of his fair 
 admirers visited him at the retirement of his inn, and tho intervals of his 
 polling. These sub Rosd interviews— we allude to the name of the inn, and not 
 to anything like privacy there, which the very place and number of the visitors 
 altogether precluded — convinced them that he was even a younger and lovelier 
 man than his rather boisterous behaviour in the hall would allow them to 
 hope. In fact, he was now installed by acclamation Knight of Canterbury 
 as well as Malta, and King of Kent as well as Jerusalem! It became 
 dangerous then to whisper a syllable of suspicion against his wealth or rank, 
 his wisdom or beauty ; and all who would not bow down before this golden 
 image were deemed worthy of no better fate than Shadrach, Meshech, and 
 Abednego — to be cast into a bm-ning fiery furnace." 
 
 As a sequel to the above story, it may be added, that the Knight of Malta 
 became tbe inmate of a lunatic asylum ; and on his liberation was shot at the 
 head of a band of Kentish hinds whom he had persuaded that he was the 
 Messiah !
 
 206 ROOKWOOD. 
 
 up to Diet, who was seated at the post of honour, and clap- 
 ping hiiu upon the shoulder, congratulated him upon the 
 comfortable position in which he found him. 
 
 " Ha, ha ! Are you there, my old death's head on a n::op- 
 stick?" said Turpin, with a laugh. "Ain't we merry mum- 
 pers, eh? Keeping it up in style. Sit down, old Noah; 
 make yourself comfortable, Methusalem." 
 
 "What say you to a drop of as fine Nantz as you ever 
 tasted in your life, old cove ?" said Zoroaster. 
 
 " I have no sort of objection to it," returned Peter, " pro- 
 vided you will all pledge my toast." 
 
 " That I will, were it Old Euffin himself," shouted Tiu'pin. 
 
 " Here's to the three-legged mare," cried Peter. " To the 
 tree that bears fruit all the year round, and yet has neither 
 bark nor branch. You won't refuse that toasl, Captain 
 Turpin ?" 
 
 " Not I," answered Dick ; " I owe the gallows no grudge. 
 If, as Jerry's song says, I must have a hearty choke and 
 caper sauce for my breakfast one of these fine mornings, it 
 shall never be said that I fell to my meal without appetite, or 
 neglected saying grace before it. Gentlemen, here's Peter 
 Bradley's toast, ' The scragging-post ; the three-legged mare,' 
 with three times three." 
 
 Appropriate as this sentiment was, it did not appear to be 
 so inviting to the party as might have been anticipated, and 
 the shouts soon died away. 
 
 " They like not the thoughts of the gallows," said Tm-pin 
 to Peter. "More fools they. A mere bugbear to frighten 
 children, believe me ; and never yet alarmed a brave man. 
 The gallows, pshaw ! One can but die once, and what sig- 
 nifies it how, so that it be over quickly. I think no more of 
 the last leap into eternity than clearing a five-barred gate. A 
 rope's-end for it ! So let us be merry, and make the most 
 of our time, and that's true philosophy. I know you can 
 throw off a rum chant," added he, tui-ning to Peter. " I 
 heard you sing last night at the hall. Troll us a stave, my 
 antediluvian file, and, in the mean time, tip me a gage of 
 fogus,* Jerry ; and if that's a bowl of huckle-my-buttf you 
 are brewing. Sir Wilham," added he, addressing the knight 
 of Malta, "you may send me a jorum at your convenience." 
 
 Jerry handed the highwayman a pipe, together with a 
 tumbler of the beverage which the knight had prepared, 
 
 * A pipe cf tobacco. 
 
 •f- A drink composed of beer, eggs, and brandy.
 
 ROOKWOOD. 207 
 
 whicli he pronounced excellent ; and while the huge bowl 
 was passed round to the company, a prelude of shawms 
 announced that Peter was ready to break into song. 
 
 Accordingly, after the symphony was ended, accompanied 
 at intervals by a single instrument, Peter began his melody, 
 in a key so high, that the utmost exertion of the shawm- 
 blower failed to approach its altitudes. The burden of hh 
 ministrelsy was : 
 
 THE MANDEAKE* 
 
 MojXv ds fMiv KaX'sovGi hoi, yakz-alv hi r opuaasn 
 'Avodpdffi ye DvrjToTffi, 6iol ds n ^avrx dvvavrai. 
 
 HOMEBUS. 
 
 The mandrake grows 'neath tine callows-tree, 
 And rank and green are its leaves to see ; 
 Green and rank, as the grass that waves 
 Over the unctuous earth of gi-aves ; 
 And though all around it be bleak and bare, 
 Freely the mandrake flourisheth there. 
 
 Mar anatha— Anathema ! 
 Dread is the curse of mandragora ! 
 
 Euthanasy I 
 
 At the foot of the gibbet the mandrake springs, 
 
 Just where the creaking carcase swings ; 
 
 Some have thought it engendered 
 
 From the fat that drops from the boi^es of the dead ; 
 
 Some have thought it a human thing ; 
 
 But this is a vain imagining. 
 
 Maranatha — Anathema ! 
 Dread is the curse of mandragora ! 
 Euthanasy I 
 
 A charuel leaf doth the mandi'ake wear, 
 A charnel fruit doth the mandrake bear ; 
 
 * The supposed malignant influence of this plant is frequently alluded to 
 by our elder dramatists ; and with one of the greatest of tnem, Webster (as 
 might be expected from a muse revelling like a ghoul in graves and sepulchres), 
 it is an especial favourite. But none have plunged so deeply into the subject 
 as Sir Thomas Browne. He tears up the fable root and branch. Concerning 
 the danger ensuing from eradication of the mandrake, he thus writes : — '■ The 
 last assertion is, that there follows a hazard of life to them that pull it up, 
 that some evil fate pursues them, and that they live not very long hereafter. 
 Therefore the attempt hereof among the ancients was not in ordinary way ; 
 but, as Pliny infornieth, when they intended to take up the root of this plant, 
 they took the wind thereof, and with a sword describing three circles about 
 it, they digged it up, looking toward the west. A conceit not only injurious 
 unto truth and confutable by daily experience, but somewhat derogatory unto 
 the providence of God ; that is, not only to impose so destructive a quality on 
 any plant, but to conceive a vegetable whose parts are so useful unto many, 
 should, in the only taking up, prove mortal unto any. This were to introduce 
 a second forbidden fruit, and enhance the first malediction, making it not 
 only mortal for Adam to taste the one, but capital for his posterity to eradi- 
 cate, or dig up tlie other." — Vulgar Errors, book ii. c vi-
 
 208 ROOKWOOD. 
 
 Yet none like tbe mandrake hath snch great power, 
 Such virtue resides not in herb or flower ; 
 Aconite, hemlock, or moonshade I ween, 
 None hath a poison bo subtle and keen. 
 
 Maranatha — Anathemat 
 Bread is the curse oj vinmlragoral 
 Euthanasy I 
 
 And ivhether the mandrake bo create 
 Flesh with the flower incorporate, 
 I know not ; yet, if from the earth 'tis rent, 
 Shrieks and groans from tlie root are sent ; 
 Shrieks and groans, and a sweat like gore, 
 Oozes and drops from the clammy core. 
 
 Maranatha— Anathema I 
 Dread »s the curse oj mandragora t 
 Euthanasy t 
 
 Whoso gathereth the mandrake shall surely die ; 
 Blood for blood is his destiny. 
 Some who have plucked it tiave died with gi'oans, 
 Like to the mandrake's expiring moans ; 
 Some have died raving, and some beside. 
 With penitent prayers — but all have died. 
 
 Jesu ! save us by night and by day ! 
 
 From tlie lerrible death of mandragora ! 
 
 Euthanasy. 
 
 " A queer chant that," said Zoroaster, coughing loudly, i: 
 token of disapprobation. 
 
 " Not much to my taste," quoth the knight of Malta. "We 
 like something more sprightly in Canterbury." 
 
 " Nor to mine," added Jerry ; " don't think it's likely to 
 have an encore. 'Pon my soul, Dick, you must give us some- 
 thing yourself, or we shall never cry Euthanasy at the Triple 
 Tree." 
 
 " With all my heart," replied Turpin. " You shall have 
 — but what do I see, my friend. Sir Luke ? Devil take my 
 tongue, Luke Bradley, I mean. What, ho ! Luke — nay, nay, 
 man, no shrinking — stand forward ; I've a word or two to say 
 to you. We must have a nob-a-nob glass together, for old 
 acquaintance sake. Nay, no airs, man ; dammee you're not 
 a lord yet, nor a baronet either, though I do hold your title in 
 my pocket ; never look glum at me. It won't pay. I'm one 
 of the canting crew now ; no man shall sneer at me with im- 
 punity, eh, Zory ? Ha, ha ! here's a glass of Nantz ; we'U 
 have a bottle of black strap when you are master of your 
 own. Make ready there, you gut-scrapers, you shawm- 
 shavers ; I'll put your lungs in play for you ])resently. In 
 the mean time — charge, pals, charge — a toast, a toast ! 
 Health and prosperity to Sir Luke Eookwood ! I see you 
 are siu'prised — this, gem'men, is Sir Luke Eookwood, some-
 
 EOOKWOOD. 209 
 
 while Luke Bradley, heir to the house of that name, not ten 
 miles distant from this. Say, shall we not drink a bumper 
 to his health ?" 
 
 Astonishment prevailed amongst the crew. Luke himself 
 had been taken by surprise. When Turpin discovered him 
 at the door of the tent, and summoned him to appear, he 
 reluctantly complied with the request ; but when, in a half* 
 bantering vein Dick began to rally him upon his pretensions, 
 he would most gladly have retreated, had it been in his power. 
 It was then too late. He felt he must stand the ordeal. 
 Every eye was fixed upon him with a look of inquiiy. 
 
 Zoroaster took his everlasting pipe from his mouth. 
 
 " This ain't true, sure/y .^" asked the perplexed Magus. 
 
 " He has said it," replied Luke ; " I may not deny it." 
 
 This was sufficient. There was a wild hubbub of delight 
 amongst the crew, for Luke was a favourite with all. 
 
 " Sir Luke K-ookwood!" cried Jerry Juniper, who liked a 
 title as much as Tommy Moore is said to dote upon a lord. 
 " Upon my soul I sincerely congratulate you ; devilish fortu- 
 nate fellow. Always cursed milucky myself. I could never 
 find out my own father, unless it were one Monsieur des 
 Capriolles, a French dancing-master, and he never left any- 
 thing behind him that I could hear of, except a broken lat 
 and a hempen widow. Sir Luke Eookwood, we shall do our- 
 selves the pleasure of drinking your health and prosperity." 
 
 Fresh bumpers, and immense cheering. 
 
 Silence being in a measure restored, Zoroaster claimed 
 Turpin's promise of a song. 
 
 "True, true," replied Dick; "I have not forgotten it. 
 Stand to your bows, my hearties." 
 
 THE GAME OF HIGH TOBY. 
 
 Now Oliver (1) puts his black nigbtcap on, 
 
 And every star its glim (2) is biding, 
 And fortb to the heath is the scampsman (3) gone. 
 
 His matchless cherry-black (4) prancer riding ; 
 Merrily over the common he flies, 
 
 Fast and tree as the rush of rocket, 
 His crape-covered vizard drawn over his eyes. 
 
 Hia tol (5) by his side, and his pops (6) in his pocket. 
 
 CHORUS. 
 
 Then who can name 
 
 So merry a game. 
 
 As the game of all games — high toby ? (7) 
 
 (1) The moon. (2) Light. (3) Highwayman. 
 
 (4) " Cherry-coloured -black ; there being black cherries as well as red."— 
 Gkose. (5) Sword. ((5) Pistols. (7) Highway-robbery. 
 
 V
 
 210 ROOKWOOD. 
 
 The traveller hears him, away ! away ! 
 
 Over the wide wide heath he scurries ; 
 He heeds not the thiinderbolt summons to stay, 
 
 But ever the faster and faster he hurries. 
 But what daisy-cutter can match that hlack tit? 
 
 He is caught — he must " stand and deliver ;" 
 Then out with the dummy, (8) and off with the bit, (9) 
 
 Oh ! the game of high toby for ever ! 
 
 CHORUS. 
 
 Then who can name 
 So merry a, game. 
 
 As the game of all games — high toby t 
 Believe me, there is not a game, my brave boys, 
 
 To compare with the game of high toby ; 
 No rapture can equal the tobyman's joys, 
 
 To blue devils, blue plumbs (10) give the go-by; 
 And what if, at length, boys, lie come to the crap ! (11) 
 
 Even rack punch has sovie bitter in it, 
 For the mare-with-three-legs, (12) boys, I care not a rap, 
 'Twill be over in less than a minute ! 
 
 GRAND CHORUS. 
 
 Then hii), hurrah! 
 
 Fling care atvay .' 
 
 Hurrah for tlie game of high toby.' 
 
 " And now, pals," said Dick, who began to feel the in- 
 fluence of these morning cups, "I vote that we adjourn. 
 Believe me I shall always bear in mind that I am a brother 
 of your band. Sir Luke and I must have a little chat to- 
 gether ere I take my leave. Adieu !" 
 
 And taking Luke by the arm, he walked out of the tent. 
 Peter Bradley rose, and followed them. 
 
 At the door they foimd the dwarfish Grasshopper, with 
 Black Bess. Rewarding the m-chin for his trouble, and slip- 
 ping the bridle of his mare over his hand, Turpin continued 
 h is walk over the green. For a few minutes he seemed to be 
 !o st in rumination. 
 
 " I tell you what. Sir Luke," said he ; "I should like to do 
 
 generous thing, and make you a present of this bit of paper. 
 But one ought not to throw away one's luck, you know — 
 there is a tide in the affairs of thieves, as the player coves say, 
 which must be taken at the flood, or else — no matter ! Your 
 old dad, Sir Piers (God help him !) had the gingerbread, that 
 I know ; he was, as we say, a regular rhino-cerical cull. You 
 won't feel a few thousands, especially at starting ; and besides, 
 there are two others. Rust and Wilder, who row in the same 
 boat with me, and must therefore come in for their share of 
 the reg'lars. All this considered, you can't comj)lain, I think, 
 
 (8) Pocket-book. (9) Money. (10) Bullets. 
 
 (11) The gallows. (12) Ditto.
 
 ROOKWOOD. 211 
 
 if I aSi^ five thouscand for it. That old harridan, Lady Rook- 
 wood, offered me nearly as much." 
 
 " I will not talk to you of fairness," said Luke ; " I will not 
 say that document belongs of right to me. It fell by accident 
 into your hands. Having possessed yourself of it, I blame 
 you not that you dispose of it to the best advantage. I must, 
 perforce, agree to yoiu" terms." 
 
 "Oh, no," replied Dick, "it's quite optional; Lady Rook- 
 wood will give as much and make no mouths about it. Soho, 
 lass ! What makes Bess prick her cars in that fashion ? — 
 Ha ! carriage-wheels in the distance ! that jade knows the 
 sound as well as I do. I'll just see what it's like ! — you wiU 
 have ten minutes for reflection. Who knows if I may not 
 have come in for a good thing here ?" 
 
 At that instant a carriage passed the angle of rock some 
 three hundred yards distant, and was seen slowly ascending 
 the hill-side. Eager as a hawk after his quarry, Turpin 
 dashed after it. 
 
 In vain the sexton, whom he nearly overthrew in his 
 career, called after him to halt. He sj)ed like a bolt from 
 the bow. 
 
 " May the devil break his neck !" cried Peter, as he saw 
 him dash through the brook ; " could he not let them alone ?" 
 
 " This must not be," said Luke ; " know you whose carriage 
 it is?" 
 
 " It is a shrine that holds the jewel that should be dearest 
 in your eyes," returned Peter ; " haste, and arrest the spoiler's 
 hand." 
 
 " Whom do you mean ?" asked Luke. 
 
 " Eleanor Mowbray," replied Peter. " She is there. To 
 the rescue — away." 
 
 " Eleanor Mowbray," echoed Luke — " and Sybil! " 
 
 At this instant a pistol-shot was heard, 
 
 ** Will you let murder be done, and upon your cousin ?" 
 ied Peter, with a bitter look. " You are not what I took 
 
 u for." 
 
 Lulce answered not, but, swift as the hound freed from the 
 leash, dai'ted in the direction of the carriage. 
 
 p 2
 
 212 ROOKWOOD. 
 
 VI. 
 
 ELEANOR MOWBRAT. 
 
 Mischiefs 
 
 Are like the visits of Franciscan friars, 
 
 They never come to prey upon us single. — Devil's Law Case, 
 
 The course of our tale returns now to Eleanor Mowbray. 
 After she had parted from Ranulph Eookwood, and had 
 watched him disappear beneath the arches of the church 
 porch, her heart sank, and, drawing herself back within the 
 carriage, she became a prey to the most poignant affliction. 
 In vain she endeavoured to shake off this feeling of desola- 
 tion. It would not be. Despair had taken possession oi 
 her ; the magic fabric of delight melted away, or only gleamed 
 to tantalize, at an unreachable distance. A presentiment 
 that Eanulph would never be hers had taken root in her ima- 
 gination, and overshadowed all the rest. 
 
 While Eleanor pursued this train of reflection, the time in- 
 sensibly wore away, until the sudden stoppage of the carriage 
 aroused the party from their meditation. Major Mowbray 
 perceived that the occasion of the halt was the rapid advance 
 of a horseman, who was nearing them at full speed. The ap- 
 pearance of the rider was somewhat singular, and might have 
 created some uneasiness as to tht ixature of his approach, had 
 not the major immediately recognized a friend ; he was, 
 nevertheless, greatly surprised to see him, and turned to Mrs. 
 Mowbray to inform her that Father Ambrose, to his infinite 
 astonishment, was coming to meet them, and appeared, from 
 his manner, to be the l^earer of unwelcome tidings. 
 
 Eather Ambrose was, perhaps, the only being whom Eleanor 
 dislike3. ~SEe~Bad felt an unaccountable antipathy towards 
 him, which she could neither extirpate nor control, dviring 
 their long and close intimacy. It may be necessary to men- 
 tion that her religious culture had been in accordance with 
 the tenets of the Romish Church, in whose faith (the faith of 
 her ancestry) her mother had continued ; and that Eather 
 Ambrose, with whom she had first become acquainted during 
 ^ the residence of the family near Bordeaux, was her ghostly 
 * adviser and confessor. An Englishman by birth, he had 
 been appointed pastor to the diocese in which they dwelt, 
 and was, consequently, a frequent visitor, almost a constant 
 inmate, of the chateau ; yet, though duty and respect would 
 have prompted her to regard the father with affection, Eleanor
 
 ROOKWOOD. 213 
 
 could Bever conquer tbe feelings of dislike and distrust wliicli 
 she had at first entertained towards him ; a dislike which was 
 increased by the strange control in which he seemed to hold 
 her mother, who regarded him with a veneration approaching 
 to infatuation. It was, therefore, with satisfaction that she 
 bade him adieu. He had, however, follov/'d his friends to 
 England under a feigned name (as, being a recusant Romish 
 priest, and supposed to have been engaged in certain Jesuitical 
 plots, his return to his own country was attended with con- 
 siderable risk), and had now remained domesticated with 
 them for some months. That he had been in some way, early 
 in life, connected with a branch of the house of Rookwood, 
 Eleanor was aware (she fancied he might have been engaged 
 in political intrigue with Sir Reginald, which would have well 
 accorded with his ardent ambitious temperament), and the 
 Imowledge of this circumstance made her doubly apprehensive 
 lest the nature of his present communication should have 
 reference to her lover, towards whose cause the father had 
 never been favourable, and respecting whose situation he 
 might have made some discovery, which she feared he might 
 use to Ranulph's disadvantage. 
 
 Wrapped in a long black cloak, with a broad-brimmed hat 
 drawn closely over his brows, it was impossible to distinguish 
 further of the priest's figure and features beyond the circum- 
 stance of his height, which was remarkable, until he had 
 reached the carriage- window, when, raising his hat, he dis 
 closed a head that Titian might have painted, and which, 
 arising from the dark drapery, looked not unhke the visage 
 of some grave and saturnine Venetian. There was a vener- 
 able expanse of forehead, thinly scattered with hair, towering 
 over black pent-house-like brows, which, in their turn, sha- 
 dowed keen penetrating eyes ; the temples were hollow, and 
 blue veins might be traced beneath the sallow skin ; the 
 cheek-bones were high, and there was something in the face 
 that spoke of self-mortification ; while the thin livid lips 
 closely compressed, and the austere and sinister expression 
 of his countenance, showed that his self-abasement, if he had 
 ever practised it, had scarcely prostrated the demon of pride, 
 whose dominion might still be traced in the lines and furrows 
 of his haughty physiognomy. The father looked at Mrs. 
 Mowbray, and then glanced suspiciously at Eleanor. The 
 former appeared to understand him. 
 
 " You would say a word to me in private," said Mrs. 
 Mowbray ; " shall I descend ?"
 
 214 EOOKWOOD. 
 
 The priest bowed assent. 
 
 " It is not to you alone tliat my mission extends," said he, 
 gravely; "you are all in part concerned; your sou had 
 better alight with yon." 
 
 " Instantly," replied the major. **If you will give your 
 horse in charge to the postilion, we will attend you at once." 
 
 With a feeling of renewed apprehension, connected, she 
 knew not why, with Ranulph, Eleanor beheld her relatives 
 descend from the carriage ; and, in the hope of gaining some 
 clue from their gestures to the subject of their conversation, 
 she watched their motions as narrowly as her situation per- 
 mitted. From the earnest maim.er of the priest, and the 
 interest his nan-ative seemed to excite in his hearers, it was 
 evident that his communication was of importance. 
 
 Presently, accompanied by Father Ambrose, Mrs. Mow- 
 bray returned to the carriage, while the major, mounting the 
 priest's horse, after bidding a hasty adieu to his sister, 
 adding, with a look that belied the consolation intended to be 
 conveyed by his words, that " all was well," but without 
 • staying to offer her any explanation of the cause of his sudden 
 
 1 departure, rode back the way they had just traversed, and 
 
 2 in the direction of Eookwood. Bereft of the only person to 
 whom she could have ajiplied for information, though dying 
 with curiosity and anxiety to know the meaning of this sin- 
 gular interview, and of the sudden change of plans which she 
 felt so intimately concerned herself, Eleanor was consti'ained 
 to preserve silence, as, after their entrance into the cari'iage, 
 her mother again seemed lost in j^ainful reflection, and 
 heeded her not ; and the father, drawing from his pocket a 
 small volume, appeared intently occupied in its perusal. 
 
 " Dear mother," said Eleanor, at length, turning to Mrs. 
 Mowbray, " my brother is gone " 
 
 " To Eookwood," said Mrs. Mowbray, in a tone calculated 
 to check further inquiry ; but Eleanor was too anxious to 
 notice it. 
 
 " And wherefore, mother ?" said she. " May T not be 
 informed ?" 
 
 " Not as yet, my child — ^not as yet," rephed Mrs. Mowbray. 
 "You will learn all sufficiently early." 
 
 The priest raised his cat-like eyes from the book to watch 
 the effect of this speech, and dropped them instantly, as 
 Eleanor turned towards him. She had been about to appeal 
 to him, but having witnessed this look, she relinquished her 
 scarce-formed purpose, and endeavoured to divert her tristful
 
 ROOKWOOD. 215 
 
 thoughts by gazing through the glimmering medium of her 
 tears upon the soothing aspect of external nature — that aspect 
 which, in sunshine or in storm, has ever relief in store for a 
 heart embittered by the stony coldness of the world. 
 
 The road, meanwhile, led them through a long woody 
 valley, and was now climbing the sides of a steej) bill. They 
 were soon in the vicinity of the priory, and of the gipsies' 
 encampment. The priest leaned forward, and whispered 
 j something in Mrs. Mowbray's ear, who looked towards the 
 f ruined shrine, part of the mouldering walls being visible 
 from the road. 
 
 At this moment the clatter of a horse's hoofs, and the 
 sound of a loud voice commanding the postilion, in a menacing 
 tone, to stop, accompanied by a volley of imprecations, in- 
 terrupted the couference, and bespoke the approach of an 
 unwelcome intruder, and one whom all, too truly, feared 
 would not be readily dismissed. The postilion did his best 
 to rid them of the assailant. Perceiving a masked horseman 
 behind him, approaching at a furious rate, he had little doubt 
 as to his intentions, and Turpin, for it was our highwayman, 
 soon made his doubts certainties. He haUoo'd to him to 
 stop ; but the fellow paid no attention to his command, and 
 disregarded even the pistol which he saw, in a casual glimpse 
 over his near side, presented at his person. Clapping spurs 
 into his horse's flanks, he sought succour in flight. Turpin 
 was by his side in an instant. As the highwayman endea- 
 voured to catch his reins, the lad suddenly wheeled the 
 carriage right upon him, and but for the dexterity of Turpin, 
 and the clever conduct of his mare, would inevitably have 
 crushed him against the roadside. As it was, his left leg was 
 slightly grazed. Irritated at this, Turpin fired over the 
 man's head, and with the butt-end of his pistol felled him 
 from his seat. Startled by the sound, and no longer under 
 the governance of their rider, the horses rushed with frantic 
 violence towards a ditch that bounded the other side of the 
 highway, down which the carriage was precipitated, and at 
 once overturned. Turpin's first act, after he had ascertained 
 that no mischief had been occasioned to those within, beyond 
 the alarm incident to the shock, was to compel the postilion, 
 who had by this time gained his legs, to release the horses 
 from their traces. This done, with the best grace he could 
 assume, and, adjusting his mask, he opened the carriage, and 
 proceeded to libei-ate the captives. 
 
 " Beg pardon, ma'am," said ho, so soon as he had released
 
 216 BOOKWOOD. 
 
 Mrs. Mowbray ; " excessively sorry, upon my soul, to have 
 been the cause of so much unnecessary alarm to you — all 
 the fault, I assure you, of that rascal of a postilion ; had the 
 fellow only pulled up when I commanded him, this bothera- 
 tion might have been avoided. You will remember that 
 when you pay him — all his fault, I assiu'e you, ma'am." 
 
 Receiving no reply, he proceeded to extricate Eleanor, 
 with whose beauty the inflammable highwayman was instantly 
 smitten. Leaving the father to shift for himself, he tm-ned 
 to address some observation of coarse gallantry to her : but 
 she eluded his grasj>, and flew to her mother's side. 
 
 " It is useless, sir," said Mrs. Mowbray, as Turpin drew 
 near them, " to affect ignorance of your intentions. You 
 have already occasioned us serious alarm, much delay, and 
 inconvenience. I trust, therefore, that beyond oiu- purses, 
 to which, though scantily supplied, you are welcome, we 
 shall sustain no molestation. You seem to have less of the 
 ruffian about you than the rest of your lawless race, and are 
 not, I should hope, destitute of common humanity." 
 
 " Common humanity !" replied Turpin : " bless you, ma'am, 
 I'm the most humane creatui'e breathing — would not hurt a 
 fly, much less a lady. Incivility was never laid to my charge. 
 This business may be managed in a few seconds ; and as soon 
 as we have settled the matter, TV lend your stupid jack-boy 
 a hand to put the horses to the carriage again, and get the 
 wheels out of the ditch. You have a banker, ma'am, I sup- 
 pose in town — perhaps in the country ; but I don't like 
 country bankers ; besides, I want a little ready cash in Rum- 
 ville — beg pardon, ma'am, London, I mean. My ears have 
 been so stunned with those Romany patterers, I almost thi7ilc 
 in flash. Just draw me a cheque ; I've pen and ink always 
 ready ; a cheque for fifty pounds, ma'am — only fifty. What's 
 your banker's name 1^ I've blank cheques of all the best 
 houses in my pocket ; that and a kiss from the pretty lips of 
 that cherry-cheek'd maid," winking to Eleanor, " will fully 
 content me. You see you have neither an exorbitant nor 
 imcivil personage to deal with." 
 
 Eleanor shrank closer to her mother. Exhausted by pre- 
 vious agitation of the night, greatly frightened by the shock 
 which she had just sustained, and stiU more alarmed by the 
 words and gestures of the highwayman, she felt that she was 
 momentarily in danger of fainting, and with difficulty pre- 
 vented herself from falling. The priest, who had succeeded 
 in freeing himself from the carriage, now placed himself be- 
 tween Turpin and the ladies.
 
 ROOKWOOD. 217 
 
 " Be satisfied, misguided man," snid the father, in a stern 
 voice, offering a purse, which Mrs. Mowbray hastily extended 
 towards him, " with the crime you have ah'eady committed, 
 and seek not to peril your soul by deej)er guilt ; be content 
 with the plunder you now obtain, and depai't; for, by my 
 holy calling, I affirm to you, that if you advance one footstep 
 towards the further molestation of these ladies, it shall be at 
 the hazard of your life." 
 
 " Bravo !" exclaimed Turpin. " Now this is what I like ; 
 who would have thought the old autem-bawler had so much 
 pluck in him ? Sir, I commend you for your courage, but 
 you are mistaken. I am the quietest man breathing, and 
 never harm a human being ; in proof of which, only look at 
 your rascal of a postilion, whom any one of my friends would 
 have sent post-haste to the devil for half the trouble he gave 
 me. Easy as I am, I never choose to be balked in my 
 humours. I must have the fifty and the buss, and then I'm 
 off, as soon as you like ; and I may as well have the kiss 
 while the old lady signs the cheque, and then we shall have 
 the seal as well as the signature. Poh — poh — no nonsense ! 
 Many a pretty lass has thought it an honour to be kissed by 
 Turpin." 
 
 Eleanor recoiled with deepest disgust, as she saw the high- 
 wayman thrust aside the useless oiDposition of the priest, and 
 approach her. He had removed his mask ; his face, flushed 
 with insolent triumph, was turned towards her. Despite the 
 loathing which curdled the blood within her veins, she could 
 not avert her eyes. He drew near her ; she uttered a shrill 
 scream. At that moment a powei'ful grasp was laid upon 
 Turpin's shoulder ; he turned and beheld Luke. 
 
 " Save me ! save me !" cried Eleanor, addressing the new 
 comer. 
 
 " Damnation !" said the highwayman, " what has brought 
 you here ? One would think you were turned assistant to all 
 distressed damsels. Quit your hold, or, by the God above 
 us, you will repent it." 
 
 " Fool !" exclaimed Luke, " talk thus to one who heeds 
 you." And as he spoke he hurled Turpin backwards with so 
 much force that, staggering a few yards, the highwayman fell 
 to the ground. 
 
 The priest stood like one stunned with surprise at Luke's 
 sudden appearance and subsequent daring action. 
 
 Luke, meanwhile, approached Eleanor. He gazed upon 
 her with curiosity mixed with admiration, for his heart told
 
 218 ROOKWOOD. 
 
 him she was very fair. A death-like paleness had spread 
 over her cheeks ; yet still, desj)ite the want of colour, she 
 looked exquisitely beautiful, and her large blue eyes elo- 
 quently thanked her deliverer for her rescue. The words she 
 wanted were supplied by Mrs. Mowbray, who thanked him 
 in aj^jDropriate terms, when they were interrupted by Turpin, 
 who had by this time j)icked himself up, and was drawing 
 near them. His countenance wore a fierce expression. 
 
 " I tell you what," said he, " Luke Bradley, or Luke Rook- 
 wood, or whatever else you may call yourself, you have taken 
 a damned unfair advantage of me in this matter, and deserve 
 nothing better at my hands than that I should call you to 
 instant account for it ; and curse me ! if I don't too." 
 
 " Luke Bradley !" interrupted Mrs. Mowbray ; " are you 
 that individual ?" 
 
 " I have been so called, madam," replied Luke. 
 
 " Father Ambrose, is this the person of whom you spoke ?" 
 eagerly asked the lady. 
 
 " So I conclude," returned the priest, evasively. 
 
 " Did he not call you Luke Rookwood ?" eagerly demanded 
 Eleanor. " Is that also your name ?" 
 
 " Rookwood is my name, fair cousin," replied Luke, " if I. 
 may venture to call you so." 
 
 " And Ranulph Rookwood is " 
 
 " My brother." 
 
 "I never heard he had a brother," rejoined Eleanor, with 
 some agitation. " How can that be ?" 
 
 " I am his brother, nevertheless," replied Luke, moodily — 
 
 " his ELDER BEOTHEK !" 
 
 Eleanor turned to her mother and the priest with a look 
 of imj^loring anguish : she saw a confirmation of the truth of 
 this statement in their glances. No contradiction was offered 
 by either to his statement ; both, indeed, appeared in some 
 mysterious manner prepared for it. This, then, was the 
 dreaded secret. This was the cause of her brother's sudden 
 departure. The truth flashed with lightning swiftness across 
 her brain. 
 
 Chagrined and mortified, Luke remarked that glance of 
 inquiry. His pi'idewas hm-t at the preference thus naturally 
 shown towards his brother. He had been struck, deeply 
 struck, with her beauty. He acknowledged the truth of 
 Peter's words. Eleanor's loveliness was without parallel. 
 He had seen nought so fair, and the instant he beheld her, 
 he felt that for her alone could he cancel his vows to Svbil.
 
 ROOKWOOD. 219 
 
 The spirit of rivalry and jealousy was instantly aroused by 
 Eleanor's exclamations. 
 
 " His elder brother !" echoed Eleanor, dwelling upon his 
 words, and addressing Lulie — "then you must be — but no, 
 you are not, you cannot be — it is Eanulph's title — it is not 
 yours — you are not — ^ — " 
 
 " I am Sir Luke Rookwood," replied Luke, proudly. 
 
 Ere the words were uttered Eleanor had fainted. 
 
 " Assistance is at hand, madam, if you will accept it, and 
 follow me," said Luke, raising the insensible girl in his arms, 
 and bearing her down the hill towards tbe encampment, 
 whither he was followed by Mrs. Mowbray and the priest, 
 between whom, during the hurried dialogue we have detailed, 
 very significant glances had been exchanged. Turpin, who, 
 as it may be supposed, had not been an incurious observer of 
 the scene passing, burst into his usual loud laugh on seeing 
 Luke bear away his lovely burden. 
 
 " Cousin ! Ha, ha !" said he. " So the wench is his 
 cousin. Damme, I half suspect he has fallen in love with 
 his new-found cousin ; and if so. Miss Sybil, or I'm mistaken, 
 will look as yeUow as a guinea. If that little Spanish devil 
 gets it into her pretty jealous pate that he is about to bring 
 home a new mistress, we shall have a tragedy scene in the 
 twinkhng of a bed-post. However, I shan't lose sight of Sir 
 Luke until I have settled my accounts with him. Hark ye, 
 boy," continued he, addressing the postilion ; " remain where 
 you are ; you won't be wanted yet awhile, I imagine. There's 
 a guinea for you, to drink Dick Turpin's health." 
 
 Upon which he mounted his mare, and walked her easily 
 down the hill. 
 
 " And so that be Dick Turpin, folks talk so much about," 
 sohloquized the lad, looking curiously after him ; " well, he's 
 as civil speaking a chap as need be, blow my boots if he 
 ain't ! and if I'd had a notion it Avere he, I'd have puUed up 
 at first call, without more ado. Nothing like experience ; I 
 shall knoA\" better another time," added he, pocketing the 
 douceur. 
 
 Rushing swiftly down the hill, Luke tarried at the river's 
 brink, to sprinkle some of the cool element upon the pale 
 brow of Eleanor. As he held her in his arms, thoughts 
 which he fain would have stifled in their birth took posses- 
 sion of his heart. " Would she were mine ?" murmured he. 
 " Yet no ! the wish is iinworthy." But that wish returned 
 unbidden.
 
 220 ROOKWOOD. 
 
 Eleanor opened lier eyes. She was still too weak to walk 
 without support, and Luke, raising her once more in his 
 arms, and motioning Mrs. Mowbray to follow, crossed the 
 brook by means of stepping-stones, and conducting his charge 
 along a by-path towards the priory, so as to avoid meeting 
 with the crew assembled upon the green. 
 
 They had gained one of the roofless halls, when he encoun- 
 tered Balthazar. Astonished at the sight of the party, the 
 patrico was about to address the priest as an acquaintance! 
 when his more orthodox brother raised his finger to his lips, 
 in token of caution. The action passed unobserved. 
 
 '' Hie thee to Sybil," said Luke to the patrico. " Bid her 
 haste hither. Say that this maiden — that Miss Mowbray 
 is here, and requires her aid. Fly ! I will bear her to the 
 refectory." 
 
 As Balthazar passed the priest, he pointed with a signi- 
 ficant glance towards a chasm in the wall, which seemed to 
 be an opening to some subterraneous chamber. The father 
 again made a gesture of silence, and Balthazar hastened upon 
 his mission. 
 
 Luke led them to the refectory. He brought a chair for 
 Eleanor's support; but so far from reviving, after such 
 attention as could be afforded her, she appeared to become 
 weaker. 
 
 He was about to issue forth in search of Sybil, when to his 
 surprise he found the door fastened. 
 
 " You cannot pass this way," said a voice, which Luke 
 instantly recognised as that of the knight of Malta. 
 
 *' Not pass !" echoed Lxike. " What does this mean ?" 
 
 " Our orders are from the queen," returned the knight. 
 
 At this instant the low tolling of a muffled bell was heard. 
 
 " Ha !" exclaimed Luke ; " some danger is at hand." 
 
 His heart smote him as he thought of Sybil, and he looked 
 anxiously towards Eleanor. 
 
 Balthazar rushed into the room. 
 
 " Where is Sybil ?" cried Luke. " Will she not come ?" 
 
 " She will be here anon," answered the patrico. 
 
 " I will seek her myself, then," said Luke. " The door by 
 which you entered is free." 
 
 " It is not free," replied Balthazar. " Ecmain where you 
 are." 
 
 " Who will prevent my going forth ?" demanded Luke, 
 sternly. 
 
 " I will," said Barbara Level, as she suddenly appeared in
 
 EOOKWOOD. 221 
 
 the doorway. " You stir not, excepting at my pleasure. 
 Where is the maiden ?" continued she, looking around with 
 a grim smile of satisfaction at the consternation produced by 
 her appearance. " Ha ! I see ; she faints. Here is a cordial 
 that shall revive her, Mrs. Mowbray, you are welcome to 
 the gipsies' dwelling — you and your daughter. And you, Sir 
 Luke Rookwood, I congratulate you upon your accession of 
 dignity," Turning to the priest, who was evidently over- 
 whelmed with confusion, she exclaimed, " And you too, sir, 
 think you I recognise you not ? We have met ere this, at 
 Kookwood. Know you not, Barbara Lovel? Ha, ha! It is 
 long since my poor dwelhng has been so highly honoured. 
 But I must not delay the remedy. " Let her drink of this," 
 said she, handing a phial to Mrs. Mowbray. " It will instantly 
 restore her," 
 
 " It is poison !" cried Luke. " She shall not drink it." 
 
 " Poison !" reiterated Barbara. " Behold !" and she drank 
 off the liquid. " I would not poison your bride," added she, 
 turning to Luke. 
 
 " My bride," echoed Luke. 
 
 " Ay, your bride," repeated Barbara. 
 
 Lvike recoiled in amazement, Mrs. Mowbray almost felt 
 inclined to beheve she was a dreamer, so visionary did the 
 whole scene appear. A dense crowd of witnesses stood at 
 the entrance. Foremost amongst them was the sexton. 
 Suddenly a shriek was heard, and the crowd opening to allow 
 her passage, Sybil rushed forward. 
 
 VII. 
 
 MRS. MOWBRAY. 
 
 Well, go thy ways, old Nick Machiavel, there will never be the peer of thee 
 for wholesome policy and good counsel ; thou took'st pains to chalk men oat 
 the dark paths and hidden plots of murther and deceit, and no man has the 
 grace to follow thee. The age is unthankful, thy principles are quite for- 
 saken, and worn out of memory.— Shakekley Makmion's Antiquary. 
 
 Sybil's sudden entrance filled the group that surrounded 
 Miss Mowbray with new dismay. But she saw them not. Her 
 Boul seemed rivetted by Eleanor, towards whom she rushed ; 
 and while her eye wandered over her beauty, she raised the
 
 222 ROOKWOOD. 
 
 braided hair from her brow, revealing the clear, polished 
 forehead. Wonder, awe, devotion, pity, usurped the place of 
 hatred. The fierce expression that had lit up her dark orbs 
 was succeeded by tender commiseration. She looked an im- 
 ploring appeal at Barbara. 
 
 " Ay, ay," returned the old gipsy, extending at the same 
 time the phial; "I understand. Here is that will bring 
 the blood once more into her pallid cheeks, and kindle the fire 
 within her eyes. Give her of this." 
 
 The effect of the potion was almost instantano<ms, amply 
 attesting Barbara's skill in its concoction. Stified respira- 
 tion first proclaimed Eleanor's recovery. She opened her 
 large a'u^l languid eyes ; her bosom heaved almost to burst- 
 ing ; her palses throbbed quickly and feverishly : and as the 
 stimulant operated, the wild lustre of excitement blazed in 
 her eyes. 
 
 Sybil took her hand to chafe it. The eyes of the two 
 maidens met. They gazed upon each other steadfastly and 
 in silence. Eleanor knew not whom she regarded, but she 
 could not mistake that look of sympathy ; she could not mis- 
 take the tremulous pressure of her hand ; she felt the silent 
 trickling tears. She returned the sympathising glance, and 
 gazed with equal wonder upon the ministering fairy, for such 
 she almost seemed that knelt before her. As her looks wan- 
 dered from the kindly glance of Sybil to the withered and 
 inauspicious aspect of the gipsy queen, and shifted thence 
 to the dusky figures of her attendants, filled with renewed 
 apprehension, she exclaimed, " Who are these, and where 
 ami?" 
 
 " You are in safety," replied Luke. " This is the ruined 
 priory of St. Francis ; and those strange personages are a 
 horde of gipsies. You need fear no injury from them." 
 
 " My deliverer !" murmured Eleanor ; when aU at once the 
 recollection that he had avowed himself a Eookwood, and 
 the elder brother of Eanulph, flashed across her memory. 
 " Gipsies ; did you not say these people were gipsies ? Your 
 own attire is the same as theirs. You are not, cannot be the 
 brother of Eanulph." 
 
 " I do not boast the same mother," returned Luke, 
 proudly ; " but my father was Sir Piers Eookwood, and I 
 am his elder born." 
 
 He turned away. Dark thoughts swept across his brain. 
 Maddened by the beauty of Eleanor, stung by her slights, 
 and insensible to the silent agony of Sybil, who sought in
 
 ROOKWOOD. 223 
 
 vain to ca-tch his eye, he thought of nothing but of revenge, 
 and the accomplishment of his purj)oses. All within was a 
 wild and fearful ttirmoil. His better principles were stifled 
 by the promptings of evil. " Methinks," cried he, half aloud, 
 " if the Tempter were near to offer that maiden to me, even 
 at the peril of my soul's welfare, I could not resist it." 
 
 The Tempt er ivas Sit hand. He is seldom absent on occa- 
 sions like the pf^eht. The sexton stood beside his grand- 
 son. Luke started. He eyed Peter from head to foot, 
 almost expecting to find the cloven foot, supposed to be 
 proper to the fiend. Peter grinned in ghastly derision. 
 
 " Soh ! you would summon hell to your aid; and lo ! the 
 devil is at your elbow. Well, she is yours." 
 
 "Make good yovir words," cried Luke, impatiently. 
 
 " Softly — softly," returned Peter. " Moderate yourself, 
 and your wishes shall be accomjjlished. Your own desires 
 chime with those of others ; nay, with those of Barbara. She 
 would wed you to Miss Mowbray. Tou stare. But it is so. 
 This is a cover for some deeper plot; no matter. It shall 
 go hard, despite her cunning, if I foil her not at her own 
 weapons. There is more mischief in that old woman's brain 
 than was ever hatched within the crocodile's egg ; yet she 
 shall find her match. Do not thwart her ; leave all to me. She 
 is about it now," added he, noticing Barbara and Mrs. Mow- 
 bray in conference together. " Be patient — I will watch 
 her." And he quitted his grandson for the piu'pose of 
 scanning more closely the manceuvres of the old gipsy. 
 
 Barbara, meanwhile, had not remained inactive. 
 
 " Tou need fear no relapse in your daughter ; I will answer 
 for that," said the old gipsy to Mrs. Mowbray ; " Sybil will 
 tend her. Quit not the maiden's side," continued she, ad- 
 dressing her grandchild, adding in a whisper, "Be cautious 
 — alarm her not — mine eye will be upon you — drop not a 
 word." 
 
 So saying, she shuffled to a little distance with Mrs. Mow- 
 bray, keeping Sybil in view, and watching every motion, as 
 the panther watches the gambols of a fawn. 
 
 "Know you who speaks to you?" said th(i old vjioni., in 
 the peculiar low and confidential tone assumed by her tribe 
 to strangers. "Have you forgotten the name of Barbara 
 Lovel?" 
 
 " I have no distinct remembrance of it," returned Mrs. 
 Mowbray. 
 
 " Think again," said Barbara ; " and though years are
 
 224 EOOKWOOD. 
 
 flown, you may perchance recall tlie black gipsy woman, who, 
 when you wei*e surrounded with gay gallants, with dancing 
 plumes, perused your palm, and whispered in your ear the 
 favoured suitor's name. Bide with me a moment, madam," 
 said Barbara, seeing that Mrs. Mowbray shrank from the 
 recollection thus conjured up ; " I am old — very old ; I have 
 survived the shows of flattery, and being vested with a power 
 over my people, am apt, perchance, to take too much upon 
 myself with others." The old gipsy paused hero, and then, 
 assuming a more familiar tone, exclaimed, " The estates of 
 Eookwood are ample " 
 
 " Woman, what mean you ?" 
 
 " They should have been yours, lady, and would have been, 
 but for that marriage. You would have beseemed them 
 bravely. Sir Eeginald was wilful, and erased the daughter's 
 name to substitute that of his son. Pity it is that so fair a 
 creature as Miss Mowbray should lack the dower her beauty 
 and her birth entitle her to expect. Pity that Ranulph 
 Eookwood should lose his title, at the moment when he 
 deemed it was di'opping into his possession. Pity that those 
 broad lands should pass away from you and your children, as 
 they will do, if Eanulph and Eleanor are united." 
 
 "They never shall be united," replied Mrs. Mowbray, 
 hastily. 
 
 " 'Twere indeed to wed your child to beggary," said Bar- 
 bara. 
 
 Mrs, Mowbray sighed deeply. 
 
 " There is a way," continued the old crone, in a deep 
 whisper, " by which the estates might still be hers and 
 yours." 
 
 " Indeed !" said Mrs. Mowbray, eagerly. 
 
 " Sir Piers Eookwood had two sons." 
 
 "Hah!" 
 
 " The elder is hero." 
 
 " Luke — Sir Luke. He brought us hither." 
 
 " He loves your daughter. I saw his gaze of passion just 
 now. I am old now, but I have some skill in lovers' glances. 
 Why not wed her to him ? I read hands — read hearts, you 
 Imow. They were born for each other. Now, madam, do 
 you understand me ?" 
 
 " But," returned Mrs. Mowbray, with hesitation, " though 
 I might wish for — though I might sanction this, Eleanor is 
 betrothed to Ranulph — she loves him." 
 
 " Think not of her, if you are satisfied. She cannot judge
 
 ROOK WOOD. !'-.> 
 
 so Avell for licvself as jon can for her. She is a cliiLl, and 
 knows not what she loves. Her affection will soon be Luke's. 
 He is a noble youth — the image of his grandfather, your 
 father, Sir Reginald ; and if your daughter be betrothed to 
 any one, 'twas to the heir of Rookwood. That was an essen- 
 tial part of the conti-act. Why should the marriage not take 
 place at once, and here ?" 
 
 " Here ! How were that possible ?" 
 
 " You are within sacred walls. I will take you where an 
 altar stands. There is no lack of holy priest to join their 
 hands together. Tour companion. Father Ambrose as you 
 call him, will do the office fittingly. He has essayed his 
 clerkly skill already on others of yoiu' house." 
 
 " To what do you allude, mysterious woman ?" asked Mrs. 
 Mowbray, with anxiety. 
 
 "To Sir Piers and Susan Bradley," returned Barbara. 
 " That priest united them." 
 
 "Indeed! He never told me this." 
 
 " He dared not do so ; he had an oath which bound him to 
 concealment. The time is coming when greater mysteries 
 will be revealed." 
 
 " 'Tis strange I should not have heard of this before," 
 said Mrs. Mowbray, musingly ; " and yet I might have guessed 
 as much from his obscure hints respecting Ranulph. I see it 
 all now. I see the gulf into which I might have plunged ; 
 but I am warned in time. Father Ambrose," continued she, 
 to the priest, who was pacing the chamber at some little 
 distance from them, " is it true that my brother was wedded 
 by you to Susan Bradley ?" 
 
 Ere the priest could reply the sexton presented himself. 
 
 " Ha, the very father of the girl !" said Mrs. Mowbray, 
 " whom I met within our family vault, and who was so 
 strangely moved when I spoke to him of Alan Eookwood. Is 
 he here likewise ?" 
 
 " Alan Eookwood !" echoed Barbara, upon whom a light 
 seemed suddenly to break ; " ha ! what said he of him?" 
 
 "Ill-boding raven," interposed Peter, fiercely; "be con- 
 tent with what thou knowest of the living, and trouble not 
 the repose of the dead. Let them rest in their infamy." 
 
 "The dead!" echoed Bai'bara, with a chuckling laugh; 
 " ha ! ha ! he is dead, then ; and what became of his fair wife 
 — his brother's minion ? 'Twas a foul deed, I grant ; and yet 
 there was expiation. Blood flowed — blood " 
 
 "Silence, thou night-hag," thundered Peter, "or I will 
 
 Q
 
 226 ROOKWOOD. 
 
 have thee burned at the stake for the sorcery thou practisest. 
 Beware," added he, in a deep tone, "I am thy friend." 
 
 Barbara's withered countenance exhibited for an instant 
 the deepest indignation at the sexton's threat. The maledic- 
 tion trembled on her tongue ; she raised her staff to smite 
 him, but she checked the action. In the same tone, and with 
 a sharp, suspicious look, she replied, " My friend, sayest 
 thou ? See that it prove so, or beware of ???e." 
 
 And, with a malignant scowl, the gipsy queen slowly 
 shuffled towards her satellites, who were stationed at the 
 door. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 THE PARTING. 
 
 No marriage I esteem it, where the friend? 
 
 Force love upon their children ; where the virgio 
 
 Is not so truly given as betrayed. 
 
 1 would not have betrothed people (for 
 
 I can by no means call them lovers") make 
 
 Their rites no wedlock, but a sacrifice. 
 
 Combat of Love and Friendship. 
 
 Eleanor Mowbray had witnessed her mother's with- 
 drawal from her side with much uneasiness, and was with 
 difficulty prevented by Sybil fi-om breaking upon her con- 
 ference with the gipsy queen. Barbara's dark eye was fixed 
 upon them during the whole of the interview, and communi- 
 cated an indefinite sense of dread to Eleanor. 
 
 " Who — who is that old woman ?" asked Eleanor, under 
 her breath. " Never, even in my wildest dreams, have I seen 
 aught so terrible. Why does she look so at us ? She terrifies 
 me ; and yet she cannot mean me ill, or my mother ; we have 
 never injured her." 
 
 " Alas !" sighed Sybil. 
 
 "Tou sigh !" exclaimed Eleanor, in alarm. "Is there any 
 real danger, then ? Help us to avoid it. Quick, warn my 
 mother ; she seems agitated. Oh, let me go to her." 
 
 " Hush !" whispered Sybil, maintaining an immoved de- 
 meanour' under the lynx-like gaze of Barbara. " Stir not, as 
 you value your life ; you know not where you are, or what 
 may befall you. Tour safety depends upon your composure. 
 Your life is not in danger ; but what is dearer than life, your
 
 ROOKWOOD. 227 
 
 love, is thireatened with a fatal blow. There is a dark design 
 to wed you to another," 
 
 " Heavens !" ejaculated Eleanor, " and to whom?" 
 
 " To Sir Luke Rookwood." 
 
 " I would die sooner ! Marry him ? They shall kill me ere 
 they force nie to it !" 
 
 " Could you not love him ?" 
 
 " Love him ! I have only seen him within this hour. I 
 knew not of his existence. He rescued me from peril. I 
 would thank him. I would love him, if I could, for Ranulph's 
 sake ; and yet for Eanulph's sake I hate him." 
 
 " Speak not of him thus to me," said Sybil, angrily. " If 
 yoxi love him not / love him. Oh ! forgive me, lady ; pardon, 
 my impatience — my heart is breaking, yet it has not ceased 
 to beat for him. You say you will die sooner than consent 
 to this forced union. Your faith shall not be so cruelly 
 attested. If there must be a victim, I will be the sacrifice. 
 Grod grant I may be the only one. Be happy ! as happy as I 
 am wretched ! You shall see what the love of a gipsy 
 can do." 
 
 As she spoke, Sybil burst into a flood of passionate tears. 
 Eleanor regarded her with the deepest commiseration ; but 
 the feeling v.-as transient ; for Barbara, now advancing, ex- 
 claimed, " Hence to your mother. The bridegroom is wait- 
 ing: to your mother girl!" And she motioned Eleanor 
 fiercely away. " What means this ? continued the old gij)sy. 
 What have you said to that girl? Did I not caution you 
 against speech with her ? and you have dared to disobey me. 
 You, my grandchild — the daughter of my Agatha, with 
 whom my shghtest wish was law. I abandon you ! I curse 
 you!" 
 
 " Oh, curse me not I" cried Sybil. " Add not to my 
 despair." 
 
 " Then follow my advice implicitly. Cast off this weak- 
 ness ; all is in readiness. Luke shall descend into the vaulted 
 chapel ; the ceremony shall there take place — there also 
 shall Eleanor die — and there again shall you be wedded. 
 Take this phial, place it within the folds of your girdle. When 
 all is over, I will teU you how to use it ? Are you prepared ? 
 Shall we set out ?" 
 
 " I am prepared," replied Sybil, in accents hollow as 
 despair ; " but let me speak with Luke before we go." 
 
 " Be brief then — each moment is precious. Keep a guard 
 upon youi- tongue. I will to Mrs. Mowbray. You have 
 
 Q 2
 
 228 EOOKWOOD. 
 
 placed the pliial in safety. A drop will free you from your 
 troubles." 
 
 " 'Tis in that hope I guard it," replied Sybil, as she de- 
 parted in the direction of Luke. Barbara watched her join 
 him, and then turned shortly towards Mrs. Mowbray and her 
 daughter. 
 
 " You are ill, dear Luke," said Sybil, who had silently ap- 
 proached her faithless lover ; " very iU." 
 
 " 111 !" echoed Luke, breaking into frantic laughter. " 111 ! 
 Ha, ha ! — upon my weclduag-day. No, I am well — well. 
 Your eyes are jaundiced by jealousy." 
 
 "Luke, dear Luke, laugh not thus. It ten-ifies me. I 
 shall think you insane. There, you are calmer — ^you are more 
 like yourself — more human. You looked just now — oh God ! 
 that I should say it of you — as if you were possessed by 
 demons." 
 
 " And if I were possessed, what then ?" 
 " Hon-ible ! hint not at it. You almost make me credit 
 the dreadfv;l tales I have heard, that on their wedding-day 
 the Eookwoods are subject to the power of the ' Evil One.' " 
 " Upon their wedding-day— and / look thus?" 
 " You do — you do. Oh ! cast this frenzy from you." 
 " She is mine — she is mine ! I care not though fiends 
 possess me, if it is my wedding-day, and Eleanor is my bride. 
 And you say I look like a Eookwood. Ha, ha !" 
 
 " That wild laughter again. Luke, I implore you, hear 
 
 me one word — my last " 
 
 " I will not bear reproaches." 
 
 " I mean not to reproach you. I come to bless you — to 
 forgive you — to bid you farewell. Will you not say fare- 
 well ?" 
 
 " Farewell." 
 
 " Not so — not so. Mercy ! my Grod ! Compassionate him 
 and me ! My heart will break with agony. Luke, if you 
 would not kill me, recall that word. Let not the guilt of 
 my death be yours. 'Tis to save you from that remorse that 
 1 die !" 
 
 " Sybil, you have said rightly, I am not myself. I know 
 not what demons have possession of my soul, that I can 
 behold your agonies without remorse : that your matchless 
 affection should awaken no return. Yet so it is. Since the 
 fatal moment when I beheld yon maid I have loved her." 
 " No more. Now I can part with you. .Farewell !" 
 " Stay, stay ! wretch that I am. Stay, Sybil ! If we must
 
 ROOKWOOD. 220 
 
 part, and that it must be so I feel, let me receive yoiir pardon, 
 if you can bestow it. Let me clasp you once more within my 
 arms. May you live to happier days— may you " 
 
 " Oh, to die thus !" sobbed Sybil, disengaging herself from 
 his embrace. " Live to happier days, said you ? When have 
 I given you reason to doubt, for an instant, the sincerity of 
 7)19/ love, that jon should insult me thus ?" 
 
 " Then live with me — live for me." 
 
 " If you can love me still, I will live as your slave, your 
 minion, your wife ; aught you will have me be. You have 
 raised me from wretchedness. Oh !" continued she, in an 
 altered tone, " have I mistaken your meaning ? Did you 
 litter those words in false compassion for my sufferings ? — 
 Speak, it is not yet too late — all may be well. My fate — my 
 life is in your hands. If you love me yet — if you cau forsake 
 Eleanor, speak — if not, be silent." 
 
 Luke averted his head. 
 
 " Enough !" continued Sybil, in a voice of agony ; " I 
 understand. May God forgive you! Fare you well! We 
 shall meet no more." 
 
 " Do we part for ever?" asked Luke, without daring to 
 regard her. 
 
 " For ever !" answered Sybil. 
 
 Before her lover could reply, she shot from his side, and 
 plunging amidst the dark and dense assemblage near the 
 door disappeared from view. An instant after, she emerged 
 into the open air. She stood within the roofless hall. It was 
 filled with sunshine — with the fresh breath of morn. The 
 ivied ruins, the grassy floor, the blue vault of heaven, seemed 
 to greet her with a benignant smile. All was riant and re- 
 joicing — all, save her heart. Amid such brightness her 
 sorrow seemed harsh and unnatural ; and as she felt the glad 
 influence of day, she was scarcely able to refrain fioni tears. 
 It was terrilile to leave this beautiful world, that blue sky, 
 that sunshine, and all she loved — so young, so soon. 
 
 Entering a low arch, that yawned within the wall, she 
 vanished like a ghost at the approach of morn,
 
 230 EOUKWOOD. 
 
 rx. 
 
 THE PHILTER. 
 
 Thou hast practised on her with foul charms — 
 Abused her delicate youth with drugs and minei'als. 
 
 Shakspeare.— Of TieJZo. 
 
 To return to Miss Mowbray. In a state of mind border- 
 ing upon distraction, Eleanor rushed to her mother, and, 
 flinging her arms wildly round her neck, besought her to pro- 
 tect her. Mrs. MoAvbray gazed anxiously upon the altered 
 ( ountenance of her davighter, but a few moments relieved her 
 from much of her imeasiness. The expression of pain gra- 
 dually subsided, and the look of vacuity was succeeded by one 
 of frenzied excitement. A film had, for an instant or two, 
 dimmed her eyes ; they now gleamed with unnatural lustre. 
 She smiled — the smile was singular ; it was not the playful, 
 pleasurable lighting up of the face that it used to be ; but it 
 was a smile, and the mother's heart was satisfied. 
 
 Mrs. Mowbray knew not to what circumstance she could 
 attribute this wondrous change. She looked at the priest. 
 He was more apt in divining the probable cause of the sudden 
 alteration in Eleanor's manner. 
 
 "What if she has swallowed a love-powder?" said he, 
 approaching Mrs. Mowbray, and speaking in a whisper. " I 
 have heard of such abominable mixtures ; indeed, the holy 
 St. Jerome himself relates an instance of similar sorcery, in 
 his life of Hilarius ; and these people are said to comj)ound 
 them." 
 
 " It may be so," replied Mr. Mowbray, in the same tone. 
 " I think that the peculiar softness in the eye is more than 
 natural." 
 
 " I will at least hazard an experiment, to attest the truth 
 or fallacy of my supposition," returned the father. " Do you 
 see your destined bridegroom yonder?" continued he, ad- 
 dressing Eleanor. 
 
 She followed with her eyes in the direction which Father 
 Ambrose pointed. She beheld Luke. We know not how to 
 describe the sensations which now possessed her. She thought 
 not of Eanulph ; v»r, if she did, it was with vague indifference. 
 Wrapped in a kind of mental trance, she yielded to the plea- 
 surable impulse that directed her unsettled fancies towards 
 Luke, For some moments she did not take her eyes fi*oni 
 him. The priest and Mrs. Mowbray watched her in silence.
 
 ROOKWOOD. 231 
 
 Nothing passed between the party until Luke joined them. 
 Eleanor continued gazing at him, and the seeming tenderness 
 of her glance emboldened Luke to advance towards her. The 
 soft fire that dwelt in those orbs was, however, cold as the 
 shining wing of the luciola. 
 
 Luke approached her ; he took her hand ; she withdrew it 
 not. He kissed it. Still she withdrew it not ; but gazed at 
 him with gently-glimmering eyes. 
 
 " My daughter is yours, Sir Luke Rookwood," exclaimed 
 Mrs. Mowbray. 
 
 " What says the maid herself ?" asked Luke. 
 
 Eleanor answered not. Her eyes were still fixed on him. 
 
 " She will not refuse me her hand," said Luke. 
 
 The victim resisted not, 
 
 " To the subterranean shrine," cried Barbara. And she 
 gave the preconcei'ted signal to the band. 
 
 The signal was repeated by the gipsy crew. We may here 
 casually note that the crew had been hj no means uninterested 
 or silent spectators of passing events, but had, on the con- 
 trary, indulged themselves in a variety of conjectures as 
 to their probable issue. Several bets were pendent, as to 
 whether it would be a match or not, after all. Zoroaster 
 took long odds that the match was off ; offering a heaji to 
 half a quid (in other words, a guinea to a half-guinea) that 
 Sybil woidd be the bride. His offer was taken at once by 
 Jerry Juniper, and backed by the knight of Malta. 
 
 " Ha ! there's the signal," cried the knight; "I'll trouble 
 you for the bean." 
 
 " And I," added Jerry Juniper, "for another." 
 
 " See 'em fairly spliced first," replied Magus ; " that's vot 
 I betted." 
 
 " Veil, veil, a few minutes will settle that. Come, pals, to 
 the autem ken. Avay. Mind and obey orders." 
 
 " Ay, ay," answered the crew. 
 
 " Here's a torch for the altar of Hymen," said the knight, 
 flashing his torch in the eyes of the patrico as he passed 
 him. 
 
 " For the halter of Haman, you might say," returned 
 Balthazar, sulkily. " It's well if some of us don't swing 
 for it." 
 
 " You don't say" rejoined the perplexed Magus, " swing ! 
 Egad, I fear it's a ticklish business. But there's no fighting 
 shy, I fear, with Barbara present ; and then there's that in- 
 fernal autem-bawler ; it will be so cursedly regular. If you
 
 232 llOOKWOUD. 
 
 had done tlie job, Baity, it would not have signified a brass 
 farden. Luckily, there wiU be uo vitnesses to snitch upon 
 us. There will be no one in the vault besides ourselves." 
 
 " There will be a silent and solemn witness," returned 
 Balthazar, " and one whom you expect not." 
 
 " Eh ! Vot's that you say ? A spy ?" 
 
 But the patrico was gone. 
 
 " Make way there ; make way, pals, for the bride and 
 bridegroom," cried the knight of Malta, drawing excalibur, 
 and preparing to lead the way to the vault. 
 
 The train began to move. Eleanor leaned upon the arm of 
 her mother. Beside them stallied Barbara, with an aspect 
 of triumph. Luke followed, with the priest. One by one the 
 assemblage quitted the apartment. 
 
 The sexton alone lingered. " The moment is at hand," 
 said he, musingly, " when all shall be consummated." 
 
 A few steps brought him into the court. The crowd was 
 there still. A brief delay had taken place. The knight of 
 Malta then entered the mouth of the vault. He held his 
 torch so as to reveal a broken flight of steps, conducting, it 
 would seem, to regions of perpetual night. So thought 
 Eleanor, as she shudderingly gazed into the abyss. She 
 hesitated ; she trembled ; she refused. But her mother's 
 entreaties, and Barbara's threatening looks, induced, in the 
 end, reluctant compliance. At length the place was empty. 
 Peter was about to follow, when the sound of a horse's hoofs 
 broke upon his ear. He tarried for an instant, and the 
 mounted figure of the highwaymen burst within the limits of 
 the court. 
 
 " Ha, ha ! old earthworm," cried Dick, " my Nestor of the 
 churchyard, alone ! Where the devil are all the folks gone ? 
 Where's Sir Luke, and his new-found cousin, eh ?" 
 
 Peter hastily explained. 
 
 " A wedding under gi'ound ? famous ! the thing of all 
 others I should like to see. I'll hang Bess to this ivy tod, 
 and grub my way with you thither, old mole." 
 
 " You must stay here, and keep guard," returned Peter. 
 
 " May I be hanged if I do, when such fun is going 
 on." 
 
 " Hanged, in all probability, you will be," returned Peter ; 
 " but I should not, were I you, desire to anticipate my 
 destiny. Stay here you must, and shall ; that's peremptory. 
 You will be the ga,iner by it. Sir Luke will reward you 
 nobly. I will answer for him. You can serve him most
 
 EOOKWOOD. 233 
 
 effectually. Eanulpli Eookwood and Major Mowbray are 
 expected here." 
 
 " The devil they are. But how, or why " 
 
 "I have not time to explain. In case of a surprise, dis- 
 charge a pistol ; they must not enter the vavtlt. Have you 
 a whistle ? for you must play a double part, and we may 
 need your assistance below." 
 
 " Sir Luke may command me. Here's a pipe as shrill as 
 the devil's own cat-call." 
 
 " If it will summon you to our assistance below, 'tis all I 
 need. May we rely on you ?" 
 
 " When did Dick Turpin desert his friends ? Anywhere 
 this side the Styx the sound of that whistle will reach me. 
 I'll ride about the court, and stand sentry." 
 
 " Enough," replied the sexton, as he dived under ground. 
 
 " Take care of your shins," shouted Dick. " That's a 
 cursed ugly tui'n, but he's used to the dark. A surprise, 
 eh ! I'll just give a look to my snappers ; flints all safe. 
 Now I'm ready for them, come when they like." And, 
 having made a circuit of the place, he halted near the mouth 
 of the subterranean chapel, to be within hearing of Peter's 
 whistle, and, throwing his right leg lazily over his saddle, 
 proceeded coolly to light a short pipe (the luxury of the cigar 
 being then unknown) , humming the while snatches of a ballad, 
 the theme of which was his own calling : 
 
 THE SCAMPSMAN. 
 
 Quis Ter& res? Seneca. 
 
 There is not a king, should you search the woi-ld round. 
 So blithe as the king of the road to be found ; 
 His pistol's his sceptre, his saddle's his throne, 
 Whence he levies supplies, or enforces a loan. 
 
 Derry down. 
 To this monarch the highway presents a wide field, 
 Wliere each passing subject a trilmte must yield ; 
 His palace (the tavern !) receives him at night, 
 "Wliere sweet lips and sound liquor crown all with delight. 
 
 Derry down. 
 The soldier anfl smior, both robbers by trade, 
 PuU soon on the shelf, if disabled, are laid ; 
 The one gets a patch, and the other a peg, 
 But, while luck lasts, the highwayman shakes a loose leg I 
 
 Berry down. 
 Most fowls rise at dawn, but the owl wakes at e'en, 
 And a jollier bird can there nowhere be seen ; 
 Like the owl. our snug scampsman his snooze takes by day, 
 And when night draws her curtain, scuds after his prey ! 
 
 Derry down>
 
 234 ROOKWOOD. 
 
 As the higliwayman's life is the fullest of zest, 
 
 So the highwayman's death is the hriefest and best; 
 
 He dies not as other men die, by degrees .' 
 
 But AT ONCE ! without wincing, and quite at his ease ! 
 
 Berry down. 
 
 And thus for the present we leave him. O rare Dick 
 Turpin ! 
 
 ST. CYPRIATSf S CELL. 
 Lasciate ogni speranza voi ch' entrate. Dante. 
 
 Cyprian de Mulverton, fifth prior of the monastery of 
 , Saint Francis, a prelate of singular sanctity, being afflicted, 
 Jin his latter days, with a despondency so deep that neither 
 'penance nor fasting could remove it, vowed never again to 
 behold, with earthly eyes, the blessed hght of heaven, nor 
 to dwell longer with his fellow-men ; but, relinquishing his 
 ■ispiritual dignity, " the world forgetting, by the world forgot," 
 ^0 immure himself, while living, within the tomb. 
 ^ He kept his vow. Out of the'lTving rock that sustained 
 the saintly structure, beneath the chapel of the monastery, 
 was another chapel wrought, and thither, after bidding an 
 eternal farewell to the world, and bestowing his benediction 
 upon his flock, whom he committed to the care of his suc- 
 cessor, the holy man retired. 
 
 Never, save at midnight, and then only dvu-ing the per- 
 formance of masses for his soul's repose, did he ascend from 
 his cell ; and as the sole light allowed within the dismal dun- 
 geon of his choice was that of a sepulchral lamp, as none 
 spoke with him in his retreat, save in muttered syllables, 
 what effect must the lustre emanating from a thousand 
 tapers, the warm and pungent odours of the incense-breathing 
 shrine, contrasted with the earthy vapours of his prison- 
 house, and the solemn swell of the Sanctus, have had upon 
 his excited senses ? Surely they must have seemed like a 
 foretaste of the heaven he sought to gain ! 
 
 Ascetic to the severest point to which nature's endurance 
 could be stretched, Cyprian even denied himself repose. He 
 sought not sleep, and knew it only when it stole on him un- 
 awares. His couch was the flinty rock ; and, long after- 
 wards, when the zealous resorted to the sainted prior's cell,
 
 ROOKWOOD. 235 
 
 and were shown those sharp and jagged stones, they mar- 
 velled how one like unto themselves could rest, or even 
 recline upon their points without anguish, until it was ex- 
 plained to them that, doubtless. He who tempereth the wind 
 to the shorn lamb had made that flinty couch soft to the 
 holy sufferer as a bed of down. His limbs were clothed in a 
 garb of horsehair of the coarsest fabric ; his drink was the 
 dank drops that oozed from the porous walls of his cell ; and 
 his sustenance, such morsels as were bestowed upon him by 
 the poor — the only strangers permitted to approach him. No 
 fire was suffered, where perpetual winter reigned. N'one 
 were admitted to his nightly vigils ; none witnessed any act 
 of penance ; nor were any groans heard to issue from that 
 di-eary cave ; but the knotted blood-stained thong, discovered 
 near his couch, too plainly betrayed in what manner those 
 long lone nights were spent. Thus did a year roll on. Traces 
 of his sufferings were visible in his failing strength. He 
 could scarcely crawl ; but he meekly declined assistance. He 
 appeared not, as had been his wont, at the midnight mass; 
 the door of his cell v/as thrown open at that hour ; the light 
 streamed down like a glory upon his reverend head ; he 
 heard the distant reveberations of the deep Miserere, and 
 breathed odours as if wafted from Paradise, 
 
 One morn it chanced that they who sought liis cell found 
 him with his head upon his bosom, keeling before the image 
 of the virgin patroness of his shrine. Fearing to disturb his 
 devotions, they stood reverentially looking on; and thus 
 silently did they tarry for an hour ; but, as in that space he 
 had showed no signs of motion, fearing the worst, they ven- 
 tured to approach him. He was cold as the marble before 
 which he knelt. In the act of humblest intercession — it may 
 be, in the hope of grace — had Cyprian's spirit fled. 
 
 " Blessed are they who die in the Lord," exclaimed his 
 brethren, regarding his remains with deej^est awe. On being 
 touched, the body feU to the ground. It was little more 
 than a skeleton. 
 
 Under the cloisters of the holy pile were his bones in- 
 terred, with a degree of pomp and ostentation that little 
 accorded with the lowliness and self-abasement of this man 
 of many sorrows. 
 
 This chapel, at the time of which we treat, was pretty 
 much in the same condition as it existed in the days of its 
 holy inmate. Hewn out of the entrails of the rock, the roof, 
 the vaults, the floor, were of solid granite. Three huge
 
 236 ROOKWOOD. 
 
 cylindrical pillars, carved out of tlie native rock, rough as 
 the stems of gnarled oak-trees, lent support to the ceiling. 
 Support, however, was unneeded ; an earthquake could scares 
 have shaken down those solid rafters. Only in one corner, 
 where the water welled through a crevice of the rock, in 
 drops that fell like tears, was decay manifest. Here the 
 stone, worn by the constant dripping, had, in some places, 
 given way. In shape, the vault was circular. The interval 
 between each massive pillar formed a pointed arch. Again, 
 from each pillar sprang other arches, which, crossed by 
 diagonal, ogive branches, weaving one into the other, and 
 radiating from the centre, formed those beautifully intricate 
 combinations upon which the eye of the architectural enthii- 
 siast loves to linger. Within the ring formed by these triple 
 columns, in which again the pillars had their own web of 
 arches, was placed an altar of stone, and beside it a crucifix of 
 the same rude material. Here also stood the sainted image 
 of her who had filled the prior with holy aspirations, now a 
 shapeless stone. The dim lamp, that like a star struggling 
 with the thick gloom of the wintry cell, had shed its slender 
 radiance over the brow of the Virgin Thecla, was gone. But 
 around the keystone of the central arches, whence a chain had 
 once depended, might be traced in ancient characters, half 
 effaced by time, the inscrij)tion : 
 
 One outlet only was there from the chapel — that which led 
 by winding steps to the monastery ; one only recess — the 
 prior's cell. The former faced the altar ; the latter yawned 
 like the mouth of a tomb at its back. Altogether it was a 
 dreary place. Dumb were its walls as when they refused to 
 return the miu'mured orisons of the anchorite. One uniform 
 sad colouring prevailed throughout. The grey granite was 
 grown hoar with age, and had a ghostly look ; the columns 
 were ponderous, and projected heavy shadows. Sorrow and 
 superstition had their tale, and a moral gloom deepened the 
 darkness of the spot. Despair, which had inspired its con- 
 struction, seemed to brood therein. Hope shunned its in- 
 exorable recesses. 
 
 Alone, within this dismal sanctuary, with hands out- 
 stretched towards the desecrated image of its tutelar saint, 
 knelt Sybil. All was darkness. Neither the heavy vapours 
 that surrounded her, nor the shrine before which she bent, 
 were visible ; but familiar with the dreary spot, she knew
 
 ROOKWOOD. 237 
 
 tliat slie liad placed herself aright. Her touch had satisfied 
 her that she bowed before the altar of stone ; that her be- 
 nighted vision was turned towards the broken image of the 
 saint, thoiTgh now involved in gloom the most })rofound ; and 
 "with clasped hands and streaming eyes, in low and mournful 
 tones, she addressed herself in the following hymn to the 
 tutelar saint of the spot : 
 
 HYMN TO ST. THECLA.* 
 
 In my trouble, in my .anguish, 
 
 In the depths of my despair, 
 As in grief and pain I languish, 
 
 Unto thee I raise my prayer. 
 Sainted virgin ! martyr'd maiden I 
 
 Let thy countenance incline 
 Upon one with woes o'erladen, 
 
 Kneeling lowly at thy shrine ; 
 That in agony, in terror. 
 
 In her blind perplexity, 
 Wandering weak in doubt and error, 
 
 Calleth feebly upon thee. 
 Sinful thoughts, sweet saint, oppress me, 
 
 Thoughts that will not be dismissed ; 
 Temptations d;irk possess me, 
 
 Which my strength may not resist, 
 I am full of pain, and weary 
 
 Of my life ; I fain would die ; 
 Unto me the world is dreary ; 
 
 To the grave for rest T fly. 
 For rest ! — oh ! could I borrow 
 
 Thy bright v^ings, celestial Dove! 
 They should waft me from my sorrow. 
 
 Where Peace dwells in bowers above. 
 Upon one with woes o'erladen. 
 
 Kneeling lowly at thy shrine ; 
 Sainted virgin ! martyr'd maiden I 
 Let thy countenance incline ! 
 Mei miserere Virgo, 
 Requiem wternam dona/ 
 
 By thy loveliness, thy purity. 
 
 Unpolluted, undefiled. 
 That in serene security 
 
 Upon earth's teuiptations smiled ;— 
 By the fetters that constrain'd thee, 
 
 By thy flame-attested faitli. 
 By the fervour that sustained thee, 
 
 By thino angel-ushered death; — 
 By thy soul's divine elation, 
 
 'Mid thine agonies assuring 
 Of thy sanctified translation 
 
 To beatitude enduring : — 
 By the mystic interfusion 
 
 Of thy spirit with the rays, 
 
 • Set to music by Mr. F. Eomer.
 
 238 
 
 ROOKWOOD. 
 
 That in evei'-bright pi'ofusion 
 
 Eouud the Throne Eterii;! blaze; 
 By thy portion now partaken, 
 
 With the pain-perfected just ; 
 Look on one of hope forsalien, 
 From the gates of mercy thrust. 
 Upon one with woes o'erladen, 
 Kneeling lowly at thy shrine, 
 Sainted virgin ! martyr'd maiden ! 
 Let thy countenance incline 1 
 
 Orapro me ino7-(is liorAt 
 Sancta Virgo, oro te! 
 Kyrie Eleison! 
 
 The sweet sad voice of the singer died faintly away. The 
 sharpness of her sorrow was assuaged. Seldom, indeed, is it 
 that fervent supplication fails to call down solace to the 
 af&icted. Sybil became more composed. She still, however, 
 trembled at the thoughts of what remained to be done. 
 
 "They will be here ere my prayer is finished," mm-mured 
 she — " ere the end is accomphshed for which I came hither, 
 alone. Let me, oh ! let me make my poace with my Ci*eator, 
 ere I surrender my being to his hands, and then let them 
 deal with me as they will." And she bowed her head in 
 lowly prayer. 
 
 Again raising her hands, and casting her eyes towards the 
 black ceiling, she implored, in song, the intercession of the 
 saintly man who had bequeathed his name to the cell. 
 
 HYMN TO ST. CYPRIAN. 
 
 Hear ! oh ! hear me, sufferer holy, 
 Who didst make thine habita- 
 tion 
 'Mid these rocks, devoting wholly 
 
 Life to one long expiation 
 Of thy guiltiness, and solely 
 
 By severe mortification 
 
 Didst deliver thee. Oh ! bear me 1 
 
 In my dying moments cheer me. 
 
 By thy penance, self-denial, 
 
 Aid me in the hour of trial. 
 
 May, through thee, my prayers pre- 
 vailing 
 On the Majesty of Heaven, 
 O'er the hosts of hell, assailing 
 
 My soul, in this dark hour be driven I 
 So my spirit, when exhaling, 
 
 May of sinfulness be shriven, 
 And His gift unto the Giver 
 May be rendered pure as ever ! 
 By thy own dark, dread possession, 
 Aid me with thine intercession ! 
 
 Scarcely had she concluded this hymn, when the torch of 
 the knight of Malta in part dissipated the gloom that hung 
 around the chapel.
 
 ROOKWOOD. 239 
 
 XI. 
 
 THE BRIDAL. 
 
 Cart. I will not die ; I must not. I am contracted 
 
 To a young gentleman. 
 Executioner. Here's your wedding-riug. Duchess of Malfy. 
 
 Slowly did the train descend ; solemnly and in silence, as 
 if tlie rites at which they were about to assist had been those 
 of funereal, and not of nuptial, solemnization. Indeed, to 
 look upon those wild and fierce faces by the ruddily-flashing 
 torchlight, which lent to each a stern and savage expression; 
 to see those scowling visages su^rrounding a bride from whose 
 palUd checks every vestige of colour, and almost of anima- 
 tion, had fled ; and a bridegroom, with a countenance yet 
 more haggard, and demeanour yet more distracted — the 
 beholder must have imagined that the spectacle v-^as some 
 horrible ceremonial, practised by demons rather than human 
 beings. The arched vault, the pillars, the torchlight, the 
 deep shadows, and the wild figures, formed a pictm-e worthy 
 of Rembrandt or Salvator. 
 
 " Is Sybil within the chapel ?" asked Barbara. 
 
 " I am here," returned a voice from the altar. 
 
 " Why do we tarry ?" said the gipsy queen. " We are all 
 assembled. To the altar." 
 
 " To the altar !" shrieked Eleanor. " Oh ! no — no '' 
 
 "Remember my threat, and obey," muttered Barbara. 
 " Tou are in my jiower now." 
 
 A convulsive sob was all the answer Eleanor could make. 
 
 " Our number is not complete," said the priest, who had 
 looked in vain for the sexton. " Peter Bradley is not witl; 
 us." 
 
 " Ha !" exclaimed Barbara. " Let him be sought for 
 instantly." 
 
 " Their search need not extend beyond this spot," said 
 Peter, stepping forward. 
 
 The knight of Malta advanced towards the altar. The 
 torchlight reddened upon the huge stone pillars. It fell upon 
 the shrine, and upon the ghastly countenance of Sybil, who 
 stood beside. Suddenly, as the light aj^proached her, an 
 object, hitherto hidden from view, was revealed. Sybil 
 uttered a prolonged and fearful shriek ; the knight recoiled 
 likewise in horror ; and a simultaneous cry of astonishment 
 burst from the lips of the foremost of the group. AH
 
 240 ROOKWOOD. 
 
 crowded forwards, and viniversal consternation prevailed 
 amongst tlie assemblage. Each one gazed at his neighbour, 
 anxious to learn the occasion of this tumult, and vague fears 
 were communicated to those behind, from the terrified glances, 
 which were the only answers returned by their comrades in 
 front. 
 
 " Who has dared to bring that body here ?" demanded 
 Barbara, in a tone in which anger struggled with apprehen- 
 sion, pointing at the same time to the ghastly corpse of a 
 female, with streaming hair, at the altar's feet. " Who has 
 dared to do this, I say ? Quick ! remove it. What do you 
 stare at ? Cravens ! is this the first time you have looked 
 upon a corpse, that you shrink aghast — that you tremble 
 before it ? It is a clod — ay, less than a clod. Away with it ! 
 away, I say." 
 
 " Touch it not," cried Liike, lifting a cloud of black hair 
 from off the features : " it is my mother's body." 
 
 " My daughter!" exclaimed the sexton. 
 
 " What !" vociferated Barbara, " is that your daughter — 
 is that the first Lady Eookwood ? Are the dead arisen to do 
 honour to the nuptials ? Speak ! you can, perchance, explain 
 how she came hither." 
 
 " I know not," returned Peter, glancing fiercely at Barbara ; 
 " I may, anon, demand that question of you. How came 
 this body here ?" 
 
 " Ask of Richard Checkley," said Barbara, turning to the 
 priest. " He can, perchance, inform you. Priest," added 
 she, in a low voice, " this is your handiwork." 
 
 " Checkley !" screamed Peter. " Is that Kichard Checkley ? 
 is that " 
 
 " Peace !" thundered Barbara ; " wiU none remove the 
 body ? Once more I ask you, do you fear the dead ?" 
 
 A murmur arose. Balthazar alone ventured to approach 
 the corpse. 
 
 Luke started to his feet as he advanced, his eyes glaring 
 with tiger fnry. 
 
 " Back, old man," cried he, " and dare not, any of you, to 
 lay a sacrilegious finger on her corse, or I will stretch him 
 that advances as lowly as lies my mother's head. When or 
 how it came hither matters not. Here, at the altar, has it 
 been placed, and none shall move it hence. The dead shall 
 witness my nuptials. Pate has ordained it — my fate ! o'er 
 which the dead preside. Her ring shall link me to my bride. 
 I knew not, when I snatched it from her death-cold finger,
 
 ROOKWOOD. 241 
 
 to what end I preserved it. I lecarn it now. It is here." 
 And he held forth a ring. 
 
 " 'Tis a fatal boon, that twice-used ring," cried Syhil ; 
 " such a ring my mother, on her deathbed, said should be 
 mine. Such a ring she said should wed me " 
 
 "Unto whom?" fiercely demanded Luke. 
 
 " Unto Death !" she solemnly rejoined. 
 
 Luke's countenance fell. He turned aside, deeply abashed, 
 unable further to brook her gaze ; while, in accents of such 
 wildly-touching pathos as sank into the hearts of each who 
 heard her — hearts, few of them framed of penetrable stuff — 
 the despaii'ing maiden burst into the following strain : 
 
 THE TWICE-USED EING.* 
 
 " Beware thy bridal day !" 
 
 On her deathbed sighed my mother ; 
 "Beware, beware, I say. 
 
 Death shall wed thee, and no other. 
 Cold the hand shall grasp thee. 
 Cold the arms shall clnsp thee, 
 Colder lips thy kiss shall smother 1 
 Beware thy bridal kiss 1 
 
 " Thy weddmg-ring shall be 
 
 From a clay-cold finger taken 
 From one that, like to thee, 
 Was by her love forsaken. 
 For a twice-used ring 
 Is a fatal thing ; 
 Her griefs who wore it are partaken— 
 Beware that fatal ring ! 
 
 " The altar and the grave 
 
 Many steps are not asunder ; 
 Bright banners o'er thee wave, 
 Shrouded horror lieth under. 
 Blithe may sound the bell, 
 Yet 'twill toll thy knell ; 
 Scathed thy chaplet V)y the thunder- 
 Beware thy blighted wreath 1" 
 
 Beware my bridal day ! 
 
 Dying lips my doom have spoken ; 
 Deep tones call mo away ; 
 
 Fi'oni the grave is sent a token. 
 
 Cold, cold fingers bring 
 
 That ill-omened ring ; 
 
 Soon will a second heart be broken I 
 
 This is my bridal day ! 
 
 There was a deep, profound silence as the last melancholy 
 cadence died away, and many a rugged heart was melted, 
 even to tears. Eleanor, meanwhile, remained in a state of 
 
 • Set to music by Mr. F. Bomer, 
 R
 
 242 ROOKWOOD. 
 
 passive stupefaction, vacantly gazing at Sybil, upon whom 
 alone lier eyes were fixed, and appearing indistinctly to ap- 
 prehend the meaning of her song. 
 
 " This is my bridal day," murmured she, in a low tone, 
 when Sybil had finished. " Said not that sweet voice so? I 
 know 'tis my bridal day. What a church you have chosen, 
 mother ! A tomb — a sepulchre — bu.t 'tis meet for such n\ip- 
 tials as mine. And what wedding guests ! Was that pale 
 woman in her shroud-like dress invited here by you ? Tell 
 me that, mother." 
 
 " My God, her senses are gone !" cried Mrs. Mowbray. 
 "Why did I venture into this horrible place !" 
 
 " Ask not ivhj now, madam," rejoined the priest. " The 
 hour for consideration is past. We must act. Let the mar- 
 riage pi'oceed, at all hazards ; we will then take means to 
 extricate ourselves from this accursed place." 
 
 " Remove that horrible object," said Mrs. Mowbray ; " it 
 fascinates the vision of my child." 
 
 " Lend me your hand, Eichard Checkley," said Peter, 
 sternly regarding the priest. 
 
 "ISTo, no," replied the priest, shuddering; "I will not — 
 cannot touch it. Do you alone remove it." 
 
 Peter approached Luke. The latter now offered no fur- 
 ther opposition, and the body was taken away. The eyes of 
 Eleanor followed it into the dark recesses of the vault ; and 
 when she could no longer distinguish the white flutter of the 
 cerrelothes, her labouring bosom seemed torn asunder with 
 the profound sigh that burst from it, and her head dechned 
 uj)on her shoulder. 
 
 "Let me see that ring," said the priest, addressing Luke, 
 who still held the wedding-ring between his fingers. 
 
 " I am not naturally superstitious," said Mrs. Mowbray ; 
 " whether my mind be affected with the horrors of this place, 
 I know not ; but I have a dread of that ring. She shall not 
 use it." 
 
 " Where no other can be found," said the priest, with a 
 significant and peculiar look at Mrs. Mowbray, " I see no 
 reason why this should be rejected. I should not have sus- 
 pected you, madam, of such v.^eakness. Grant there were 
 evil spell, or charm, attached to it, which, trust me, there is 
 not — as how should there be, to a harmless piece of gold ? — 
 my benediction, and aspersion with holy lymph, will have 
 sufficient power to exorcise and expel it. To remove your 
 fears, it shall be done at once."
 
 EOOKWOOD. 243 
 
 A cup containing water was brought, together with a plate 
 of salt (which condiment the devil is said to abhor, and which 
 is held to be a symbol of immortality and of eternity ; in 
 that, being itself incorruptible, it preserves all else from cor- 
 ruption), and, with the customary Romish formula of prayer 
 and exorcism, the priest thrice mingled the crystal particles 
 with the pure fluid : after which, taking the ring in his hand 
 with much solemnity, he sprinkled it with a few drops of the 
 water which he had blessed ; made the sign of the cross upon 
 the golden circlet ; uttered another and more potent exorcism 
 to eradicate and expel every device of Satan, and delivered 
 it back to Luke. 
 
 " She may wear it now in safety," said the sexton, with 
 strong contempt. " Were the snake himself coiled round 
 that consecrated bauble, the prayers of the devout Father 
 Checkley would unclasp his hthest folds. But wherefore do 
 we tarry now ? Nought lies between us and the altar. The 
 path is clear. The 1)ridegroom gi'ows impatient." 
 
 " And the bride ?" asked Barbara. 
 
 "Is ready," replied the priest. " Madam, delay not longer. 
 Daughter, yotir hand." 
 
 Eleanor gave her hand. It was clammy and cold. Sup- 
 ported by her mother, she moved slowly towards the altar, 
 which was but a few steps from where they stood. She 
 offered no resistance, but did not raise her head. Luke was 
 by her side. Then, for the first time, did the enormity of the 
 cruel, dishonourable act he was aljout to commit, strike him 
 with its full force. He saw it in its darkest coloui's. It was 
 one of those terrible moments when the headlong wheel of 
 passion stands suddenly still. 
 
 " There is yet time," groaned he. " Oh ! let me not damn 
 myself perpetually ! Let me save her ; save Sybil ; save 
 myself." 
 
 They were at the altai* — that wild wedding train. High 
 overhead the torch was raised. The red light flashed on 
 bridegroom and on bride, giving to the pale features of each 
 an almost livid look ; it fell upon the gaunt aspect of the 
 sexton, and lit up the smile of triumphant malice that played 
 upon his face ; it fell upon the fantastical habiliments of 
 Barbara, and iij)on the haughty but perturbed physiognomy 
 of Mrs. Mowbray ; it fell upon the salient points of the 
 Gothic arches ; upon one moulded pillar ; upon tlio marble 
 image of the virgin Thecla ; and on the scarcely less marble 
 countenance of Sybil, who stood behind the altar, silent, 
 
 r2
 
 244 liOOKWUOD. 
 
 statue-like, immovable. The effect of liglit and shade on 
 other parts of the scene, upon the wild drapery, and harsh 
 lineaments of many of the group, was also eminently striking. 
 Just as the priest was about to commence the marriage- 
 service, a yelling chorus, which the gipsies were accustomed 
 to sing at the celebration of the nuptials of one of their own 
 tribe, burst forth. Nothing could be more horribly discordant 
 than their song. 
 
 WEDDING CHORUS OF GIPSIES. 
 
 Scrapo the c<atg:iit ! pass the liiiuor ! 
 Let your quick fo't move the quicker. 
 
 Ta-ra-la I 
 Dance and sini; in jolly chorus, 
 Bride and briilegroom are before ua, 
 And the patrico stands o'er us. 
 
 Ta-ra-la ! 
 To unite their hands he's ready ; 
 For a moment, pals, be steady ; 
 Cease your quaffing', 
 Dancing, laughing ; 
 Leave off riot, 
 And be quiet. 
 While 'tis doing. 
 
 'Tis begun, 
 All is over ! 
 Two arc one ! 
 The patrico has liuk'd 'em ; 
 Daddy Hymen's torch has blink'd 'em } 
 Amen 1 
 To't again ! 
 Now for ((uaffing, 
 Now for laughing, 
 Stocking-thi'owing, 
 Liquor flowing ; 
 For onr bridals are no liridles, and our altars never alter; 
 From the flagon never flinch we ; in the jig we never falter. 
 No ! that's not our way, for we 
 Are stanch lads of Eomany. 
 For our wedding, then, hurrah! 
 Hurrah ! hurrah ! hurrah ! 
 
 This uncouth chorus ended, the marriage proceeded. Sybil 
 had disappeared. Had she fled ? No ! she was by the bride. 
 Eleanor mechanically took her jilace. A faint voice syllabled 
 the responses. You could scarcely have seen Miss Mowbray's 
 lips move. But the answers were given, and the priest was 
 satisfied. 
 
 He took the ring, and sprinkled it once again with the holy 
 water, in the form of the cross. He pronounced the prayer : 
 "Benedic, Domine, annulum hune, quern nos in tuo nomine 
 bencdicimus, ut qua3 eum gestaverit, fidelitatem integram suq
 
 ROOKWOOD. 245 
 
 sponso tenens, in pace et voluntate tua permaneat atque in 
 mutua charitate semper vivat." 
 
 He was about to return the ring to Luke, wlien the torch, 
 held bj the knight of Malta, was dashed to the ground by 
 some unseen hand, and instantly extinguished. The wild 
 pageant vanished as suddenly as the figures cast by a magic- 
 lantern upon a wall disappear when the glass is removed. A 
 wild hubbub succeeded. Hoarsely above the clamour arose 
 the voice of Barbara. 
 
 " To the door, quickly ! — to the door ! Let no one pass. 
 I will find out the author of this mishap anon. Away !" 
 
 She was obeyed. Several of the crew stationed themselves 
 at the door. 
 
 " Proceed now with the ceremony," continued Barbara. 
 "By darkness, or by light, the match shall be completed." 
 
 The ring was then placed upon the finger of the bride ; and 
 as Luke touched it, he shuddered. It was cold as that of the 
 corpse which he had clasped but now. The prayer was said, 
 the blessing given, the marriage was complete. 
 
 Suddenly there issued from the darkness deep dirge-like 
 tones, and a voice solemnly chanted a strain, which all knew 
 to be the death-song of their race, hymned by wailing 
 women over an expiring sister. The music seemed to float 
 in the air. 
 
 THE SOUL-BELL.* 
 
 Fast the sand of life is failing, 
 Fast her latest sigh exhaling, 
 
 Fast, fast, is she dying. 
 
 With death's chills her limbs are shivering, 
 With death's gasp the lips are quivering, 
 
 Fast her soul away is flying. 
 
 O'er the mountain-top it fleetoth, 
 And the skyey wonders greeteth, 
 Singing loud as stars it meeteth 
 On its way. 
 
 Hark ! the sullen Sonl-bell tolling, 
 Hollowly in echoes rolling, 
 
 Seems to say — 
 
 " She will ope her eyes- oh, never ! 
 Quenched their dark light— gone for ever ! 
 She is dead." 
 
 The marriage group yet lingered near the altar, awaiting, it 
 would seem, permission from the gipsy queen to quit the cell. 
 Luke stirred not. Clasped in his own, the cold hand of his 
 
 * Set to music by Mr. F. Eomer.
 
 246 ROOKWOOD. 
 
 bride detained him; and when he would have moved, her 
 tightened grasp prevented his departure. 
 
 Mrs. Mowbray's patience was exhausted by the delay. She 
 was not altogether free from apprehension. " Why do we 
 linger here ?" she whispered to the priest. *' Do you, father, 
 lead the way." 
 
 " The crowd is dense," rephed Checkley. " They resist my 
 effort." 
 
 " Are we prisoners here ?" asked Mrs. Mowbray, in alarm. 
 
 " Let me make the attempt," cried Luke, with fiery im- 
 patience. " I will force a passage out." 
 
 " Quit not yom- bride," whispered Peter, " as you value 
 her safety. Heed not aught else. She alone is in danger. 
 Suffer her not to be withdrawn from your hand, if you would 
 not lose her. Remain here. I will bring the matter to a 
 speedy issue." 
 
 " Enough," cried Luke ; " I stir not hence." And he drew 
 his bride closer towards him. He stooped to imprint a kiss 
 upon her lips. A cold shudder ran through her frame as he 
 touched them, but she resisted not his embrace. 
 
 Peter's attempt to effect an egress was as unsuccessful as 
 that of the priest. Presenting excalibur at his bosom, the 
 knight of Malta challenged him to stand. 
 
 " You cannot pass," exclaimed the knight; "our orders are 
 peremptoiy." 
 
 " What am I to understand by this ?" said Peter, angrily. 
 " Why are we detained ?" 
 
 " You will learn all anon," returned Barbara. " In the 
 mean time, you are my prisoners ; or, if you hke not the 
 phrase, my wedding guests." 
 
 " The wedding is complete," returned the sexton ; " the 
 bride and bridegroom are impatient to depart ; and we, 
 the guests (albeit, some of us may be no foes to darkness), 
 desire not to hold our nuptial revels here." 
 
 " Sybil's wedding has not taken place," said Barbara; "you 
 must tarry for that." 
 
 "Ha! now it comes," thought Peter. " And who, may I 
 ask," said he, aloud, " amongst this goodly company is to be 
 her bridegroom ?" 
 
 " The best amongst them," returned Barbara, " Sir Luke 
 Eookwood." 
 
 " He has a bride already," replied Peter. 
 
 " She may be removed," said Barbara, with bitter and 
 peculiar emphasis. " Dost understand my meaning now ?"
 
 ROOKWOOD. ^ 247 
 
 " I will not understand it," said Peter. " You cannot mean 
 to destroy her who now stands at the altar?" 
 
 " She who now stands at the altar must make way for a 
 successor. She who grasj^s the bridegroom's hand shall die. 
 I swear it by the oath of my tribe." 
 
 " And think you you will be allowed to execute your mur- 
 derous intention with impunity ?" shrieked Mrs. Mowbray, in 
 an agony of terror. " Think you that I will stand by, and 
 see my child slaughtered before my face ; that my friends will 
 suffer it ? Think you that even your own tribe will dare to 
 execute your horrible purpose ? They will not. They will 
 side with us. Even now they murmur. What can you hope 
 to gain by an act so wild and dreadful ? What object can 
 you have ?" 
 
 "The same as yotir o"mi," reiterated Barbara; "the ad- 
 vancement of my child. Syl lil is as dear to me as Eleanor is 
 to you. She is my child's child, the daughter of my best- 
 beloved daughter. I have sworn to marry her to Sir Luke 
 Eookwood. The means are in my power. I will keep my 
 vow ; I will wed her to him. Tou did not hesitate to tear 
 your daughter from the man she loved, to give her to the 
 man she hated ; and for what ? For gold, for power, for 
 rank. I have the same motive. I love my child, and she 
 loves Sir Luke ; has loved him long and truly ; therefore shall 
 she have him. What to me is your child, or your feelings, 
 except they are subservient to my wishes ? She stands in my 
 way. I remove her." 
 
 " Who placed her in your path ?" asked the sexton. " Did 
 you not lend a helping hand to create that obstacle yourself?" 
 
 " I did," replied Barbara. " Would you know wherefore ? 
 I will tell you. I had a double motive for it. There is a 
 curse upon the house of Eookwood, that kills the first fair 
 bride each generation leads to the altar. Have you never 
 heard of it ? 
 
 " I have ! And did that idle legend sway you ?" 
 
 " And do you call it idle ? You ! Well, I had another 
 motive — a prophecy." 
 
 " By yourself uttered," replied Peter. 
 
 " Even so," repHed Barbara. " The prophecy is fulfilled. 
 The stray rook is found. The rook hath v,'ith rook mated. 
 Luke hath wedded Eleanor. He will hold possession of his 
 lands. The prophecy is fulfilled." 
 
 " But how .?" asked Peter. " Will your art tell you how and 
 why he shall now hold possessiou ? Can you teU me that ?"
 
 248 ROOKWOOD. 
 
 " My art goes not so far. I have predicted the event. It 
 lias come to pass. I am satisfied. He has wedded her. Be 
 it mine to free him from that yoke." And Barbara laughed 
 exultingly. 
 
 The sexton approached the old crone, and laid his hand 
 with violence upon her shoulder. 
 
 " Hear ??ie," cried he, " and I will tell you that which your 
 juggling art refuses to reveal. Eleanor Mowbray is heir to 
 the lands of Eookwood ! The estates are hers ! They were 
 bequeathed to her by her grandsire, Sir Eeginald." 
 
 " She was unborn when he died," cried Mrs. Mowbray. 
 
 " True," replied Peter ; " but the lands were left to your 
 i&SMQ female, should such issue be born." 
 
 " And did Sir Piers, my brother, know of this ? did he see 
 this will ?" asked Mrs. Mowbray, with trembling impatience. 
 
 " He did, and withheld the knowledge of it from you and 
 yours." 
 
 " Ah ! why knew I not this before ? Why did you not tell 
 me ere that was done which cannot be undone ? I have sacri- 
 ficed my child." 
 
 " Because it did not chime with my purposes to tell you," 
 returned Peter, coldly. 
 
 "It is false ; it is false," cried Mrs. Mowbray, her anger 
 and vexation getting the better of her fears. " I will not 
 believe it. Who are you, that jn-etend to know the secrets of 
 our house ?" 
 
 " One of that house," replied the sexton. 
 • i "Your name?" 
 
 I " Would you know my name ?" answered Peter, sternly. 
 I" The time is come when I will no longer conceal it. I am 
 lAlan Rookwood." 
 ^ ~^' My father' s-br other !" exclaimed Mrs. Mowbray. 
 
 " Ay, Alan Rookwood. The sworn enemy of your father, 
 of yovx, of all ye ; your fate, your destiny, your curse. I am 
 that Alan Rookwood whose name you breathed in the vault. 
 I am he, the avenger, the aveng'ed. I saw your father die. 
 I heard his groans — his r/roans ! — ha, ha! I saw his sons 
 die: one fell in battle — I was with him there. The other 
 expired in his bed. I was with Sir Piers when he breathed 
 his last, and listened to his death agonies. 'Twas I who 
 counselled him to keep the lands from you and from your 
 child, and he withheld them. One only amongst the race, 
 whose name I have cast off, have I loved ; and him, because," 
 added he, with something like emotion, " because he was my
 
 ROOKWOOD. 249 
 
 daughter's cWld, LukeRookwood. And even lie shall minister 
 to my vengeance. He will be your curse — your daughter's 
 ciu'se ; for he loves her not. Yet he is her husband, and hath 
 her lands; ha, ha!" And he laughed till he became convulsed 
 with the paroxysm of fiendish exultation. 
 
 "Mine ears are stunned," cried Mrs. Mowbray. 
 
 " The bride is mine ; relinquish her to me," said Barbara. 
 "Advance and seize her, my children." 
 
 Alan Eookwood (for so we shall henceforth denominate the 
 sexton) suddenly grew calm: he raised the whistle to his lips, 
 and blew a call so loud and shrill, that those who were ad- 
 vancing hung back irresolute. 
 
 There was a rush at the door of the vault. The sentinels 
 were struck down ; and with pistols in each hand, and fol- 
 lowed by two assistants, Dick Turpin sprang into the thick of 
 the crew. 
 
 " Here we are," cried he, " ready for action. Where is Sir 
 Luke Eookwood ? where my churchyard pal, Peter?" 
 
 " Here," cried the sexton and Luke simultaneously. 
 
 " Then stand aside," cried Dick, pushing in the direction 
 of the sounds, and bearing down all opposition. " Have a 
 care there, these triggers are ticklish. Friend or foe, he who 
 touches me shall have a bullet in his gizzard. Here I am, 
 pal Peter; and here are my two chums, Eust and Wilder. 
 Cut the whid." 
 
 "Have we hcense to pass scathless now?" asked the sexton, 
 " or shall we make good our way ?" 
 
 " You shall not pass," cried Barbara, furiously. " Think 
 you to rob me of my prey ? What, cowards ? do you hesitate ? 
 Ha !" 
 
 " Kindle the torches," cried several voices. " We fight not 
 in the dark." 
 
 A pistol was flashed. The torch again blazed. Its light 
 fell upon a tumultuous group. 
 
 " Seize the bride," cried Barbara. 
 
 " Hold !" exclaimed a voice from the altar. The voice was 
 that of Sybil. 
 
 Her hand was clasped in that of Luke. Eleanor had fainted 
 in the arms of the gipsy girl Handassah. 
 
 " Are you my bride ?" ejaculated Luke, in dismay. 
 
 " Behold the ring upon my finger ! Yom* own hand placed 
 i\ it there." 
 
 11 " Betrayed !" screamed Alan, in a voice of anguish. " My 
 nschemes annihilated — myself undone — my enemies triumphant 
 V\ — ^lost ! lost ! All is destroyed — all !"
 
 250 ROOKWOOD. 
 
 "Joy! joy!" exclaimed Mrs. Mowbray: "my child is 
 saved." 
 
 "And mine destroyed," groaned Barbara. "I have sworn 
 by the cross to slay the bride — and Sybil is that bride." 
 
 XII. 
 
 ALAN ROOKWOOD. 
 
 The wolf shall find her grave, and scrape it up ; 
 
 Not to devour the corse, but to discover 
 
 The horrid murther. Websteb. 
 
 "Beavo! capital!" cried Turpin, laughing loud and long 
 as an Olympian deity ; " has this simple wench outwitted you 
 all ; turned the tables upon the whole gang of plotters, eh ? 
 Excellent ! ha, ha, ha ! The next time you wed. Sir Luke, 
 let me advise you not to choose a wife in the dark. A man 
 'should have all his senses about him on these occasions. 
 Make love when the liquor's in ; marry when it's out, and, 
 above all, with your eyes open. This beats cock-fighting — 
 ha, ha, ha ! — you must excuse me ; but, upon my soul, I can't 
 help it." And his laughter seemed inextinguishable. 
 
 " Take your men without," whispered Alan Rookwood ; 
 " keep watch as before, and let the discharge of a pistol 
 bespeak the approach of danger, as agreed upon ; much yet 
 remains to be done here." 
 
 " How so ?" asked Dick : " it seems to me the job's en- 
 tirely settled — if not to your satisfaction. I'm always ready 
 to oblige my friend Sir Luke ; but curse me if I'll lend my 
 help to any underhand work. Steer clear of foul play, or 
 Dick Turpin holds no hand with you. As to that poor wench, 
 if you mean her any harm, curse me if I will " 
 
 " No harm is intended her," replied Alan. " I applaud 
 your magnanimity," added he, sarcastically ; " such senti- 
 ments are, it must be owned, in excellent keeping with your 
 conduct." 
 
 " In keeping or not," replied Turpin, gravely, " cold- 
 blooded murder is altogether out of my line, and I wash my 
 hands of it. A shot or two in self-defence is another matter ; 
 and when " 
 
 "A truce to this," interrupted Alan; "the girl is safe. 
 Will you mount guard again ?"
 
 EOOKWOOD. 251 
 
 " If tliat be tlie case, certainly," replied Dick : " I shall be 
 g^lad to get back to Bess. I couldn't bring her with we into 
 this black hole. A couple of shots will tell you 'tis Eanulj^h 
 Rookwood. But mind, no harm to the gipsy girl — to Lady 
 Rookwood, I should say. She's a jewel, take my word for it, 
 which Sir Luke must be mad to throw away." And calling 
 his companions, he departed. 
 
 Alan Rookwood bent his steps towards the gij)sy queen. 
 Dark thoughts gathered thickly o'er his brow. He smiled as 
 he drew nigh to Barbara — a smile it was 
 
 That wrinkled up his skin even to the hair. 
 
 Barbara looked at him at first with distrust ; but as he 
 developed his secret purposes, that smile became reflected 
 upon her own features. Their conference, took place apart. 
 We willingly leave them to return to the altar. 
 
 Mrs. Mowbray and the priest were still there. Both were 
 occupied in ineffectual endeavours to restore Eleanor to con- 
 sciousness. She recovered from her swoon ; but it was 
 evident her senses stiU wandered ; and vainly did Mrs. Mow- 
 bray lavish her tenderest caresses upon her child. Eleanor 
 returned them not. 
 
 Luke, meanwhile, had given vent to the wildest fury. He 
 shook away Sybil's grasp ; he dashed her from him ; he re- 
 garded her with withering glances : he loaded her with 
 reproaches. She bore his violence with meekest submission; 
 Bhe looked imploringly — but she replied not to his tamits. 
 Again she clung to the hem of his garment when cast aside. 
 Luke appeared unmoved ; what passed within we pause not to 
 examine. He grew calmer ; his calmness was more terrible 
 to Sybil than his previous wrath had been. 
 
 "You ai*e my wife," said he ; " what then ? By fraud, by 
 stratagem, you have obtained that title, and, perforce, must 
 keep it. But the title onhj shall you retain. No rights of 
 wife shall ever be yours. It will be in yoTir power to call 
 yonirself Lady Rookwood — you will be so in name — in nothing 
 else." 
 
 " I shall not bear it long," murmured Sybil. 
 
 Luke laughed scornfully. " So you said before," replied 
 he ; "■ and yet I see not why you are likely to abandon it. 
 The event will show. Thus far you have deceived me, and I 
 place no further faith in your assertions. My hand was 
 yours ; you refused it. When I would give it to another, you
 
 252 EOOKWOOD. 
 
 grasp it clandestinely. Am I to believe you now? The 
 wind will change — the vane veer with it." 
 
 " It will not veer from you," she meekly answered. 
 
 " Why did you step between me and my bride ?" 
 
 "To save her life ; to lay mine down for hers." 
 
 " An idle subterfuge. You know well that you run no 
 risk of being called uj^on to do so. Your life is in no danger. 
 The sacrifice was unnecessary. I could have dispensed with 
 your assistance : my own arm would have sufiiced to protect 
 Eleanor." 
 
 " Your single arm would not have prevailed against 
 numbers : they would have killed you likewise." 
 
 " Tush !" said Luke, fiercely. " Not only have you snatched 
 from me my bride, you have robbed me of my fair estates, 
 of all, save of my barren title, and that, even that, you have 
 tarnished." 
 
 " True, true," sighed Sybil. " I knew not that the lands 
 were hers, else had I never done it." 
 
 " False, false," cried Luke ; " false as the rest. Then will 
 be Ranulph's. She will be Eanulph's. I shall still be an 
 outcast, while Eanulph will riot in my halls — will press her 
 to his bosom. Cling not to me. Hence ! or I will spurn you 
 from me. I am undone, undone by you, accursed one." 
 
 " Oh, curse me not ! your woi'ds cut deep enough." 
 
 " Would they could kill you," cried Luke, with savage 
 bitterness. " You have placed a bar between me and my 
 prospects, which nothing can now remove — nothing but — 
 ha !" and his countenance assumed a deadly hue and fearful 
 expression. "By Heaven, you almost rouse the fell spirit 
 which it is said dwells within the breast of my devoted race. 
 I feel as if I could stab thee." 
 
 " No, no," shrieked Sybil ; "for mercy's sake, for your own 
 sake, do not stab me. It is not too late. 1 will repair my 
 wrong!" 
 
 " Ever deceiving ! you would again delude me. You can- 
 not repair it. One way alone remains, and that " 
 
 " I will pm-sue," resj^onded Sybil, sadly but firmly. 
 
 " Never," cried Luke ; " you shall not. Ha !" exclaimed 
 he, as he found his arm suddenly pinioned behind him. 
 " What new treachery is this? By whose orders am I thus 
 fettered?" 
 
 " By mine," said Alan Ilookwood, stepping forward. 
 
 "By yours?" echoed Luke. "x^.nd wherefore? Release 
 me."
 
 KOOKWOOD. 253 
 
 "Be patient," replied Alan. "You will hear all anon. In 
 tlie mean time you must be content to remain my prisoner. 
 Quit not your hold," added he, addressing the gipsies, who 
 kept charge of Luke. 
 
 " Their lives shall answer for their obedience," said Bar- 
 bara. 
 
 Upon a further signal from Alan, Eleanor was torn from 
 her mother's arms, and a bandage passed so suddenly over 
 Mrs. Mowbray's face, that, before she could raise a cry of 
 alarm, all possibility of utterance was effectually prevented. 
 The priest alone was left at liberty. 
 
 Barbara snatched the hand of Eleanor. She dragged her 
 to Sybil. 
 
 "You are Lady Rookwood," whispered she; "but she has 
 your domains. I give her to you." 
 
 " She is the onJu bar between thy husband and his rights," 
 whisi^ered Alan Rookwood, in a tone of horrible irony ; " e^ 
 is not too late to repair your tcrong." 
 
 " Away, tempter !" cried Sybil, horror-stricken. " I know 
 you well. "Yet," continued she, in an altered tone, "I will 
 risk all for him. I have done him wrong. One mode of 
 atonement remains ; and, horrible though it be, I will 
 embrace it. Let me not pause. Give her to me." And she 
 seized upon the unresisting hand of Eleanor. 
 
 " Do you need my aid ?" asked Barbara. 
 
 "No," replied Sybil; " let none approach us. A clapping 
 of hands will let you know when all is over." And she 
 dragged her passive victim deeper into the vault. 
 
 " Sybil, Sybil !" cried Luke, struggling with frantic violence 
 to liberate himself ; " hurt her not. I was rash. I was mad. 
 I am calmer now. She hears me not — she will not turn. 
 God of heaven ! she will murder her. It will be done while I 
 speak. I am the cause of all. Release me, villains ! Would 
 that I had died ere I had seen this day." 
 
 At a signal from the sexton, Luke also was blindfolded. 
 He ceased to struggle. But his laboui'ing breast told of the 
 strife within. 
 
 " Miscreants !" exclaimed the priest, who had hitherto 
 witnessed the j>roceedings in horror. " Why do not these 
 rocks fall in, and crush you and your iniquities ? Save her ! 
 oh, save her ! Have you no pity for the innocent ?" 
 
 " Such pity have avc," rephcd Alan Rookwood, " as you 
 showed my daughter. She was as innocent as Eleanor 
 Mowbray, and yet you did not pity her,"
 
 254 llOOKWOOD. 
 
 " Heaven' is my witness," exclaimed the priest, "that I 
 never injured her." 
 
 " Take not Heaven's name in vain," cried Alan. " Who 
 stood by while it was doing ? Whose firmer hand lent aid 
 to the murderer's trembling efforts? Whose pressure stifled 
 her thrilling screams, and choked her cries for mercy ? Tours 
 — yours ; and now you prate to me of pity — you, the slayer 
 of the sleeping and the innocent !" 
 
 " 'Tis false !" exclaimed the priest, in extremity of terror. 
 
 "False !" echoed Alan. "I had Sir Piers's own confession. 
 He told me all. Tou had designs upon Sir Piers, which his 
 wife opposed : you hated her ; you were in the confidence of 
 both — how did you keep that confidence ? He told me how, 
 by awakening a spirit of jealousy and pride, that o'ermastered 
 all his better feelings. False ! He told me of your hellish 
 machinations ; your Jesuitical plots ; your schemes. He was 
 too weak, too feeble an instrument to serve you. You left 
 him, but not before she had left him. False ! ha, I have that 
 shall instantly convict you. The corpse is here, within this 
 cell. Who brought it hither ?" 
 
 The priest was silent: he seemed confounded by Alan's 
 violence. 
 
 " I will answer that question," said Barbara. " It was 
 brought hither by that false priest. His agent, Balthazar, 
 has betrayed him. It was brought hither to prevent the dis- 
 covery of Sir Luke Eookwood's legitimacy. He meant to 
 make his own tei-ms about it. It has come hither to pro- 
 claim his guilt — to be a fearful witness against him." Then, 
 turning to Checkley, she added, " Tou have called Heaven to 
 witness your innocence : you shall attest it by oath upon 
 that body ; and should aught indicate your guilt, I will hang 
 you as I would a dog, and clear off one long score with 
 justice. Do you shrink from this ?" 
 
 " No," replied the priest, in a voice hollow and broken. 
 " Bring me to the body." 
 
 " Seize each an arm," said Barbara, addressing Zoroaster 
 and the knight of Malta, " and lead him to the corse." 
 
 " I will administer the oath," said Alan Eookwood, sternly. 
 
 ** No, not you," stammered the priest. 
 
 " And wherefore not ?" asked Alan. " If you are innocent, 
 you need fear nothing from her." 
 
 " I fear nothing from the dead," replied Checkley : " lead 
 on. 
 
 We will now return to Sybil. She was alone with her
 
 ROOKWOOD. 255 
 
 victim. They were near the mouth of the cell which had 
 bten Prior Cyprian's flinty dormitory, and were almost in- 
 volved in darkness. A broken stream of light glanced 
 through the pillars. Eleanor had not spoken. She sviffered 
 herself to be dragged thither without resistance, scarcely con- 
 scious, it would seem, of her danger. Sybil gazed upon her 
 for some minutes with soitow and surprise. " She compre- 
 hends not her perilous situation," murmured Sybil. " She 
 knows not that she stands upon the brink of the grave. Oh ! 
 would that she could pray. Shall I, her murderess, pray for 
 her ? My prayers would not be heard. And yet to kill her 
 unshriven will be a twofold crime. Let me not look on her. 
 My hand trembles. I can scarce grasp the dagger. Let me 
 think on all he has said. I have wronged him. I am his 
 bane, his curse ! I have robbed him of all : there is but one 
 remedy — 'tis this ! — Oh, God ! she recovers. I cannot do it 
 now." 
 
 It was a fearful moment for Eleanor's revival, when the 
 bright steel flashed before her eyes. Terror at once restored 
 her. She cast herself at Sybil's feet. 
 
 " Spare, spare me !" cried she. " Oh ! what a dream I 
 have had. And to waken thus, with the dagger's point at 
 my breast. You will not kill me — you, gentle maid, who 
 promised to preserve me. Ah, no, I am sure you will not." 
 
 " Appeal no more to me," said Sybil, fiercely. " Make 
 your peace with Heaven. Tour minutes are numbered." 
 
 " I cannot pray," said Eleanor, "while you are near me." 
 
 " Will you pray if I retire and leave you ?" 
 
 " No, no. I dare not — cannot," shrieked Eleanor, in ex- 
 tremity of terror. " Oh ! do not leave me, or let me go." 
 
 " If you stir," said Sybil, " I stab you to the heart." 
 
 " I will not stir. I will kneel here for ever. Stab me as I 
 kneel — as I pray to you. You cannot kiU me while I cling 
 to you thus — while I kiss your hands — while I bedew them 
 with my tears. Those tears will not sidly them like my 
 blood." 
 
 " Maiden," said Sybil, endeavouring to withdraw her hand, 
 " let go your hold — your sand is run." 
 
 " Mercy !" 
 
 " It is in vain. Close your eyes." 
 
 " No, 1 will fix them on you thus — you cannot strike then. 
 I will cling to you— embrace you. Your natiu'e is not cruel 
 — your soul is full of pity. It melts — those tears — you will 
 be merciful. You cannot deliberately kill me."
 
 256 EOOKWOOD. 
 
 " I cannot — I cannot !" said Sybil, with a passionate out- 
 burst of grief. " Take you life on one condition." 
 
 " Name it." 
 
 " That you wed Sir Luke Eookwood." 
 
 " Ah !" exclaimed Eleanor, " all rashes back upon me at 
 that name ; the whole of that fearful scene passes in review 
 before me," 
 
 " Do you reject my proposal ?" 
 
 " I dare not." 
 
 " I must have your oath. Swear by every hope of eternity 
 that you will wed none other than him." 
 
 " By every hope, I swear it." 
 
 " Handassah, you will bear this maiden's oath in mind, 
 and witness its fulfilment." 
 
 " I will," replied the gipsy girl, stepping fonvard from a 
 recess, in which she had hitherto remained unnoticed. 
 
 " Enough. I am satisfied. Tarry with me. Stir not — 
 scream not whatever you may see or hear. Your life depends 
 upon your firmness. When I am no more " 
 
 " No more ?" echoed Eleauor, in horror. 
 
 " Be calm," said Sybil. " When I am dead, clap your 
 hands together. They will come to seek you — they will find 
 me in your stead. Then rush to him — to Sir Luke Rook- 
 wood. He will protect you. Say to him hereafter that I 
 died for the wrong I did him — that I died, and blessed him." 
 
 " Can you not live, and save me ?" sobbed Eleanor, 
 
 " Ask it not. While I live, your life is in danger. When 
 I am gone, none will seek to harm you. Fare you well ! 
 Remember your oath, and you, too, remember it, Handassah. 
 Remember, also — ha ! that groan !" 
 
 All started, as a deep groan knelled in their ears. 
 ( "Whence comes that sound?" cried Sybil. "Hist — a 
 voice?" 
 
 " It is that of the jDricst," replied Eleanor. " Hark ! he 
 groans. They have murdered him ! Kind Heaven, receive 
 his soul!" 
 
 " Pray for me," cried Sybil : " pray fervently ; avert your 
 face ; down on your knees — down— down ! Farewell, Han- 
 iassah !" And breaking fi*om them, she rushed into the 
 
 tlarkest recesses of the vault. 
 We must now quit this painful scene for another scarcely 
 ess painful, and return to tlie unfortunate priest. 
 Checkley had been brought before the body of Susan 
 pookwood. Even in the gloom, the shimmer of the white
 
 ROOKWOOD. 257 
 
 coroolntlios, and the pallid features of the corpse, were 
 gbastlv enough. The torchlight made them terrible. 
 
 "Kneel!" said Alan Eookwood. The priest complied. 
 Alan knelt beside him. 
 
 " Do you loiow these features ?" demanded he. " Regard 
 them well. Fix your eyes full upon them. Do you know 
 them?" 
 
 " I do." 
 
 " Place your hand upon her breast. Does not the flesh 
 creep and shrink beneath your touch ? Now raise your hand 
 — make the cross of yoru* faith upon her bosom. By that 
 faith you swear you are innocent ?" 
 
 " I do," returned the priest ; " are you now satisfied ?" 
 
 " No," replied Alan. " Let the torch be removed. Tour 
 innocence must be more deeply attested," continued he, as 
 the light was withdrawn. " This proof will not fail. Entwine 
 your fingers round her throat." 
 
 " Have I not done enough ?" 
 
 " Your hesitation proves your guilt," said Alan. 
 
 " That proof is wanting, then," returned the priest ; " my 
 hand is upon her throat — what more ?" 
 
 " As you hope for mercy in your hour of need, swear that 
 you never conspired against her life, or refused her mercy." 
 
 " I swear it." 
 
 " May the dead convict you of perjury if you have fore- 
 sworn yourself," said Alan ; " you are free. Take away your 
 hand." 
 
 " Ha ! what is this ?" exclaimed the priest. " You have 
 put some jugglery upon me. I cannot withdraw my hand. 
 It sticks to her throat as though 'twere glued by blood. Tear 
 me away. I have not force enough to liberate myself. Why 
 do you grin at me ? The corpse grins likewise. It is jug- 
 glery. I am innocent. You would take away my life. Tear 
 me away, I say ; the veins rise ; they blacken ; they are 
 filling with new blood. 1 feel them swell ; they coil like living 
 things around my fingers. She is alive." 
 
 " And you are innocent ?" 
 
 " I am — I am. Let not my ravings convict me. For Jesu's 
 Bake, release me." 
 
 " Blaspheme not, but arise. I hold you not." 
 
 " You do," groaned the priest. " Your grasp tightens 
 round my throat ; your hard and skiimy fingers are there — I 
 strangle — help !" 
 
 S
 
 258 ROOKWOOD. 
 
 " Tour own fears strangle you. My hand is at my side," 
 returned Alan, calmly. 
 
 " Villain, you lie. Your grasp is like a vice. The strength 
 of a thousand devils is in your hand. Will none lend help ? 
 I never pressed so hard. Your daughter never suffered this 
 torture — never — never. I choke — choke — oh !" And the 
 priest rolled heavily backwards. 
 
 There was a deep groan ; a convulsive rattle in the throat ; 
 and all was still. 
 
 " He is dead — strangled," cried several voices, holding 
 down the torch. The face of the priest was blackened and 
 contorted ; his eyeballs protruded from their sockets ; his 
 tong«e was nearly bitten through in the desperate efforts he 
 had made to release himself from Alan's gripe ; his hair was 
 erect with horror. It was a ghastly sight. 
 i A miu-mur arose amongst the gipsies, Barbara deemed it 
 prudent to appease them. 
 
 " He was guilty," cried she. " He was the murderer of 
 Susan Eookwood." 
 
 " And I, her father^ have avenged her," said Alan, sternly. 
 
 The dreadful silence that followed his speech was broken 
 by the report of a pistol. The sound, though startling, was 
 felt almost as a relief. 
 
 " We are beset," cried Alan. " Some of you fly to recon- 
 noitre." 
 
 " To your posts !" cried Barbara. 
 
 Several of the crew flocked to the entrance. 
 
 " Unbind the prisoners," shouted Alan. 
 
 Mrs. Mowbray and Luke were accordingly set free. 
 
 Two almost simultaneous reports of a pistol were now 
 heard. 
 
 " 'Tis Ranul^jh Eookwood," said Alan ; "that was the pre- 
 concerted signal." 
 
 " Raniilph Eookwood," echoed Eleanor, who caught the 
 exclamation : " he comes to save me." 
 
 " Eemember your oath," gasped a dying voice. " He is no 
 longer yours." 
 
 " Alas ! alas !" sobbed Eleanor, tremblingly. 
 
 A moment afterwards a faint clapping of hands reached 
 the ears of Barbara. 
 
 " All is over," muttered she. 
 
 "Ha!" exclaimed Alan Eookwood, with a frightful look. 
 " Is it done ?" 
 
 Barbara motioned him towards the further end of the vaidt.
 
 ROOKWOOI). 2.59 
 
 xin. 
 
 MR. COATES. 
 
 Grimm. Look, captain, Lere comes one of tbe bloodbounds of justice. 
 
 Schw. Down with him. Don't let him utter a word. 
 
 Moor. Silence, I will hear him. Schiller.— T/ie Robbers. 
 
 GrLADLY do we now exchange the dank atmosphere of St. 
 Cyprian's cell, and the horrors which have detained us there 
 so long, for balmy air, genial sunshine, and the boon-com- 
 panionship of Dick Turpin. Upon regaining the verdant 
 ruins of the ancient priory, all appeared pretty much as our 
 highwayman had left it. Dick wended towards his mare. 
 Black Bess uttered an affectionate whinnying sound as he 
 approached her, and yielded her sleek neck to his caresses. 
 No Bedouin Arab ever loved his horse more tenderly than 
 Turpin. 
 
 " 'TwiU be a hard day when thou and I j^art !" murmured 
 he, affectionately patting her soft and silky cheeks. Bess 
 thrust- her nose into his hand, biting him playfully, as much 
 as to say, " That day will never arrive." Turpin, at least, 
 understood the appeal in that sense ; he was skilled in the 
 language of the Huoyhnmns. " I would rather lose my 
 right hand than thai should happen," sighed he ; " but, 
 there's no saying : the best of friends must part ; and thou 
 and I may be one day separated : thy destination is the 
 knacker ; mine, perhaps, the gibbet. We are neither of us 
 cut out for old age, that's certain. Cm'se me, if I can tell 
 how it is ; since I've been in that vault, I've got some queer 
 crotchet into my head. I can't help likening thee to that 
 poor gipsy wench, Sybil ; but may I be scragg'd if I'd use 
 thee as her lover has used her. Ha !" exclaimed he, draw- 
 ing a pistol with a suddenness that made his companions, 
 Eust and Wilder, start ; " we are watched. See you not how 
 yon shadow falls fi'om behind the wall ? 
 
 " I do," rephed Eust. 
 
 " The varmint shall be speedily unearthed," said Wilder, 
 rushing to the spot. 
 
 In another instant the shadow manifested itself in a sub- 
 stantial little personage, booted, spurred, and mud-be- 
 spattered. He was brought before our highwayman, who 
 had, meanwhile, vaulted into his saddle. 
 
 "Mr. Coates!" cried Dick, bursting into a loud laugh at 
 
 3 2
 
 260 ROOKWOOD. 
 
 the ridiculous figure presented to liis view, " or tlie mud de- 
 ceives me." 
 
 " It does not deceive you, Captain Turpin," replied the 
 attorney ; " you do, indeed, behold that twice unfortunate 
 person." 
 
 "What brings you here?" asked Dick. "Ah! I see. 
 Tou are come to pay me my wager." 
 
 "I thought you gave me a discharge for that," rejoined 
 Coates, unable even in his distress to resist the too-tempting 
 quibble. 
 
 " True, but it was in hla7ilc," replied Turpin, readily ; 
 " and that don't hold good in law, you know. Tou have 
 thrown away a second chance. Play or pay, all the world 
 over. I sha'nt let you off so easily this time, depend upon 
 it. Come, post the pony, or take your measure on that sod. 
 No more replications or rejoiners, sir. Down with the 
 dust. Pake his dies, pals. Let us see what he has about 
 him." 
 
 " In the twinkling of a bed-post," replied Eust. "We'll 
 turn him inside out. What's here?" cried he, searching the 
 attorney's pockets. " A brace of barkers," handing a pair 
 of pistols to Turpin ; " a haddock, stuffed with nothing, I'm 
 thinking ; one quid, two coach-wheels, half a bull, three hogs, 
 and a kick ; a d — d dicky concern, captain !" 
 
 " Three hogs and a kick," muttered Coates; "the knave 
 Bays true enough." 
 
 "Is there nothing else?" demanded Dick. 
 
 " Only an old snuffy fogle and a pewter sneezer." 
 
 " No reader ?* Try his hoxter."t 
 
 " Here's a pit-man, J captain." 
 
 " Give it me. Ah ! this will do," cried Dick, examining 
 the contents of the pocket-book. " This is a glorious wind- 
 fall, indeed ; a bill of exchange for 500^., payable on demand, 
 eh, Mr. Coates ? Quick ! indorse it, sir. Here's pen and 
 ink. Eascal ! if you attempt to tear the bill I'll blow your 
 brains out. Steady, sir, sign. Good !" added he, as Coates 
 most reluctantly indorsed the bill. " Good ! good ! I'll be 
 off with this bill to London to-night, before you can stop it. 
 No coui'ier can beat Bess — ha, ha ! Eh ! what's this ?" con- 
 tinued Dick, as, unfolding another leaf of the pocket-book, 
 he chanced upon a letter ; " my Lady Eookwood's super- 
 scription ! Excuse me, Mr. Coates, I must have a peep at 
 
 • Pocket-book. f Inside coat-pocket. J A small pocket-book.
 
 EOOKWOOD. 261 
 
 her ladysliip's billet-doux. All's safe witli me — man of 
 honour. I must detain your reader a moment longer." 
 
 " You should take charge of yourself, then," replied Coates, 
 sulkily. " Yoit, appear to be my reader." 
 
 " Bravo !" cried Turpin. " You may jest now with im- 
 punity, Mr. Coates. You have paid dear enough for your 
 jokes ; and when should a man be allowed to be pleasant, if 
 not at his own expense ? — ha, ha! "What's this !" exclaimed 
 he, opening the letter. " A ring, as I'm awake ! and from 
 her ladyship's own fair finger, I'll be sworn, for it bears her 
 cipher, iueifaceably impressed as your image upon her heart 
 — eh, Coates ? Egad ! you are a lucky dog, after all, to re- 
 ceive such a favour from such a lady — ha, ha ! Meantime, I'll 
 take care of it for you," continued Dick, slipping the ring on 
 his little finger. 
 
 Turpin, we have before remarked, had a turn for mimicry ; 
 and it was with an irresistible feeling of deferential awe 
 creeping over him that Coates heard the contents of Lady 
 Kookwood's epistle delivered with an enunciation as peremp- 
 tory and imperious as that of her ladyship's self. The letter 
 was hastily indited, in a clear, firm hand, and partook of its 
 writer's decision of character. Dick found no difiiculty in 
 deciphering it. Thus ran the missive : 
 
 " Assured of your devotion and secrecy, I commit my own 
 honour, and that of my son, to your charge. Time will not 
 permit me to see you, or I would not write. But I place my- 
 self entirely in your hands. You will not dare to betray 
 my confidence. To the point : A Major Mowbray has just 
 arrived here with intelligence that the body of Susan Brad- 
 ley (you will know to whom I allude) has been removed from 
 our family vault by a Eomish priest and his assistants. How 
 it came there, or why it has been removed, I know not ; it is 
 not my present pui'pose to inquire. Suflice it, that it now 
 lies in a vault beneath the ruins of Davenham Priory. My 
 son, Sir Eanulph, who has lent a credulous ear to the artful 
 tales of the impostor who calls this woman mother, is at 
 present engaged in arming certain of the household, and of 
 the tenantry, to seize upon and bring away this body, as re- 
 sistance is apprehended from a horde of gipsies who infest 
 the ruins. Now, mark me. That body must not be found ! 
 Be it your business to prevent its discovery. Take the fleetest 
 horse you can procure ; spare neither whip nor s^^ur. Haste 
 to the priory ; procure by any means, and at any expense,
 
 262 KOOKWOOD. 
 
 the assistance of the gipsies. Find out the "body ; conceal it, 
 destroy it — do what you will, so my son find it not. Fear 
 not his resentment ; I will bear you harmless of the conse- 
 quences with him. Tou will act uj)on my responsibility. I 
 pledge my honour for your safety. Use all despatch, an"" 
 calculate upon due requital from 
 
 Maud Eookwood. 
 " Haste, and God speed you !" 
 
 " Good speed you !" echoed Dick, in his own voice, con- 
 temptuously. " The devil drive you ! would have been a 
 fitter postscript. And it was upon this precious errand you 
 came, Mr. Coates ?" 
 
 " Precisely," replied the attorney ; " but I find the pre- 
 mises preoccupied. Fast as I have ridden, you were here 
 before me." 
 
 " And what do you now propose to do ?" asked Turpin, 
 
 " Bargam with you for the body," replied Coates, in an 
 insinuating tone. 
 
 " With me J" said Dick ; " do you take me for a resurrec- 
 tion cove ; for a dealer in dead stock, eh ! sirrah ?" 
 
 " I take yoi; for one sufficiently alive, in a general way, to 
 his own interests," returned Coates. " These gentlemen may 
 not, perhaps, be quite so scrupulous, when they hear my pro- 
 posals." 
 
 " Be silent, sir," interrupted Turpin. " Hist ! I hear the 
 tramp of horses' hoofs without. Hark ! that shout." 
 
 " Make your own terms before they come," said Coates. 
 " Leave all to me. I'll put 'em on a wrong scent." 
 
 " To the devil with your terms," cried Turpin ; " the sig- 
 nal !" And he pulled the trigger of one of Coates's pistols, 
 the shot of which rang in the ears of the astounded attorney 
 as it whizzed past him. " Drag him into the mouth of the 
 vault," thundered Turpin : "he will be a capital cover in case 
 of attack. Look to your sticks, and be on the alert ; away ! 
 
 Vainly did the unfortunate attorney kick and struggle, 
 swear and scream ; his hat was pushed over his eyes ; his 
 bob-wig thrust into his mouth ; and his legs tripped from 
 imder him. Thus blind, dumli, and half- suffocated, he was 
 hurried into the entrance of the cell. 
 
 Dick, meanwhile, dashed to the arched outlet of the ruin. 
 He there drew in the rein, and Black Bess stood motionless 
 as a statue.
 
 ROOKWOOD. 263 
 
 XIV. 
 
 DICK TURPIN. 
 
 Many a fine fellow, with a genius extensive enougli to have effected universal 
 reformation, has been flooiiied to perish by the halter But does not such a 
 man's renown extend through centuries, and tens of centuries, while many a 
 pi'ince would be overlooked in history were it not the historian's interest to 
 inci'ease the number of his pages ? Nay, when the traveller sees a gibbet, 
 does he not exclaim, " That fellow was no fool !" and lament the hardship of 
 the times P— Schillee. — The Robbers. 
 
 Ttjepin's quick eye ranged over the spreading sward in 
 front of the ancient priory, and his brow became contracted. 
 The feeling, however, was transient. The next instant saw 
 him the same easy, reckless being he had been before. There 
 was a little more paleness in his cheek than usual ; but his 
 look was keener, and his knees involuntarily clasped the 
 saddle more firmly. No other symptom of anxiety was per- 
 ceptible. It would be no impeachment to Dick's valour were 
 it necessary to admit that a slight tremor crossed him as he 
 scanned the formidable array of his opponents. The admis- 
 sion is needless. Dick himself woidd have been the last man 
 to own it ; nor shall we do the memory of our undaunted 
 highwayman any such injustice. Turpin was intrepid to a 
 fault. He was rash ; apt to run into risks for the mere plea- 
 sure of getting out of them : danger was his delight, and the 
 degree of excitement was always in proj^ortion to the peril 
 incurred. After the first glance, he became, to use his own 
 expressive phrase, "as cool as a cucumber;" and continued, 
 as long as they permitted him, like a skilful commander, 
 calmly to calculate the numerical strength of his adversaries, 
 and to aiTange his own plan of resistance. 
 
 This troop of horsemen, for such it was, might probably 
 amount in the aggregate to twenty men, and presented an 
 appearance like that of a strong muster at a rustic fox-chase, 
 due allowance being made for the various weapons of offence ; 
 to wit, naked sabres, fire-locks, and a world of huge horse- 
 pistols, which the present j/?eZ(i cari'ied along with them. This 
 resemblance was heightened by the presence of an old hunts- 
 man and a gamekeeper or two, in scarlet and green jackets, 
 and a few yelping hounds that had followed after them. The 
 majority of the crew consisted of sturdy yoemen ; some of 
 whom, mounted upon wild, unbroken colts, had pretty lives 
 of it to maintain their seats, and curvetted about in " most 
 admired disorder;" others were seated upon more docile, but
 
 264 ROOKWOOD. 
 
 quite as provoking specimeus of the cart-liorse breed, whose 
 sluggish sides, reckless alike of hobnailed heel or ash sapling, 
 refused to obey their riders' intimations to move ; while 
 others, again, brought stiff, wrong-headed ponies to the 
 charge — obstinate, impracticable little brutes, who seemed to 
 prefer revolving on their own axes, and describing absurd 
 rotary motions, to proceeding in the direct and proj^er course 
 pointed out to them. Dick could scarcely forbear laughing 
 at these ridiculous manoeuvres ; but his attention was chiefly 
 attracted towards thi'ee individuals, who were evidently the 
 leaders of this warlike expedition. In the thin, tall figure of 
 the first of these, he recognised Eanulph Eookwood. With 
 the features and person of the second of the group he was 
 not entirely unacquainted, and fancied (nor incorrectly 
 fancied) that his military bearing, or, as he would have ex- 
 pressed it, "the soldicr-llke cut of his jib," could belong to 
 no other than Major Mowbray, whom he had once eased of a 
 purse on Finchley Common. In the round rosy countenance 
 and robustious person of the last of the trio he discovered 
 his ancient ally, Titus Tyrconnel. 
 
 " Ah, Titus, my jewel, are you there ?" exclaimed Dick, as 
 he distinguished the Irishman. " Come, I have one friend 
 among them whom I may welcome. So, they see me now. 
 Oft they come, peU-mell. Back, Bess, back- — slowly, wench, 
 slowly — there — stand !" And Bess again remained motion- 
 less. 
 
 The report of Turpin's pistol reached the ears of the troop ; 
 and as all were upon the alert, he had scarcely presented him- 
 self at the archway, when a loud shout was raised, and the 
 whole cavalcade galloped towards him, creating, as may be 
 imagined, the wildest disorder ; each horseman yelling, as ho 
 neared the arch, and got involved in the press occasioned by 
 the unexpected concentration of forces at that point, while 
 oaths and blows, kicks and cuffs, were recij^rocated with such 
 hearty good-will, that had Turpin ever j-ead Ariosto or Cer- 
 vantes, or heard of the discord of King Agramante's camp, 
 this wcVt'emust have struck him as its realization. As it was, 
 entertaining little apprehension of the result, he shouted 
 encouragement to them. Scarcely, however, had the fore- 
 most horseman disentangled himself from the crowd, and, 
 struggling to the door, was in the act «f levelling his pistol at 
 Turpin's head, when a well-directed ball pierced the brain of 
 his charger, and horse and man rolled to the ground. Vowing 
 vengeance, a second succeeded and was in like manner com- 
 pelled to bite the dust.
 
 ROOKWOOD. 2B5 
 
 " That will lot old Peter know that Eanulph Eookwood is 
 at hand," exclaimed Dick. " I shan't throw awaj another 
 shot." 
 
 The scene at the archway was now one of complete con- 
 fusion. Terrified by the shots, some of the boors would have 
 drawn back, while others, in mid career, advanced, and pro- 
 pelled them forwards. It was like the meeting of two tides. 
 Here and there, rep:ardless of the bit, and scared by the firing, 
 a wild colt broke all bounds, and, hiuiing his rider in the air, 
 darted off into the green ; or, in another case, rushed for- 
 ward, and encountering the prostrate cattle cumbering the 
 entrance to the priory hall, stumbled, and precipitated his 
 master neck-over-heels at the very feet of his enemy. During 
 all this tumult, a few shots were fired at the highwayman, 
 which, without doing him a jot of mischief, tended materially 
 to increase their own confusion. 
 
 The voice of Turpin was now heard above the din and tur- 
 moil to sound a parley; and as he appeared disposed to offer 
 no opposition, some of his antagonists ventured to raise them- 
 selves from the ground, and to apjjroach him. 
 
 " I demand to be led to Sir Eanulph Eookwood," said 
 Tui-pin. 
 
 " He is here," said Eanulph, riding up. " Villain, you are 
 my prisoner." 
 
 " As you list. Sir Eanulph," returned Dick, coolly ; " but 
 let me have a word in private with you ere you do aught you 
 may repent hereafter." 
 
 "No words, sir; deliver up your arms, or " 
 
 "My pistols are at your service," re2:»lied Dick. "I have 
 just discharged them." 
 
 " You may have others. We must search you." 
 
 "Hold!" cried Dick; "if you will not listen to me, read 
 that paper." And he handed Eanulph his mother's letter to 
 Mr. Ooates. It was without the superscription, which he had 
 thrown aside. 
 
 " My mother's hand !" exclaimed Eanulph, reddening with 
 anger, as he hastily perused its contents. " And she sent 
 this to you ? You lie, villain ; 'tis a forgery." 
 
 " Let this speak for me," returned Dick, holding out the 
 finger upon which Lady Eookwood's ring was placed. " Know 
 you that cipher r"' 
 
 " You have stolen it," retorted Eanulph. " My mother," 
 added he, in a deep, stern whisper, articulated only for 
 Turpin's hearing, " would never have intrusted her honour 
 to a highwayman's keeping."
 
 266 KOOKWUOD. 
 
 " She has intrusted more — her life," rephed Dick, in a care- 
 less tone. " She would have bribed me to do murder." 
 
 " Murder !" echoed Ranulph, aghast. 
 
 "Ay, to murder your brother," returned Dick; "but let 
 that pass. You have read that note. I have acted solely 
 upon your mother's responsibility. Lady Eookwood's honour 
 is pledged for my safety. Of course, her son will set me 
 free." 
 
 " Never !" 
 
 " Well, as you please. Your mother is in my power. 
 Betray me, and you betray her." 
 
 " No more !" returned Eanulph, sternly. " Go your ways. 
 You are free." 
 
 " Pledge me your word of honour I am safe." 
 
 Eanulph had scarcely given his pledge, when Major Mow- 
 bray rode furiously up. A deej) flush of anger burnt upon 
 his cheeks ; his sword was drawn in his hand. He glanced 
 at Turpin, as if he would have felled him from the saddle. 
 
 " This is the ruffian," cried the major, fiercely, " by whom 
 I was attacked some months ago, and for whose apprehension 
 the reward of three hundred pounds is offered by his majesty's 
 proclamation, with a free pardon to his accomplices. This is 
 Richard Tiu-pin. He has just added another crime to his 
 many offences. He has robbed my mother and sister. The 
 postboy knew him the moment he came up. Where are 
 they, villain? Whither are they gone ? Answer !" 
 
 " I know not," replied Turpin, calmly. " Did not the lad 
 tell you they were rescued ?" 
 
 " Rescued ! By whom ?" asked Ranulph, with great emo- 
 tion. 
 
 " By one who calls himself Sir Luke Rookwood," answered 
 Turpin, with a meaning smile. 
 
 " By him !" ejaculated Ranulj)h. " Where are they now?" 
 
 " I have already answered that question," said Dick. " I 
 rej)eat, I know not." 
 
 " You are my prisoner," cried the major, seizing Turpin's 
 bridle. 
 
 "I have Sir Eanulph's word for my safety," rejoined 
 Turpin. " Let go my rein." 
 
 " How is this ?" asked Major Mowbray, incredulously. 
 
 " Ask me not. Release him," replied Ranulph. 
 
 " Ranulph," said the major, " you ask an impossibility. 
 My honour — my duty — is implicated in this man's capture." 
 
 " The honour of all of us is involved in his deliverance,"
 
 RUOKWOOD. 267 
 
 returned Raniilj^li, in a whisper. " Let him go. I will 
 explain all hereafter. Let us search for them — for Eleanor. 
 Surely, after this, you will help us to find them" added he, 
 addressing Tnrpin. 
 
 " I wish, with all my soul, I could do so," replied the high- 
 wayman. 
 
 " I see'd the ladies cross the brook, and enter these old 
 ruins," interposed the postboy, who had now joined the 
 party. " I see'd 'em from where I stood on the hill-side ; 
 and, as I kept a pretty sharp look-out, and have a tolerably 
 bright eye of my own, I don't think as how they ever corned 
 out again." 
 
 " Some one is hidden within yon fissttre in the wall," ex- 
 claimed Ilanulph ; " I see a figure move." 
 
 And he flung himself from his horse, rushing towards the 
 mouth of the cell. Imitating his example. Major Mowbray 
 followed his friend, sword in hand. 
 
 " The game begins now in right earnest," said Dick to 
 himself; "the old fox will soon be unearthed, I must look 
 to my snappers." And he thrust his hand quietly into his 
 pocket in search of a pistol. 
 
 Just as Ranulph and the major reached the recess, they 
 were startled by the sudden apparition of the ill-fated at- 
 torney. 
 
 "Mr. Coates!" exclaimed Ranulph, in surprise. "What 
 do you here, sir ?" 
 
 " I — I — that is — Sir Ranulph — you must excuse me, sir — 
 particular business — can't say," returned the trembling at- 
 torney ; for at this instant his eye caught that of Turj^in, 
 and the ominous reflection of a polished-steel barrel, held 
 carelessly towards him. He was aware, also, that on the 
 other hand he was, in like manner, the mark of Rust and 
 Wilder ; those polite gentlemen having threatened him with 
 a brace of slugs in his brain if he dared to betray their 
 hiding-place. " It is necessary that I should be guarded in 
 my answers," murmured he. 
 
 "Is there any one within that place beside yourself?" said 
 the major, making a movement thither. 
 
 " No, sir ; nobody at all," answered Coates, hastily, fancy- 
 ing at the same time that he heard the click of the pistol that 
 was to be his death-warrant. 
 
 " How came you here, sir," demanded Ranulph. 
 
 " Do you mean in this identical spot ?" replied Coates, 
 evasively.
 
 268 ROOKWOOD 
 
 " You can have no difficulty in answering that question," 
 said the major, sternly. 
 
 " Pardon me, sir. I find considerable difficulty in answer- 
 ing any question, situated as I am." 
 
 " Have you seen Miss Mowbray ?" asked Ranulph, eagerly. 
 
 " Or my mother ?" said the major, in the same breath. 
 
 " Neither," replied Coates, rather relieved by these ques- 
 tions. 
 
 " I suspect you are deceiving us, sir," said the major. 
 " Your manner is confused. I am convinced you know more 
 of this matter than you choose to explain : and if you do not 
 
 satisfy me at once, fully and explicitly, I vow to Heaven " 
 
 and the major's sword described a glittering circle round his 
 head, 
 
 "Are you privy to their concealment?" asked Ranulph. 
 " Have you seen aught of them or of Luke Bradley ?" 
 
 " Speak, or this moment is your last," said the major. 
 
 " If it '/s my last, I cannot speak," returned Coates. "I 
 can make neither head nor tail of your questions, gentle- 
 men." 
 
 " And you positively assure me you have not seen Mrs. 
 Mowbray and her daughter ?" said Ranulph. 
 
 Turpin here winked at Coates. The attorney understood 
 him. 
 
 " I don't positively assert that," faltered he. 
 
 "How ! you have seen them ?" shouted Ranulph. 
 
 " Where are they ? in safety ? Speak !" added the major. 
 
 Another expressive gesture from the highwayman com- 
 municated to the attorney the nature of his reply. 
 
 " Without, sir ; without — yonder," he replied. " I will 
 show you myself. Follow, gentlemen, follow." And away 
 scampered Coates, without once venturing to look behind 
 him. 
 
 In an instant the ruined hall was deserted, and Turpin 
 alone left behind. In the excitement of the moment, his 
 presence had been forgotten. In an instant afterwards the 
 arena was again occupied by a comj^any equally numerous. 
 Rust and Wilder issued from their hiding-places, followed by 
 a throng of the gipsy crew. 
 
 " Where is Sir Luke Rookwood ?" asked Turpin. 
 
 " He remains below," was the answer returned. 
 
 "And Peter Bradley?" 
 
 " Stays there likewise." 
 
 "No matter. Now make ready, pals. Give 'em one shout 
 —Hurrah !"
 
 ROOKWOOD. 269 
 
 " HuiTali !" replied the crowd, at tlie top of tlieir voices. 
 
 Ranulpli Eookwood and his companions heard this shout. 
 Mr. Coates had already explained the stratagem practised 
 upon them by the wily highwayman, as well as the perilous 
 situation in which he himself had been placed ; and they 
 were in the act of returning, to make good his capture, when 
 the loud shouts of the crew arrested them. From the 
 clamour, it was evident that considerable reinforcement must 
 have arrived from some unlooked-for quarter ; and, although 
 burning to be avenged upon the audacious highwayman, the 
 major felt it would be a task of difficulty, and that extreme 
 caution could alone insui'e success. With difficulty restraining 
 the impatience of Ranulph, who could scarcely brook these 
 few minutes of needful delay. Major Mowbray gave pai-ticu- 
 lar instructions to each of the men in detail, and caused 
 several of them to dismount. By this arrangement Mr. 
 Coates found himself accommodated with a steed and a pair 
 of pistols, with which latter he vowed to wi-eak his vengeance 
 upon some of his recent tormentors. After a short space 
 of time occupied in this manner, the troop slowly advanced 
 towards the postern, in much better order than upon the 
 previous occasion ; but the stoutest of them C|uailcd as they 
 caught sight of the numerous gipsy gang drawn out in battle 
 array within the abbey waUs. Each party scanned the other's 
 movements in silence and wonder, anxiously awaiting, yet in 
 a measure dreading, their leader's signal to begin. That 
 signal was not long delayed. A shot from the ranks of 
 Rookwood did instant and bitter execution. Eob Rust was 
 stretched lifeless upon the ground. Nothing more was 
 needed. The action now became general. Fire-arms were 
 discharged on both sides, without much damage to either 
 party. But a rush being made by a detachment of horse, 
 headed by Major Mowbray, the conflict soon became more 
 serious. The gipsies, after the first fire, threw aside their 
 pistols, and fought with long kaivcs, with which they inflicted 
 desperate gashes, both on men and horses. Major Mowbray 
 was slightly wounded in the thigh, and his steed receiving the 
 blow intended for himself, stumbled, and threw his rider. 
 Luckily for the major, Ranulph Rookwood was at hand, and 
 with the butt-end of a heavy-handled pistol felled the ruffian 
 to the earth, just as he was upon the point of repeating the 
 thrust. 
 
 Turpin, meanwhile, had taken comparatively a small share 
 in the conflict. He seemed to content himself with acting 
 upon the defensive, and except in the case af Titus Tyrcon*
 
 270 ROOKWOOI). 
 
 nel, whom, espying amidst the crowd, he had considerably 
 alarmed by sending a bullet through his wig, he did not fire 
 a single shot. He also succeeded in unhorsing Coates, by 
 hurling, with great dexterity, the empty j)istol at his head. 
 Though apparently unconcenied in the skirmish, he did not 
 flinch from it, but kept his ground unyieldingly. " A charmed 
 life" he seemed to bear ; for amid the shower of bullets, 
 many of which were especially aimed at himself, he came off 
 unhvu't. 
 
 " He that's born to be hanged will never be drowned, that's 
 certain," said Titus. " It's no use trying to bring him down 
 But by Jasus ! he's spoiled my best hat and wig, anyhow. 
 There's a hole in my beaver as big as a crown piece." 
 
 " Your own crown's safe, and that's some satisfaction," 
 said Coates ; " whereas mine has a bump on it as large as a 
 swan's egg. Ah ! if we could only get behind him." 
 
 The strife continued to rage without intermission ; and 
 though there were now several ghastly evidences of its fury, 
 in the shape of wovmded men and slaughtered or disabled 
 horses, whose gaping wounds flooded the turf with gore, it 
 was still difficult to see upon which side victory would even- 
 tually declare herself. The gipsies, though by far the 
 greater sufferers of the two, firmly maintained their gi'ound. 
 Drenched in the blood of the horses they had wounded, and 
 brandishing their long knives, they presented a formidable 
 and terrific appearance, the effect of which was not at all 
 diminished by their wild yells and savage gesticulations. On 
 the other hand, headed by Major Mowbray and Kauulph, 
 the troop of yeomen pressed on undauntedly ; and where the 
 sturdy farmers could get a firm gripe of their lithe antago- 
 nists, or dehver a blow with their ox-hke fists, they seldom 
 failed to make good the advantages which superior weight 
 and strength gave them. It will thus be seen that as yet 
 they were pretty well matched. Numbers were in favoui- of 
 the gijDsies, but courage was equally distributed, and, per- 
 haps, Avhat is emphatically called " bottom" was in favour of 
 the rustics. Be this as it may, from what had akeady 
 occurred, there was every prospect of a very serious termina- 
 tion to the fray. 
 
 From time to time Turpin glanced to the entrance of the 
 cell, in the expectation of seeing Sir Luke Rookwood make 
 his appearance ; and, as he was constantly disappointed in his 
 expectation, he could not conceal his chagrin. At length he 
 resolved to despatch a messenger to him, and one of the crew
 
 ROOKWOOD. 271 
 
 accordingly departed upon this errand. He returned presently 
 with a look of blank dismay. 
 
 In our hasty narrative of the fight we have not paused to 
 particularize, neither have we enumerated, the list of the 
 combatants. Amongst them, however, were Jerry Juniper, 
 the knight of Malta, and Zoroaster. Excalibur, as may be 
 conceived, had not been idle ; but that trenchant blade had 
 been shivered by Ranulph Rookwood in the early stage of the 
 business, and the knight left weaponless. Zoroaster, who 
 was not merely a worshipper of fire, but a thorough milling- 
 cove, had engaged to some purpose in a pugilistic encounter 
 with the rustics ; and, having fought several rounds, now 
 " bore his blushing honours thick upon him." Jerry, like 
 Turpin, had remained tolerably quiescent. " The proper 
 moment," he said, " had not arrived." A fatality seemed to 
 attend Turpin's immediate companions. Rust was the first 
 who fell ; Wilder also was now among the slain. Things were 
 precisely in this condition when the messenger returned. A 
 marked change was instantly perceptible in Turpin's manner. 
 He no longer looked on with indifirerence. He seemed angry 
 and distrustful. He gnawed his lip, ever a sign with him 
 of vexation. Addressing a few words to those about him, he 
 then spoke moi'e loudly to the rest of the crew. Being in 
 the jargon of the tawny tribe, his words were not intelligible 
 to the opposite party ; but their import was soon made known 
 by the almost instant and total relinquishment of the field 
 by the gipsies. They took to their heels at once, to a man, 
 leaving only a few desperately wounded behind them ; and, 
 flying along the intricate ruins of the priory, baffled all pur- 
 suits, wherever it was attempted. Jerry Juniper was the last 
 in the retreat ; but, upon receiving a hint fi'om Dick, he 
 vaulted like a roe over the heads of his adversaries, and made 
 good his escape. Turpin alone remained. He stood like a 
 lion at bay, quietly regarding the huntsmen hurtling around 
 him. Ranulph Rookwood i-ode up and bade him surrender. 
 
 " Detain me not," cried he, in a voice of thunder. " If you 
 would save her who is dear to you, descend into that vault. 
 Off, I say." 
 
 And Turpin shook away, with ease, the grasp that Ranulph 
 had laid upon him. 
 
 " Villain, you do not escape me this time," said Major Mow- 
 bray, interposing himself between Turpin and the outlet. 
 
 "Major Mowbray, I would not have your blood upon my 
 head," said Dick. " Let me pass." And he levelled a pistol.
 
 272 ROOKWOOD. 
 
 " Fire, if you dare !" said the major, raising his sword. 
 " You pass not. I will die rather than allow you to escape. 
 Barricade the door. Strike him down if he attempts to pass. 
 Richard Turpin, I arrest you in the Icing's name. You hear, 
 my lads in his majesty's name. I command you to assist 
 me in this highwayman's capture. Two hundred pounds for 
 his head !" 
 
 " Two himdred devils !" exclaimed Dick, with a laugh of 
 disdain. " Go, seek your mother and sister within yon vault, 
 Major Mowbray ; you will find employment enough there." 
 
 Saying which, he suddenly forced Bess to back a few 
 yards ; and then, striking his heels sharply into her sides, ere 
 his purpose could be divined by the si^ectators, charged, and 
 cleared the lower part of the mouldering priory walls. This 
 feat was apparently accomplished with no great effort by his 
 admirable and unequalled mare. 
 
 " By the powers !" cried Titus, " and he's given us the slip 
 after all. And just when we thought to make sure of him, 
 too. Why, Mr. Coates, that wall must be higher than a five- 
 barred gate, or any stone wall in my own country. It's just 
 the most extraordinary Icpp I ever set eyes on!" 
 
 "The devil's in the fellow, certainly, or in his mare," 
 returned Coates : " but if he escapes me, I'll forgive him. 
 1 know whither he's bound. He's off to London with my 
 bill of exchange. I'll be up with him. I'll track him like a 
 bloodhound, slowly and surely, as my father, the thief-taker, 
 used to follow up a scent. Recollect the hare and the tor- 
 toise. The race is not always to the swift. What say you ? 
 'Tis a match for five hundred pounds ; nay, for five thousand : 
 for there is a certain marriage certificate in the way — a 
 glorious golden venture ! You shall go halves if we win. 
 We'll have him, dead or alive. What say you for London, 
 Mr. Tryconnel ? Shall we start at once ?" 
 
 "With all my soioJ," replied Titus. "I'm with you." 
 And away this par nohile scoured. 
 
 Eanulph, meantime, plunged into the vault. The floor 
 was slippery, and he had nigh stumbled. Loud and deep 
 lamentations and a wailing sound, like that of a lament for 
 the dead, resounded in his ears. A light at the further ex- 
 tremity of the vault attracted his attention. He was filled 
 with terrible forebodings ; but the worst reality was not so 
 terrible as suspense. He rushed tor wards the light. He 
 passed the massive pillars, and there, by the ruddy torch
 
 ROOKWOOD. 273 
 
 flame discovered two female figures. One was an old woman, 
 fantastically attired, wringing her hands, and moaning, or 
 gibbering wild strains in broken, discordant, yet pathetic 
 tones. The other was Mrs. Mowbray. Both were images 
 of despair. Before them lay some motionless object. He 
 noticed not that old woman ; he scarcely saw Mrs, Mowbray ; 
 he Ijeheld only that object of horror. It was the lifeless 
 body of a female. The light fell imperfectly upon the 
 face ; he could not discern the features, bvit the veil in 
 which it was swathed : that veil was Eleanor's ! He asked 
 no more. 
 
 With a wild cry he rushed forward. " Eleanor, my beloved," 
 shrieked he. 
 
 Mrs. Mowbray started at his voice, but appeared stunned 
 and helpless. 
 
 " She is dead," said Eanulph, stooping towards the body. 
 Dead— dead ! " 
 
 " Ay," echoed the old woman, in accents of equal anguish 
 —"dead— dead!" 
 
 " But this is not Eleanor," exclaimed he, as he viewed the 
 features more closely. " This face, though beautiful, is not 
 hers. This dishevelled hair is black. The long lashes that 
 shade her cheek are of the same hue. She is scarce dead. 
 The hand I clasp is yet warm — the fingers are pliant." 
 
 " Yet she is dead," said the old woman, in a broken voice. 
 " She is slam." 
 
 " Who hath slain her ?" asked Eanulph. 
 
 " I — 1 — her mother, slew her." 
 
 " You !" exclaimed Eanulph, horror-stricken. " And where 
 is Eleanor ?" asked he. " Was she not here ?" 
 
 " Better she were here now, even though she were as that 
 poor maid," groaned Mrs. Mowbray, " than where she is." 
 
 *' Where is she then ?" asked Eanulph, with frantic eager- 
 ness. 
 
 " Fled. Whither I know not." 
 
 " With whom ?" 
 
 " With Sir Luke Eookwood — with Alan Eookwood. They 
 have borne her hence. Ranulph, you are too late." 
 
 "Gone!" cried Eanulph, fiercely springing to his feet. 
 " How escaped they ? There appears to be but one entrance 
 to this vault. I will search each nook and cranny." 
 
 " 'Tis vain," replied Mrs. Mowbray. " There is anothey 
 putlet through yon cell. By that passage they escaped."
 
 274 EOOKWOOD. 
 
 " Too true, too true," shouted Eanulph, who flew to examine 
 the cell. "And wherefore followed you not ?" 
 
 " The stone rolled to its mouth, and resisted my efforts. I 
 could not follow." 
 
 " Torture and death ! She is lost to me for ever !" cried 
 Eanulph, bitterly. 
 
 " No," exclaimed Barbara, clutching his arm. " Place your 
 trust in me, and I will find her for you." 
 
 " Tou !" ejaculated Eanulph. 
 
 " Even I," replied Barbara. " Tour wrongs shall be righted 
 — my Sybil be avenged." 
 
 0^ §0Oll Wit |0ttri|f. 
 
 THE EIDE TO YOEK. 
 
 Then one halloo, boys ! one lond cheering halloo 1 
 To the swiftest of courserS; the gallant, the true ! 
 Tor the sportsman unborn shall the mi^mory bless 
 Of the horse of the highwayman, bonny lilack Bess I 
 
 ElCHARD TUEPIN. 
 I. 
 THE REKDEZVOUS AT KILBTJEN. 
 
 Hind. Drink deep, my brave boys, of the bastinado ; 
 Of stramazons, tinctures, and slie passatas ; 
 Of the carricado, and rare cmbrocado ; 
 Of blades, and rapier-hilts of surest guard ; 
 Of the Vincentio and liurgundian ward. 
 Have we not bravely tossed this bombast foil-button ? 
 Win gold and wear gold, boys, 'tis we that merit it. 
 
 Frince of Frigs' Revels. 
 An excellent Comedy, replete with various conceits and Tarltonian mirth. 
 
 The present straggling suburb at the north-west of the 
 metropolis, known as Kilbum, had scarcely been called into 
 existence a century ago, and an ancient hostel with a few 
 detached farmhouses, were the sole habitations to be foimd 
 in the present pojiulous vicinage. The place of refreshment 
 for the ruralising cockney of 1737 was a substantial-looking 
 tenement of the good old stamp, with great bay windows, and 
 a balcony in front, bearing as its ensign the jovial visage of 
 the lusty kuight. Jack l^ilstaff. Shaded by a spreading elm, 
 a circular bench embraced the aged trunk of the tree, sufii-
 
 ROOKWOOD. 275 
 
 ciently tempting, no doubt, to incline the wanderer on those 
 dusty ways to " rest and be thankful," and to cry encore to a 
 frothing tankard of the best ale to be obtanied within the 
 chimes of Bow bells. 
 
 Upon a table, green as the privet and holly that formed the 
 walls of the bower in which it was placed, stood a great china 
 bowl, one of those leviathan memorials of bygone wassailry 
 which we may sometimes espy (reversed, in token of its de- 
 suetude) perched on the top of an old japanned closet, but 
 seldom, if ever, encounter in its proper position at the genial 
 board. All the appliances of festivity were at hand. Pipes 
 and rummers strewed the board. Perfume, subtle yet mellow, 
 as of pine and lime, exhaled from out of the bowl, and ming- 
 ling with the scent of a neighbouring bed of mignonette, and 
 the subdued odour of the Indian weed, formed altogether as 
 delectable an atmosphere of sweets as one could wish to in- 
 hale on a melting August afternoon. So, at least, thought 
 the inmates of the arbour ; nor did they by any means con- 
 fine themselves to the gratification of a single sense. The 
 ambrosial contents of the china bowl proved as delicious to 
 the taste as its bouquet was grateful to the smell ; while the 
 eyesight was soothed by reposing on the smooth sward of a 
 bowling-green spread out immediately before it, or in dwel- 
 ling upon gently-undulating meads, terminating, at about a 
 mile's distance, in the woody, spire-crowned heights of 
 Hamp stead. 
 
 At the left of the table was seated, or rather lounged, a 
 slender, elegant-looking young man, with dark languid eyes, 
 sallow complexion, and features wearing that peculiarly pen- 
 sive expression often communicated by dissipation ; an ex- 
 pression which, we regret to say, is sometimes found more 
 pleasing than it ought to be in the eyes of the gentle sex. 
 Habited in a light summer riding-dress, fashioned according 
 to the taste of the time, of plain and unpretending material, 
 and rather imder than over-dressed, he had, perhaps, on that 
 very account, perfectly the air of a gentleman. There was, 
 altogether, an absence of pretension about him, which com- 
 bined with great apparent self-possession, contrasted very 
 forcibly with the vulgar assurance of his showy companions. 
 The figure of the youth was slight, even to fragility, giving 
 little outward manifestation of the vigour of frame he in 
 reality possessed. This spark was a no less distinguished 
 personage than Tom King, a noted high tobygloak of his 
 
 T 2
 
 276 EOOKWOOD. 
 
 time, who obtained, from his appearance and address, the 
 sobriquet of the " Gentleman Highwayman." 
 
 Tom was indeed a pleasant fellow in his day. His career 
 was brief, but brilliant : your meteors are ever momentary. 
 He was a younger son of a good family ; had good blood in 
 iiis veins, though not a groat in his pockets. According to 
 the old song — 
 
 When ho arrived at man's estate, 
 It was all the estate he had ; 
 
 and all the estate he was ever likely to have. ^Nevertheless, 
 if he had no income, he contrived, as he said, to live as if he 
 had the mines of Peru at his control — a miracle not solely 
 confined to himself. For a moneyless man, he had rather 
 expensive habits. He kept his three nags ; and, if fame does 
 not belie him, a like number of mistresses : nay, if we are to 
 place any faith in certain scandalous chronicles to which we 
 have had access, he was for some time the favoui'ed lover of a 
 celebrated actress, who, for the time, supplied him with the 
 means of keeping vip his showy establishment. But things 
 could not long hold thus. Tom was a model of infidelity, 
 and that was the only failing his mistress could not overlook. 
 She dismissed him at a moment's notice. Unluckily, too, he 
 had other propensities which contributed to involve him. He 
 had a taste for the turf — a taste for play — was well known in 
 the hundreds of Drury, and cut no mean figure at Howell's, 
 and the faro tables thereanent. He was the glory of the 
 Smyrna, D'Osyndar's, and other chocolate-houses of the day ; 
 and it was at this time he fell into the hands of certain dex- 
 terous sharjiers, by whom he was first plucked, and sub- 
 sequently patronised. Under their tuition he improved 
 wonderfully. He turned his wit and talent to some account. 
 He began to open his eyes. His nine days' blindness was 
 over. The dog saw. But, in spite of his quickness, he was 
 at length discovered, and ejected from Howell's in a manner 
 that left him no alternative. He must either have called out 
 his adversary, or go out himself. He preferred the latter, 
 and took to the road ; and in his new line he was eminently 
 successful. Fortunately, he had no scruples to get over. 
 Tom had what Sir Walter Scott happily denominates " an 
 indistinct notion of mewn. and tit urn," and became confirmed 
 in the opinion that everything he could lay hands upon con- 
 stituted lawful spoil. And, then, even those he robbed 
 admitted that he was the most gentlemanlike highwayman
 
 ROOK WOOD. 277 
 
 they had ever the fortune to meet with, and trusted they 
 might always be so lucky. So popular did he become upon 
 the road, that it was accounted a distinction to be stopped by 
 him ; he made a point of robbing none but gentlemen, and 
 — Tom's shade would quarrel with us were we to omit them — 
 ladies. His acquaintance with Turpin was singular, and 
 originated in a rencontre. Strvick with his appearance, Dick 
 presented a pistol, and bade King deliver. The latter burst 
 into a laugh, and an explanation immediately ensued. Thence- 
 forward they became sworn brothers — the Py lades and Orestes 
 of the road ; and though seldom seen together in public, had 
 many a merry moonlight ride in company. 
 
 Tom still maintained three mistresses, his valet, his groom 
 (tiger we should have called him), " and many a change of 
 clothes besides," says his biographer, "with which he ap- 
 peared more like a lord than a highwayman." And what 
 more, we should like to know, would a lord wish to have r 
 Few younger sons, we believe, can boast so much ; and it is 
 chiefly on their account, with some remote view to the benefit 
 of the unemjiloyed youth of all professions, that we have 
 enlarged so much upon Tom King's history. The road, we 
 must beg to repeat, is still open ; the chances are greater 
 than they ever were ; we fully believe it is their only road to 
 preferment, and we are sadly in want of highwaymen ! 
 r Fancy Tom lounging at D'Osyndar's, carelessly tapping his 
 boots on the steps ; there he stands ! Is he not a devihsh 
 good-looking gentlemanlike sort of fellow ? You could never 
 have taken him for a highwayman but for our information. 
 A waiter appears — supper is ordered at twelve — a broiled 
 chicken and a bottle of Burgundy — his groom brings his nags 
 to the door — he mounts. It is his custom to ride out on an 
 evening — he \a less liable to inten-uption.* At Marylebone 
 ; Fields (now the Regent's Park) his groom leaves him. He 
 '|ias a mistress in the neighbourhood. He is absent for a 
 touple of hours, and returns gay or dispirited, as his luck 
 may have tin-ned out. At twelve he is at supper, and has the 
 night before him. How very easy all this seems. Can it be 
 possible we have no Jlmn_Ki»^ ? 
 
 To return to Tom as he was in the arbour. Judging from 
 his manner, he aj^peared to be almost insensible to the pre- 
 
 * We have heard of a certain gentleman tobyman, we forget his name, 
 taking the horses from his curricle for a similar purpose ; but we own we 
 think King's the simpler plan, and quite practicable still. A cabriolet would 
 be quite out of the question, but particularly easy to stop.
 
 278 ROOKWOOD. 
 
 sence of liis companions, ana to be scarcely a partaker in 
 their revelry. His back was towards liis immediate neighi- 
 bour ; bis glass sparkled untouched at bis elbow ; and one 
 hand, beautifully white and small, a mark of his birth and 
 breeding {crede Byron), rested upon the edge of the table, 
 while his thin delicate digits, palpably demonstrative of his 
 faculty of adaptation {crede James Hardy Vaux), were em- 
 ployed with a silver toothpick. In other respects, he seemed 
 to be lost in reverie, and was, in all probability, meditating 
 new exploits. 
 
 Next to King sat our old friend Jerry Juniper ; not, how- 
 ever, the Jerry of the gipsies, but a much more showy-looking 
 personage. Jerry was no longer a gentleman of " three outs" 
 — the difficulty would now have been to say what he was • 
 " without." Snakelike he had cast his slough, and rejoiced 
 in new and brilliant investiture. His were " speaking gar- 
 ments, speaking pockets too." His linen was of the finest, 
 his host of the smartest. Gay rings glittered on his fingers ; 
 a crystal snuff-box underwent graceful manipulation ; a hand- 
 some gold repeater was sometimes drawn from its location 
 with a monstrous bunch of onions (o.iujlice seals) depending 
 from its massive chain. Lace adorned his wrists, and shoes 
 (of which they had been long unconscious), with buckles 
 nearly as large as themselves, confined his feet. A rich- 
 powdered peruke and silver-hilted sword completed the gear 
 of the transmogrified Jerry, or, as he now chose to be desig- 
 nated. Count Albert Conyers. The fact was, that Jerry, after 
 the fracas, apprehensive that the country would be too hot 
 for him, had, in company with Zoroaster, quitted the ranks 
 of the canting crew, and made the best of his way to town, 
 A lucky spice on the road set them up ; and having some 
 acquaintance with Tom King, the party on their arrival sought 
 him out at his customary haunt, D'Osyudar's, and enlisted 
 under his banners. 
 
 'iom received them with open arms, gave them unlimited 
 use of his wardrobe, and only required a little trifling assist- 
 ance in return. He had a grand scheme in petto, in the 
 execution of which they could mainly assist him. Jerry was 
 a Greek by nature, and could land a fiat as well as the best 
 of them. Zoroaster was just the man to lose a fight ; ox', in 
 the language of the tancy to play a cross No two legs 
 coxild serve Tom's purposes better. He welcuiiied them with 
 fraternal affection. 
 
 We will now proceed to reconnoitre Jerry's opposite
 
 ROOK WOOD. 279 
 
 neighbour, who was, however, no other than that Upright 
 
 Man, 
 
 The Magus Zoroaster, that great name. 
 
 Changed as was Juniper, the Magus was yet more whimsically 
 metamorphosed. Some traces of Jerry still remained, but 
 not a vestige was left of the original Dimber Damber. His 
 tawny mother had not known her son. This alteration, how- 
 ever, was not owing to change of di'ess : it was the result 
 of the punishment he had received at the ^^ set to" at the 
 priory. Not a feature was in its place ; his swollen lip tres- 
 passed upon the precincts of his nose ; his nose trod hard 
 upon his cheek ; while his cheek again, not to be behind the 
 rest, rose up like an apple-dumpling under his single eye, — 
 single we say — for, alas ! there was no speculation in the 
 other. His dexter daylight was utterly darkened, and, in- 
 deed, the orb that remained was as sanguine a luminary as 
 ever struggled through a Loudon fog at noonday. To borrow 
 a couplet or so from the laureate of the Fancy : 
 
 One of his peepers was put 
 
 On the bankruptcy list, with his shop-windows shut, 
 
 While the other made nearly as tag rag a show. 
 
 All rimmed round with black, like the Courier in woe. 
 
 One black patch decorated his rainbow-coloured cheek ; 
 another adorned his chin ; a grinder having been dislodged, 
 his pipe took possession of the apertiire. His toggery was 
 that of a member of the prize-ring ; what we now call a 
 " belcher" bound his throat ; a spotted fogle bandaged his 
 jobbernowl, and shaded his right peeper, while a white beaver 
 crowned the occiput of the Magus. And though, at first 
 sight, there woiild appear to be some incongruity in the asso- 
 ciation of such a battered character as the Upright Man with 
 his smart companions, the reader's wonder will rapidly dimi- 
 nish, when he reflects that any distinguished P. 0. man can 
 ever find a ready passport to the most exclusive society. 
 Viewed in this Hght, Zoroaster's familiarity with his swell 
 acquaintance occasioned no surprise to old Simon Carr, the 
 bottle-nosed landlord of the Falstaff , who was a man of dis- 
 cernment in his way, and knew a thing or two. Despite such 
 striking evidences to the contrary, the Magus was perfectly 
 at his ease, and sacrificing as usual to the god of flame. His 
 mithra, or pipe, the symbol of his faith, was zealously placed 
 between his lips ; and never did his Chaldean, Bactrian, Per- 
 sian, Pamphilian, Proconnesian, or Babylonian namesake, 
 whichever of the six was the true Zoroaster (^vkle Bayle),
 
 2«0 KOOKWOOD. 
 
 respire more fervently at the altar of fire, than our Magus at 
 the end of his enkindled tube. In his creed we believe Zo- 
 roaster was a dualist, and believed in the co-existence and 
 mystical relation of the principles of good and ill ; his pipe 
 being his Yezdan, or benign influence ; his empty pouch his 
 Ahreman, or the devil. We shall not pause to examine his 
 tenets ; we meddle with no man's religious opinions, and shall 
 leave the Magus to the enjoyment of his own sentiments, be 
 they what they may. 
 
 One guest alone remains, and him we shall briefly dismiss. 
 The reader, we imagine, will scarcely need to be told who 
 was the owner of those keen grey eyes ; those exuberant red 
 whiskers j that airy azure frock. It was — 
 
 Our brave copartner of the roads, 
 
 Skilful surveyor of highways, and hedges ; 
 
 in a word — Dick Turpin ! 
 
 Dick had been called upon to act as president of the board, 
 and an excellent president he made, sedulously devoting 
 himself to the due administration of the punch-bowl. Not a 
 rummer was allowed to stand empty for an instant. Toast, 
 sentiment, and anacreontic song, succeeded each other at 
 speedy intervals ; but there was no speechifying — no politics. 
 He left church and state to take care of themselves. What- 
 ever his politics might be, Dick never allowed them to inter- 
 fere with his pleasures. His maxim was to make the most 
 of the passing moment ; the dtim vivimus vivamus was never 
 out of his mind ; a precautionai'y measure which we recom- 
 mend to the adoption of all gentlemen of the like, or any 
 other precarious profession. 
 
 Notwithstanding all Dick's efforts to promote conviviality, 
 seconded by the excellence of the beverage itself, conversa- 
 tion, somehow or other, began to flag ; from being general it 
 became particular. Tom King, who was no punch-bibber, 
 especially at that time of day, fell into a deep reverie ; your 
 gamesters often do so ; while the Magus, who had smoked 
 himself drowsy, was composing himself to a dose. Turpin. 
 seized this opportunity of addressing a few words on matters 
 of business to Jerry Juniper, or, as he now chose to be called. 
 Count Conyers. 
 
 "My dear count," said Dick, in a low and confidential 
 tone ; you are aware that my errand to town is accom- 
 plished. I have smashed Lawyer Coates's screen, pocketed 
 the dimmoch (here 'tis," continued he, parenthetically slap- 
 ping his pockets), " and done t'other trick in prime twig for
 
 KO OK WOOD. 281 
 
 Tom King. With a cool thousand in hand, I might, if I 
 choose, rest awhile on my oars. But a quiet life don't suit 
 me. I must be moving. So I shall start to Yorkshire to- 
 night." 
 
 " Indeed," said the soi-disant count, in a languid tone — 
 "so soon?" 
 
 " I have nothing to detain me," replied Dick. " And, to 
 tell you the truth, I want to see how matters stand with Sir 
 Luke Eookwood. I should be sorry if he went to the wail 
 for want of any assistance I can render him." 
 
 " True," returned the count ; " one would regret such an 
 occurrence, certainly. But I fear your assistance may arrive 
 a little too late. He is pretty well done up, I should imagine, 
 by this time." 
 
 " That remains to be seen," said Turpin. " His case is a 
 bad one, to be sure, but I trust not uttei'ly hopeless. With 
 all his impetuosity and pride, I Hke the fellow, and will help 
 him, if I can. It will be a difficult game to set him on his 
 legs, but I think it may be done. That underground mar- 
 riage was sheer madness, and turned out as ill as such a 
 scheme might have been expected to do. Poor Sybil ! if I 
 could pipe an eye for anything, it should be for her. I can't 
 get her out of my head. Give me a pinch of snuff. Such 
 thoughts unman one. As to the priest, that's a totally 
 different affair. If he strangled his daughter, old Alan did 
 right to take the law into his own hands, and throttle him 
 in return. I'd have done the same myself ; and, being a 
 proscribed Jesuit, returned, as I understand, without the 
 king's Hcense for so doing, why Father Checkley's murder (if 
 it must be so called, I can't abide hard terms) won't lie very 
 heavy at Alan's door. That, however, has nothing to do with 
 Sir Luke. He was neither accessory nor principal. Still he 
 will be in danger, at least from Lady Eookwood. The whole 
 county of York, I make no doubt, is up in arms by this time," 
 
 "Then why go thither?" asked the count, somewhat 
 ironically ; " for my part I've a strange fancy for keeping 
 out of arm's way as long as possible." 
 
 " Every man to his taste," returned Turpin ; " I love to 
 i confront danger. Run away ! pshaw ! always meet your 
 foe." 
 
 " True,'" replied the count, half-n-a]j ! but you go the whole 
 distance. What j^rudent man would beard the lion in his 
 den ?" 
 
 " I never was a prudent man," rejoined Dick, smiling ; " I
 
 282 EOOKWOOD. 
 
 have no superfluous caution about me. Come what will, I 
 shall try to find out this Luke Eookwood, and offer him my 
 purse, such as it is, and it is now better lined than usual ; a 
 hand free to act as he lists ; and a head which, imprudent 
 though it be, can often think better for others than for its 
 own master." 
 
 "Vastly fine!" exclaimed the count, with an iU-disguised 
 sneer. " I hope you don't forget that the marriage certificate 
 which you hold is perfectly valueless now. The estates, you 
 are aware " 
 
 " Are no longer Sir Luke's. I see what you are driving 
 at, count," returned Dick, coldly. " But he will need it to 
 establish his claim to the litle, and he shall have it. While 
 he was Sir Luke with ten thousand a year, I drove a hard 
 bargain, and would have stood out for the last stiver. Now 
 that he is one of ' us,' a mere knight of the road, he shall 
 have it and welcome." 
 
 " Perhaps Lady Eookwood, or Mrs. Mowbray, might be 
 inclined to treat," maliciously insinuated the count ; " the 
 title may be worth something to Eanulph." 
 
 "It is worth more to Luke : and if it were not, he gets it. 
 Are you satisfied P" 
 
 "Perfectly," replied the count, with affected honhommie; 
 "and I will now let you into a secret respecting Miss Mow- 
 bray, from which you may gather something for your guid- 
 ance in this matter ; and if the word of woman is at all to be 
 trusted, though individually I cannot say I have much faith 
 in it, Sir Luke's planetary hour is not yet completely over- 
 cast." 
 
 " That's exactly what I wish to know, my dear fellow," 
 said Turpin, eagerly. " You have already told me you were 
 witness to a singular interview between Miss Mowbray and 
 Sir Luke after my departm-e from the priory. If I mistook 
 you not, the whole business will hinge upon that. What 
 occurred ? Let me have every particular. The whole history 
 and mystery." 
 
 " You shaU have it with pleasure," said the count; " and I 
 hope it may tend to your benefit. After I had quitted the 
 scene of action at the priory, and at your desire left the 
 Eookwood party masters of the field, I tied with the rest of 
 the crew towards the rocks. There we held a council of war 
 for a short time. Some were for returning to the tight ; but 
 this was negatived entirely, and in the end it was agreed that 
 those who had wives, daughters, and sisters, should join
 
 EOOKWOOD. 283 
 
 them as speedily as possible at their retreat in the Grange. 
 As I happened to have none of these attractive ties, and had 
 only a troublesome mistress, who I thought conld take care 
 of herself, I did not care to follow them, but struck deeper 
 into the wood, and made my way, guided by destiny, I 
 suppose, towards the cave." 
 
 " The cave !" cried Dick, rubbing his hands ; " I delight in 
 a cave. Tom King and I once had a cave of our own at 
 Epping, and I'll have another one of these fine days. A cave 
 is as proper to a high-tobyman as a castle to a baron. Pray 
 go on." 
 
 " The cave I speak of," continued the count, " was seldom 
 used, except upon great emergencies, by any of the Stop 
 Hole Abbey crew. It was a sort of retiring den of our old 
 lioness, Barbara, and, like all belonging to her, respected by 
 her dupes. However, the cave is a good cave for all that ; is 
 well concealed by brushwood, and comfortably lighted from a 
 crevice in the rock above ; it lies near the brink of the stream, 
 amongst the woods, just above the waterfall, and is some- 
 what difficult of approach." 
 
 "I know something of the situation," said Turpin. 
 
 " Well," returned the count, " not to lose time, into this 
 den I crept, and, expecting to find it vacant, you may imagine 
 my sui'prise on discovering that it was already occupied, and 
 that Sir Luke Eookwood, his granddad old Alan, Miss Mow- 
 bray, and, worst of all, the very person I wished most to 
 1 avoid, my old fl.ame Handassah, constituted the party. For- 
 1 innately they did not perceive my entrance, and I took 
 especial care not to introduce myself. Retreat, however, was 
 for the moment impracticable, and I was compelled to be a 
 listener. I cannot tell what had passed between the parties 
 before my arrival, but I heard Miss Mowbray implore Sir 
 Luke to conduct her to her mother. He seemed half inclined 
 to comply with her entreaties ; but old Alan shook his head. 
 It was then Handassah put in a word ; the minx was ever 
 ready at that. ' Fear not,' said she, ' that she will wed 
 Sir Ranulph. Deliver her to her friends, I beseech you. Sir 
 Luke, and woo her honourably. She will accept you.' Sir 
 Luke stared incredulously, and grim old Alan smiled. 
 ' She has sworn to be yours,' continued Handassah ; ' sworn 
 it by every hope of heaven, and the oath has been sealed by 
 blood — 'by Sybil's blood.' — ' Does she speak the truth ?' asked 
 Sir Luke, trembling with agitation. Miss Mowbray answered 
 not. ' You will not deny it, lady,' said Handassah. ' I heai-d
 
 284 HOOK WOOD. 
 
 that oath proposed. I saw it registered. You cannot deny 
 it.' — ' I do not,' replied Miss Mowbray, with much anguish 
 of manner ; 'if he claim me, 1 am his.'- — 'And he will claim 
 you,' said Alan Eookwood, triumphantly. ' He has your 
 oath, no matter how extorted — you must fulfil your vow.' — 
 ' I am prepared to do so,' said Eleanor. ' But if you would 
 not utterly destroy me, let this maid conduct me to my 
 mother, to my friends.' — ' To Ranulph ?' asked Sir Luke, 
 bitterly. ' No, no,' returned Miss Mowbray, in accents of 
 deepest despair, ' to my mother— I wish not to behold him 
 again.' — ' Be it so,' cried Sir Luke ; ' but remember, in love 
 or hate you are mine ; I shall claim the fulfilment of your 
 oath. Farewell. Handassah will lead you to your mother.' 
 Miss Mowbray bowed her head but returned no answer, 
 while, followed by old Alan, Sir Luke departed from the 
 cavern." 
 
 " Whither went they ?" demanded Turpin. 
 
 " That I know not," replied Jerry, " I was about to follow, 
 when I was prevented by the abrupt entrance of another 
 party. Scarcely, I think, could the two Eookwoods have 
 made good their retreat, when shouts were heard without, 
 and young Eanulph and Major Mowbray forced their way, 
 sword in hand, into the cave. Here was a situation — for me, 
 I mean — to the young lady, I make no doubt, it was pleasant 
 enough. But my neck was in jeopardy. However, you 
 know I am not deficient in strength, and, upon the present 
 occasion, I made the best use of the agility with which nature 
 has endowed me. Amidst the joyous confusion— the sob- 
 bings, and embracings, and congratulations that ensued — I 
 contrived, like a wild cat, to climb the rocky sides of the 
 cave, and conceal myself behind a jutting fragment of stone. 
 It was well I did so, for scarcely was I hidden, when in 
 came old Barbara, followed by Mrs. Mowbray, and a dozen 
 others." 
 
 "Barbara !" ejaculated Dick. " Was she a prisoner ?" 
 
 "No," rejilied Jerry, "the old hell-cat is too deep for that. 
 She had betrayed Sir Luke, and hoped they would seize him 
 and his granddad. But the birds were flown." 
 
 " I am glad she was baulked," said Dick. " Was any search 
 made after them ?" 
 
 "Can't say," replied Jerry, " I could only indistinctly 
 catch the sound of their voices from my lofty retreat. Before 
 they left the cavern, I made out that Mrs. Mowbray resolved 
 to go to Eookwood, and to take her daughter thither ; a 
 proceeding to which the latter demurred."
 
 ROOKWOOD 285 
 
 " To EootwoocI," said Dick, musingly, "Will she keep 
 her oath, I wonder ?" 
 
 " That's more than I can say," said Jerry, sipping his 
 punch. 
 
 " 'Tis a deceitful sex, indeed," echoed Dick, tossing off a 
 tumbler. " For one Sybil we meet with twenty Hanclassahs, 
 eh, count ?" 
 
 '• Twenty I say rather a hundred," replied Jerry. " 'Tis a 
 vile sex !" 
 
 n. 
 
 TOM KINa. 
 
 Grimm. How grloriously the sun sets to-ni^ht. 
 
 Moor. When I was a boy, my favourite thouprbt was, that I should live and 
 die like yonder glorious orb. It was a boyish thought. 
 
 Grimm. True, captain. The Rohhers. 
 
 '* Peace, base calumniators," exclaimed Tom King, aroused 
 from his toothpick reverie by these aspersions of the best part 
 of creation. " Peace, I say. None shall dare to abuse that 
 dear, devoted sex, in the hearing of their champion, without 
 pricking a lance with him in their behalf. What do you, 
 either of you, who abuse women in that wholesale style, 
 know of her ? Nothing ; less than nothing ; and yet you 
 venture, upon your paltry experience, to lift up your voices 
 and decry the sex. Now I do know her ; and, upon my own 
 experience, avouch that, as a sex, woman, compared with 
 man, is as an angel to a devil. As a sex, woman is faithful, 
 loving, self-sacrificing. We 'tis that make her otherwise ; we, 
 selfish, exacting, neglectful men ; we teach her indifference, 
 and then blame her apt scholarship. Wo spoil our owu 
 hand, and then blame the cards. No abuse of woman in my 
 hearing. Grive me a glass of grog, Dick. ' The sex ! three 
 times three !' and here's a song for you into the bargain." 
 Saying which, in a mellow, plaintive tone, Tom gave the 
 following : 
 
 PLEDGE OF THE HIGHWAYMAN. 
 Come, fill up a bumper to Eve's fairest daughters, 
 
 Who have lavished their smiles oa the brave and the free ; 
 Toast the sweethearts of Dudley, HI^D, Wilmot, and Watees,* 
 
 WTiate'er their attraction, whate'er their degree. 
 
 * Four celebrated highwaymen, all rejoicing in the honourable distinction 
 of captain.
 
 286 ROOKWOOD. 
 
 Pledge ! pledge in a bnmper, eacli kind-Learted maiden, 
 Whose bright ej^es were dimmed at the highwayman's fall ; 
 
 Who stood by the gallows with sorrow o'erladen, 
 Bemoaning the fate of the gallant Du-Val ! 
 
 Here's to each lovely lass chance of war bringeth near one, 
 Who, with manner impassioned, we tenderly stop ; 
 
 And to whom, like the lover addressing his dear one, 
 In terms of entreaty the question we pop 
 
 How oft, in such case, rosy lips have proved sweeter 
 Than the rosiest book, bi'ight eyes saved a bright ring; 
 
 While that 07ie other kiss has brought off a repeater, 
 And a bead as a, favour — the favourite string. 
 
 With our hearts ready rifled, each pocket we rifle. 
 With the pure flame of chivalry stirring our breasts ; 
 
 Life's risk for our mistress's praise is a trifle ; 
 And each purse as a trophy our homage attests. 
 
 Then toss off your glasses to all girls of spirit, 
 Ne'er with names, or with number, your memories vex ; 
 
 Our toast, boys, embraces each woman of merit, 
 And, for fear of omission, we'll drink the whole 8BX. 
 
 " Well," replied Dick, replenishing King's rummer, wltiie 
 he laughed heartily at his ditty, " I shan't refuse your toast, 
 though my heart don't respond to your sentiments. Ah, 
 Tom ! the sex you praise so much will, I fear, prove your 
 undoing. Do as you please ; but curse me if ever I pin my 
 life to a petticoat, I'd as soon think of neglecting the four 
 cautions." 
 
 " The four cautions," said King ; " What are they ?" 
 "Did you never hear them F" replied Dick. "Attend, 
 then, and be edified." 
 
 THE FOUR CAUTIONS. 
 
 Pay attention to these cautions four, 
 And through life you will need little more, 
 Should you dole out your days to threescore; 
 Beware of a pistol before ! 
 
 Before I before ! 
 Beware of a pistol before ! 
 
 And when backvfards his ears are inclined, 
 And his tail with his ham is combined. 
 Caution two yon will bear in your mind ; 
 Beware of a prancer behind ! 
 
 Behind 1 behind 1 
 Beware of a prancer behind ! 
 
 Thirdly, when in the park you may ride. 
 On your best bit of blood, sir, astride, 
 Chatting gay to your old friend's young bride; 
 Beware of a coach at the side ! 
 
 At the side ! at the side I 
 Beware of a coach at the side !
 
 ROOKWOOD, 287 
 
 Lastly, -whether in purple or grey, 
 Canter, ranter, grave, solemn, or gay 
 Whate'er he may do or may say. 
 Beware of a priest every way ! 
 
 Every way ! every way ! 
 Beware of a priest every way ! 
 
 " Well," said Tom King, " all you can sing or say don't 
 alter my good opinion of the women. Not a secret have I 
 from the girl of my heart. She could have sold me over and 
 over again if she had chosen ; but my sweet Sue is not the 
 wench to do that." 
 
 "It is not too late," said Dick. " Your Dalilah may yet 
 hand your over to the Philistines." 
 
 " Then I shall die in a good cause," said King ; " but 
 
 The Tyburn tree 
 Has no terrors for me, 
 Let better men swing — I'm at liberty. 
 
 I shall never come to the scragging-post, unless you turn 
 topsman, Dick Turpin. My nativity has been cast, and the 
 stars have declared I am to die by the hand of my best friend 
 — and that's you ; eh, Dick ?" 
 
 " It sounds like it," replied Turpin ; "but I advise you not 
 to become too intimate with Jack Ketch. He may prove your 
 best friend after aU." 
 
 " Why, faith, that's true," replied King, laughing; "and 
 if I must ride backwards up Holborn Hill, I'll do the thing 
 in style, and honest Jack Ketch shall never want his dues. 
 A man should always die game. We none of us know how 
 soon our tvirn may come ; but come when it will, I shall never 
 flinch from it. 
 
 As the highwayman's life is the fullest of zest. 
 
 So the highwayman's death is the briefest and best ; 
 
 He dies not as other men die, by degrees. 
 
 But at once ! without flinching — and quite at his ease I 
 
 as the song you are so fond of says. When I die, it will not 
 be of consumption. And if the surgeon's knife must come 
 near me, it will be after death. There's some comfort in that 
 reflection, at all events." 
 
 " True," replied Turpin ; " and, with a little alteration, my 
 song would suit you capitally : 
 
 There is not a king, should you search the world rouud. 
 So blithe as the king's king, Tom King, to be found ; 
 Dear womau's his empire, each girl is his own, 
 And he'd have a long reign if he'd let 'em alone ! 
 
 Ha, ha !"
 
 288 ROOKWOOD. 
 
 " Ha, lia !" laughed Tom, " And now, Dick, to change 
 the subject. You are off, I understand, to Yorkshire to- 
 night. 'Pon my soul, you are a wonderful fellow — an alibi 
 personified ! here and everywhere at the same time. No 
 wonder you are called the flying highwayman. To-day in 
 town, to-morrow at York, the day after at Chester. The 
 devil only knows where you will pitch your quarters a week 
 hence. There are rumours of you in all counties at the same 
 moment. This man swears you robbed him at Hounslow ; 
 that, on Salisbury Plain ; while another avers you mono- 
 polise Cheshire and Yorkshire, and that it isn't safe even to 
 Jiunt without pops in your pocket. I heard some devilish 
 good stories of you at D'Osyndar's t'other day ; the fellow 
 who told them to me little thought I was a brother blade." 
 
 " You flatter me," said Dick, smiling complacently ; " but 
 it's no merit of mine. Black Bess alone enables me to do it, 
 and hers be the credit. Talking of being everywhere at the 
 same time, you shall hear what she once did for me in Cheshire. 
 Meantime, a glass to the best mare in England. You won't 
 refuse that toast, Tom. Ah ! if your mistress is only as true 
 to you as my nag to me, you might set at nought the tightest 
 hempen cravat that was ever twisted, and defy your best friend 
 to hiirt you. Black Bess ! and Grod bless her ! And now for 
 the song." Saying which, with much emotion, Turpin chanted 
 the following- rhymes : 
 
 BLACK BESS.* 
 Let the lover bis mistress's beauty rehearse, 
 And laud her attractions in languishing verse ; 
 Be it mine in rude strains, but with truth to express, 
 The love that I bear to my bouny Black Bess. 
 From the West was her dam, from the East was her sire, 
 From the one came her swiftness, the other her fire ; 
 No peer of the realm better blood can possess 
 Than flows in the viens of my bonny Black Bess. 
 Look ! look ! how that eyeball glows bright as a brand I 
 That neck proudly arches, those nostrils expand ! 
 Mark that wide-flowing mane ! of which each silky tress 
 Might adorn prouder beauties — though none like Black Bess I 
 Mark that skin sleek as velvet, and dusky as night, 
 With its jet undisfigured by one lock of white ; 
 That throat branched with veins, prompt to charge or caress t 
 Now is she not beautiful ? — bonny black Bess ! 
 Over highway and by-way, in rough and smooth weather, 
 Some thousands of miles have we journeyed together ; 
 Our couch the same straw, and our meal the same mess : 
 No couple more constant than I and Black Bess ! 
 
 * Set to music by Mr. F. Romer,
 
 ROOKWOOl). 289 
 
 By moonliglit, in darkness, by nig-lit, or by day, 
 Her beadlong career there is nothing- can stay ; 
 She cares not for distance, she knows not distress . 
 Can you show me a courser to match with Black Bess ? 
 
 " Egad ! I sliould think not," exclaimed King ; " you are as 
 sentimental on the subject of your mare as I am when I think 
 of my darling Susan. But pardon my interruption. Pray, 
 proceed." 
 
 " Let me first clear my throat," returned Dick ; " and now, 
 to resume :" 
 
 Once it happened in Cheshire, near Dunham, I popped 
 
 On a horseman alone, whom I suddenly stopped ; 
 
 That I lightened his pockets you'll readily guess — 
 
 Quick work makes Dick Turpin when mounted on Bess. 
 
 Now it seems the man knew me ; " Dick Turpin," said he, 
 
 " You shall swing for this job, as you live, d'ye see ;" 
 
 I laughed at his threats and his vows of redress ; 
 
 I was sure of an alibi then with Black Bess. 
 
 The road was a hollow, a sunken ravine,* 
 
 Overshadowed completely by wood like a screen ; 
 
 I clambered the bank, and I needs must confess 
 
 That one touch of the spur grazed the side of Black Bess. 
 
 Brake, brook, meadow, and plough'd field, Bess fleetly bestrode, 
 
 As the crow wings her flight we selected our road ; 
 
 We arrived at Hough Green in five minutes, or less — 
 
 My neck it was saved by the speed of Black Bess. 
 
 Stepping carelessly forward, I lounge on the green, 
 
 Taking excellent care that by all I am seen ; 
 
 Some remarks on time's flight to the squires I address, 
 
 But I say not a word of the flight of Black Bess. 
 
 I mention the hour— it was just about four — 
 
 Play a rubber at bowls— think the danger is o'er ; 
 
 When athwart my next game, like a checkmate at chess. 
 
 Comes the horseman in search of the rider of Bess. 
 
 What matter details ? Off with triumph I came ; 
 
 He swears to the hour, and the squires swear the same ; 
 
 I had robbed him at /our .'—while at four they profess 
 
 I was quietly bowling— aU thanks to Black Bess ! 
 
 Then one halloo, boys, one loud cheering halloo ! 
 
 To the swiftest of coursers, the gallant, the true ! 
 
 For the sportsman unborn shall the memory bless 
 
 Of the horse of the highwayman — bonny Black Bess ! 
 
 * The exact spot where Turpin committed the robbery, which has often 
 been pointed out to us, lies in what is now a wooden hollow, though once the 
 old road from Altringham to Knutsford, skirting the rich and sylvan domains of 
 Dunham, and descending the hill that brings yon to the bridge crossing the 
 little river BoUin. With some difiicnlty we penetrated this ravine. It is 
 just the place for an adventure of the kind. A small brook wells through it ; and 
 the steep banks are overhung with timber, and were, when we last visited the 
 place, in April, 1834, a perfect nest of primroses and wild flowers. Hough 
 (pronounced Hoo) Green lies about three miles across the country — the way 
 Turpin rode. The old Bowling-green is one of the i^leasantest inns in 
 Cheshire. 
 
 V
 
 290 ROOKWOOD. 
 
 Loud acclamations rewarded Dick's performance. Awak- 
 ened from his dose, Zoroaster beat time to the melody, the 
 only thing, Jerry said, he was capable of beating in his present 
 shattered condition, After some little persuasion, the Magus 
 was prevailed upon to enliven the company with a strain, 
 which he trolled forth after a maudlin manner : 
 
 THE DOUBLE CEOSS. 
 
 Tbough all of us have lieai-d of crost fights. 
 
 And certain gains, by certain lost fights ; 
 
 I rather fancies that it's news, 
 
 How in a mill, hoth men should lose ; 
 
 For vere the odds are thus made even. 
 
 It plays the diclsens with the steven ;* 
 
 Besides, against all rule they're sinning, 
 
 Vere neitlxer has no chance of vinning. iJ-i, tol, lol, ^c. 
 
 Two milling coves, each vide avake, 
 
 Vere backed to fight for heavy stake ; 
 
 But in the mean time, so it vos, 
 
 Both hids agreed to play a cross ; 
 
 Bold came each huffer\ to the scratch, 
 
 To make it look a lightish match ; 
 
 They peeledX in stj'le, and bets were making, 
 
 'Tvos sis to four, but few were taking. Ri, tol, lol, ^c. 
 
 Quite cautiously the mill began. 
 
 For neither knew the other's plan ; 
 
 Each cw?f§ completely in the dark, 
 
 Of vot might be his neighbour's markf 
 
 Resolved his Jihhing\\ not to mind. 
 
 Nor yet to^ay hiin back in kind; 
 
 So on each other kept the tout,1{ 
 
 And sparred a bit and dodged about. Ei, tol, lol, tjr. 
 
 Vith mawleys** raised, Tom bent his back, 
 
 As if to plant a heavy thwack : 
 
 Vile Jem, with neat left- handed stoj)per. 
 
 Straight threatened Tommy with a topper } 
 
 'Tis all my eye ! no claret flows, 
 
 No facers sound — no smashing blows, 
 
 Five minutes past, yet not a hit, 
 
 How can it end, pals ? — vait a bit. JBt, tol, lol, 4"C. 
 
 Each cove vos teazed with double duty, 
 
 To please his backers, yet play booty ;ff 
 
 Ven, luckily for Jem, a teller 
 
 Vos planted right upon his smeller ; 
 
 Down dropped he, stunned ; ven time was called, 
 
 Seconds in vain the seconds bawled ; 
 
 The mill is o'er, the crosser crost. 
 
 The loser's von, the vinner's lost! Bi, tol, lol, ,^c. 
 
 The party assumed once more a lively air, and the glass 
 was circulated so freely, that at last a final charge drained 
 the ample bowl of its contents. 
 
 « Money _ f Man. J Stripped § Fellow. 
 
 I! A p;utiL'ular kind of pugilistic punishment. 
 
 ^ Kept each an eye upon the other. ** Hands. ft Deceive them.
 
 ROOKWOOD. 291 
 
 " The best of friends must part," said Dick ; " and I would 
 willingly order another whiff of punch, but I think we have 
 all had ennvr/h to satisfy us, as you milling coves have it, 
 Zory ! Tour one eye has got a drop in it already, old fellow ; 
 and, to speak the truth, ] must be getting into the saddle 
 without more delay, for I have a long ride before me. And 
 now, friend Jerry, before I start, suppose you tip us one of 
 your merry staves ; we haven't heard you pipe to-day, and 
 never a cross cove of us all can throw off so prime a chant as 
 yourself. A song ! a song !" 
 
 "Ay, a song," reiterated King and the Magus. 
 
 "You do me too much honour, gemmen," said Jerry, 
 modestly taking a pinch of snuff ; " I am sure I shall be 
 most happy. My chants are all of a sort. You must make 
 all due allowances — hem !" And clearing his throat, he 
 forthwith warbled 
 
 THE MODEEN GREEK. 
 {Not translated from tlie Romaic.) 
 
 Come, gemmeu, name, and make your game, 
 
 See, round the ball is spinning. 
 Black, red, or blue, tlie eolonrs view, 
 Un, deux, cinque, "tis beginning. 
 
 Th<;u make your game, 
 Tlie colour name, 
 While round the ball is spinning. 
 This sleight of hand my flat shall land. 
 
 While covered by my bonnet * 
 1 plant my ball, and boldly call, 
 Come make your game upon it i 
 Thus rat-a-tat ! 
 I land my flat ! 
 'Tis black— not red — is winning. 
 At gay roulette was never met 
 
 A lance like mine for bleeding ! 
 I'm ne'er at fault, at nothing halt. 
 All other lerjs preceding. 
 To all awake, 
 I never shake 
 A mafj\ unless I nip it. 
 BUnd-hoolcey sees how well I squeeze 
 The weil-packed cards in shuffling, 
 Ecarte, whist, I never missed, 
 And nick the broadsX while ruffling. 
 Mogul or loo. 
 The same I do, 
 I am down to trumps as trippet I 
 
 XVench hazard ta'en I nick the main. 
 Was ne'er so prime a caster, 
 
 ' Accomplice + A farthing. % Cards. 
 
 U 2
 
 292 HooKWOOD. 
 
 No crahs for me, I'm fly, d'ye see ; 
 The bank shall change its master. 
 Seven quatre, trois, 
 The stakes ai-e high I 
 Ten mains.' ten mains are mine, pals> 
 At Rouge el No!r, yoa hellite* choir 
 
 I'll make no bones of stripping ; 
 One glorious coiip for me shall do, 
 While they may deal each 2np in. 
 Trente-un-a^Jres 
 No'er clogs my way ; 
 The game — the game's divine, pala. 
 At billiards set I make my bet, 
 
 I'll score and win the ruh, pala ; 
 I miss my cue, my hazard, too, 
 But yet my foe I'll drub, pals. 
 That cannon-twist, 
 I ne'er had missid, 
 Unless to suit my views, pal3. 
 To make all right, the match look tight. 
 
 This trick you know is done, pals ; 
 But now be gay, I'll show my jilay — 
 Hurrah ! the game is won, pals. 
 No hand so fine. 
 No wrist like mine, 
 No odds I e'er refuse, pals- 
 Then choose your game ; whate'er you name. 
 
 To me alike all offers ; 
 Chick-hazard, whist, whate'er you list, 
 Eeplenish quick your coffers. 
 Thus, rat-a-tat I 
 I la7id my flo.t ! 
 To every purse I spealc, pals. 
 Cramped boxes 'ware, all's right and fair, 
 
 Barred halls I bar when goaded ; 
 The deuce an ace is out of place ! 
 The deuce a die is loaded ! 
 
 Then make your game, 
 Your colour name ; 
 Success attend the Greek, pals. 
 
 " Bravo, Jerry ; bravissimo!" cliorused tlie party. 
 
 "And now, pals, farewell! — a long farewell!" said Dick, 
 in a tone of theatrical valediction. " As I said before, the best 
 friends must separate. We may soon meet again, or we now 
 may jjart for ever. We cannot command our luck ; but we 
 can make the best of the span allotted to us. You have your 
 game to play. I have mine. May each of us meet with the 
 success he deserves." 
 
 " Egad, I hope not," said King. " I'm afraid in that case 
 the chances would be against us." 
 
 "Well, then, the success we anticipate, if you prefer it," 
 
 * Qy. ^Zi7e,- Printers' Devil.
 
 ROOKWOOD. 293 
 
 rejoined Dick. "I have only to observe one thing more, 
 namely, that I must insist upon standing Sam upon the 
 present occasion. Not a word. I won't hear a syllable. 
 Landlord, I say — what ho ! continued Dick, stepping out of 
 the arbour. " Here, my old Admiral of the White, what's 
 the reckoning? — what's to pay, I say ?" 
 
 "Let ye know directly, sir," repHed mine host of the 
 Fal staff. 
 
 " Order my horse — the black mare," added Dick. 
 
 " And mine," said King, " the sorrel colt. I'll ride with 
 you a mile or two on the road, Dick j perhaps we may stmnble 
 upon something." 
 
 " Very Hkely." 
 
 " We meet at twelve, at D'Osyndar's, Jerry," said King, 
 " if nothing happens." 
 
 "Agreed," responded Juniper." 
 
 " What say you to a rubber at bowls, in the mean time ?" 
 said the Magus, taking his everlasting pipe from his lips. 
 
 Jerry nodded acquiescence. And while they went in searcli 
 of the implements of the game, Turpin and King sauntered 
 gently on the green. 
 
 It was a delicious evening. The sun was slowly declining, 
 and glowed like a ball of fire amid the thick foliage of a 
 neighbouring elm. Whether, like the robber Moor, Tom 
 King was touched by this glorious sunset, we pretend not to 
 determine. Certain it was that a shade of inexpressible 
 melancholy passed across his handsome countenance as he 
 gazed in the direction of Harrow-on-the-Hill, which, lying to 
 the west of the green vipon which they walked, stood out 
 with its pointed spire and lofty college against the ruddy sky. 
 He spoke not. But Dick noticed the passing emotion. 
 
 "What ails you, Tom ?" said he, with much kindness of 
 manner — " are you not well, lad ?" 
 
 " Yes, I am well enough," said King ; " I know not what 
 came over me, but looking at Harrow, I thought of my 
 school-days, and what I was then, and that bright prospect 
 reminded me of my boyish hopes." 
 
 " Tut, tut," said Dick, " this is idle ; you ai-e a man now." 
 
 "I know I am," rephed Tom, "but I have been a boy. 
 Had I any faith in presentiments, I should say this is the 
 last sunset I shall ever see." 
 
 "Here comes our host," said Dick, smiling. "I've no 
 presentiment that this is the last bill I shall ever pay." 
 
 The bill was brought and settled. As TurjDin paid it, the 
 man's conduct was singular, and awakened his suspicions.
 
 294 KOOKWOOD. 
 
 " Are our horses ready ?" asked Dick, quickly. 
 
 " They are, sir," said the landlord. 
 
 " Let us be gone," whispered Dick to King ; " I don't like 
 this fellow's manner. I thought I heard a carriage draw up 
 at the inn door just now — there may be danger. Be fly !" 
 added he to Jerry and the Magus. " Now, sir," said he to 
 the landlord, " lead the way. Keep on the alert, Tom." 
 
 Dick's hint was not lost upon the two bowlers. They 
 watched their comrades ; and listened intently for any 
 manifestation of alarm. 
 
 III. 
 
 A SURPRISE. 
 Was this well done, Jenny ? Captain Macheath. 
 
 While Turpin and King are walking across the bowling- 
 green, we will see what has taken place outside the inn. 
 Tom's presentiments of danger were not, it appeared, without 
 foundation. Scarcely had the ostler brought forth our two 
 highwaymen's steeds, when a post-chaise, escorted by two or 
 three horsemen, drove furiously up to the door. The sole 
 occupant of the carriage was a lady, whose shght and pretty 
 figure was aU that could be distinguished, her face being 
 closely veiled. The landlord, who was busied in casting vip 
 Turpin's account, rushed forth at the summons. A word or 
 two passed between him and the horsemen, upon which the 
 former's countenance fell. He posted in the direction of 
 the garden ; and the horsemen instantly dismounted. 
 
 " We have him now, sure enough," said one of them, a 
 very small man, who looked, in his boots, like Buckle 
 equipped for the Oaks. 
 
 " By the powers ! I begin to think so," replied the other 
 horseman. " But don't spoil all, Mr. Coates, by being too 
 precipitate." 
 
 " Never fear that, Mr. Tyrconnel," said Coates, for it was 
 the gallant attorney : " he's sure to come for his mare. That's 
 a trap certain to catch him, eh, Mr. Paterson? With the 
 chief constable of Westminster to back us, the devil's in it if 
 we are not a match for him." 
 
 " And for Tom King, too," replied the chief constable ; 
 " since his blowen's peached, the game's up with him, too
 
 ROOKWOOD. 295 
 
 "We've long had an eye upon liim, and now we'll have a 
 finger. He's one of your dashing trouts to whom we always 
 give a long line, but we'll land him this time, anyhow. If 
 you'll look after Dick Turpin, gemmen, I'U make sure of 
 Tom." 
 
 " I'd rather you would help its, Mr. Paterson," said Coates ; 
 " never mind Tom King ; another time will do for him." 
 
 " No such thing," said Paterson ; " one weighs ]Vi%t as much 
 for that matter as t'other. I'll take Tom to myself, and 
 surely you two, with the landlord and ostler, can manage 
 Turpin amongst you." 
 
 " I don't know that," said Coates, doubtfully ; " he's a 
 devil of a fellow to deal with." 
 
 " Take him quietly," said Paterson, " Draw the chaise 
 out of the way, lad. Take our tits to one side, and place 
 their nags near the door, ostler. Shall you l)e able to see 
 him, ma'am, where you are?" askod the chief constable, 
 walking to the carriage, and touching his hat to the lady 
 within. Having received a satisfactory nod from the bonnet 
 and veil, he returned to his companions. "And now, gem- 
 men," added he, " let's step aside a little. Don't use your 
 fire-arms too soon." 
 
 As if conscious of what was passing around her, and of the 
 danger that awaited her master. Black Bess exhibited so 
 much impatience, and j)lunged so violently, that it was with 
 difficulty the ostler could hold her. " The devil's in the 
 mare," said he ; " what's the matter with her ? She was 
 quiet enough a few minvites since. Soho ! lass, stand." 
 
 Turpin and King, meanwhile, walked quickly through the 
 house, preceded by the host, who conducted them, not with- 
 out some inward trepidation, towards the door. Arrived 
 there, each man rushed swiftly to his horse. Dick was in the 
 saddle in an instant, and stamping her foot upon the ostler's 
 leg, Black Bess compelled the man, yelling with pain, to quit 
 his hold of the bridle. Tom King was not equally fortunate. 
 Before he could mount his horse, a loud shout was raised, 
 which startled the animal, and caused him to swerve, so 
 that Tom lost his footing in the stirrup, and fell to the 
 ground. He was instantly seized by Paterson, and a struggle 
 commenced, King endeavouring, but in vain, to draw a 
 pistol. 
 
 " Flip him,* Dick ; fire, or I'm taken," cried King, " Fire ! 
 
 * Shoot him.
 
 296 ROOKWOOD. 
 
 damn jou, why don't you fire ?" shouted he, in desperation, 
 still struggling vehemently with Paterson, who was a strong 
 man, and more than a match for a light weight like King. 
 
 " I can't," cried Dick ; " I shall hit you if 1 fire." 
 
 " Take your chance," shouted King. " Is this your friend- 
 ship?" 
 
 Thus urged, Turpin fired. The ball ripped up the sleeve 
 of Paterson' s coat, but did not wound him. 
 
 " Again !" cried King. " Shoot him, I say. Don't you 
 hear me ? Fire again !" 
 
 Pressed as he was by foes on every side, himcelf their 
 mark, for both Coates and Tyrcomiel had fired upon him, 
 and were now mounting their steeds to give chase, it was im- 
 possible that Turpin could take sure aim ; added to which, 
 in the struggle, Paterson and King were each moment 
 changing their relative positions. He, however, would no 
 longer hesitate, but again, at his friend's request, fired. The 
 ball lodged itself in King's breast. He fell at once. At this 
 instant a shriek was heard from the chaise : the window was 
 thrown open, and her thick veil being drawn aside, the 
 features of a very pretty female, now impressed with terror 
 and contrition, were suddenly exhibited. 
 
 King fixed his glazing eyes upon her. 
 
 " Susan!" sighed he, "is it you that I behold?" 
 
 " Yes, yes, 'tis she, sure enough," said Paterson. "You 
 Bee, ma'am, what you and suchlike have brought him to. 
 However, you'll lose your reward ; he's going fast enough." 
 
 "Reward!" gasjjed King; "reward! Did she betray 
 me ?" 
 
 " Ay, ay, sir," said Paterson, " she blowed the gaff, if it's 
 any consolation to you to know it." 
 
 "Consolation!" repeated the dying man ; "perfidious! — 
 oh ! — the prophecy — my best friend — Turpin — I die by his 
 hand." 
 
 And vainly striving to raise himself, he feU backwards and 
 expired. Alas, poor Tom ! 
 
 " Mr. Paterson ! Mr. Paterson !" cried Coates ; "leave the 
 landlord to look after the body of that dying ruSian, and 
 moimt with us in pursuit of the living rascal. Come, sir ; 
 quick ! mount ! despatch ! You see he is yonder ; he seems 
 to hesitate ; we shall have him now." 
 
 " Well, gemmen, I'm ready," said Paterson ; " but how the 
 devil came you to let him escape ?" 
 
 " Saint Patrick only knows !" said Titus ; " he's as slippery
 
 ROOKWOOD. 297 
 
 as an eel ; and, like a cat, turn him whicli way you will, he is 
 always sure to alight upon his legs. I wouldn't wonder but 
 we lose him now, after all, though he has such a small start. 
 That mare flies lilie the wind." 
 
 " He shall have a tight run for it, at all events," said 
 Paterson, putting his sjDurs into his horse. " I've got a good 
 nag under me, and you are neither of you hadly mounted. 
 He's only three hundred yards before us, and the devil's in it 
 if we can't run him down. It's a three hundred pound job, 
 Mr. Coates, and well worth a race." 
 
 " You shall have another hundred from me, sir, if you take 
 him," said Coates, urging his steed forward. 
 
 "Thank you, sir, thank you. Follow my directions, and 
 we'U make sure of him," said the constable. " Gently, gently, 
 not so fast up the hill ; you see he's breathing his horse. All 
 in good time, Mr. Coates ; all in good time, sir." 
 
 And maintaining an equal distance, both parties cantered 
 leisurely up the ascent now called Windmill Hill. We shall 
 now return to Turpin. 
 
 Aghast at the deed he had accidentally committed, Dick 
 remained for a few moments irresolute ; he perceived that 
 King was mortally wounded, and that all attempts at rescue 
 would be fruitless ; he perceived, likewise, that Jerry and the 
 Magus had effected their escape from the bowling-green, as 
 he could detect their figures stealing along the hedge-side. 
 He hesitated no longer. Turning his horse, he galloped 
 slowly off, little heeding the pursuit with which he was 
 threatened. 
 
 "Every bullet has its billet," said Dick; " but little did I 
 think that I really should turn poor Tom's executioner. To 
 the devil with this rascally snapper," cried he, throwing the 
 pistol over the hedge. " I could never have used it again. 
 'Tis strange, too, that he should have foretold his own fate — 
 devilish strange ! And then that he should have been be- 
 [trayed by tne very bio wen he trusted! that's a lesson, if I 
 wanted any. But trust a woman ! not I, the length of my 
 [little finger,"
 
 298 ROOKWOOD. 
 
 IV. 
 
 THE HUE AND CRT. 
 
 Six gentlemen upon the road 
 
 Thus seeing Gilpin fly, 
 With postboy scampering in the rear, 
 
 f^top thief! stop thief ! a highwayman! 
 
 Not one of them was mute ; 
 And all and each that pas^s'd that way 
 
 They raised the hue and cry : | Did join in the pursuit. 
 
 John Gilpin. 
 
 Abeived at the brow of the hill, whence such a beauiful 
 view of the country surrounding the metropolis is obtained,* 
 Turpin turned for an instant to reconnoitre his pursuers. 
 Coates and Titus he utterly disregarded ; but Paterson was 
 a more formidable foe, and he well knew that he had to deal 
 with a man of experience and resolution. It was then, for 
 the first time, that the thoughts of executing his extraordi- 
 nary ride to York first flashed across him ; his bosom 
 throbbed high with rapture, and he involuntarily exclaimed 
 aloud, as he raised himseK in the saddle, " By God ! I will 
 doit!" 
 
 He took one last look at the great Babel that lay buried in 
 a world of trees beneath him ; and as his quick eye ranged 
 over the magnificent prospect, lit up by that gorgeous sunset, 
 he could not help thinking of Tom King's last words. " Poor 
 fellow !" thought Dick, " he said truly. He will never see 
 another sunset." Aroused by the approaching clatter of his 
 pursuers, Dick struck into a lane which lies on the right of 
 the road, now called Shoot-up-hill Lane, and set off at a good 
 pace in the direction of Hampstead. 
 
 "Now," cried Paterson, "put your tits to it, my boys. 
 We must not lose sight of him for a second in these lanes." 
 
 Accordingly, as Turpin was by no means desirous of incon- 
 veniencing his mare at this early stage of the business, and 
 as the ground was still upon an ascent, the parties preserved 
 their relative distances. 
 
 At length, after various twistings and turnings in that 
 deep and devious lane ; after scaring one or two farmers, 
 and riding over a brood or two of ducks ; dipj^iug into the 
 Verdant valley of West End, and ascending another hill, 
 Turpin burst upon the gorsy, sandy, and beautiful heath of 
 
 * Since the earlier editions of tins Eomanco were published, we regi-et to 
 state (for to us, at least, it is matter of regret, though probably not to the 
 travellers along the E Jgw;ire-road) that this gentle ascent has been cut 
 through, and the fair prospect from its brow utterly desti'oyed.
 
 ROOKWOOD. 299 
 
 Hampsteacl. Shaping his course to the left, Dick then made 
 for the lower part of the heath, and skirted a part that leads 
 towards North End, passing the furze-crowned summit 
 which is now crested by a clump of lofty pines. 
 
 It was here that the chase first assumed a character of 
 interest. Being open ground, the piu'sued and pursuers were 
 in full view of each other ; and as Dick rode swiftly across 
 the heath, with the shouting trio hard at his heels, the scene 
 had a very animated appearance. He crossed the hill — the 
 Hendon-road — passed Crackskull Common — and dashed 
 along the cross road to Highgate. 
 
 Hitherto no advantage had been gained by the pursuers ; 
 they had not lost ground, but still they had not gained an 
 inch, and much spurring was required to maintain their posi- 
 tion. As they approached Highgate, Dick slackened his 
 pace ; and the other party redoul^led their efforts. To avoid 
 the town, Dick struck into a narrow path at the right, and 
 rode easily down the hill. 
 
 His pursuers were now within a hundred yards, and shouted 
 to him to stand. Pointing to a gate which seemed to bar 
 their further progress, Dick unhesitatingly charged it, clear- 
 ing it in beautiful style. Wot so with Coates's party ; and 
 the time they lost in unfastening the gate, which none of 
 them chose to leap, enabled Dick to put additional space 
 betwixt them. It did not, however, appear to be his inten- 
 tion altogether to outstrip his pursuers ; the chase seemed to 
 give him excitement, which he was willing to prolong, as 
 much as was consistent with his safety. Scudding rapidly 
 past Highgate, like a swift-sailing schooner, with three lum- 
 bering Indiamen in her wake, Dick now took the lead along a 
 narrow lane that threads the fields in the direction of Horn- 
 sey. The shouts of his followers had brought others to join 
 them, and as he neared Crouch End, traversing the lane 
 which takes its name from Du-Val, and in which a house, 
 frequented by that gayest of robbers, stands, or stood, " A 
 highwayman! a highwayman!" rang in his ears, in a dis- 
 cordant chorus of many voices. 
 
 The whole neighbourhood was alarmed by the cries, and 
 by the tramp of horses ; the men of Hornsey rushed into the 
 road to seize the fugitive ; and womeu held up their babes to 
 catch a glimpse of the flying cavalcade, which seemed to gain 
 number and animation as it advanced. Suddenly three horse- 
 men appear in the road ; they hear the uproar and the din. 
 "A highwayman! a highwayman!" cry the voices: "stop
 
 300 ROOKWOOD. 
 
 him, stop him !" But it is no such easy matter. With a pistol 
 in each hand, and his bridle in his teeth, Turpin passed 
 boldly on. His fierce looks — his furious steed — the impetus 
 with which he pressed forward, bore clown all before him. 
 The horsemen gave way, and only served to swell the list of 
 his pursuers. 
 
 " We have him now ! we have him now!" cried Paterson, 
 esultingly. " Shout for your lives. The turnpike-man will 
 hear us. Shout again — again ! The ff How has heard it. The 
 gate is shut. We have him. Ha! ha !" 
 
 The old Hornsey toll-bar was a high gate, with chevaux-de- 
 frize in the upper rail. It may be so still. The gate was 
 swung into its lock, and like a tiger in his lair, the prompt 
 custodian of the turnpike trusts, ensconced within his door- 
 way, held himself in readiness to spring upon the runaway. 
 But Dick kept steadily on. He coolly calculated the height 
 of the gate ; he looked to the right and to the left ; nothing 
 better offered ; he spoke a few words of encouragement t«"> 
 Bess ; gently patted her neck ; then struck spurs into her 
 sides, and cleared the spikes by an inch. Out rushed the 
 amazed turnpike-man, thus unmercifully bilked, and was 
 nearly trampled to death mider the feet of Paterson' s horse. 
 
 " Open the gate, fellow, and be expeditious," shouted the 
 chief constable. 
 
 " Not I," said the man, sturdily, "unless I get my dues. 
 I've been done once already. But strike me stupid if I'm 
 done a second time." 
 
 " Don't you perceive that's a highwayman ? Don't you 
 know that I'm chief constable of Westminster ?" said Pater- 
 son, showing his staff. " How dare you oppose me in the 
 discharge of my duty ?" 
 
 " That may be, or it may not be," said the man, doggedly. 
 " But you don't pass, unless I gets the blunt, and that's the 
 long and short on it." 
 
 Amidst a storm of oaths Coates flung down a crown piece, 
 and the gate was thro^fs'n open. 
 
 Turpin took advantage of this delay to breathe his mare ; 
 and, striking into a bj-lane at Duckett's Green, cantered 
 easily along in the direction of Tottenham. Little repose 
 was allowed him. Telling hke a pack of hounds in full cry, 
 his pursuers were again at his heels. He had now to . run the 
 gauntlet of the long straggling town of Tottenham, and 
 various were the devices of the populace to entrap him. The 
 whole place was up in arms, shouting, screaming, running,
 
 HOOKWOOD. bUl 
 
 dancing, and hurling every possible description of missile at 
 the horse and her rider. Dick merrily responded to their 
 clamonr as he flew past, and laughed at the brickbats that 
 were showered thick as hail, and quite as harmlessly, around 
 him. 
 
 A few more miles' hard riding tired the volunteers, and 
 before the chase reached Edmonton most of them were " no- 
 where" Here fresh relays were gathered, and a strong field 
 was again mustered. John Gilpin himself could not have 
 excited more astonishment amongst the good folks of Ed- 
 monton, than did our highwayman as he galloped through 
 theii* town. Unlike the men of Tottenham, the mob received 
 him with acclamations, thinking, no doiibt, that, like " the 
 citizen of famous London Town," he rode for a wager. Pre- 
 sently, however, borne on the wings of the blast, came the 
 cries of " Turpin ! Dick Turpin !" and the hurrahs were 
 changed to hootings ; but such was the rate at which our 
 highwayman rode, that no serious opposition could be offered 
 to him. 
 
 A man in a donkey-cart, unable to get out of the way, 
 drew himself up in the middle of the road, Turpin treated 
 him as he had done the duh at the knapping jigger, and 
 cleared the driver and his little wain with ease. This was a 
 capital stroke, and well adapted to please the multitude, who 
 are ever taken with a brilliant action. "Hark away, Dick !" 
 resovmded on all hands ; while hisses were as liberally be- 
 stowed upon his pursuers. 
 
 V. 
 
 THE SHOKT PIPE. 
 
 The Peons are capital horsemen, ami several times we saw them, at a 
 gallop, throw the rein on the horse's neck, take from one pocket a bag of 
 loose tobacco, and, with a piece of paper, or a leaf of Indian corn, make a 
 cigar, and then take out a flint and steel and light it. 
 
 Head's Bough Notes. 
 
 Away they fly past scattered cottages, swiftly and skim- 
 mingly, like eagles on the wing, along the Enfield highway. 
 All were well mounted, and the horses, now thoroughly 
 warmed, had got into their paces, and did their work beauti- 
 fully. None of Coates's party lost ground ; but they main- 
 tained it at the expense of their steeds, which were stream-
 
 302 ROOKWOOD 
 
 iiig like water-carts, while Black Bess had scarcely turned a 
 hair. 
 
 Turpin, the reader already knows, was a crack rider; he 
 was the crack rider of England of his time, and, perhaps, of 
 any time. The craft and mystery of joekeyshij) was not then 
 so well understood in the eighteenth as it is in the nineteenth 
 century ; men treated their horses differently ; and fcAV rode 
 then as well as many ride now, when every youngster takes to 
 the field as naturally as if he had been bred a Guacho. Dick 
 Turpin was a glorious excejition to the rule, and anticipated 
 a later age. He rode wonderfully lightly, yet sat his saddle 
 to perfection; distributing the weight so exquisitely, that 
 his horse scarcely felt his pressure ; he yielded to every move- 
 ment made by the animal, and became, as it were, j^art and 
 parcel of itself ; he took care Bess should be neither strained 
 nor wrung. Freely, and as lightly as a feather, was she borne 
 along ; beautiful was it to see her action ; to watch her styl*^ 
 and temper of covering the ground ; and many a first-rate 
 Meltonian m.ight have got a wrinkle from Turpin's seat and 
 conduct. 
 
 We have before stated that it was not Dick's object to ride 
 aivay from his pursuers ; he could have done thai at any 
 moment. He liked the fun of the chase, and would have 
 been sorry to put a period to his own excitement. Confident 
 in his mare, he just kept her at such speed as should put his 
 pursuers completely io it, without in the slightest degree in- 
 conveniencing himself. Some judgment of the speed at which 
 they went may be formed, when we state that little better 
 than an hour had elapsed, and nearly twenty miles had been 
 ridden over. "Not bad travelling that," methinks we hear 
 the reader exclaim. 
 
 " By the mother that bore me," said Titus, as they went 
 along in this slapping style— Titus, by the bye, rode a big, 
 Eoman-nosed, powerful horse, well adapted to his weight, 
 but which required a plentiful exercise both of leg and arm to 
 call forth all his action, and keep his rider alongside his com- 
 panions—" by the mother that bore me," said he, almost 
 thumping the wind out of his flea-bitten Bucephalus with his 
 calves, after the Irish fashion, " if the fellow isn't lighting 
 his pipe ! I saw the sparks fly on each side of him, and there 
 he goes like a smoky chimney on a frosty morning ! See, he 
 turns his impudent phiz, with the pipe in his mouth ! Are 
 we to stand that, Mr. Coates ?" 
 
 " Wait awhile, sir ; wait awhile," said Coates : " we'll smoke 
 him by-and-by."
 
 RDOKWOOD. 303 
 
 "Paeans have been sung in honour of the Peons oi' the 
 Pampas by the ILrn/long Sir Prancis ; but Avhat the gallant 
 major extols so loudly in the South American horsemen, viz., 
 the lighting of a cigar when in mid career, was accomplished 
 with equal ease by our English highwayjnan a hundred years 
 ago, nor was it esteemed by him any extravagant feat either. 
 Flint, steel, and tinder were bestowed within Dick's ample 
 pouch ; the short pipe was at hand ; and within a few seconds 
 there was a stream of vapour exhaling from his lips, like the 
 smoke from a steam-boat shooting down the river, and track- 
 ing his still rapid course through the air. 
 
 " PU let 'em see what I think of 'em !" said Dick, coolly, 
 as he turned his head. 
 
 It was now grey twilight. The mists of coming night were 
 weaving a thin curtain over the rich surrounding landscape. 
 All the sounds and hum of that delicious hour were heard, 
 broken only by the regular clatter of the horses' hoofs. Tired 
 of shouting, the chasers now kept on their way in deep silence. 
 Each man held his breath, and plunged his spurs rowel- deep 
 into his horse ; but the animals were already at the top of 
 their speed, and incapable of greater exertion. Paterson, who 
 was a hard rider, and perhaps a thought better mounted, kept 
 the lead. The rest followed as they might. 
 
 Had it been undisturbed by the rush of the cavalcade, the 
 scene would have been still and soothing. Overhead, a cloud 
 of rooks wei'e winging their garrulous flight to the ancestral 
 avenue of an ancient mansion to the right ; the bat was on 
 the wing ; the distant lowing of a herd of kine saluted the 
 ear at intervals ; the blithe whistle of the rustic herdsman, 
 and the merry chime of waggon bells rang pleasantly from 
 afar. But these cheerful sounds, which make the still twilight 
 hour delightful, Avere lost in the tramj) of the horsemen, now 
 three abreast. The hind fled to the hedge for shelter ; and 
 the waggoner pricked up his ears, and fancied he heard the 
 distant rumbling of an earthquake. 
 
 On rush the pack, whipping, spurring, tugging for very life. 
 Again they gave voice, in hopes the waggoner might succeed 
 in stopping the fugitive. But Dick was already by his side, 
 " Harkee, my tulip," cried he, taking the pipe from his 
 mouth as he passed, " tell my friends behind they will hear 
 of me at York." 
 
 " What did he say?" asked Paterson, coming up the next 
 moment. 
 
 " That you'll find him at York," replied the waggoner. 
 
 " At York !" echoed Coates, in amaze.
 
 304 EOOKWOOD. 
 
 Turpin was now out of sight ; and although our trio flogged 
 with might and main, they could never catch a glimpse of him 
 until, within a short distance of Ware, they beheld him at the 
 door of a little public-house, standing with his bridle in his 
 hand, coolly quaffing a tankard of ale. No sooner were they 
 in sight than Dick vaulted into the saddle, and rode off. 
 
 " Devil seize you, sir ! why didn't you stop him ?" exclaimed 
 Paterson, as he rode up. " My horse is dead lame. I cannot 
 go any further. Do you know what a prize you have missed ? 
 Do you know who that was ?" 
 
 " No, sir, I don't," said the publican. " But I know he 
 gave his mare more ale than he took himself, and he has 
 given me a guinea instead of a shilling. He's a regular 
 good 'un." 
 
 " A good 'un !" said Paterson ; " it was Turpin, the noto- 
 rious highwayman. We are in pursuit of him. Have you 
 any horses ? Our cattle are all blown." 
 
 " You'll find the post-house in the town, gentlemen. Pm 
 sorry I can't accommodate you. But I keeps no stabling. I 
 wish you a very good evening, sir." Saying which the pub" 
 lican retreated to his domicile. 
 
 " That's a flash crib, I'U be bound," said Paterson. I'll 
 chalk you down, my friend, you may rely upon it. Thus far 
 we're done, Mr. Coates. But curse me if I give in. I'll 
 follow him to the world's end first." 
 
 " Right, sir ; right," said the attorney. "A very proper 
 spirit, Mr. Constable. You would be guilty of neglecting 
 your duty were you to act otherwise. You must recollect my 
 father, Mr. Paterson ; Christopher, or Kit Coates ; a name 
 as well known at the Old Bailey as Jonathan Wild's. You 
 recollect him — eh ?" 
 
 " Perfectly well, sir," replied the chief constable. 
 
 " The greatest thief-taker, though I say it," continued 
 Coates, " on record. I inherit all his zeal — all his ardour. 
 Come along, sir. We shall have a fine moon in an hour — 
 bright as day. To the post-house ! to the post-house !" 
 
 Accordingly, to the jiost-house they went ; and, with as 
 little delay as circumstances admitted, fresh hacks being pro- 
 cured, accomjjanied by a postilion, the party again pursued 
 their onward course, encouraged to believe they were still in 
 the right scent. 
 
 Night had now spread her mantle over the earth ; still it 
 was not wholly dark. A few stars wei-e twinkling in the deep, 
 cloudless heavens, and a pearly radiance in the eastern hori-
 
 ROOKWOOD. 305 
 
 zon heralded the rising of the orb of night. A gentle breeze 
 was stirring ; the dews of evening had already fallen ; and 
 the air felt l)land and dry. It was just the night one would 
 have chosen for a ride, if one ever rode by choice at such an 
 hour ; and to Turpin, whose chief excursions were conducted 
 by night, it appeared little less than heavenly. 
 
 Pull of ardour and excitement, determined to execute what 
 he had mentally undertaken, Turpin held on his solitary 
 course. Everything was favourable to his project ; the roads 
 were in admirable condition, his mare was in like order ; she 
 was inured to hard work, had rested sufficiently in town to 
 recover from the fatigue of her recent journey, and had never 
 been in more perfect training. " She has now got her wind 
 in her," said Dick; "I'll see what she can do — hark away, 
 lass — hark away ! I wish they could see her now," added he, 
 as he felt her almost fly away with him. 
 
 Encouraged by her master's voice and hand, Black Bess 
 started forward at a pace which few horses could have 
 equalled, and scarcely any have sustained so long. Even 
 Dick, accustomed as he was to her magnificent action, felt 
 electrified at the speed with which he was borne along. 
 " Bravo ! bravo !" shouted he ; " hark away, Bess !" 
 
 The deep and solemn woods through which they were rush- 
 ing, rang with his shouts, and the sharp rattle of Bess's 
 hoofs ; and thus he held his way, while, in the words of the 
 ballad ; 
 
 Fled past, on right .ind left, how fast. 
 
 Each forest, grove, and bower ; 
 On right and lelt, fled past, how fast, 
 
 Each city, town, and tower. 
 
 VI. 
 
 BLACK BESS. 
 
 DaupMn. I will not change my horse with any that treads bnt on fonr 
 pasterns. Ca, ha! He bonnds from the earth as if his entrails were hairs ; 
 le cheval volant, the Ptgasiis qiii a les narines cle feu! When I bestride 
 him I soar. I am a hawk ; the earth sings when he touches it ; the basest 
 horn of his hoof is more musical than the pipe of Hermes. 
 
 Shakspeake.— -ffenry V., Act III. 
 
 Black Bess being undoubtedly the heroine of the Fourth 
 B ook of this Eomance, we may, perhaps, be pardoned for 
 ^lere expatiating a little in this place upon her birth, parentage, 
 
 X
 
 306 ROOKWOOD. 
 
 breeding, appearance, and attractions. And first as to her 
 pedigree ; for in the horse, nnlike the hnman species, nature 
 has strongly impressed the noble or ignoble caste. He is the 
 real aristocrat, and the pnre blood that flows in the veins of 
 the gallant steed will infallibly be transmitted, if his mate be 
 suitable, throughout all his line. Bess was no cock-tail. She 
 was thorough-bred ; she boasted blood in every bright and 
 branching vein : 
 
 If blood can give nobility 
 
 A noble steofl was sbe ; 
 Her sire was blood, and blood her dam. 
 
 And all her pedigree. 
 
 As to her pedigi-ee. Her sire was a desert Arab, renowned 
 in his day, and brought to this country by a wealthy tra- 
 veller ; her dam was an English racer, coal-black as her child. 
 Bess united all the fire and gentleness, the strength and 
 hardihood, the abstinence and endurance of fatigue of the 
 one, with the spirit and extraordinary fleetness of the other. 
 How Turpin became possessed of her is of little conse- 
 quence. We never heard that he paid a heavy price for her ; 
 though we doubt if any sum would have induced him to part 
 with her. In colour, she was perfectly black, with a skin 
 smooth on the surface as polished jet; not a single white hair 
 could be detected in her satin coat. In make, she was mag- 
 nificent. Every point was perfect, beautiful, compact ; mo- 
 delled, in little, for strength and speed. Arched was her 
 neck, as that of the swan ; clean and fine were her lower 
 limbs, as those of the gazelle ; round and sound as a drum 
 was her carcase, and as broad as a cloth-yard shaft her width 
 of chest. Hers were the " pulcltrce dunes, hreve caput, ardua- 
 qxie cervix," of the Roman bard. There was no redundancy 
 of flesh, 'tis true ; her flanks might, to please some tastes, 
 have been rounder, and her shoulder fuller ; but look at the 
 nerve and sinew, palpable through the veined limbs ! She 
 was built more for strength than beauty, and yet she ivas 
 beautiful. Look at that elegant little head ; those thin 
 tapering ears, closely placed together ; that broad snorting 
 nostril, which seems to snuff the gale with disdain ; that eye, 
 glowing and large as the diamond of Giamschid ! Is she not 
 beautiful ? Behold her paces ! how gracefully she moves ! 
 She is off ! — no eagle on the wing could skim the air more 
 swiftly. Is she not superb ? As to her temper, the lamb is 
 not more gentle. A child might guide her. 
 
 But hark back to Turpin. We left him rattling ;ilong
 
 ROOKWOOD. o<)7 
 
 in superb style, and m the highest possible glee. He could 
 not, in fact, be otherwise than exhilarated ; nothing being so 
 wildly intoxicating as a mad gallop. We seem to start out of 
 ourselves — to be endued, for the time, with new energies. 
 Our thoughts take wings rapid as our steed. We feel as if 
 his fleetness and boundless impulses were for the moment 
 our own. We laugh ; we exult ; we shout for very joy. We 
 cry out with Mephistopheles, but in anything but a sai'donic 
 mood. " What I enjoy with sjiirit, is it the less my own on 
 that account ? If I can pay for six horses, are not their 
 powers mine ? I drive along, and am a proper man, as if I 
 had four-and-twenty legs !" These were Turpin's sentiments 
 precisely. Give him four legs and a wide plain, and he needed 
 no Mephistopheles to bid him ride to perdition as fast as his 
 nag could carry him. Away, away ! — the road is level, the 
 path is clear. Press on, thou gallant steed, no obstacle is in 
 thy way ! — and, lo ! the moon breaks forth ! Her silvery 
 light is thrown over the woody landscape. Dark shadows 
 are cast athwart the road, and the flying figures of thy rider 
 and thyself are traced, like giant phantoms in the dust ! 
 
 Away, away ! our breath is gone, in keeping up with this 
 tremendous run. Yet Dick Turpin has not lost his wind, for 
 we hear his cheering cry — hark ! he sings. The reader will 
 bear in mind that Oliver means the moon; to " whiddle" is 
 
 to blab. 
 
 OLIVER WHIDDLES ! 
 Oliver Whiddles— the tattler old ! 
 Telling what best had been left untold- 
 Olivei" ne'er was a friend of mine ; 
 All glims I hate that so bi'ightly shine. 
 Give me a night black as hell, and then 
 See what I'll show to you, my merry men. 
 
 Oliver Whiddles ! — who cares — who cares, 
 If down upon us he peers and stai*es ? 
 Mind him who will, with his great white face, 
 Boldly I'll ride by his glim to the chase ; 
 Give him a Rowland, and loudly as ever 
 Shout, as I show myself, " Stand and deliver !" 
 
 " Egad," soliloquized Dick, as he concluded his song, look- 
 ing up at the moon, " Old Noll's no bad fellow either. T 
 would't be without his white face to-night for a trifle. He's 
 as good as a lamp to guide one, and let Bess only hold on as 
 she goes now, and I'll do it with ease. Softly, wench, softly ; 
 dost not see it's a hill we're rising. The devil's in the marc, 
 she cares for nothing." And as they ascended the hill, Dick's 
 voice once more awoke the echoes of the night. 
 
 X 2
 
 308 ROOKWOOD. 
 
 WILL DAVIES AND DICK TURPIN. 
 
 Hodie milii, eras tibi.- Saint Augttstin. 
 
 One night when mounted on my mare, 
 To Bagshot Heath I did repair. 
 And saw Will Davis hanging there, 
 Upon the gibbet bleak and bare, 
 
 With a rustified, fustified, musHfied air. 
 
 Within his chains bold Will looked blue. 
 Gone were hia sword and snappers too, 
 Which served their master well and true ; 
 Says I, " Will Davies, bow are you? 
 
 With your rustified, fustified, mustifted air!'' 
 
 Says he, " Dick Turpin, here I be, 
 
 Upon the gibbet, as you see ; 
 
 I take the matter easily ; 
 
 You'll have your turn as well as me. 
 
 With your whistle-me, pistol-me, cut-my-throat-air .'" 
 
 Says I, " That's very true, my lad ; 
 Meantime, with pistol and with prad, 
 I'm quite contented as I am. 
 And heed the gibbet not a d— n ! 
 
 With its rustified, fustified, mustified air!" 
 
 " Poor Will Davies !" sighed Dick ; " Bagshot ought never 
 
 to forget him."* 
 
 For never more shall Bagshot see 
 A highwayman of such degree. 
 Appearance, and gentility. 
 As Will, who bangs upon the tree. 
 
 With his rustified, fv.stified, mustified air !" 
 
 " Well," mused Turpin, " I suppose one day it will be with 
 me like the rest of 'em, and that I shall dance a long lavolta 
 to the music of the four whistling winds, as my betters have 
 done before me ; but I trust, whenever the chanter-culls and 
 last-speech scribblers get hold of me, they'll at least put no 
 cursed nonsense into my mouth, but make me speak, as I 
 have ever felt, like a man who never either feared death, or 
 turned his back upon his friend. In the mean time I'll give 
 
 * This, we regret to say, is not the case. The memory of bold Will Davis, 
 the " Golden Farmer " (so named from the circumstance of bis always pay- 
 ing his rent in gold), is fast declining upon his peculiar domain, Bagshot. 
 The inn, which once bore his name, still remains to point out to the traveller 
 the dangers his forefathers had to encounter in crossing this extensive heath. 
 Just beyond this house the common spi-eads out for miles on all sides in a 
 most gallop-inviting style ; and the passenger, as he gazes from the box of 
 some flying coach, as we have done, upon the gorse-covered waste, may, with- 
 out much stretch of fancy, imagine he beholds Will Davies careering like the 
 wind over its wild and undulating expanse. We are sorry to add that the 
 " Golden Farmer" has altered its designation to the " Jolbj Farmer." This 
 should be amended ; and when next we pass that way, we hope to see thrt 
 original sign restored. We cannot afford to lose our golden farmer.'. ,
 
 ROOKWOOD. 309 
 
 tliem sometliiug to talk about. This ride of mine shall 
 ring in their ears long after I'm done for — put to bed with a 
 mattock, and tucked up with a spade. 
 
 And when I am p^one boys, each huntsman shall say, 
 None rode like Dick Turpin so far in a day. 
 
 And thou, too, brave Bess ! thy name shall be linked with 
 mine, and we'U go down to posterity together ; and what," 
 added he despondingly, " if it should be too much for thee ? 
 
 what if but no matter. Better die now, while I am with 
 
 thee, than fall into the knacker's hands. Better die with all 
 thy honours upon thy head, than drag out thy old age at the 
 sand-cart. Hark forward, lass — hark forward !" 
 
 By what peculiar instinct is it that this noble animal, the 
 horse, will at once perceive the slightest change in his rider's 
 physical temperament, and allow himself so to be influenced 
 by it, that, according as his master's spirits fluctuate, will his 
 own energies rise and fall, wavering 
 
 From walk to trot, from canter to full speed ? 
 
 How is it, we ask of those more intimately acquainted with 
 the metaphysics of the Huoyhnymu than we pretend to be ? 
 Do the saddle or the rein convey, like metallic tractors, 
 vibrations of the spirit betwixt the two ? We know not ; but 
 this much is certain, that no servant partakes so much of the 
 character of his master as the horse. The steed we are wont 
 to ride becomes a portion of ourselves. He thinks and feels 
 w^ith us. As we are lively, he is sj^rightly ; as we are de- 
 pressed, his courage droops. In proof of this, let the reader 
 see what horses some men make — make we say, because in 
 such hands their character is wholly altered. Partaking, 
 in a measure, of the courage and the firmness of the hand 
 that guides them, and of the resolution of the frame that 
 sways them — what their rider wills they do, or strive to do. 
 When that governing power is relaxed, their energies are re- 
 laxed likewise ; and their fine sensibilities suj)ply them with 
 an instant knowledge of the disposition and capacity of the 
 rider. A gift of the gods is the gallant steed, which, like any 
 other faculty we possess, to use or to abuse — to command or 
 to neglect — rests with ourselves ; he is the best general test 
 of our own self-government. 
 
 Black Bess's action amply verified what we have just 
 asserted ; for during Turpin's momentary despondency, her 
 pace was perceptibly diminished, and her force retarded ; but
 
 310 KOOKAYOOn. 
 
 as lie revived, she riillieJ instantly, and, seized api^arently 
 ■witli a kindred entlinsiasm, snorted joyously, as she recovered 
 her speed. Now was it that the child of the desert showed 
 herself the undoubted offspring of the hardy loins from 
 whence she spruug. Full fifty miles had she sped, yet she 
 showed no symptom of distress. If possible, she aj)peared 
 fresher than when she started. She had breathed ; her limbs 
 were suppler ; her action was freer, easier, lighter. Her sire, 
 who, upon his trackless wilds, could have outstrijiped the 
 pestilent simoom ; and with throat unslacked, and hunger un- 
 appeased, could thrice have seen the scorching sun go down, 
 had not greater powers of endurance. His vigour was her 
 heritage. Her dam, who upon the velvet sod was of almost 
 unapproachable swiftness, and who had often brought her 
 owner golden assurances of her woi'th, could scarce have kept 
 pace with her, and would have sunk under a third of her 
 fatigue. But Bess was a paragon. We ne'er shall look upon 
 her like again, unless we can prevail upon some Bedouin 
 chief to present us with a brood mare, and then the racing 
 world shall see what a breed we will introduce into this 
 country. Eclipse, Childers, or Hambletonian, shall be no- 
 thing to our colts, and even the railroad slow travelling com- 
 pared with the speed of our new nags ! 
 
 But to return to Bess, or rather to go along with her, for 
 there is no halting now ; we are going at the rate of twenty 
 knots an hour— sailing before the wind ; and the reader must 
 either keej) pace with us, or drop astern. Bess is now in her 
 speed, and Dick happy. Happy ! he is enraptured — mad- 
 dened — furious — intoxicated as with wine. Pshaw ! wine 
 could never throw him into such a burning delirium. Its 
 choicest juices have no inspiration like this. Its fumes are 
 slow and heady. This is ethereal, transporting. His blood 
 spins through his veins ; winds round his heart ; mounts to 
 his brain. Away! away! He is wild with joy. Hall, cot, 
 tree, tower, glade, mead, waste, or woodland, are seen, passed, 
 left behind, and vanish as in a dream. Motion is scarcely 
 perceptible — it is impetus ! volition ! The horse and her 
 rider are driven forward, as it were, by self-accelerated 
 speed. A hamlet is visible in the moonlight. It is scarcely 
 discovered ere the flints sparkle beneath the mare's hoofs. 
 A moment's clatter upon the stones, and it is left behind. 
 Again, it is the silent, smiling country. Now they are buried 
 in the darkness of woods ; now sweeping along on the 
 wide plain ; now clearing the unopened toll-bar, now tramp-
 
 ]HJ()K\V()()]). 311 
 
 ling over the hollow-sounding bridge, their shadows mo- 
 mently reflected in the placid mirror of the stream ; now 
 scaling the hill-side a thought more slowly ; now plunging, 
 as the horses of Phoebus into the ocean, down its precipitous 
 sides. 
 
 The limits of two shires are already past. They are within 
 the confines of a third. They have entered the merry county 
 of Huntingdon ; they have surmounted the gentle hill that 
 slips into Godmanchester. They are by the banks of the 
 rapid Ouse. Tli ^ bridge is j^a^st ; and as Turpin rode through 
 the deserted streets of Huntingdon, ho heard the eleventh 
 hour given from the iron tongue of St. Mary's spire. In four 
 hours (it was about seven when he started), Dick had accom- 
 plished full sixty miles ! 
 
 A few reeling topers in the streets saw the horseman flit 
 past, and one or two windows were thrown open ; but Peep- 
 ing Tom of Coventry would have had small chance of behold- 
 ing the unveiled beauties of Queen Godiva had she ridden at 
 the rate of Dick Turpin. He was gone, like a meteor, almost 
 as soon as he appeared. 
 
 Huntingdon is left behind, and he is once more surrounded 
 by dew-gemmed hedges and silent slumbering trees. Broad 
 meadows, or pasture land, with drowsy cattle, or low bleating 
 sheep, lie on either side. But what to Turpin, at that mo- 
 ment, is nature, animate or inanimate ? He thinks only of 
 his mare — his future fame. None are by to see him ride ; no 
 stimulating plaudits ring in his ears ; no thousand hands are 
 clapping ; no thousand voices huzzaing ; no handkerchiefs 
 are waved ; no necks strained ; no bright eyes rain influence 
 upon him ; no eagle orbs watch his motions ; no bells are 
 rung ; no cup awaits his achievement ; no sweepstakes — no 
 plate. But his will be renown — everlasting renown ; his will 
 be fame which will not die with him — which will keep his 
 reputation, albeit a tai-nished one, still in the mouths of men. 
 He wants all these adventitious excitements, but he has that 
 within which is a greater excitement than all these. He is 
 conscious that he is doing a deed to live by. If not riding 
 for life, he is riding for immortality ; and as the hero may 
 perchance feel (for even a highwayman may feel like a hero) 
 when he willingly throws away his existence in the hope 
 of earning a glorious name, Turpin cared not what might 
 befall himself, so he could proudly signahse himself as the 
 first of his land. 
 
 And ivitch the norld ivith noble horstmaiiship !
 
 312 ROOKWOOD. 
 
 Wliat need had he of spectators ? The eye of posterity/ -was 
 upon him ; he felt the influence of that Argus glance which 
 has made many a poor wight spur on his Pegasus with not 
 half so good a chance of reaching the goal as Dick Turpin. 
 Multitudes, yet unborn, he knew would hear and laud his 
 deeds. He trembled with excitement, and Bess trembled 
 under him. But the emotion was transient — on, on they 
 fly ! The ton-ent leaping from the crag — the bolt from the 
 bow — the air-cleaving eagle — thoughts themselves are scarce 
 more winged in their flight ! 
 
 vn. 
 
 THE YORK STAGE. 
 
 York, Four Days I— Stage Coach begins on Friday, the 18th of April, 
 1706. All that are desirous to pass from London to York, or from York to 
 London, or any other place on that road, let them repair to the Black Swan, 
 in Holborn, in London, or the Jslack Swan, in Coney-street, in York. At 
 both which places they may be received in a Stage Coach, every Monday, 
 Wednesday, and Friday, which performs the whole journey in four days (if 
 God permits !) and sets forth at five in the morning. And returns from 
 York to Stamford in two days, and from Stamford, by Huntingdon in two 
 days more. And the like stages in their return. Allowing each passenger 
 fourteen pounds' weight, and all above, threepence per pound. Performed 
 by Benjamin Kingman, Henry Harrison, and Walter Baynes. — Placard, ^pre- 
 served in the coffee-room of the Black Swan Inn at York. 
 
 The night had hitherto been balmy and beautiful, with a 
 bright array of stars, and a golden harvest moon, which 
 seemed to diffuse even warmth with its radiance ; but now 
 Turpin was approaching the region of fog and fen, and he 
 began to feel the influence of that dank atmosphere. The 
 intersecting dykes, yawners, gullies, or whatever they are 
 called, began to send forth their steaming vapoui's, and 
 chilled the soft and wholesome air, obscuring the void, 
 and in some instances, as it were, choking up the road itself 
 with vapour. But fog or fen was the same to Bess ; her 
 hoofs rattled merrily along the road, and she burst from a 
 cloud, like Ebus at the break of dawn. 
 
 It chanced, as he issued from a fog of this kind, that 
 Turpin burst upon the York stage coach. It was no uncom- 
 mon thing for the coach to be stoj)ped ; and so furious was 
 the career of our highwayman, that the man involuntarily 
 drew up his horses. Turpin had also to draw in the rein, a
 
 ROOKWOOD. 313 
 
 task of no little difficulty, as charging a huge lUiubering 
 coach, with its full complement of passengers, was more than 
 even Bess could accomplish. The moon shone brightly on 
 Turpin and his mare. He was unmasked, and his features 
 were distinctly visible. An exclamation was uttered by a 
 gentleman on the box, who it appeared instantly recognised 
 him. 
 
 " Pull up — draw your horses across the road !" cried the 
 gentleman ; " that's Dick Turpin, the highwayman. His 
 capture would be worth three hundred pounds to you," added 
 he, addressing the coachman, " and is of equal importance to 
 me. Stand !" shouted he, presenting a cocked pistol. 
 
 This resolution of the gentleman was not apparently agree- 
 able, either to the coachman or the majority of the passengers ; 
 the name of Turpin acting like magic upon them. One man 
 jumped off behind, and was with difficulty afterwards re- 
 covered, having tumbled into a deep ditch at the road side. 
 An old gentleman with a cotton nightcap, who had popped 
 out his head to swear at the coachman, drew it suddenly 
 back. A faint scream in a female key issued from within, 
 and there was a considerable hubbub on the roof. Amongst 
 other ominous sounds, the guard was heard to click his long 
 horse-pistols. " Stop the York four- day stage !" said he, 
 forcing his smoky voice through a world of throat-embracing 
 shawl ; " the fastest coach in the kingdom : vos ever sich 
 atrocity heard of ? I say, Joe, keep them ere leaders steady ; 
 we shaU all be in the ditch. Don't you see where the hind 
 wheels are ? Who — whoop, I say." 
 
 The gentleman on the box now discharged his pistol, and 
 the confusion within was redoubled. The white nightcap was 
 popped out Hke a rabbit's head, and as quickly popped back 
 on hearing the highwayman's voice. Owing to the plunging 
 of the horses, the gentleman had missed his aim. 
 
 Prepared for such emergencies as the present, and seldom 
 at any time taken aback, Dick received the fire without 
 flinching. He then lashed the horses out of his course, and 
 rode up, pistol in hand, to the gentleman who had fired 
 
 " Major Mowbray," said he, in a stern tone, " I know you. 
 I meant not either to assault you or these gentlemen. Yet 
 you have attempted my life, sir, a second time. But you are 
 now in my power, and by hell ! if you do not answer the 
 questions I put to you, nothing earthly shall save you." 
 
 " If you ask avight I may not answer, fire !" said the major ; 
 *' I will never ask life from such as vou."
 
 314 ROOKWOOD. 
 
 " Hav< you seen aught of Sir Luke Eookwood ?" asked 
 Dick. 
 
 " The villain you mean is not yet secured," rej^lied the 
 major, "but we have traces of him. 'Tis with the view of 
 procuring more efficient assistance that I ride to town." 
 
 " They have not met then since ?" said Dick, carelessly. 
 
 " Met ! whom do you mean P" 
 
 " Your sister and Sir Luke," said Dick. 
 
 " My sister meet him ?" cried the major, angrily ; " think 
 you he dare show himself at Rookwood ?" 
 
 " Ho ! ho !" laughed Dick ; " she is at Eookwood, then ? 
 A thousand thanks, major. Good night to you, gentlemen." 
 
 "Take that with you, and remember the guard," cried the 
 fellow, who, unable to take aim from where he sat, had crept 
 along the coach roof, and discharged thence one of his large 
 horse-pistols at what he took to be the highwayman's head, 
 but which, luckily for Dick, was his hat, which he had raised 
 to salute the passengers. 
 
 " Remember you," said Dick, coolly replacing his perforated 
 beaver on his brow ; " you may rely upon it, my fine fellow, 
 I'll not forget you the next time we mec't." 
 
 And off he went like the brcnth of the whirlwind. 
 
 vin. 
 
 A EOADSIDE INIT. 
 
 Moor. Take my horse, and dash a bottle of wine over him. 'Twas hot work. 
 
 ScHiLLEK.— T/ie Rohhers. 
 
 We will now make inquiries after Mr. Coates and his party, 
 of whom both we and Dick Turpin have for some time lost 
 sight. With unabated ardour the vindictive man of law and 
 his myrmidons pressed forward. A tacit compact seemed to 
 have been entered into bel ween the highwayman and his pur- 
 suers, that he was to Hy while they were to follow. Like 
 bloodhounds, they kept eadily upon his trail ; nor were 
 they so far behind as Dick imagined. At each post-house 
 they passed they obtained fresh horses, and, while these 
 were saddling, a postboy was despatched en courier to order 
 relays at the next station. In this manner they proceeded 
 after the first stoppage without interruption. Horses were 
 in waiting for them, as they, " bloody with spurring, fiery
 
 ROOKWOOD. ;Ur5 
 
 hot with haste," and their jaded hacks arrived. Turpiii hacl 
 been heard or seen in all quarters. Turnpike- men, waggoners, 
 carters, trampers, aU had seen him. Besides, strange as it 
 may sound, they placed some faith in his word. York they 
 believed would be his destination. 
 
 At length the coach which Dick had encountered hove in 
 sight. There was another stoppage and another hubbub. 
 The old gentleman's nightcap was again manifested, and 
 suffered a sudden occidtation, as upon the former occasion. 
 The postboy, who was in advance, had halted, and given up 
 his horse to Major Mowbray, who exchanged his seat on the 
 box for one on the saddle, deeming it more expedient after 
 his interview with Turpin, to return to Rookwood, rather 
 than to proceed to town The postboy was placed behind 
 Coates, as being the lightest weight ; and, thus reinforced, 
 the party pushed forward as rapidly as heretofore. 
 
 Eighty and odd miles had now been traversed — the boundary 
 of another county, Northampton, passed ; yet no rest nor 
 respite had Dick Turpin or his unflinching mare enjoyed. 
 But here he deemed it fitting to make a brief halt. 
 
 Bordering the beautiful domains of Burleigh House stood 
 a little retired hostelrie of some antiquity, which bore the 
 great Lord Treasurer's arms. With this house Dick was not 
 altogether unacquainted. The lad who acted as ostler was 
 known to him. It was now midnight, but a bright and 
 beaming night. To the door of the stable then did he ride, 
 and knocked in a peculiar manner. Reconnoitring Dick 
 through a broken pane of glass in the lintel, and apparently 
 satisfied with his scrutiny, the lad thrust forth a head of hair 
 as full of straw as Mad Tom's is represented to be upon the 
 stage. A chuckle of welcome followed his sleepy salutation. 
 " Glad to see you, Captain Turpin," said he ; " can I do any- 
 thing for you ?" 
 
 " Get me a couple of bottles of brandy and a beefsteak," 
 said Dick. 
 
 "As to the brandy, you can have that in a jiffy ; but the 
 steak, Lord love ye, the old 'ooman won't stand it at this 
 time ; but there's a cold round, mayhap a slice of that might 
 do ; or a knuckle of ham ?" 
 
 " D — n your knuckles, Ralph," cried Dick ; " have you any 
 raw meat in the house ?" 
 
 " Raw meat ?" echoed Ralph, in surprise. "Oh, yes, 
 there's a rare rump of beef. You can have a cut off that, if 
 you like."
 
 316 ROOKWOOD. 
 
 " That's tlie tiling I want," said Dick, migirthing his mare. 
 " Give me the scraper. There, I can get a wisp of straw 
 from your head. Now run and get the brandy. Better 
 bring three bottles. Uncork 'em, and let me have half a pail 
 of water to mix with the spirit." 
 
 " A pail full of brandy and water to wash down a raw 
 steak ! My eyes !" exclaimed Ralph, opening wide his sleepy 
 peepers ; adding, as he went about the execution of his task, 
 " I always thought them Rum-padders, as they call themselves, 
 rum fellows, but now I'm sartin sure on it." 
 
 The most sedulous groom could not have bestowed more 
 attention upon the horse of his heart than Dick Turpin now 
 paid to his mare. He scraped, chafed, and dried her, sounded 
 each muscle, traced each sinew, pulled her ears, examined the 
 state of her feet, and, ascertaining that her " withers were 
 unwrung," finally washed her from head to foot in the diluted 
 spirit, not, however, before he had conveyed a thimbleful of 
 the liquid to his own parched throat, and replenished what 
 Falstaff calls a " pocket-pistol," which he had about him. 
 While Ralph was engaged in rubbing her down after her 
 bath, Dick occupied himself, not in dressing the raw steak in 
 the manner the stable-boy had anticipated, but in rolling it 
 round the bit of his bridle. 
 
 " She will go as long as there's breath in her body," said 
 he, putting the flesh- covered iron within her mouth. 
 
 The saddle being once more replaced, after champing a 
 moment or two at the bit, Bess began to snort and paw the 
 earth, as if impatient of delay ; and, acquainted as he was 
 with her indomitable spirit and power, her condition was a 
 surprise even to Dick himself. Her vigour seemed inex- 
 haustible, her vivacity was not a whit diminished, but, as she 
 was led into the open space, her step became as light and free 
 as when she started on her ride, and her sense of sound as 
 quick as ever. Suddenly she pricked her ears, and uttered a 
 low neigh. A dull tramp was audible. 
 
 " Ha !" exclaimed Dick, springing into his saddle j " they 
 come." 
 
 " Who come, captain ?" asked Ralph. 
 
 " The road takes a turn here, don't it ?" asked Dick — 
 " sweeps round to the right by the plantations in the 
 hollow ?" 
 
 "Ay, ay, captain," answered Ral^jh; "it's plain you knows 
 the ground." 
 
 " What lies beyond yon shed ?"
 
 ROOKWOOD. 317 
 
 " A stiff fence, captain — a reg'lar rasper. Beyond that a 
 hill-side steep as a house ; no oss as was ever shoed can go 
 down it." 
 
 " Indeed !" laughed Dick. 
 
 A loud halloo from Major Mowbray, who seemed advancing 
 npon the wings of the wind, told Dick that he was dis- 
 covered. The major was a superb horseman, and took the 
 lead of his party. Striking his spiu-s deeply into his horse, 
 and giving him bridle enough, the major seemed to shoot 
 forward like a shell through the air. The Burleigh Arms 
 retired some hundred yards from the road, the space in front 
 being occupied by a neat garden, with low clipped hedges. 
 No tall timber intervened between Dick and his piii'suers, so 
 that the motions of both parties were visible to each other. 
 Dick saw in an instant that if he now started he should como 
 into collision with the major exactly at the angle of the road, 
 and he was by no means desirous of hazarding such a ren- 
 contre. He looked wistfully back at the double fence. 
 
 " Come into the stable. Quick, captain, quick !" exclaimed 
 Ralph. 
 
 " The stable ?" echoed Dick, hesitating. 
 
 "Ay, the stable; it's yoiu' only chance. Don't you see 
 lie's turning the comer, and they are all coming. Quick, sir, 
 quick!" 
 
 Dick, lowering his head, rode into the tenement, the door 
 of which was most unceremoniously slapped in the major's 
 face, and bolted on the other side. 
 
 "Villain!" cried Major Mowbray, thundering at the door, 
 " come forth. You are now fairly trapped at last — caught 
 like the woodcock, in your own springe. We have you. Open 
 the door, I say, and save us the trouble of forcing it. You 
 cannot escape us. We will burn the building down but we 
 will have you." 
 
 "What do you want, measter?" cried Ealph, from th 
 lintel, whence he reconnoitred the major, and kept the door 
 fast. " You're clean mistaken. There be no one here." 
 
 " We'll soon see that," said Paterson, who had now arrived ; 
 and leaping from his horse, the chief constable took a short 
 run, to give himself impetus, and with his foot burst open 
 the door. This being accomplished, in dashed the major and 
 Paterson, but the stable was vacant. A door was open at 
 the back ; they rushed to it. The sharply sloping sides of a 
 hill slipped abruptly downwards, within a yard of the door. 
 It was a periloxis descent to the horseman, yet the print of
 
 318 ROOKWOOD. 
 
 a horse's heels was visible in the dislodged turf and scattered 
 soil. 
 
 " Confusion !" cried the major, " he has escaped us." 
 
 " He is yonder," said Paterson, pointing out Turpin moving 
 swifty through the steaming meadow. " See, he makes again 
 for the road — he clears the fence. A regular throw he haa 
 given us, by the Lord!" 
 
 " Nobly done, by Heaven !" cried the major. "With all 
 his faults, I honour the fellow's courage, and admire his 
 prowess. He's already ridden to-night as I believe never 
 man rode before. I would not have ventured to slide down 
 that wall, for it's nothing else, with the enemy at my heels. 
 What say you, gentlemen, have you had enoiigh ? Shall we 
 let him go, or " 
 
 " As far as chase goes, I don't care if we bring the matter 
 to a conclusion," said Titus. "I don't think, as it is, that I 
 shall have a sate to sit on this week to come. I've lost leather 
 most confoundedly." 
 
 " What says Mr. Coates ?" asked Paterson. " I look to 
 him." 
 
 " Then mount, and off," cried Coates. " Public duty re- 
 qmres that we should take him.' 
 
 " And private pique," reti;rned the major. " No matter ! 
 The end is the same. Justice shall be satisfied. To your 
 steeds, my merry men all. Hark, and away." 
 
 Once more upon the move, Titus forgot his distress, and 
 addressed himself to the attorney, by whose side he rode. 
 
 " What jilace is that we're coming to ?" asked he, pointing 
 to a cluster of moonlit spires belonging to a town they were 
 rapidly approaching. 
 
 " Stamford," replied Coates. 
 
 "Stamford!" exclaimed Titus; "by the powers! then 
 we've ridden a matter of ninety miles. Why, the great deeds 
 of Redmond O'Hanlon were nothing to this ! I'll remember 
 it to my dying day, and with reason," added he, uneasily 
 shifting his position on the saddle.
 
 IIOOKWOOD. 319 
 
 IX. 
 
 EXCITEMENT. 
 
 How fled what moonsliine faintly showed ! 
 
 How fled wliat darkness hid ! 
 How fled the earth beneath their feet, 
 
 The heaven above their head. William and Ellen. 
 
 Dick Turpin, meaiiwliile, lield bravely ou his course. 
 Bess was neither strained by her gliding passage down the 
 slijppery hiU-side, nor shaken by larking the fence in the 
 meadow. As Dick said, " It took a devilish deal to take it 
 out of her." On regaining the high road she resumed her 
 old pace, and once more they were distancing Time's SAvift 
 chariot in its whirling passage o'er the earth. Stamford, and 
 the tongue of Lincoln's fenny shire, upon which it is situated, 
 are passed almost in a breath. Rutland is won and passed, 
 and Lincolnshire once more entered. The road now verged 
 within a bowshot of that sporting Athens (Corinth, perhaps, 
 we should say), Melton Mowbray. Melton was then un- 
 known to fame, but, as if inspired by that furor veruitiais 
 which now inspires all who come within tvs^enty miles of this 
 Charybdis of the chase, Bess here let out in a style with 
 which it would have puzzled the best Leicestershire squire's 
 best prad to have kept pace. The spirit she imbibed through 
 the pores of her skin, and the juices of the meat she had 
 champed, seemed to have communicated pi'eternatural excite- 
 ment to her. Her pace was absolutely terrific. Her eye-balls 
 were dilated, and glowed like flaming carbuncles ; while 
 her widely-distended nostril seemed, in the cold moonshine, 
 to snort forth smoke, as from a hidden fire. Fain would 
 Tvirpin have controlled her ; but, without bringing into play 
 all his tremendous nerve, no check could be given her head- 
 long course, and for once, and the only time in her submissive 
 career, Bess resolved to have her own way — and she had it. 
 Like a sensible fellow, Dick conceded the point. There was 
 something even of conjugal philosophy in his self-communion 
 vipon the occasion. " E'en let her take her own way, and be 
 hanged to her, for an obstinate, self-willed jade as she is," 
 said he : " now her back is up there'll be no stopping her, 
 I'm sure : she rattles away like a woman's tongue, and when 
 that once begins, we all know what chance the curb has. Best 
 to let her have it out, or rather to lend her a lift. 'TwiU be
 
 320 ROOKWOOD. 
 
 over the sooner. Tantivy, lass ! tantivy ! I know whicli of 
 •us will tire first." 
 
 We have before said that the vehement excitement of con- 
 tinued swift riding produces a paroxysm in the sensorium 
 amounting to delirium. Dick's blood was again on fire. He 
 was first giddy, as after a deep draught of kindling spirit ; 
 this passed off, but the spirit was still in his veins — the estro 
 was working in his brain. All his ardour, his eagerness, his 
 fury, returned. He rode like one insane, and his courser 
 partook of his frenzy. She bounded ; she leaped ; she tore 
 up the ground beneath her ; while Dick gave vent to his 
 exultation in one wild prolonged haUoo. More than half his 
 race is run. He has trivimphed over every difficulty. He will 
 have no further occasion to halt. Bess carries her forage 
 along with her. The course is straightforward — success 
 seems certain — the goal already reached — the path of glory 
 won. Another wild halloo, to which the echoing woods reply, 
 and away ! 
 
 Away ! away ! thou matchless steed ! yet brace fast thy 
 sinews — hold, hold thy breath, for, alas, the goal is not yet 
 attained ! 
 
 But forward ! forward, on tliey go, 
 
 High snorts the straining steed, 
 Thick pants the rider's Uxbouring breath, 
 
 Aa headlong on they speed I 
 
 THE GIBBET. 
 
 See there, see there, what yonder swings 
 
 And creaks 'mid whistling rain, 
 Gibbet and steel— the accursed wheel — 
 
 A murderer iu his chain. William and Ellen. 
 
 As the eddying currents sweep over its plains in howling 
 bleak December, the horse and her rider passed over what 
 remained of Lincolnshire. Grantham is gone, and they are 
 now more slowly looking up the ascent of Gonerby Hill, a 
 path well known to Turpin ; where often, in bygone nights, 
 many a purse had changed its owner. With that feeling of
 
 ROOKWOOD. 321 
 
 independence and exhilaration wbicli every one feels, we 
 believe, on having climbed the hill-side, Tnrpin turned to 
 gaze around. There was ti'iumph in his eye. But the 
 triumph was checked as his glance fell upon a gibbet near 
 him to the right, on the round point of hill which is a land- 
 mark to the wide vale of Belvoir. Pressed as he was for 
 time, Dick immediately struck out of the road, and approached 
 the spot where it stood. Two scarecrow objects, covered with 
 rags and rusty links of chains, depended from the tree. A 
 night crow screaming around the carcasses added to the 
 hideous eifect of the scene. Nothing but the living high- 
 wayman and his skeleton brethren were visible upon the 
 solitary spot. Around him was the lonesome waste of hill, 
 o'erlookiug the moonlit valley : beneath his feet, a patch of 
 bare and lightning-blasted sod : above, the wan declining 
 moon and skies, flaked with ghostly clouds : befoi'e him, the 
 bleached bodies of the murderers, for such they were. 
 
 "Will this be my lot, I marvel r" said Dick, looking up- 
 wards, with an involuntary shudder. 
 
 " Ay, marry will it," rejoined a crouching figure, suddenly 
 springing from beside a tuft of briers that skirted the blasted 
 ground. 
 
 Dick started in his saddle, while Bess reared and plunged 
 at the sight of this unexpected apparition. 
 
 " What ho ! thou devil's dam, Barbara, is it thou ?" ex- 
 claimed Dick, re-assured upon discovering it was the gipsy 
 queen, and no spectre whom he beheld. " Stand still, Bess 
 — stand, lass. What dost thou here, mother of darkness ? 
 Art gathering mandrakes for thy poisonous messes, or pilfer- 
 ing flesh from the dead ? Meddle not with their bones, or I 
 will drive thee hence. What dost thou here, I say, old dam 
 of the gibbet ?" 
 
 " I came to die here," replied Barbara, in a feeble tone ; 
 and, throwing back her hood, she displayed features well-nigh 
 as ghastly as those of the skeletons above her. 
 
 " Indeed," replied Dick. " You've made choice of a plea- 
 sant spot, it must be owned. But you'll not die yet." 
 
 " Do you know whose bodies these are ?" asked Barbara, 
 pointing upwards. 
 
 " Two of your race," replied Dick ; " right brethren of the 
 blade." 
 
 " Two of my sons," returned Barbara ; " my twin children. 
 I am come to lay my bones beneath their bones : my sepulchre 
 shall be their sepulchre ; my body shall feed the fowls of the 
 
 y
 
 322 ROOKWOOD. 
 
 air as theirs have fed them. And if ghosts can walk, we'll 
 scour this heath together. I tell you what, Dick Turpin," 
 said the hag, drawing as near to the highwayman as Bess 
 would permit her; "dead men walk and ride — ay, ride! — • 
 there's a comfort for you. I've seen these do it. I have 
 seen them fling off their chains, and dance — ay, dance with 
 me— with their mother. No revels like dead men's revels, 
 Dick. I shall soon join 'em." 
 
 " You will not lay violent hands upon yourself, mother ?" 
 said Dick, with difficulty mastering his terror. 
 
 " No," replied Barbara, in an altered tone. " But I will 
 let nature do her task. Would she could do it more quickly. 
 Such a life as mine won't go out without a long struggle. 
 What have I to live for now ? All are gone — slie and her 
 child! But what is this to you ? You have no child ; and if 
 you had, you could not feel like a father. No matter. I rave. 
 Listen to me. I have crawled hither to die. 'Tis five days 
 since I beheld you, and during that time food has not passed 
 these lips, nor aught of moisture, save Heaven's dew, cooled 
 this pai'ched throat, nor shall they to the last. That time 
 ca^nnot be far off ; and now can you not guess hoiv I mean to 
 die ? Begone, and leave me, your presence troubles me. I 
 would breathe my last breath alone, with none to witness the 
 parting pang." 
 
 " I will not trouble you longer, mother," said Dick, turning 
 his mare ; " nor will I ask your blessing." 
 
 "My blessing!" scornfully ejaculated Barbara. "You 
 \ shall have it if you will, but you will find it a curse. Stay ! 
 a thought strikes me. Whither are you going ?" 
 
 " To seek Sir Luke Eookwood," replied Dick ; " know you 
 aught of him ?" 
 
 " Sir Luke Eookwood ! You seek him, and would find 
 him ?" screamed Barbara. 
 
 "' I would," said Dick. 
 
 "And you loill find him," said Barbara; "and that ere 
 long. I shall ne'er again behold him. Would I could. I 
 have a message for him — one of life and death. Will you 
 convey it to him ?" 
 
 " I will," said the highwayman. 
 
 " Swear by those bones to do so," cried Barbara, pointing 
 with her skinny fingers to the gibbet ; " that you will do my 
 bidding." 
 
 " I swear," cried Dick. 
 
 " Fail not, or we will haunt thee to thy life's end," cried
 
 ROOKWOOD. 323 
 
 Barbara ; adding, as she handed a sealed package to the high- 
 wayman, " Give this to Sir Luke — to him alone. I would 
 have sent it to him by other hands ere this, but my people 
 have deserted me — have pillaged my stores — have rifled me 
 of all, save this. Give this, I say, to Sir Luke, with your 
 own hands. You have sworn it, and will obey. Give it to 
 him, and bid him think of Sibyl as he opens it. But this 
 must not be till Eleanor is in his power ; and she must be 
 present when the seal is broken. It relates to both. Dare 
 not to tamper with it, or my curse shall pursue you. That 
 packet is guarded with a triple spell, which to you were fatal. 
 Obey me, and my dying breath shall bless thee." 
 
 "Never fear," said Dick, taking the packet; "I'll not dis 
 appoint you, mother, depend upon it." 
 
 " Hence !" cried the crone ; and as she watched Dick's 
 figure lessening upon the waste, and at length beheld him 
 finally disappear down the hill-side, she sank to the ground, 
 her frail strength being entirely exhausted. '' Body and soul 
 may now part in peace," gasped she. "All I live for is 
 accomplished." And ere one hour had elapsed, the night 
 crow was perched upon her still breathing frame. 
 
 Long pondering upon this singidar interview, Dick pur- 
 sued his way. At length he thought fit to examine the 
 packet with which the old gipsy had intrusted him. 
 
 " It feels like a casket," thought he. "It can't be gold. 
 But then it may be jewels, though they don't rattle, and it 
 i ain't cjuite heavy enough. What can it be ? I should like 
 I to know. There is some mystery, that's certain, about it; 
 jbut I will not break the seal, not I. As to her spell, that I 
 jdon't value a rush ; but I've sworn to give it to Sir Luke, 
 land deliver her message, and I'll keep my word if I can. He 
 shall have it." Saying which he replaced it in his pocket. 
 
 XI. 
 
 THE PHANTOM STEED. 
 
 I'll speak to thee, tbongh hell itself should gape, 
 
 And bid me hold my peace. Hamlet. 
 
 Time presses. We may not linger in our course. Wo 
 must fly on before ou^r flying highwayman. Full forty miles 
 
 Y 2
 
 324 ROOKWOOD. 
 
 shall we pass over in a breath. Two more hours have elapsed, 
 and he still urges his headlong career, with heart resolute as 
 ever, and purpose yet unchanged. Fair Newark and the 
 dashing Trent, " most loved of England's streams," are 
 gathered to his laurels. Broad Notts, and its heavy paths 
 and sweeping glades ; its waste (forest no more) of Sherwood 
 past ; bold Eobin Hood and his merry men, his Marian and 
 his moonlight rides, recalled, forgotten, left behind. Hurrah ! 
 hurrah ! That wild halloo, that waving arm, that enlivening 
 shout — what means it ? He is once more upon Yorkshire 
 ground ; his horse's hoof beats once more the soil of that 
 noble shire. So transported was Dick, that he could almost 
 have flung himself from the saddle to kiss the dust beneath 
 his feet. Thrice fifty miles has he run, nor has the morn yet 
 dawned upon his labours. Hurrah ! the end draws nigh ; the 
 goal is in view. Halloo ! halloo ! on ! 
 
 Bawtrey is past. He takes the lower road by Thorne and 
 Selbv. He is skirting the waters of the deep-channelled 
 Don! 
 
 Bess now began to manifest some slight symptoms of dis- 
 tress. There was a strain in the carriage of her throat, a 
 dulness in her eye, a laxity in her ear, and a slight stagger in 
 her gait, which Turpin noticed with apprehension. Still she 
 went on, though not at the same gallant pace as heretofore. 
 But, as the tired bird still battles with the blast upon the 
 ocean, as the swimmer still stems the stream, though spent,, 
 on went she ; nor did Turpiu dare to check her, fearing that, 
 if she stopped, she might lose her force, or, if she fell, she 
 would rise no more. 
 
 It was now that grey and grimly hour ere one flicker of 
 orange or rose has gemmed the east, and when unwearying 
 nature herself seems to snatch brief repose. In the roar of 
 restless cities, this is the only time when the strife is hushed. 
 Midnight is awake — alive ; the streets ring with laughter and 
 with rattling wheels. At the third hour, a dead, deep silence 
 prevails ; the loud-voiced streets grow dumb. They are de- 
 serted of all, save the few guardians of the night and the 
 skulking robber. But even far removed from the haunts of 
 men and hum of towns it is the same. "Nature's best nurse" 
 seems to weigh nature down, and stilhiess reigns throughout. 
 Our feelings are, in a great measure, influenced by the hour. 
 Exposed to the raw ci'ude atmosphere, which has neither the 
 nipping, wholesome shrewdness of morn, nor the profound 
 chillness of nigbt, the frame vainly struggles against the dull,
 
 ROOKWOOD. 325 
 
 miserable sensations engendered by the damps, and at once 
 communicates them to the spirits. Hope forsakes us. We 
 are weary, exhausted. Our energy is dispirited. Sleep does 
 " not weigh our eyelids down." We stare upon the vacancy. 
 We conjure up a thousand restless, disheartening images. 
 We abandon projects we have formed, and which, viewed 
 through this medium, appear fantastical, chimerical, absurd. 
 We want rest, refreshment, energy. 
 
 We will not say that Turpin had all these misgivings. But 
 he had to struggle hard with himself to set sleep and exhaus- 
 tion at defiance. 
 
 The moon had set. The stars, 
 
 Pinnacled deep in the intense main, 
 
 had all — save one, the herald of the dawn — withdrawn their 
 lustre. A dull mist lay on the stream, and the air became 
 piercing cold. Turpin's chilled fingers could scarcely grasp 
 the slackening rein, while his eyes irritated by the keen 
 atmosphere, hardly enabled him to distinguish surrounding 
 objects, or even to guide his steed. It was owing, probably, 
 to this latter circumstance, that Bess suddenly floundered and 
 fell, throwing her master over her head. 
 
 Turpin instantly recovered himself. His first thought was 
 for his horse. But Bess was instantly upon her legs — covered 
 with dust and foam, sides and cheeks — and with her large 
 eyes glaring wildly, almost piteously, upon her master. 
 
 "Art hurt, lass r" asked Dick, as she shook herself, and 
 slightly shivered. And he proceeded to the horseman's scru- 
 tiny. " Nothing but a shake ; though that dull jye — those 
 
 quivering flanks " added he, looking earnestly at her. 
 
 " She won't go much fui'ther, and I must give it up — what ! 
 give up the race just when it's won? No, that can't be. 
 Ha ! well thought on. I've a bottle of liquid given me by an 
 old fellow, who was a knowing cove and famous jockey in his 
 day, which he swore would make a horse go as long as he'd 
 a leg to carry him, and bade me keep it for some great occa- 
 sion. I've never used it : but I'll try it now. It should be 
 in this pocket. Ah ! Bess, wench, I fear I'm using thee, after 
 all, as Sir Luke did his mistress, that I thought so like thee. 
 No matter ! It will be a glorious end." 
 
 Raising her head upon his shoulder, Dick poured the con- 
 tents of the bottle down the throat of his mare. Nor had 
 he to wait long before its invigorating effects were instanta- 
 neous. The fire was kindled in the glassy orb ; her crest
 
 326 EOOKWOOD. 
 
 was once more erected ; her flank ceased to quiver ; and slie 
 neighed loud and joyously. 
 
 "Egad, the old fellow was right," cried Dick. "The 
 drink has worked wonders. What the devil could it have 
 been? It smells like spirit," added he, examining the bottle. 
 " I vrish I'd left a taste for myself. But here's that will 
 do as well." And he drained his flask of the last drop of 
 bra,ndy. 
 
 Dick's limbs were now become so excessively stiff, that it 
 was with difficulty he could remount his horse. But this 
 necessary preliminary being achieved by the help of a stile, 
 he found no difficulty in resuming his accustomed position 
 upon the saddle. We Icnow not whether there was any like- 
 ness between our Turpin and that modern Hercules of the 
 sporting world, Mr. Osbaldeston. Far be it from us to insti- 
 tute any comparison, though we cannot help thinking that, 
 in one particular, he resembled that famous " copper-bot- 
 tomed" squire. This we will leave to our reader's disci'imi- 
 nation. Dick bore his fatigues wonderfully. He suffered 
 somewhat of that martyrdom which, according to Tom 
 Moore, occm's " to weavers and M.P.'s from sitting too long ;" 
 but again on his courser's back, he cared not for anything. 
 
 Once more, at a gallant pace he traversed the banks of the 
 Don, skirting the fields of flax that bound its sides, and 
 hurried far more swiftly than its current to its confluence 
 with the Aire. 
 
 Snaith was past. He was on the road to Selby when dawn 
 first began to break. Here and there a twitter was heard in 
 the hedge ; a hare ran across his path, grey looking as the 
 morning self ; and the mists began to rise from the earth. 
 A bar of gold was drawn against the east, like the roof of a 
 gorgeous palace. But the mists were heavy in this world of 
 rivers and their tributary streams. The Ouse was before 
 him, the Trent and Aire behind ; the Don and Derwent on 
 either hand, all in their way to commingle their currents ere 
 they formed the giant Humber. Amid a region so prodigal 
 of water, no wonder the dews fell thick as rain. Here and 
 there the ground was clear ; but then again came a volley of 
 vapour, dim and palj)able as smoke. 
 
 While involved in one of these fogs, Turj^in became aware 
 of another horseman by his side. It was impossible to dis- 
 cern the features of the rider, but his figure in the mist 
 seemed gigantic ; neither was the colour of his steed distin- 
 guishable. Nothing was visible except the meagre-looking
 
 ROOKWOOD. 327 
 
 phantom-like outline of a horse and his rider, and, as the 
 unknown rode upon the turf that edged the way, even the 
 sound of his horse's hoofs was scarce audible. Turpin 
 gazed, not without suj»erstitious awe. Once or twice he 
 essayed to address the strange horseman, but his tongue 
 clove to the roof of his mouth. He fancied he discovered 
 in the mist-exaggerated lineaments of the stranger a wild and 
 fantastic resemblance to his fi-iend Tom King. " It must be 
 Tom," thought Turpin ; " he is come to warn me of my ap- 
 proaching end. I will sjjeak to him." 
 
 But terror o'ermastered his speech. He could not force 
 out a word, and thus side by side they rode in silence. 
 Quaking with fears he would scarcely acknowledge to him- 
 self, Dick watched every motion of his companion. He was 
 still, stera, specti*e-like, erect ; and he looked for all the 
 world like a demon on his phantom steed. His courser 
 seemed, in the indistinct outline, to be huge and bony, and, 
 as he snorted furiously in the fog, Dick's heated imagina- 
 tion supplied his breath with a due proportion of flame. Not 
 a word was spoken — not a sound heard, save the sullen dead 
 beat of his hoof upon the grass. It was intolerable to ride thus 
 cheek by jowl with a goblin. Dick could stand it no longer. 
 He put spurs to his horse, and endeavoured to escape. But 
 it might not be. The stranger, apparently without effort, 
 was still by his side, and Bess's feet, in her master's appre- 
 hensions, were nailed to the ground. By-and-by, however, 
 the atmosphere became clearer. Bright quivering beams 
 burst through the vaporous shroud, and then it was that 
 Dick discovered that the apparition of Tom King was no 
 other than Luke Eookwood. He was mounted on his old 
 horse, Eook, and looked grim and haggard as a ghost vanish- 
 ing at the crowing of the cock. 
 \ " Sir Luke Eookwood, by this light !" exclaimed Dick, in 
 
 jastonishment. " Why, I took you for " 
 
 I "The devil, no doubt?" returned Luke, smiling sternly, 
 r and were sorry to find yourself so hard pressed. Don't dis- 
 quiet yourself ; I am still flesh and blood." 
 
 " Had I taken you for one of mortal m©uld," said Dick, 
 " you should have soon seen where I'd have put you in the 
 face. That confounded fog deceived me, and Bess acted the 
 lool as well as myself. However, now I know you, Sir Luke, 
 you must spur alongside, for the hawks are on the wing ; and 
 though I've much to say, I've not a second to lose." And 
 Dick briefly detailed the particulars of his ride, concluding
 
 328 EOOKWOOD. 
 
 •witli his rencontre witli Barbara, " Here's tlie pacliet," said 
 he, " just as I got it. Ton must keep it till the proper 
 moment. And here," added he, fumbling in his pocket for 
 another paper, " is the marriage document. Tou are now 
 your father's lawful son, let who will say you nay. Take it 
 and welcome. If you are ever master of Miss Mowbray's 
 hand, you will not forget Dick Turpin." 
 
 " I will not," said Luke, eagerly grasping the certificate 
 " but she never may be mine." 
 
 " You have her oath ?" 
 
 "I have." 
 
 " What more is needed ?" 
 
 "Her hand." 
 
 " That will follow." 
 
 " It shall follow," replied Sir Luke, wildly. " Tou are 
 right. She is my affianced bride — affianced before hell, if not 
 before heaven, I have sealed the contract with blood — with 
 Sibyl's blood — and it shall be fulfilled. I have her oath — 
 her oath — ha, ha! Though I perish in the attempt, I will 
 wrest her fi-om Eanulph's grasp. She shall never be his. I 
 would stab her first. Twice have I failed in my endeavours 
 to bear her off. I am from Rookwood even now. To-mor- 
 row night I shall renew the attack. Will you assist me ?" 
 
 " To-morrow night!" interrupted Dick. 
 
 " Nay, I should say to-night. A new day has abeady 
 dawned," replied Luke. 
 
 " I will : she is at Eookwood ?" 
 
 " She languishes there at present, attended by her mother 
 and her lover. The hall is watched and guarded. Ranulph 
 is ever on the alert. But we will storm their garrison. I have 
 a spy within its walls — a gipsy girl, faithful to my interests. 
 From her I have learnt that there is a j^lot to wed Eleanor to 
 Ranulph, and that the marriage is to take place privately to- 
 morrow. This must be prevented." 
 
 " It must. But why not boldly appear in person at the 
 hall and claim her ?" 
 
 " Why not P I am a proscribed felon. A price is set upon 
 my head. I am hunted through the country — 'di'iven to con- 
 cealment, and dare not show myself for fear of capture. 
 What could I do now ? They would load me with fetters, 
 bury me in a dungeon, and wed Eleanor to Ranulph. What 
 would my rights avail? What would her oath signify to 
 them ? No ; she must be mine by force. His she shall never 
 be. Again, I ask you, will you aid me ?"
 
 ROOKWOOD. 329 
 
 " I have said — I will. Where is Alan Rookwood ?" 
 
 " Concealed within the hut on Thome Wast«. You know 
 it — it was one of your haunts." 
 
 " I know it well," said Dick, " and Conkey Jem, its keeper, 
 into the bargain : he is a knowing file. I'll join you at the 
 hut at midnight, if all goes well. We'll bring of£ the wench, 
 in spite of them all — just the thing I like. But in case of a 
 break-down on my part, suppose you take charge of my purse 
 in the mean time." 
 
 Luke would have declined this offer. 
 
 " Pshaw !" said Dick. " Who knows what may happen ? 
 and it's not ill lined either. Tou'll find an odd hundred or 
 so in that silken bag — it's not often your highwayman gives 
 away a purse. Take it, man — we'll settle all to-night ; and if 
 I don't come, keep it — it will help you to your bride. And 
 now off with you to the hut, for you are only hindering me. 
 Adieu ! My love to old Alan. We'U do the trick to-night. 
 Away with you to the hut. Keep yourself snug there till 
 midnight, and we'll ride over to Eookwood." 
 
 " At midnight," replied Sir Luke, wheeling off, " I shall 
 expect you." 
 
 " 'Ware hawks !" hallooed Dick. 
 
 But Luke had vanished. In another instant Dick was 
 scouring the plain as rapidly as ever. In the mean time, as 
 Dick has casually alluded to the hawks, it may not be amiss 
 to inquire how they had flown throughout the night, and 
 whether they were '=;till in chase of their quarry. 
 
 With the exception of Titus, who was completely done up 
 at Grantham, "having got," as he said, " a complete bellyful 
 of it," they were still on the wing, and resolved sooner or 
 later to pounce upon their prey, pursuing the same system 
 as heretofore in regard to the post-horses. Major Mowbray 
 and Paterson took the lead, but the irascible and invincible 
 attorney was not far in their rear, his wrath having been 
 by no means allayed by the fatigue he had undergone. At 
 Bawtrey they held a council of war for a few minutes, being 
 doubtful which course he had taken. Their incertitude was 
 relieved by a foot traveller, who had heard Dick's loud halloo 
 on passing the boundary of Nottinghamshire, and had seen 
 him take the lower road. They stiixck, therefore, into the 
 path to Thome, at a hazard, and were soon satisfied they 
 were right. Furiously did they now spur on. They reached 
 Selby, changed horses at the inn in front of the venerable 
 cathedral church, and learned from the postboy that a toil-
 
 330 EOOKWOOD. 
 
 worn horseman, on a jaded steed, had ridden through the 
 town about five minutes before them, and could not be more 
 than a quarter of a mile in advance. " His horse was so dead 
 beat," said the lad, "that I'm sure he cannot have got far; 
 and, if you look sharp, I'll be bound you'll overtake him before 
 he reaches Cawood Ferry." 
 
 Mr. Coates was transported. "We'll lodge him snug in 
 York Castle before an hour, Paterson," cried he, rubbing his 
 hands. 
 
 •' I hope so, sir," said the chief constable, " but I begin to 
 have some qualms." 
 
 "Now, gentlemen," shouted the postboy, "come along. 
 I'll soon bring you to him." 
 
 XII. 
 
 CAWOOB FERET. 
 
 The siglit renewed my courser's feet, 
 A moment, staggering feebly fleet, 
 A moment, ■with a faint low neigh, 
 
 He answered, and then fell. 
 "With gasps and glazing eyes he lay, 
 And reeking limbs immovable, — 
 His first, and last cai-eer was done. 3fazeppa. 
 
 The sun had just o'ertopped the "high eastern hill," as 
 Turpin reached the Ferry of Cawood, and his beams were 
 reflected upon the deep and sluggish waters of the Ouse. 
 Wearily had he dragged his course thither — wearily and 
 slow. The powers of his gallant steed were spent, and he 
 could scarcely keep her from sinking. It was now midway 
 'twixt the hours of five and six. Nine miles only lay before 
 him, and that thought again revived him. He reached the 
 water's edge, and hailed the feny-boat, which was then on 
 the other side of the river. At that instant a loud shout 
 smote his ear ; it was the halloo of his pursuers. Despair 
 was in his look. He shouted to the boatman, and bade bim 
 pull fast. The man obeyed ; but he had to breast a strong 
 stream, and had a lazy bark and heavy sculls to contend with. 
 He had scarcely left the shore, when another shout was raised
 
 ROOKWOOD. 331 
 
 from the pursuers. The tramp of their steeds grew louder 
 and louder. 
 
 The boat had scarcely reached the middle of the stream. 
 His captors were at hand. Quietly did he walk down the 
 bank, and as caiitiously enter the water. There was a plunge, 
 and steed and rider we re swimming down the stream. 
 
 Major Mowbray was at the brink of the stream. He hesi- 
 tated an instant, and stemmed the tide. Seized, as it were 
 by a mania for equestrian distinction, Mr. Coates braved 
 the torrent. Not so Paterson. He very coolly took out his 
 bull-dogs, and, watching Turpin, cast up in his own mind the 
 pros and co7is of shootiug him as he was crossing. " I could 
 certainly hit him," thought, or said, the constable ; " but 
 what of that ? A dead highwayman is worth nothing — alive, 
 he weighs 300Z. I won't shoot him, but I'll make a pretence." 
 And he fired accordingly. 
 
 The shot skimmed over the water, but did not, as it was 
 intended, do much mischief. It, however, occasioned a mis- 
 hap, which had nearly proved fatal to our aquatic attorney. 
 Alarmed at the report of the pistol, in the nervous agitation 
 of the moment Coates drew in his rein so tightly that his 
 steed instantly sank. A moment or two afterwards he rose, 
 shaking his ears, and floundering heavily towards the shore ; 
 and such was the chilling effect of this sudden immersion, 
 that Mr. Coates now thought mvich more of saving himself 
 than of capturing Turpin. Dick, meanwhile, had reached the 
 ojiposite bank, and, refreshed by her bath, Bess scrambled up 
 the sides of the stream, and speedily regained the road. I 
 shall do it, yet," shouted Dick ; " that stream has saved her. 
 Hark away, lass ! Hark away !" 
 
 Bess heard the cheering cry, and she answered to the call. 
 She roused all her energies ; strained every sinew ; and put 
 forth all her remaining strength. Once more, on wings of 
 swiftness, she bore him away from his pursuers, and Major 
 Mowbray, who had now gained the shore, and made certain 
 of securing him, beheld him spring, like a wounded hare, from 
 beneath his very hand. 
 
 " It cannot hold out," said the major ; " it is but an expiring 
 flash; that gallant steed must soon di'op." 
 
 " She be regularly booked, that's certain," said the postboy. 
 " We shall find her on the road." 
 
 Contrary to all expectation, however, Bess held on, and set 
 pursuit at defiance. Her pace was swift as when she started. 
 But it was unconscious and mechanical action. It wanted
 
 332 EOOKWOOD. 
 
 the ease, the lightness, the life of her former riding. She 
 seemed screwed up to a task which she must execute. There 
 was no flogging, no gory heel ; but her heart was throbbing, 
 tugging at the sides within. Her spirit spurred her onwards. 
 Her eye was glazing ; her chest heaving ; her flank quivering ; 
 her crest again fallen. Yet she held on. " She is dying, by 
 God !" said Dick. " I feel it " No, she held on. 
 
 Fulford is past. The towers and pinnacles of York burst 
 upon him in all the freshness, the beauty, and the glory of a 
 bright, clear, autumnal morn. The ancient city seemed to 
 smile a welcome — a greeting. The noble Minster and its 
 serene and massive j^nnacles, crocketed, lantern-like, and 
 beautiful ; Saint Mary's lofty spire, All-Hallows Tower, the 
 massive mouldering walls of the adjacent postern, the grim 
 castle, and Clifford's neighbouring keep — all beamed upon 
 him, " like a bright-eyed face, that laughs out openly." 
 
 " It is done — it is won," cried Dick. " Hurrah, hunrah !" 
 And the sunny air was cleft with his shouts. 
 
 Bess was not insensible to her master's exultation. She 
 neighed feebly in answer to his call, and reeled forwards. It 
 was a piteous sight to see her, — to mark her staring, pro- 
 truding eyeball, — her shaking flanks ; but, while life and limb 
 held together, she held on. 
 
 Another mile is past. York is near. 
 
 "Hurrah!" shouted Dick ; buthis voice was hushed. Bess 
 tottered — fell. There was a dreadful gasp — a parting moan 
 — a snort ; her eye gazed, for an instant, upon her master, 
 with a dying glare ; then grew glassy, rayless, fixed. A 
 shiver ran through her frame. Her heart had burst. 
 
 Dick's eyes were blinded, as if with rain. His triumph, 
 though achieved, was forgotten — his own safety was dis- 
 regarded. He s+ood weeping, and swearing, like one beside 
 iiimself. 
 
 "And art thou gone, Bess !" cried he in a voice of agony, 
 lifting up his covirser's head, and kissing her lips, covered 
 with blood-flecked foam. " Gone, gone ! and I have killed 
 the best steed that was ever crossed ! And for what ?" added 
 Dick, beating his brow with his clenched hand — " for what ? 
 for what ?" 
 
 At that moment the deep bell of the Minster clock tolled 
 out the hour of six. j 
 
 " I am answered," gasped Dick ; " it was to hear thosel 
 strokes J" 
 
 Turpin was roused from the state of stupefaction into which
 
 IIOOKWOOD. 333 
 
 he had fallen by a smart slap on the shoulder. Recalled to 
 himself by the blow, he started at once to his feet, while his 
 hands sought his pistols ; but he was spared the necessity of 
 using them, by discovering in the intruder the bearded visage 
 of the gipsy Balthazar. The patrico was habited in mendicant 
 weeds, and sustained a large wallet upon his shoulders. 
 
 " So it's all over with the best mare in England, I see," 
 said Balthazar ; " I can guess how it has happened — you are 
 pursued?" 
 
 "I am," said Dick, roughly. 
 
 " Your pursuers are at hand ?" 
 
 *' Within a few hundred yards." 
 
 *' Then why stay here ? Fly while you can." 
 
 " Nevei" — never," cried Turpin ; " I'll fight it out here by 
 Bess's side. Poor lass ! I've killed her — but she has done it 
 — ha ! ha ! we have won — what !" And his utterance was 
 again choked. 
 
 " Hark ! I hear the tramp of horses, and shouts," cried the 
 patrico, " Take this wallet. You will find a change of dress 
 within it. Dart into that thick copse — save yourself." 
 
 " But Bess — I cannot leave her," exclaimed Dick, with an 
 agonizing look at his horse. 
 
 " And what did Bess die for, but to save you ?" rejoined 
 the i^ati'ico. 
 
 " True, true," said Dick ; " but take care of her. Don't let 
 those dogs of hell meddle with her carcass." 
 
 " Away," cried the patrico ; " leave Bess to me." 
 
 Possessing himself of the wallet, Dick disappeared in the 
 adjoining copse. 
 
 He had not been gone many seconds when Major Mowbray 
 rode up. 
 
 " Who is this ?" exclaimed the major, flinging himself from 
 his horse, and seizing the patrico : " this is not Turpin." 
 
 " Certainly not," replied Balthazar, coolly. " I am not 
 exactly the figure for a highwayman." 
 
 " Whei'e is he ? what has become of him P" asked Coates, 
 in despair, as he and Paterson joined the major. 
 
 " Escaped, I fear," replied the major. " Have you seen any 
 one, fellow?" added he, addressing the patrico. 
 
 " I have seen no one," replied Balthazar. " I am only this 
 instant arrived. This dead horse lying in the road attracted 
 my attention." 
 
 " Ha !" exclaimed Paterson, leaping from his steed ; " this 
 may be Turpin after all. He has as many disguises as the
 
 334 ROOKWOOD. 
 
 devil himself, and may have carried that goat's hair in his 
 pocket." Saying which, he seized the patrico by the beard, 
 and shook it with as little reverence as the Gaul handled the 
 hirsute chin of the Eoman senator, 
 
 "The devil! hands off !" roared Balthazar. "BySalamon 
 I won't stand such usage. Do you think a beard like mine is 
 the growth of a few minutes ? Hands off, I say." 
 
 " Regularly done !" said Paterson, removing his hold of the 
 patrico's chin, and looking as blank as a cartridge. 
 
 " Ay," exclaimed Coates ; " all owing to this worthless piece 
 of can-ion. If it were not that I hope to see him dangling 
 from those walls" (jjointing towards the castle), "I should 
 wish her master were by her side now. To the dogs with 
 her." And he was about to spvu-n the breathless carcass of 
 poor Bess, when a sudden blow, dealt by the patrico's staff, 
 felled him to the ground. 
 
 " I'll teach you to molest nie," said Balthazar, about to 
 attack Paterson. 
 
 " Come, come," said the discomfited chief constable, " no 
 more of this. It's plain we're in the wrong box. Every 
 bone in my body aches sufficiently without the aid of your 
 cudgel, old fellow. Come, Mr. Coates, take my arm, and 
 let's be moving. We've had an infernal long ride for 
 nothing." 
 
 "Not so," rejjlied Coates; "I've paid pretty dearly for it. 
 However, let us see if we can get any breakfast at the 
 Bowling-green, yonder ; though I've already had my morning 
 draught," added the facetious man of law, looking at his 
 dripping apparel. 
 
 "Poor Black Bess!" said Major Mowbray, wistfully re- 
 garding the body of the mare, as it lay stretched at his feet. 
 " Thou deservedst a better fate and a better master. In thee 
 Dick Turpin has lost his best friend. His exploits will, 
 henceforth, want the colouring of romance, which thy unfailing 
 energies threw over them. Light lie the ground over thee, 
 thou matchless mare !" 
 
 To the Bowling-green the party proceeded, leaving the 
 patrico in undisturbed possession of the lifeless body of Black 
 Bess. Major Mowbray ordered a substantial repast to be 
 prepared with all possible expedition. 
 
 A countryman in a smock-frock was busily engaged at his 
 morning's meal. 
 
 " To see that fellow bolt down his breakfast, one would
 
 ROOKWOOD. 335 
 
 tliink he had fasted for a month," said Coates ; " see the 
 wholesome effects of an honest, industrious Hfe, Paterson. I 
 envy him his appetite — I should fall to with more zest were 
 Dick Txirpin in his j)lace." 
 
 The countryman looked up. He was an odd-looking fel- 
 low, with a terrible squint, and a strange, contorted coun- 
 tenance. 
 
 " An ugly dog !" exclaimed Paterson; "what a devil of a 
 twist he has got !" 
 
 " What's that you says about Dick Taarpin, measter ?'* 
 asked the countryman, with his mouth half-full of bread. 
 
 " Have you seen aught of him ?" asked Coates. 
 
 "Not I," mumbled the rustic; "but I hears aw the folk 
 hereabouts talk on him. They say as how he sets all the 
 lawyers and constables at defiance, and laughs in his sleeve 
 at their efforts to cotch him — ha, ha ! He gets over more 
 ground in a day than they do in a week — ho, ho !" 
 
 " That's all over now," said Coates, peevishly. " He has 
 cut his own throat — ridden his famous mare to death." 
 
 The countryman ahnost choked himself, in the attempt to 
 bolt a huge mouthful. " Ay — indeed, measter ! How hap- 
 pened that ?" asked he, so soon as he recovered speech. 
 
 " The fool rode her from London to York last night," re- 
 turned Coates ; " such a feat was never perfonned before. 
 What horse could be expected to hve through such work as 
 that?" 
 
 " Ah, he were a f oo' to attempt that," observed the coun- 
 tryman ; " but you followed belike ?" 
 
 " We did." 
 
 " And took him arter all, I reckon ?" asked the rustic, 
 squinting more horribly than ever. 
 
 "No," returned Coates, "I can't say we did; but we'll 
 have him yet. I'm pretty sure he can't be far off. We may 
 be nearer him than we imagine." 
 
 "May be so, measter," returned the countryman; "but 
 might I be so bold as to ax how many horses you used i' the 
 chase — some half-dozen, may be ?" 
 
 " Half a dozen !" growled Paterson ; " we had twenty at 
 the least." 
 
 "And I one!" mentally ejaculated Turj)in, for he was the 
 countryman.
 
 336 ROOK WOOD. 
 
 iaoli f^e liftt 
 
 THE OATH. 
 
 It was an ill oath better broke than ke[)t — 
 
 The laws of nature, and of nation?, do 
 
 Dispense with matters of divinity 
 
 In such a case. TatehaM, 
 
 THE HUT ON THORNE WASTK. 
 
 Hind. Are all our horses and our arms in safety? 
 
 Furbo. They feed, like Pluto's palfreys, under ground. 
 Our pistols, swoi'ds, and other furniture, 
 Are safely locked up at our rendezvous. 
 
 Prince of Prigs' Revels. 
 
 The hut on Thome Waste, to which we have before inci- 
 dentally alluded, and whither we are now about to repair, 
 was a low, lone hovel, situate on the banks of the deep and 
 oozy Don, at the eastern extremity of that extensive moor. 
 Ostensibly its owner fulfilled the duties of ferryman to that 
 part of the river ; but as the road, which skirted his tene- 
 ment, was little frequented, his craft was, for the most part, 
 allowed to sleep undisturbed in her moorings. 
 
 In reality, however, he was the inland agent of a horde of 
 smugglers who infested the neighbouring coast ; his cabin 
 was their rendezvous ; and not unfrequently, it was said, the 
 depository of their contraband goods. Conkey Jem (so was 
 he called by his associates, on account of the Slawkenbergian 
 promontory which decorated his coimtenance) had been an 
 old hand at the same trade ; but having returned from a 
 seven years' leave of absence from his own country, procured 
 by his lawless life, now managed matters with more circum- 
 spection and prudence, and had never since been detected in 
 his former illicit traffic ; nor, though so marvellously gifted 
 in that particular himself, was he ever known to 7wse upon 
 any of his accomplices ; or, in other words, to betray them. 
 On the contrary, his hut was a sort of asylum for all fugitives 
 from justice ; and although the sanctity of his walls would,
 
 ROOKWOOD. 337 
 
 in all probability, have been little regarded, bad anj one been 
 detected Avitbin tbem, yet, strange to say, even if a robber 
 bad been tracked (as it often chanced) to Jem's immediate 
 neighbourhood, all traces of him were sure to be lost at the 
 ferryman's hut ; and further search was useless. 
 
 Within, the hut presented such an appearance as might be 
 expected, from its owner's pursuits and its own unpromising 
 exterior. Consisting of little more than a couple of rooms, 
 the rude, whitewashed mud walls exhibited, in lieu of prints 
 of more pretension, a gallery of choicely-illustrated ballads, 
 celebrating the exploits of various highwaymen, renowned in 
 song, amongst which, our friend Dick Turpin figured con- 
 spicuously upon his sable steed, Bess being represented by a 
 huge rampant black patch, and Dick, with a pistol consider- 
 ably longer than the arm that sustained it. Next to this 
 curious collection was a drum-net, a fishing-rod, a landing- 
 net, an eel-spear, and other jjiscatorial apparatus, with a 
 couple of sculls and a boat-hook, indicative of Jem's ferry- 
 man's office, suspended by various hooks; the whole blackened 
 and begrimed by peat smoke, there being no legitimate means 
 of exit permitted to the vapour generated by the turf-covered 
 hearthstone. The only window, indeed, in the hut, was to 
 the front ; the back apartment, which served Jem for dor- 
 mitory, had no aperture whatever for the admission of light, 
 except such as was afforded t'urougli the door of communica- 
 tion between the rooms. A few broken rush-bottomed chairs, 
 with a couple of dirty tables, formed the sum total of the 
 ferryman's fxirniture. 
 
 Notwithstanding the grotesque effect of his exaggei^ated 
 nasal organ, Jem's aspect was at once savage and repulsive ; 
 his lank black hair hung about his inflamed visage in wild elf 
 locks, the animal predominating throughout ; his eyes were 
 small, red, and wolfish, and glared suspiciously from beneath 
 his scarred and tufted eyebrows ; while certain of his teeth 
 projected, like the tusks of a boar, from out his coarse-lipped 
 sensual mouth. Dwarfish in stature, and deformed in person, 
 Jem was built for strength ; and what with his width of 
 shoulder and shortness of neck, his figure looked as square 
 and solid as a cube. His throat and hirsute chest, constantly 
 exposed to the weather, had acquired a glowing tan, while 
 his arms, uncovered to the shoulders, and clothed with fur 
 like a bear's hide, down, almost, to the tips of his fingers, 
 )resented a knot of folded muscles, the concentrated force of 
 .rhich few would have desired to encounter in action.
 
 338 KOOKWOOD. 
 
 It was now on the stroke of midnight ; and Jem, who had 
 been lying extended upon the floor of his hovel, suddenly 
 aroused by that warning impulse which never fails to awaken 
 one of his calling at the exact moment when they require to 
 be upon the alert, now set about fanning into flame the ex- 
 piring fuel upon his hearth. Having succeeded in igniting 
 further portions of turf, Jem proceeded to examine the 
 security of his door and window, and satisfied that lock and 
 bolt were shot, and that the shutter was carefully closed, he 
 kindled a light at his fire, and walked towards his bedroom. 
 But it was not to retire for the night that the ferryman 
 entered his donnitory. Beside his crazy couch stood a litter 
 of empty bottles and a beer cask, crowding the chamber. 
 The latter he rolled aside, and pressing his foot upon the 
 plank beneath it, the board gave way, and a trap-door open- 
 ing, discovered a ladder, conducting, apparently, into the 
 bowels of the earth. Jem leaned over the abyss, and called 
 in hoarse accents to some one below. 
 
 An answer was immediately returned, and a light became 
 soon afterwards visible at the foot of the ladder. Two 
 figures next ascended ; the first who set foot within the 
 feiTyman's chamber was Alan Rookwood ; the other, as the 
 reactor may perhaps conjecture, was his grandson. 
 
 " Is it the hour ?" asked Luke, as he sprang from out the 
 trap- door. 
 
 "Ay," replied Jem, with a coarse laugh; "or I had not 
 disturbed nryself to call you. But, may be," added ho, 
 softening his manner a little ; " you'll like some refreshment 
 before you start ? A stoup of Nantz will put you in cue for 
 the job, ha, ha!" 
 
 " Not I," replied Luke, who could iU. tolerate his com- 
 panion's familiarity. 
 
 " Grive me to drink," said Alan, walking feebly towards 
 the fire, and extending his skinny fingers before it. " I am 
 chilled by the damps of that swampy cave — the natural heat 
 within me is nigh extinguished." 
 
 " Here is that shall put fresh marrow into your old bones," 
 returned Jem, handing him a tumbler of brandy ; " never 
 stint it. I'll be sworn you'll be the better on't, for you look 
 desperate queer, man, about the mazzard." 
 
 Alan was, in sooth, a ghastly spectacle. The events of the 
 last few days had wrought a fearful change. His counte- 
 nance was almost exanimate ; and when, with shaking hand
 
 ROOKWOOD. 339 
 
 and trembling lips, he had drained the fiery potion to the 
 dregs, a terrible grimace was excited upon his features, such 
 as is produced upon the corpse by the action of the galvanic 
 machine. Even Jem regarded him with a sort of apprehen- 
 sion. After he had taken breath for a moment, Alan broke 
 out into a fit of wild and immoderate laughter. 
 
 "Why, ay," said he, " this is indeed to grow young again, 
 and to feel fresh fire within one's veins. "Who would have 
 thought so much of life and energy could reside in this little 
 vessel ? I am myself once more, and not the same soulless, 
 pulseless lump of clay I was a moment or two back. The 
 damps of that den had destroyed me — and the solitude— the 
 tcaJcing dreams I've had — the visions ! horrible ! I will not 
 think of them. I am better now — ready to execute my plans 
 — your plans I should say, grandson Luke. Are our horses 
 in readiness ? Why do we tarry ? The hour is arrived, and 
 I would not that my new-blown courage should evaporate, 
 ere the great work, for which I live, be accomplished. That 
 done, I ask no fm'ther stimulant. Let us away." 
 
 " We tarry but for Turpin," said Luke, " I am as impatient 
 as yom'self. I fear some mischance must have befallen him, 
 or he would have been true to his appomtment. Do you not 
 think so ?" he added, addressing the ferryman. 
 
 " Why," replied Jem, reluctantly ; " since you put it home 
 to me, and I can't conceal it no longer, I'll tell you what I 
 didn't tell afore, for fear you should be down in the mouth 
 about it. Dick Turpin can do nothing for you — he's 
 grabb'd." 
 
 " Turpin apprehended !" ejaculated Luke. 
 
 "Ay," returned Jem. "I learnt from a farmer, who 
 crossed the ferry at night-fall, that he were grabb'd this 
 morning at York, after having ridden his famous cherry- 
 coloured prad to death — that's what hurts me more nor all 
 the rest ; though I fear Dick will scarce cheat the nubbing 
 cheat this go. His time's up, I calculate." 
 
 " Will you supply his place and accompany us ?" asked 
 Luke, of the fenyman. 
 
 "ISTo, no," replied Jem, shaking his head; "there's too 
 much risk, and too little profit, in the business for me— it 
 won't pay." 
 
 " And what might tempt you to undertake the enterprise ?" 
 asked Alan. 
 
 " More than you have to offer, Master Peter," replied Jem, 
 
 z 2
 
 340 ROOKWOOD. 
 
 who had not been enlightened upon the subject of Alan's real 
 name or condition. 
 
 "How know you that?" demanded Alan. "Name your 
 demand," 
 
 " Well, then, I'll not say but a hundred pounds, if you had 
 it, might bribe me " 
 
 " To part with your soul to the devil, I doubt not," said 
 Luke, fiercely stamping the ground. " Let us be gone. We 
 need not his mercenary aid. We will do without him." 
 
 " Stay," said Alan, " you shall have the hundred, provided 
 you will assure us of your services." 
 
 " Cut no more blarneyfied whids, Master Sexton," replied 
 Jem, in a gruff tone. " If I'm to go, I must have the chink 
 down, and that's more nor either of you can do, I'm 
 thinking." 
 
 " Give me your purse," whispered Alan to his grandson. 
 " Pshaw," continued he, " do you hesitate ? This man can 
 do much for us. Think upon Eleanor, and be prudent. You 
 cannot accomj)lish your task unaided." Taking the amount 
 from the purse, he gave it to the fei*ryman, adding, " if we 
 succeed, the sum shall be doubled, and now let us set out." 
 
 During Alan's speech, Jem's sharp eyes had been fastened 
 upon the purse, while he mechanically clutched the bank 
 notes which were given to him. He could not remove his 
 gaze, but continued staring at the ti*easure before him, as if 
 he would willingly, by force, have made it all his own. 
 
 Alan saw the error he had committed, in exposing the con- 
 tents of the purse to the avaricious ferryman, and was about 
 to restore it to Luke, when the bag was suddenly snatched 
 from his grasp, and himself levelled by a blow upon the floor. 
 Conkey Jem found the temptation irresistible. Knowing 
 himself to be a match for both his companions, and imagining 
 he was secure from interruption, he conceived the idea of 
 making away with them, and possessing himself of their 
 wealth. No sooner had he disposed of Alan, than he assailed 
 Luke, who met his charge half way. With the vigour and 
 alacrity of the latter the reader is already acquainted, but he 
 was no match for the Herculean strength of the double- 
 jointed ferryman, who, with the ferocity of the boar he so 
 much resembled, thus furiously attacked him. Nevei'theless, 
 as may be imagined, he was not disposed to yield up his life 
 tamely. He saw at once the villain's mvu'derous intentions, 
 and, well aware of his prodigious power, would not have
 
 ROOKWOOD. 341 
 
 risked a close struggle could lie have avoided it. Snatching 
 the eel-spear from the wall, he had hm-led it at the head of 
 his adversary, but without effect. In the next instant he was 
 locked in a clasp terrible as that of a polar bear. In spite of 
 all his struggles, Luke was speedily hurled to the ground ; 
 and Jem, who had thrown himself upon him, was apparently 
 searching about for some weapon, to put a bloody termination 
 to the conflict, when the trampling of a horse was heard at 
 the door, three taps were repeated slowly, one after the other, 
 and a call resounded from a whistle. 
 
 "Damnation!" ejaculated Jem, gruflfly, "interrupted!" 
 And he seemed irresolute, slightly altering his position on 
 Luke's body. 
 
 The moment was fortunate for Luke, and, in all proba- 
 bility, saved his life. He extricated himself from the ferry- 
 man's grasp, regained his feet, and, what was of more 
 importance, the weapon he had thrown away. 
 
 "Villain !" cried he, about to plunge the spear with all his 
 force into his enemy's side. " Tou shall " 
 
 The whistle was again heard without. 
 
 " Don't you hear that ?" cried Jem ; " 'tis Turpin's call." 
 
 " Turpin!" echoed Luke, dropping the point of his weapon. 
 ** Unbar the door, you treacherous rascal, and admit him." 
 
 "Well, say no more about it, Sir Luke," said Jem, fawn- 
 ingly ; " I knows I owes you my life, and I thank you for it. 
 Take back the lowre. He should not have shown it nie — it 
 was that as did all the mischief." 
 
 " Unbar the door, and parley not," said Luke, con- 
 temptuously. 
 
 Jem complied with pretended alacrity, but real reluctance, 
 casting suspicious glances at Luke as he withdrew the bolts. 
 The door at length being opened, haggard, exhausted, and 
 covered with dust, Dick Turpin staggered into the hut. 
 
 "Well, I am here," said he with a hollow laugh. "I've 
 kept my word — ha, ha! I've been damnably put to it; but 
 here I am, ha, ha !" and he sank upon one of the stools. 
 
 " We heard you were apprehended," said Luke. " I am 
 glad to find the information was false," added he, glancing 
 angrily at the ferryman. 
 
 " Wlioever told you that, told you a lie, Sir Luke," replied 
 Dick ; " but what are you scowling at, old Charon ? — and 
 you. Sir Luke ? Why do you glower at each other ? Make 
 fast the door — bolt it, Cerberus — right ! Now give me a
 
 342 ROOKWOOD. 
 
 glass of brandy, and then I'll talk — a bumper — so— another. 
 What's that I see — a dead man ? Old Peter — Alan 1 mean — 
 has anything happened to him, that he has taken his measure 
 there so quietly ?" 
 
 "Nothing, I trust," said Luke, stooping to raise up his 
 grandsire. " The blow has stunned him." 
 
 "The blow?" repeated Turpin. "What! there has been 
 a quarrel then ? I thought as much from yoiu" amiable looks 
 at each other. Come, come, we must have no differences. 
 Give the old earthworm a taste of this — I'll engage it will 
 bring him to fast enough. Ay, rub his temples with it if 
 you'd rather; but it's a better remedy down the gullet — the 
 natural course ; and hark ye, Jem, search your crib quickly, 
 and see if you have any gnih within it, and any more bub in 
 the cellar : I'm as hungry as a hunter, and as thirsty as a, 
 camel." 
 
 II. 
 
 MAJOH. MOWBEAY. 
 
 Mephisto^lieles. Ont witb your toasting-iron ! Thrust away ! 
 
 Faust. — Hay ward's Translation, 
 
 CoNKEY Jem went in search of such provisions as his hovel 
 afforded. Turpin, meantime, lent his assistance towards the 
 revival of Alan Rookwood ; and it was not long befoi'e his 
 efforts, united with those of Luke, were successful, and Alan 
 restored to consciousness. He was greatly surprised to find 
 tjie highwayman had joined them, and expressed an earnest 
 desire to quit the hut as speedily as possible. 
 
 " That shall be done forthwith, my dear fellow," said Dick. 
 "But if you had fasted as long as I have done, and gone 
 through a few of my fatigues into the bargain, you Avould 
 perceive, without difiiculty, the propriety of supping before 
 you started. Hei'e comes Old Nosey, with a flitch of bacon 
 and a loaf. Egad, I can scarce wait for the toasting. In my 
 present mood, I could almost devour a grunter in the sty." 
 Whereupon he applied himself to the loaf, and to a bottle of 
 stout March ale, which Jem placed upon the table, quaffing
 
 ROOKWOOD. 343 
 
 copious draughts of the latter, while the ferryman employed 
 himself in toasting certain rashers of the flitch upon the hiss- 
 ing embers. 
 
 Luke, meanwhile, stalked impatiently about the room. He 
 had laid aside his tridental spear, having first, however, placed 
 a pistol within his breast to be ready for instant service, should 
 occasion demand it, as he could now put little reliance upon 
 the ferryman's fidelity. He glanced with impatience at Tur- 
 pin, who pursued his meal with steady voracity, worthy of a 
 half -famished soldier ; but the highwayman I'eturned no an- 
 swer to his looks, except such as was conveyed by the inces- 
 sant clatter of his masticating jaws, during the progress ol 
 his, apparently, interminable repast. 
 
 "Ready for you in a second, Sir Luke," said Dick; "all 
 right now — capital ale, Charon — strong as Styx — ha, ha ! — 
 one other rasher, and I've done. Sorry to keep you — can't 
 conceive how cleverly I put the wdnkers upon 'em at York, in 
 the dress of a countryman ; all owing to old Baity, the 
 patrico, an old pal — ha, ha ! My old pals never 7iose upon 
 me— eh, Nosey — always help one out of the water — always 
 stanch. Here's health to you, old crony." 
 
 Jem returned a sulky response, as he placed the last rasher 
 on the table, which was speedily discussed. 
 
 " Poor Bess '." muttered Dick, as he quaffed off the final 
 glass of ale. " Poor lass ! we i)uried her by the roadside, 
 beneath the trees — deej) — deep. Her remains shall never be 
 disturbed. Alas ! alas ! my bonnie Black Bess ! but no mat- 
 ter, her name is yet alive — her deeds will survive her — the 
 trial is over. And now," continued he, rising from his seat, 
 " I'm wdth you. Where are the tits ?" 
 
 " In the stable, underground," growled Jem. 
 
 Alan Rookwood, in the mean time, had joined his grand- 
 son, and they conversed an instant or two apart. 
 
 " My strength will not bear me through the night," said 
 he. " That fellow has thoroughly disabled me. You must 
 go without me to the hall. Here is the key of the secret 
 passage. You know the entrance. 1 will await ycu in the 
 tomb." 
 
 " The tomb !" echoed Luke, 
 
 " Ay, our family vault," returned Alan, with a ghastly 
 giin ; " it is the only place of security for me now. Let me 
 see her there. Let me know that my vengeance is complete, 
 that I triumph in my death over him, the accursed bro/her,
 
 344 ROOKWOOD. 
 
 through you, mj grandson. Tort have a rival brother — a 
 successful one ; you know what hatred is." 
 
 "I do," returned Luke, fiercely. 
 
 " But not such a hate as mine, which, though a life, a long 
 life, hath endured, intense as when 'twas first engendered in 
 my bosom ; which from one hath spread o'er all my race — 
 o'er all save i/ou — and which even now, when death stares 
 me in the face — when the sj)irit pants to fly from its prison- 
 house, burns fiercely as ever. You cannot know what liate 
 like that may be. You must have wrongs — such wrongs as 
 mine first." 
 
 " My hate to Eanulph is bitter as your own to Sir 
 Eeginald." 
 
 " Name him not," shrieked Alan. " But, oh ! to think 
 upon the bride he robbed me of — the young — the beautiful ! 
 — whom I loved to madness ; whose mamory is a barbed 
 shaft, yet rankling keen as ever in my heart. God of Jus- 
 tice ! how is it that I have thus long survived ? But some 
 men die by inches. My dying lips shall name him once 
 again, and then 'twill be but to blend his name with 
 curses." 
 
 " I speak of him no more," said Luke. " I will meet you 
 in the vault." 
 
 " Remember, to-morrow is her wedding-day with Ranulph." 
 
 " Think you I forget it ? 
 
 " Bear it constantly in mind. To-morrow's dawn must see 
 her yours or his. You have her oath. To you or to death 
 she is affianced. If she should hesitate in her election, do 
 not you hesitate. Women's will is fickle ; her scruples of 
 conscience will be readily overcome ; she will not heed her 
 vows ; but let her not escape you. Cast off all your weakness. 
 You are young, and not as I am, age-enfeebled. Be firm, 
 and," added he, with a look of teri'ible meaning, " if all else 
 should fail — if you are surrounded — if you cannot bear her 
 off — use this," and he placed a dagger in Luke's hands. " It 
 has avenged me, ere now, on a perjured wife, it will avenge 
 you of a foresworn mistress, and remove all obstacle to 
 Eookwood." 
 
 Luke took the weapon. 
 
 *' Would you have me kill her ?" demanded he. 
 
 " Sooner than she should be Ranulph's." 
 
 " Ay, aught sooner than that. But I woidd not murder 
 both."
 
 ROOKWOOD. C15 
 
 " Both !" eclioed Alan. "I understand you not." 
 
 " Sibyl and Eleanor," replied Luke : " for, sui-ely as I live, 
 Sibyl's death will lie at my door." 
 
 "How so?" asked Alan; " the poison was self-ministered." 
 
 " True," replied Luke, with terrible emphasis, " huti spoke 
 daggers. Hearken to me," said he, hollowly whisjjering in his 
 grandsire's ears. " Methinks I am not long for this world. 
 I have seen her since her death." 
 
 "Tut, tut," replied Alan. " 'Tis not for you (a man) to 
 talk thus. A truce to these womanish fancies." 
 
 " Womanish or not," returned Luke ; " either my fancy has 
 deceived me, or I beheld her, distinctly as I now behold you, 
 I within yon cave, while you were sleeping by my side." 
 ' " It is disordered fancy," said Alan Rookwood. "You will 
 live — live to inherit Eookwood^live to see them fall, crushed 
 beneath your feet. JFor myself, if I but see you master of 
 Eleanor's hand, or know that she no longer lives to bless your 
 rival, or to mar your prospects, I care not how soon I brave 
 my threatened doom." 
 
 " Of one or other you shall be resolved to-night," said Luke, 
 placing the dagger within his vest. 
 
 At this moment a trampling of a horse was heard before 
 the hovel, and in another instant a loud knocking resounded 
 from the door. The ferryman instantly extinguished the 
 light, motioning his companions to remain silent. 
 
 " What ho !" shouted a voice. " Ferry wanted." 
 
 "Gad zooks !" exclaimed Dick. "As I live, 'tis Majoi- 
 Mowbray." 
 
 " Major Mowbray !" echoed Alan, in amazement. " What 
 doth he here ?" 
 
 " He must be on his way from York to Eookwood, I con- 
 clude," said Dick. "If he's here, I'U engage the others are 
 not far off." 
 
 Scarcely were the words out of Dick's mouth, when further 
 clatter was heard at the door, and the tones of Coates were 
 heard in altissimo key, demanding admittance. 
 
 "Let us retire into the next room," whisi^ered Turpin, 
 " and then admit them, by all means, Conkey. And hark ye, 
 manage to detain them a few seconds." 
 
 " I'll do it," said Jem. " There's a bit of a hole you can 
 peep through." 
 
 Another loud rat-tat was heard at the door, threatening to 
 burst it from its hinges.
 
 346 ROOK WOOD. 
 
 " Well, I be coming," said Jem, seeing tlie coast was clear, 
 in a drowsy, yawning tone, as if just awakened from sleep. 
 " You'll cross the river none tlie faster for making so much 
 noise." 
 
 With these words he unbarred the door, and Coates and 
 Paterson, who, it appeared, were proceeding to Eookwood, 
 entered the hovel. Major Mowbray remained on horseback 
 at the door. 
 
 " Can you find us a glass of brandy, to keep out the fog ?'* 
 said Coates, who knew something of our ferryman's vocations. 
 " I know you to be a lad of amazing spirit.'" 
 
 " May be I can, master, if I choose. But won't the other 
 gemman walk in doors likewise r" 
 
 " No, no," said Coates ; " Major Mowbray don't choose to 
 dismount." 
 
 " Well, as you please," said Jem. " It '11 take me a minute 
 or two to get the j)unt in order for sll them prads." 
 
 " The brandy in the first place," said Coates. " What's 
 here ?" added the loquacious attorney, noticing the remnants 
 of Turpin's repast. " But that we're hurried, I should like a 
 little frizzled bacon myself." 
 
 Jem opened the door of his dormitory with the greatest 
 caution, though apparent indifference, and almost instantly 
 retm'ned with the brandy. Coates filled a glass for Paterson, 
 and then another for himself. The ferryman left the house 
 apparently to prejiare his boat, half closing the door after 
 him. 
 
 " By my faith ! this is the right thing, Paterson," said the 
 attorney. " We nlay be sure the strength of this was never 
 tested by a ganger's proof. Take another thimbleful. We've 
 twelve miles and a heavy pull to go through ere we reach 
 Rookwood. After all, we made but a poor night's work of it, 
 master constable. Cursed stupid in us to let him escape. I 
 only wish we had such another chance. Ah, if we had him 
 within reach now, how we would spring upon him — secure 
 him in an instant. I should glory in the encounter. I tell 
 you what, Paterson, if ever he is taken, I shall make a point 
 of attending his execution, and see whether he dies game. 
 Ha! ha! You think he is sure to swing, Paterson, eh ?" 
 
 " Why, yes," replied the chief constable. " I wish I was 
 as certain of my reward as that Turjiin will eventually figure 
 at the scragging-post." 
 
 "Your reward!" replied Coates. "Make yourself easy on
 
 ROOKWOOD. 347 
 
 that score, my boy ; you shall have your dues, depend upon it. 
 Nay, for the matter of that, I'll give you the money now, if 
 you think proper." 
 
 " Nothing like time present," said Paterson. " We'll make 
 all square at once." 
 
 "Well, then," said Coates, taking out a pocket-book, "you 
 shall have the hundi-ed I promised. You won't get Tui-pin's 
 reward, the three hundred pounds ; but that can't be helped. 
 You shall have mine — always a man of my word, Paterson," 
 continued the attorney, counting out the money. " My father, 
 the thief -taker, was a man of his word before me." 
 
 " No doubt," said the chief constable ; "I shall always be 
 happy to serve you." 
 
 " And then there's that other affair," said the attorney, 
 mysteriously, still occupied in doling out his bank notes, " that 
 Luke Bradley's case ; the fellow, I mean, who calls himself 
 Sir Luke Rookwood — ha, ha ! A rank imposter ! Two fives, 
 that makes fifty : you want another fifty, Paterson. As I 
 was saying, we may make a good job of that — we must ferret 
 him out. I know who will come down properly for that ; and 
 if we could only tuck him up with his brother blade, why it 
 would be worth double. He's all along been a thorn in my 
 Lady Eookwood's side ; he's an artful scomidrel." 
 
 " Leave him to me," said Paterson ; " I'll have him in less 
 than a week. What's your charge against him ?" 
 
 ** Felony, biirglary, murder, every description of crime under 
 the heavens," said Coates. " He's a very devil incarnate. 
 Dick Turpin is as mild as milk compared with him. By the 
 bye, now I think of it, this Jem, Conkey Jem, as folks call 
 him, may know something about him ; he's a keen file, I'll 
 soimd him. Thirty, forty, fifty — there's the exact amoiuit. 
 So much for Dick Turpin." 
 
 " Dick Turpin thanks you for it in person," said Dick, 
 suddenly snatching the whole sum from Paterson's hands, 
 and felling the chief constable with a blow of one of his 
 pistols, " I wish I was as sure of escaping the gallows as I 
 am certain that Paterson has got his reward. You stare, sir. 
 You are once more in the hands of the Philistines. See who 
 is at yom- elbow." 
 
 Coates, who was terrified almost out of his senses at the 
 sight of Turpin, scarcely ventured to turn his head ; but 
 when he did so, he was perfectly horror-stricken at the 
 threatening aspect of Luke, who held a cutlass in his hand, 
 which he had picked up in the ferryman's bedroom.
 
 348 EOOKWOOD. 
 
 " So you would condemn me for crimes I have never com- 
 mitted," said Luke. " I am tempted, I own, to add the 
 destruction of your worthless existence to their number." 
 
 " Mercy, for God's sake, mercy !" cried Coates, throwing 
 himself at Luke's feet. " I meant not what I said." 
 
 " Hence, reptile," said Luke, pushing him aside ; " I leave 
 you to be dealt upon by others." 
 
 At this juncture, the door of the hut was flung open, and 
 in rushed Major Mowbray, sword in hand, followed by 
 Conkey Jem. 
 
 " There he stands, sir," cried the latter ; " upon him." 
 
 " What ! Conkey Jem turned snitch upon his pals ?" cried 
 Dick ; "I scarce believe my own ears." 
 
 " Make yourself scarce, Dick," growled Jem ; " the jig- 
 ger's open, and the boat loose. Leave Luke to his fate. He's 
 sold." 
 
 " Never, vile traitor," shouted Dick ; " 'tis thou art sold, 
 not he ;" and, almost ere the words were spoken, a ball was 
 lodged in the brain of the treacherous ferryman. 
 
 Major Mowbray, meanwhile, had rushed furiously upon 
 Luke, who met his assault with determined calmness. The 
 strife was sharp, and threatened a speedy and fatal issue. On 
 the major's side it was a desperate attack of cut and thrust, 
 which Luke had some difficulty in parrying ; but as yet no 
 wounds were inflicted. Soldier as was the major, Luke was 
 not a whit inferior to him in his knowledge of the science of 
 defence, and in the exercise of the bi'oadsword he was per- 
 haps the more skilful of the two : upon the present occasion 
 his coohiess stood him in admirable stead. Seeing him hard 
 pressed, Turpin would have come to his assistance ; but Luke 
 shouted to him to stand aside, and all that Dick could do, 
 amid the terrific clash of steel, was to kick the tables out of 
 the way of the combatants. Luke's arm was now sHghtly 
 grazed by a cut made by the major, which he had parried. 
 The smart of the wound roused his ire. He attacked his ad- 
 versary in his turn, with so much vigour and good-will, that, 
 driven backwards by the irresistible assault. Major Mowbray 
 stumbled over the ferryman's body, which happened to lie in 
 his way ; and his sword being struck from his grasp, his life 
 became at once at his assailant's disposal. 
 
 Luke sheathed his sword. " Major Mowbray," said he, 
 sternly, " your life is in my power, I spare it for the blood 
 that is between us — for your sister's sake. I would not raise 
 my hand against hor brother."
 
 ROOKWOOD. 349 
 
 " I disclaim your kindred witli me, villain !" wratlifully ex- 
 claimed the major. " I hold you no otherwise than as a 
 "wretched impostor, who has set up claims he cannot justify ; 
 
 and as to my sister, if you dare to couple her name " and 
 
 the major made an ineffectual attempt to raise himself, and 
 to regain his sword, which Turpin, however, removed. 
 
 "Dare!" echoed Luke, scornfully; "hereafter, you may 
 learn to fear my threats, and acknowledge the extent of my 
 daring ; and in that confidence I give you life. Listen to me, 
 sir. I am bound for Eookwood. I have private access to the 
 house — to your sister's chamber — her chamber — marked you 
 that ? I shall go armed — attended. This night she shall be 
 mine. From you — from Eanulph — from Lady Eookwood, 
 from all will I bear her off. She shall be mine, and you, before 
 the dawn, my brother, or " and Luke paused. 
 
 " What further villany remains untold ?" inquired the 
 major, fiercely. 
 
 " You shall bewail your sister's memory," replied Luke, 
 gloomily. 
 
 " I embrace the latter alternative with rapture," replied 
 the major — " God grant her firmness to resist you. But I 
 tremble for her j" and the stern soldier groaned aloud in his 
 agony. 
 
 "Here is a cord to bind him," said Tui-pin; "he must 
 remain a prisoner here." 
 
 " Eight," said Alan Eookwood, " unless — but enough blood 
 has been shed already." 
 
 " Ay, marry has there," said Dick, " and I had rather not 
 have given Conkey Jem a taste of blue plumb, had there been 
 any other mode of silencing the snitching scoundrel, which 
 there was not. As to the major, he's a gallant enemy, and 
 shall have fair play as long as Dick Turpin stands by. Come, 
 sir," added he, to the major, as he bound him hand and foot 
 with the rope, "I'll do it as gently as I can. You had better 
 submit with a good grace. There's no help for it. And now 
 for my friend Paterson, who was so anxious to furnish me 
 with a hempen cravat, before my neck was in order, he shall 
 have an extra twist of the rope himself, to teach him the incon- 
 venience of a tight neckcloth, when he recovers." Saying 
 which, he boimd Paterson in such manner, that any attempt 
 at liberation on the chief constable's part would infalhbly 
 strangle him. " As to you, Mr. Coates," said he, addressing 
 the trembling man of law, " you shall proceed to Eookwood 
 with us. You may yet be useful, and I'll accommodate you
 
 350 KOOKWOOD. 
 
 with a seat behind my own saddle — a distinction I never yet 
 conferred upon any of your tribe. Recollect the countryman 
 at the Bowling-green at York — ha, ha ! Come along, sir." 
 And having kicked out the turf fire, Dick prepared to 
 depart. 
 
 It would be vain to describe the feelings of rage and 
 despair which agitated the major's bosom, as he saw the 
 party quit the hovel, accompanied by Coates. Aware as he 
 was of their destination, after one or two desperate but in- 
 effectual attemj)ts to liberate himself, by which he only 
 increased the painful constriction of his bonds without in the 
 slightest degree ameliorating his condition, he resigned him- 
 self, with bitterest forebodings, to his fate. There was no 
 one even to sympathise with his sufferings. Beside him lay 
 the gory corpse of the ferryman, and, at a little distance, the 
 scarcely more animate frame of the chief constable. And here 
 we must leave him, to follow, for a short space, the course of 
 Luke and his companions. 
 
 Concerning themselves little about their own steeds, the 
 party took those which first offered, and embarking man and 
 horse in the boat, soon pushed across the waters of the 
 lutulent Don. Arrived at the opposite banks of the river, 
 they mounted, and, guided by Luke, after half an hour's sharp 
 riding, arrived at the skirts of Rookwood Park. Entering 
 this beautiful sylvan domain, they rode for some time silently 
 among the trees, till they reached the knoll, whence Luke 
 had beheld the hall, on the eventful night of his discovery of 
 his mother's wedding-ring. A few days only had elajised, 
 but dui'ing that brief space what storms had swejjt over his 
 bosom — what ravages had they not made ! He was then all 
 ardour — all impetuosity — all independence. The futm'e pre- 
 sented a bright unclouded prospect. Wealth, honours, and 
 happiness apparently awaited him. It was still the same 
 exquisite scene, hushed, holy, tranquil — even solemn, as upon 
 that glorious night. The moon was out, silvering wood and 
 water, and shining on the white walls of the tranquil man- 
 sion. Nature was calm, serene, peaceful as ever. Beneath 
 the trees, he saw the bounding deer — upon the water, the 
 misty wreaths of vapour — all, all was dreamy, delightful, 
 soothing, all save his heart — tliere was the conflict — there the 
 change. Was it a troubled dream, with the dark oppression 
 of which he was struggling, or was it stern, waking, actual 
 life ? That moment's review of his wild career was terrible.
 
 ROOKWOOD. 351 
 
 He sa-w to wliat extremes liis ungoveruable passions liad hur- 
 ried liim ; lie saw their inevitable consequences ; he saw also 
 his own fate ; but he I'ushed madly on. 
 
 He swept round the park, keeping under the covert of the 
 wood, till he arrived at the avenue leading to the mansion. 
 The stems of the aged limes gleamed silvery white in the 
 moonshine. Luke drew in the rein beneath one of the largest 
 of the trees. 
 
 " A branch has fallen," said he, as his gi-andsire joined 
 \iim. 
 
 " Ha !" exclaimed Alan, " a branch from that tree r" 
 
 " It bodes ill to Ranulph," whispered Luke, " does it 
 not ?" 
 
 " Perchance," muttered Alan. " 'Tis a vast bough !" 
 
 " We meet within an hour," said Luke, abruptly. 
 
 " Within the tomb of our ancestry," replied Alan ; " I will 
 await you there." 
 
 ; And as he rode away, Alan murmured to himself the fol- 
 lowing verse from one of his own ballads : 
 
 But whetlier gale or calm prevail, or threatening cloud hath fled, 
 By hand of Fate, predestinate, a limb that tree will shed — 
 A verdant bong-b, untouched, I trow, by axe or tempest's breath — 
 To Eookwood's head an omen dread of fast-approaching death. 
 
 III. 
 
 HA>"DASSAH. 
 
 I have heard it rumoured for these many years, 
 
 None of our family dies but there is seen 
 
 The shape of an old woman, which is given 
 
 By tradition to us to have been mm-thei'ed 
 
 By her nephews for her riches. Such a figure 
 
 One night, as the prince sat up late at 's book, 
 
 Appeared to him ; when, crying out for help. 
 
 The gentleman of his chamber found his Grace 
 
 All in a cold sweat, altered much in face 
 
 And language ; since which apparition 
 
 He hath grown worse and worse, and miTcli I fear 
 
 He cannot live. Duchess of Malfy. 
 
 In one of those large antique rooms belonging to the suite 
 of apartments constituting the eastern wing of Eookwood
 
 352 HOOKWOOD. 
 
 Place — upon the same niglit as that in which the events just 
 detailed took place, and it might be about the same time, sat 
 Eleanor, and her now attendant, the gipsy Handa.ssah. The 
 eyes of the former were fixed, with a mixture of tenderness 
 and pity, upon the lineaments of another lovely female coun- 
 tenance, bearing a striking resemblance to her own, though 
 evidently, from its attire, and bygone costume, not intended 
 for her, depicted upon a tablet, and placed upon a raised 
 frame. It was nigh the witching hour of night. The room 
 was sombre and dusky, partially dismantled of its once flow- 
 ing arras, and the lights set upon the table feebly illumined 
 its dreary extent. Tradition marked it out as the chamber in 
 which many of the hapless dames of Eookwood had expired ; 
 and hence Superstition claimed it as her peculiar domain. 
 The room was reputed to be haunted, and had for a long 
 space shared the fate of haunted rooms — complete desertion. 
 It was now tenanted by one too young, too pure, to fear 
 aught unearthly. Eleanor seemed, nevertheless, affected by 
 the profound melancholy of the picture upon which she gazed. 
 At length, Handassah observed her start, and avert her eye 
 shudderingly from the picture. 
 
 "Take it hence," exclaimed Eleanor; "I have looked at 
 that image of my ancestress, till it has seemed endowed with 
 life — till its eyes have appeared to return my gaze, and weep. 
 Eemove it, Handassah." 
 
 Handassah silently withdrew the tablet, placing it against 
 the wall of the chamber. 
 
 " Not there — not there," cried Eleanor ; " turn it with its 
 face to the wall. I cannot bear those eyes. And now come 
 hither, girl — draw nearer — for I know not what of sudden 
 dread has crossed me. This was her room, Handassah — the 
 chamber of my ancestress — of all the Ladies Eookwood — 
 where they say— ha ! — did you not hear a noise ? — a rustle in 
 the tapestry — a footstep near the wall ? Why, you look as 
 startled as I look, wench ; stay by me — I will not have you 
 stir from my side — 'twas mere fancy." 
 
 " No doubt, lady," said Handassah, with her eyes fixed 
 upon the arras. 
 
 " Hist !" exclaimed Eleanor. " There 'tis again." 
 
 " 'Tis nothing," replied Handassah, But her looks belied 
 her words. 
 
 " Well, I will command myself," said Eleanor, endeavour- 
 ing to regain her calmness ; " but the thoughts of the Lady
 
 EOOKWOOD. 353 
 
 Eleanor — for sTie was an Eleanor like to me, Handassah — ■ 
 and ah ! even more ill-fated and unhappy — have brought a 
 whole train of melancholy fancies into my mind. I cannot 
 banish them ; nay, though painful to me, I recur to these 
 imagCvS of dread, with a species of fascination, as if in their 
 fate I contemplated mine own. Not one, who hath wedded a 
 Eoohwood, but hath rued it." 
 
 *' Yet you will wed one," said Handassah. 
 
 " He is not like the rest," said Eleanor. 
 
 " How know you that, lady ?" asked Handassah. " His 
 time may not yet be come. See what to-morrow will bring 
 forth." 
 
 "You are averse to my marriage with Ranulph, Han- 
 dassah." 
 
 " I was Sybil's handmaid, ere I was yoiars, lady. I bear in 
 mind a solemn compact with the dead, which this marriage 
 will violate. You are plighted by oath to another, if he 
 should demand your hand." 
 
 " But he has not demanded it." 
 
 " Would you accept him were he to do so?" asked Han- 
 dassah, suddenly. 
 
 " I meant not that," replied Eleanor. " My oath is an- 
 nuUed." 
 
 " Say not so, lady," cried Handassah — " 'twas not for this 
 that Sybil spared your life. I love you, but I loved Sybil, 
 and I would see her dying behests complied with." 
 
 "It may not be, Handassah," replied Eleanor. "Why, 
 from a phantom sense of honour, am I to sacrifice my whole 
 existence to one, who neither can love me, nor whom I myself 
 could love ? Am I to wed this man because, in her blind 
 idolatry of him, Sybil enforced an oath upon me which I had 
 no power to resist, and which was mentally cancelled while 
 taken? Eecall not the horrors of that dreadful cell — urge 
 not the subject more. 'Tis in the hope that I may be freed 
 for ever from this persecution, that I have consented thus 
 early to wed with Eanulph. This will set Luke's fancied 
 claims at rest for ever." 
 
 Handassah answered not, but bent her head, as if in acqui- 
 escence. 
 
 Steps were now heard near the door, and a servant ushered 
 in Doctor Small and Mrs. Mowbray. 
 
 " I am come to take leave of you for the night, my dear 
 young lady," said the doctor ; " but before I start for the 
 
 2 A
 
 354 ROOKWOOD. 
 
 Vicarage, I have a word or two to say, in addition to the ad- 
 vice you were so obliging as to receive from me this morning. 
 Suppose you allow your attendant to retire for a few minutes. 
 What I have got to say concerns yourself solely. Tour 
 mother wiU bear us company. There," contir^ued the doctor, 
 as Handassah was dismissed — " I am glad that dark-faced 
 gipsy has taken her departure. I can't say I like her sharp 
 suspicious manner, and the first exercise I should make of my 
 powers, were I to be your husband, should be to discharge 
 the hand-maiden. To the point of my visit. We are alone, I 
 think. This is a queer old house. Miss Mowbray ; and this 
 is the queerest part of it. Walls have ears, they say; and 
 there are so many holes and corners in this mansion, that 
 one ought never to talk secrets above one's breath." 
 
 "I am yet to learn, sir," said Eleanor, "that there is any 
 secret to be commimicated." 
 
 " Why, not much, I own," replied the doctor ; " at least, 
 what has occurred is not a secret in the house by this time. 
 What do you think has happened 'r" 
 
 "It is impossible for me to conjecture. Nothing to Ra- 
 nulph, I hope." 
 
 "Nothing of consequence, I trust, — though he is in part 
 concerned with it." 
 
 " What is it ?" asked Eleanor. 
 
 " Pray, satisfy her curiosity, doctor," interposed Mrs. 
 Mowbray. 
 
 "Weil, then," said Small, rather more gi'avely, "the fact 
 of the matter stands thus: — Lady Eookwood, who, as you 
 know, was not the meekest wife in the world, now turns out 
 by no means the gentlest mother, and has within this hoiu' 
 found out that she has some objection to your union with 
 her son." 
 
 " Tou alarm me, doctor." 
 
 " Don't alarm yourself at all. It will be got over without 
 difficulty, and only requires a little management. Eanulph 
 is with her now, and I doubt not will arrange all to her satis- 
 faction." 
 
 " What was her objection ?" asked Eleanor ; " was it any 
 one founded upon my obligation to Luke — my oath ?" 
 
 " Tut, tut ! dismiss that subject from your mind entirely," 
 said the doctor. " That oath is no more binding on your 
 conscience than would have been the ties of marriage had 
 you been wedded by yon recusant Romish priest, Father
 
 ROOKWOOD. 355 
 
 ChecHej, upon whose guilty head the Lord be merciful ! 
 Bestow not a thought upon it. My anxiety, together with 
 that of your mother, is to see you now, as speedily as may be, 
 wedded to Eanulph, and then that idle question is set at rest 
 for ever ; and, therefore, even if such a thing were to occur 
 as that Lady Eookwood should not yield her consent to your 
 marriage, as that consent is totally unnecessary, we must go 
 through the ceremonial without it." 
 
 " The grounds of Lady Rookwood's objections " said 
 
 Mrs. Mowbray. 
 
 " Ay, the grounds of her ladyship's objections," interposed 
 Small, who, when he had once got the lead, liked nobody to 
 talk but himself, " are simply these, and exactly the sort of 
 objections one would expect her to raise. She cannot bear 
 the idea of abandoning the control of the house and estates 
 to other hands. She cannot, and will not relinquish her 
 station, as head of the establishment, which Eanulph has 
 insisted upon as your right. I thought, when I conversed 
 with her on this subject, that she was changed, but 
 
 Naturam espellas furca, tamen usque recurret. 
 
 T beg your pardon. She is, and always will be the same." 
 
 " \Vliy did not Eanulph concede the point to her? I wish 
 not to dwell here. I care not for these domains — for this 
 mansion. They have no charms for me. I could be happy 
 with Eanulph anywhere — happier anywhere than here." 
 
 The kind-hearted doctor squeezed her hand in reply, brush- 
 ing a tear from his eyes. 
 
 " Why did he not concede it ?" said Mrs. Mowbray, 
 proudly. " Because the choice remained not with him. It 
 was not his to concede. This house — these lands — all — all 
 are yours ; and it were poor requital indeed, if, after they 
 have so long been wrongfully withheld from us, you should 
 be a dependent on Lady Eookwood," 
 
 " Without going quite so far as that, madam," said the doc- 
 tor, " it is but justice to your daughter that she should be put 
 in full possession of her rights ; nor should I for one instant 
 advise, or even allow her to inhabit the same house with Lady 
 Eookwood. Her ladyship's peculiarities of temper are such 
 as to preclude all possibility of happiness. At the same time, 
 I trust by management — always by management, madam — 
 that her ladyship's quiet departure may be insured. I un- 
 derstand that all such legal arrangements in the way of
 
 356 ROOKWOOD. 
 
 settlements as could be entered into between your daughter 
 and her future husband are completed. I have only to regret 
 the absence of my friend, Mr. Coates, at this momentous 
 conjuncture. It will be a loss to him. But he inherits from 
 his father a taste for thief-taking, which he is at present in- 
 dulging, to the manifest injury of his legitimate practice. 
 Hark ! I hear Eanulph's step in the gallery. He will tell us 
 the result of his final interview. I came to give you advice, 
 my dear," added the doctor in a low tone to Eleanor ; " but I 
 find you need it not. ' Whoso humbleth himself, shall be 
 exalted.' I am glad you do not split upon the rock which 
 has stranded half your generation." 
 
 At this moment Eanulph Eookwood entered the room, fol- 
 lowed by Handassah, who took her station at the back of the 
 room, imperceived by the rest of the party, whose attention 
 was attracted by Ranulph's agitated manner. 
 
 " What has happened ?" asked Doctor Small and Mrs. 
 Mowbray, in the same breath. 
 
 Ranulph hesitated for a moment in his answer, during 
 which space he regarded Elea,nor with the deepest anxiety, 
 and seemed revolving withm himself, how he could frame 
 his reply in such way as should be least painful to her feel- 
 ings ; while, with instinctive apprehension of coming mis- 
 fortune, Miss Mowbray eagerly seconded the inquiries of her 
 friends. 
 
 " It is with great pain," said he at length, in a tone of 
 despondency, not unmingled with displeasure, " that I am 
 obliged to descant upon the infinnities of a parent, and to 
 censure her conduct as severely as I may do now. I feel the 
 impropriety of such a step, and I would willingly avoid it, 
 could I do so in justice to my own feelings — and especially at 
 a moment like the present — when every hope of my life is 
 fixed upon uniting myself to you, dear Eleanor, by ties as 
 near as my own to that parent. But the interview which I 
 have just had with Lady Eookwood — bitter and heart-break- 
 ing as it has been — compels me to reprobate her conduct in 
 the strongest terms, as harsh, unjust, and dishonourable; 
 and if I could wholly throw off the son, as she avows she has 
 thrown off the mother, I should unhesitatingly pronounce it 
 as little short of " 
 
 " Dear Eanulph," said Eleanor, palpitating with appre- 
 hension, " I never saw you so much moved." 
 
 "Nor with so much reason," rejoined Ranulph. "For 
 myself, I could endure anything — but for you "
 
 KOOKWOOD. 357 
 
 "And does your dispute relate to me?" asked Eleanor. 
 " Is it for 7ni/ sake you have braved your mother's displea- 
 sure ? Is it because Lady Rookwood is unvpilling to resign 
 the control of this house and these lands to me, that you have 
 parted in anger with her ? Was this the cause of your 
 quarrel ?" 
 
 " It was the origin of it," replied Eanulph. 
 
 " Mother," said Eleanor, firmly, to Mrs. Mowbray, " go 
 With me to Lady Rookwood's chamber." 
 
 " Wherefore ?" demanded Mrs. Mowbray. 
 
 " Question me not, dear mother, or let me go alone." 
 
 " Daughter, I guess your meaning," said Mrs. Mowbray, 
 sternly. "You would relinquish your claims in favour of 
 Lady Rookwood. Is it not so ?" 
 
 " Since you oblige me to answer you, mother," said Eleanor, 
 crimsoning, "I must admit that you have guessed my mean- 
 ing. To Lady Rookwood, as to yourself, I would be a 
 daughter, as far as is consistent with my duty," added she, 
 blushing still more deeply, " but my first consideration 
 shall be my husband. And if Lady Rookwood can be con- 
 tent — but pray question me not further — accompany me to 
 her chamber." 
 
 " Eleanor," interposed Ranulph, " dearest Eleanor, th^ 
 sacrifice you would make is unnecessary — uncalled for. You 
 do not know my mother. She would not, I grieve to say it, 
 appreciate the generosity of youi- motives. She would not 
 give you credit for your feelings. She would only resent 
 your visit, as an intrusion." 
 
 " My daughter comprehends you, sir," said Mrs. Mowbray, 
 haughtily. " I will take care that, in her own house, Miss 
 Mowbray shall remain free from insult." 
 
 " Mother, dear mother," said Eleanor, " do not wilfully 
 misunderstand him." 
 
 " You can be little aware, madam," said Ranulph, calmly, 
 yet sadly, " how much I have recently endured — how much 
 of parental anger — how much of parental malediction I have 
 incvu'red, to save you and your daughter from the indignity 
 you apprehend. As I before said, you do not know my 
 mother ; nor could it enter into any well-regulated imagina- 
 tion to conceive the extremities to which the violence of her 
 passion will, when her schemes are thwarted, hurry her. The 
 terms upon which you met together will not escape your 
 recollection : nor shall I need to recall to your mind her 
 haughtiness, her coldness. That coldness has since ripened
 
 358 iiooKwooD. 
 
 into distrust; and tte matcli wh.icli she was at first all 
 anxiety to promote, she would now utterly set aside, were it 
 in her power to do so. Whence this alteration in her views 
 has arisen, I have no means of ascertaining ; it is not my 
 mother's custom to give a reason for her actions or her 
 wishes : it is all-sufficient to express them, I have perceived, 
 as the time has drawn nigh for the fulfilment of my dearest 
 hopes, that her unwillingness has increased ; until to-day 
 what had hitherto been confined to hints has been openly 
 expressed, and absolute objections raised. Such, however, is 
 the peculiarity of her temper, that I trusted, even at the 
 eleventh hour, I should be able to work a change. Alas ! 
 our last meeting was decisive. She commanded me to break 
 off the match. At once, and peremptorily, I refused. Pardon 
 me, madam, pardon me, dearest Eleanor, if I thus enter into 
 particulars ; it is absolutely necessary I should be explicit. 
 Enraged at my opposition to her wishes, her fury became 
 ungovernable. With appalling imprecations upon the memory 
 of my poor father, and upon your father, madam, whose chief 
 offence in her eyes was, it seems, the disposition of his pro- 
 perty to Eleanor, she bade me begone, and take her curses as 
 my wedding portion. Beneath this roof — beneath her roof, 
 she added — no marriage of mine should e'er take place. I 
 might go hence, or might stay, as I thought fitting ; but you 
 and your daughter, whom she characterized as intruders, 
 should not remain another hour within her house. To this 
 wild raving, I answered, with as much composure as I could 
 command, that she entirely mistook her own position ; and 
 that so far from the odium of intrusion resting with yor, if 
 applicable to any one, the term must necessarily affix itself 
 on those who, through ignorance, had for years unjustly 
 deprived the rightful owners of this place of their inherit- 
 ance. Upon this, her wrath was boundless. She disowned 
 me as her son ; disclaimed all maternal regard ; and heaped 
 ujion my head a frightful malediction, at the recollection of 
 which I still tremble. I will spare you further details of this 
 dreadful scene. To me it is most distressing ; for, however 
 firmly resolved I may be to pursue a line of conduct which 
 every sound principle within me dictates as the correct one, 
 yet I cannot be insensible to the awful responsibility I shall 
 incur in bringing down a mother's curse upon my head, nor 
 to the jeopardy in which her own excessive violence may 
 j)lace her." 
 
 Mrs. Mowbray listened to Eanulph's explanation in haughty
 
 ROOKWOOD. 359 
 
 displeasure ; Eleanor with throbbing, tearful interest ; Doctor 
 Small with niised feelings of anger and astonishment. 
 
 " Lady Rookwood's conduct," said the doctor, " is, you 
 must forgive me, my dear Sir Ranulph, for using strong ex- 
 pressions, outrageous beyond all precedent, and only excus- 
 able on the ground of insanity, to which I wish it were 
 possible we could attribute it. There is, however, too much 
 method in her madness to allow us to indulge any such 
 notion ; she is shrewd, dangerous, and designing ; and, since 
 she has resolved to oppose this match, she will leave no means 
 untried to do so. I scarcely know how to advise you under 
 the circumstances — that is, if my advice were asked." 
 
 " Which I scarcely think it is likely to be, sir," said Mrs. 
 Mowbray, coldly. " After what has occun-ed, / shall think 
 it my duty to break off this alliance, which I have never con- 
 sidered to be so desirable that its rupture will occasion me an 
 instant's uneasiness." 
 
 " A plagu^e on aU these Eookwoods !" muttered Small. 
 " One would think all the pride of the Prince of Darkness 
 were centred in their bosoms. But, madam," continued the 
 benevolent doctor, " have you no consideration for the feel- 
 ings of your daughter, or for those of one who is no distant 
 relation to you — your nephew ? Tour sou, Major Mowbray, is, 
 if I mistake not, most eager for this union to take place be- 
 tween his sister and his friend." 
 
 " My children have been accustomed to yield implicit obe- 
 dience to my wishes," said Mrs. Mowbray ; " and Major 
 Mowbray, I am sure, will see the propriety of the step I am 
 about to take. I am content, at least, to abide by his 
 opinion." 
 
 " Snubbed again !" mentally ejaculated the doctor, with a 
 shrug of despair. " It is useless attempting to work upon 
 such impracticable material." 
 
 Eantilph remained mute, in an attitude of profound me- 
 lancholy. An eloquent interchange of glances had passed 
 between him and Eleanor, communicating to each the anxious 
 state of the other's feelings. 
 
 At this crisis the door was suddenly opened, and old 
 Agnes, Lady Eookwood's aged attendant, rushed into the 
 room, and sank upon her knees on the floor, her limbs 
 shaking, her teeth chattering, and every feature expressive 
 of intense terror. Eanulph went instantly towards her, to 
 demand the cause of her alarm. 
 
 "No, let me pray," cried Agnes, as he took her hand in
 
 360 EOOKWOOD. 
 
 the attempt to raise her ; "let me pray while there is yet 
 time ; let the worthy doctor pray beside me. . Pray for an 
 overladen soul, sir; pray heartily, as you would hope for 
 mercy yourself ; ah ! little know the righteous of the terrors 
 of those that are beyond the pale of mercy. The Lord pardon 
 me my iniquities, and absolve her J 
 
 "Whom do you mean?" asked Ranulph, in agitation. 
 " You do not allude to my mother ?" 
 
 " You have no longer a mother, young man," said Agnes, 
 solemnly. 
 
 " What !" exclaimed Eanulph, terror-stricken ; " is she 
 dead ?" 
 
 " She is gone." 
 
 " Gone ! How ? Whither ?" exclaimed all, their amaze- 
 ment increasing each instant at the terror of the old woman, 
 and the apparently terrible occasion of it. 
 
 " Speak !" exclaimed Eanrdph ; " but why do I loiter ? 
 my mother, perchance, is dying — let me go." 
 
 The old woman maintained her clutching grasp, which was 
 strong and convulsive as that of one struggling betwixt life 
 and death. " It's of no use, I tell you ; it's all over," said 
 she ; " the dead are come — the dead are come — and she is 
 gone." 
 
 " Whither ?— whither ?" 
 
 " To the grave — to the tomb," said Agnes, in a deep and 
 hollow tone, and with a look that froze Ranulph' s soul. 
 "Listen to me, Ranulph Rookwood, my child, my nursling; 
 listen while I can speak. We were alone, your mother and 
 I, after that scene between you — after the dark denunciations 
 she had heaped upon the dead — when I heard a low and 
 gasping kind of sob, and there I saw your mother, staring 
 wildly upon the vacancy, as if she saw that of which I dare 
 not think." 
 
 " What think you she beheld ?" asked Eanulph, quaking 
 with apprehension. 
 
 " That which had been your father," returned Agnes, in a 
 hollow tone. " Don't doubt me, sir — you'll find the truth of 
 what I say anon. I am sure he was there. There was a 
 thrilhng, speechless horror in the very sight of her counte- 
 nance that froze my old blood to ice — to the ice in which 'tis 
 now — ough ! ough ! Well, at length she arose, with her eyes 
 still fixed, and passed through the paneled door without a 
 word. She is gone !" 
 
 " What madjness is this ?" cried Ranulph.
 
 KOOKWOOD. 361 
 
 " Let me go, woman — 'tis that ruffian in disguise — she may 
 be murdered." 
 
 "No, no," shrieked Agnes; "it was no disguise. She is 
 gone, I tell you — the room was empty, all the rooms were 
 empty — the passage was void — through the door they went 
 together — silently, silently — ghosthke, slow. Ha! that tomb 
 — they are there together now — he has her in his arms — see, 
 they are here — they glide through the door — do you not see 
 them now ? Did I not speak the truth ? She is dead — ha, 
 ha !" And with a frantic and bewildering laugh the old 
 woman fell upon her face. 
 
 Eanulph raised her from the floor ; but the shock of what 
 she bad beheld had been too much for her. She was dead ! 
 
 rv. 
 
 THE DOWER OP SYBIL, 
 
 Card. Now tbou art come ? Thon look'sfc ghastly ; 
 
 There sits in thy face some great determination, 
 
 Mixed with some fear. 
 Boat Thus it lightens into action s 
 
 I am come to kill thee. Duchess of Malfy. 
 
 Eanttlph Eookwood was for some moments so much 
 stunned by the ghastly fate of Agnes, connected, as it ap- 
 peared to be, with a supernatural summons similar to that 
 which he imagined he had himself received, that he was in- 
 capable of stirring from the spot, or removing his gaze from 
 the rigid features of the corpse, which, even in death, wore 
 the strong impress of horror and despair. Through life he 
 knew that Agnes, his own nurse, had been his mother's con- 
 stant and faithfixl attendant ; the unhesitating agent of her 
 schemes, and it was to be feared from the remorse she had 
 exhibited, the participator of her crimes ; and Eanulph felt, 
 he knew not why, that in having witnessed her terrible end, 
 he beheld the ultimate condition of his own parent. Con- 
 quering, not without great effort, the horror which had
 
 3G2 ROOKWOOD. 
 
 rivetted him to the spot, he turned to look towards Eleanor. 
 She had sunk upon a chair, a silent witness of the scene. Mrs. 
 Mowbray and Doctor Small having, upon the first alarm 
 given by Agnes respecting Lady Eookwood's departure from 
 the house, quitted the room to ascertain the ti'uth of her 
 statement. Ranulph immediately flew to Eleanor. 
 
 " Eanulph," said she, though almost overcome by her 
 alarm, " stay not an instant here with me. I am sure from 
 that poor woman's dreadful death, that something terrible 
 has occurred, perhaps to Lady Eookwood. Gro to her cham- 
 ber. Tarry not, I entreat of you." 
 
 " But will you, can you, remain here alone with that body ?" 
 asked Eanulph. 
 
 " I shall not be alone. Handassah is within call — nay, she 
 is here. Oh, what an eve of our espousals has this been, dear 
 Eanulph ! Our whole life is a troubled volume, of which each 
 successive leaf grows darker. Fate is opposed to us. It is 
 useless to contend with our destiny. I fear we shall never be 
 united." 
 
 " Dismiss me not with words like those, dear Eleanor," 
 retui-ned Eanulph. " Pate cannot have greater woes in store 
 for us than those by which we are now oppressed. Let us 
 hope that we are now at that point whence all must brighten. 
 Once possessed of you, assured of thus much happiness, I 
 wovild set even fate at defiance. And you will be mine to- 
 morrow." 
 
 " Eanulph, dear Eanulph, your suit at this moment is 
 
 desperate. I dare not, cannot pledge myself. Ton yourself 
 
 heard, even now, my mother's sentiments, and I cannot maiTy 
 
 without her consent." 
 
 i " Your mother, like my own, regards not the feelings of 
 
 '" her children. Forgive my boldness, Eleanor ; forgive me if 
 
 T linger now, when duty calls me hence ; but I cannot tear 
 
 myself away. Tour mother may return — my hopes be 
 
 crvished ; for even your love for me seems annihilated in her 
 
 . presence." 
 
 I " Ranulph, your vehemence terrifies me," rejoined Eleanor. 
 " I implore you, by the tender affection which you know I 
 bear you, not to urge me further at this moment. Eecall 
 vour firmer feelings, and obtain some mastery over yourself. 
 1 repeat, I am yours only, if I am bride of any one. But when 
 our union can take place rests not with myself. And now, I 
 entreat you, leave me."
 
 ROOKWOOD. 363 
 
 " You are mine," said Eanulph, with fervour j " mine 
 only." 
 
 " Tours only," replied Eleanor. 
 
 " Be this the earnest of my happiness !" exclaimed Ea- 
 nulph, imprinting a long and impassioned kiss upon her lips. 
 
 The lovers were startled from their embrace by a profound 
 sigh ; it proceeded from Handassah, who, unbidden, had 
 replaced the picture of the Lady Eleanor upon its frame. 
 The augury seemed sinister. Every one who has gazed stead- 
 fastly upon a portrait must have noticed the peculiar and 
 lifelike character which, under certain aspects, the eyes will 
 assume. Seen by the imperfect light upon the table, the 
 whole character of the countenance of the Lady Eleanor 
 seemed changed ; the features appeared to be stamped with 
 melancholy, and the eyes to be fixed with pitying tenderness 
 upon her descendants. Both gazed at each other and at the 
 picture, struck with the same sentiment of undefined awe. 
 Beside them stood the dark figixre of the gipsy girl, watching, 
 with iU-concealed satisfaction, the effect of her handiwork. 
 Eanulph was aroused from his abstraction by hearing a loud 
 outcry in Mrs. Mowbray's voice. Hastily committing Eleanor 
 to the care of her attendant, he left the room. Handassah 
 followed him to the door, closed it after him, and then locked 
 it within side. This done, she walked back hastily towards 
 Eleanor, exclaiming, in a tone of exultation,' "You have 
 parted with him for ever." 
 
 "What mean you, girl?" cried Eleanor, alarmed at her 
 manner. " Why have you fastened the door? Open it, I 
 command you." 
 
 " Command tne !" laughed Handassah, scornfully, " What 
 if I refuse your mandate ? What if, in my turn, I bid i/ou 
 obey me ? I never owned but one mistress. If I have bowed 
 my neck to you for a time, 'twas to fulfil her dying wishes. 
 If I have submitted to your control, it was to accomphsh 
 what I have now accomphshed. Your oath ! Eemember 
 your oath. The hour is come for its fulfilment." 
 
 With these words Handassah clapped her hands. A panel 
 in the wall opened, and Luke stood suddenly before them. 
 Silently and with stem dehberation he strode towards 
 Eleanor, and seizing one of her hands, drew her forcibly 
 toward him, Eleanor resisted not ; she had not the power ; 
 neither did she scream, for so paralysing was her terror, that 
 for the moment it took away all power of utterance. Luke
 
 364 KOOKWOOD. 
 
 neither stirred nor spoke, but, still maintaining his hold, 
 gazed searchingly upon her features, while Eleanor, as if 
 spell-bound, could not withdraw her eyes from him. Nothing 
 more terribly impressive could be conceived than Luke's 
 whole appearance. Harassed and exhausted by the life he 
 had recently led ; deprived almost of natural rest ; goaded 
 by remorse, his frame was almost worn to the bone, while his 
 countenance, once dark and swarthy, was now blanched and 
 colourless as marble. This palhd and deathlike hue was, in 
 all probability, owing to the loss of blood he had sustained 
 from the wound inflicted by Major Mowbray, with the stains 
 of which his apparel was dyed; for, though stanched, the 
 effusion had been sufficient to cause great faintness. His 
 dark eyes blazed with their wonted fire — nay, they looked 
 darker and larger from his exceeding paleness, and such 
 intense mental and bodily suffering was imprinted upon his 
 countenance, that, despite its fierceness and desperation, few 
 could have regarded him without sympathy. Real despera- 
 tion has so much of agony in its character, that no one can 
 witness it unmoved. His garb was not that in which the 
 reader first beheld him, but a rich, dark, simple suit of velvet, 
 corresponding more with his real rank in life than his former 
 peasant's attire ; but it was disordered by his recent conflict, 
 and stained with bloody testimonials of the fray ; while his 
 long sable curls, once his pride and ornament, now hung in 
 intertangled elf-locks, like a coil of wi'eathed water-snakes. 
 Even in her terror, as she dwelt upon his noble features, 
 Eleanor could not help admitting that she beheld the un- 
 doubted descendant and the living likeness of the handsomest 
 and most distinguished of her house — the profligate and 
 criminal Sir Reginald. As her eye, mechanically following 
 this train of thought, wandered for an instant to the haughty 
 i portraiture of Sir Reginald, which formed part of the family 
 I pictures, and thence to those of his unfortunate lady, she was 
 struck with the fancy that, by some terrible fatality, the 
 tragic horrors of bygone days were to be again enacted in 
 their persons, and that they were in some way strangely 
 identified with their unfortunate progenitors. So forcibly 
 was this idea impressed upon her features, that Luke, who 
 had followed the direction of her glances, became instantly 
 aware of it. Drawing her nearer to the portrait of the Lady 
 Eleanor, he traced the resemblance in mute wonder ; thence, 
 turning towards that of Sir Reginald, he proudly exclaimed :
 
 ROOKWOOD. 365 
 
 "You doubted once my lineage, maiden — can you gaze on 
 those features, which would almost seem to be a reflection of 
 mine own, and longer hesitate whose descendant I am ? I 
 glory in my likeness. There is a wild delight in setting 
 human emotions at nought, which he was said to feel — which 
 I feel now. Within these halls I seem to breathe an atmo- 
 sphere congenial to me. I visit what I oft have visited in 
 my dreams ; or as in a state of pre-existence. Methinks, as 
 I gaze on you, I could almost deem myself Sir Reginald, and 
 you his bride, the Lady Eleanor. Our fates were parallel : 
 she was united to her lord by ties of hatred — by a vow — a 
 bridal vow. So are you to me. And she could ne'er escape 
 him — could ne'er throw off her bondage — nor shall you. I 
 claim the fulfilment of your oath ; you are mine." 
 
 "Never, never !" shrieked Eleanor, struggling to disengage 
 herself. But Luke laughed at her feeble efforts. Handassah 
 stood by, a passive spectatress of the scene, with her arms 
 folded upon her bosom. 
 
 "You refuse compliance!" said Luke, scornfully. "Have 
 you no hopes of heaven, no fears of perdition, that you dare 
 to violate your vow ? Bethink you of the awful nature of 
 that obligation; of the life which was laid down to purchase 
 it ; of the blood which will cry out for vengeance 'gainst the 
 murderess, should you hesitate. By that blood-cemented 
 sacrament, I claim you as my own. You are mine." And 
 he dragged her towards the opening. 
 
 Eleanor uttered a prolonged and teri-ific scream. 
 
 "Be silent, on your life," added he, searching for the 
 dagger given to him by Alan Eookwood, when, as his hand 
 sought the weapon, Eleanor escaped from his grasp, and fled 
 towards the door. But Handassah had anticipated her inten- 
 tion. The key was withdrawn from the lock, and the wretched 
 maiden vainly tried to open it. 
 
 At this instant Turpin appeared at the sliding panel. 
 
 " Quick, quick !" cried he, impatiently — " despatch, in the 
 devil's name ; the house is alarmed. I hear young Ranulph's 
 voice in the gallery." 
 
 " Eanulph !" shrieked Eleanor — " then I am saved." And 
 she redoubled her outcries for assistance. 
 
 Luke again seized his victim. Her hands clutched so 
 convulsively fast in her despairing energy against the handle 
 of the door that he could not tear her thence. By this time 
 Ranulph Eookwood, who had caught her reiterated screams
 
 366 EOOKWOOD. 
 
 for help, -was at the entrance. He heard her struggles ; he 
 heard Luke's threats — his mockery — his derisive laughter — 
 but vainly, vainly did he attempt to force it open. It was of 
 the strongest oak, and the bolts resisted all his efforts. A 
 board alone divided him from his mistress. He could hear 
 her sobs and gasps. He saw, from the action of the liandle, 
 with what tenancity slie clung to it; and, stung to frenzy by 
 the sight, he hurled himself against the sturdy plank, but all 
 in vain. At length the handle was still. There was a heavy 
 fall upon the floor — a stilled scream — and a sound as of a 
 body being dragged along. The thought was madness. 
 
 " To the panel ! to the panel !" cried a voice (it was that of 
 Turpin) from within. 
 
 " The panel ! — ha !" echoed Eanulph, with a sudden gleam 
 of hope. " I may yet save her." And he darted along the 
 corridor with the swiftness of thought. 
 
 Luke, meanwhile, had for some minutes fruitlessly ex- 
 hausted all his force to drag Eleanor from the door. Despair 
 gave her strength ; she clutched at the door ; but she felt her 
 strength failing her — her grasp was relaxing. And then the 
 maddening thought that she would be shortly his — that he 
 would slay her — while the idea that Ranulph was so near, 
 and yet unable to protect her, added gall even to her bitter- 
 ness. With savage delight Luke exulted in the lover's tor- 
 tures. He heard Eanulph's ineffectual attempts ; he heard 
 his groans ; he heard their mutual cries. Inflamed by jealousy, 
 he triumphed in his power of vengeance, and even prolonged 
 the torture which accident had given him the means of inflict- 
 ing. He stood like the inquisitor who marks his victim's 
 anguish on the rack, and calculates his powers of further 
 endurance. But he could no longer dally, even with this 
 horrible gratification. His companion grew impatient. 
 Eleanor's fair long tresses had escaped fi'om their confine- 
 ment in the struggle, and fell down her neck in disorder. 
 Twining his fingers amidst its folds, Luke dragged her back- 
 wards from her hold, and, incapable of further resistance, 
 her strength completely exhausted, the "'i^'etched girl fell to 
 the ground. 
 
 Lvike now raised her almost inanimate form in his arms, 
 and had nigh reached the aperture, when a crash was heard 
 in the panel opposite to that by which he was about to 
 escape, and communicating with a further apartment. It 
 was thrown open, and Eanulph Eookwood pi-esented himseK
 
 KOOKWOOD. 367 
 
 at the narrow partition. An exclamation of joy, that he was 
 yet in time, escaped his lips ; and he was about to clear the 
 partition at a bound, and to precipitate himself upon Luke, 
 when, as suddenly as his own action, was the person of the 
 unfortunate Mr. Coates wedged into the aperture. 
 
 " Traitor !" cried Eanulph, regarding Coates with concen- 
 trated fury, "dare you to oppose me? — hence! or, by Heaven, 
 I will cut you down !" 
 
 " 'Tis impossible," ejaculated the attorney. " For your 
 own sake. Sir Eanulph — for my sake — I entreat — implore of 
 you — not to attempt to pass this way. Try the other door." 
 
 Eanulph said no more. He passed his sword through the 
 body of the miserable attorney, who, with a deep groan, fell. 
 The only obstacle to his passage being thus remoyed, he at 
 once leaped into the room. 
 
 The brothers were now confronted together, but little of 
 brotherly love mingled with the glances which they threw 
 upon each other. Eanulph's gentle, but withal enthusiastic 
 temperament, had kindled, under his present excitement, like 
 flax at the sudden approach of flame. He was wild with 
 frenzy. Luke was calmer, but his fury was deadly and inex 
 tinguishable. The meeting was terrible on both sides. 
 
 With one arm Luke enfolded Eleanor, with the other ho 
 
 uplifted the dagger. Its point was towards her bosom. 
 
 Scowling grim defiance at Eanulph, he exclaimed, in a deter- 
 
 , mined tone, "Advance a footstep, and my dagger descends 
 
 ' into her heart." 
 
 Eanulph hesitated, uncertain how to act; foaming with 
 rage, yet trembling with apprehension. 
 
 "Eanulph," gasped Eleanor, "life without you were value- 
 less. Advance — avenge me !" 
 
 Eanulph still hesitated. He could not, by any act of his 
 own, compromise Eleanor's safety. 
 
 Luke saw his advantage, and was not slow to profit by it. 
 " Tou seal her destruction if you stir," said he. 
 
 "Villain," returned Eanulph, between his ground teeth, 
 and with difficulty commanding sufficient coolness to speak 
 with deliberation, "you perceive your power. Injure her, 
 and nothing earthly shall protect you. Free her, and take 
 your* life and liberty ; nay, reward if you will. Tou cannot 
 otherwise escape me." 
 
 " Escape you !" laughed Luke, disdainfully. " Stand aside, 
 and let me pass. Beware," added he, sternly, " how you
 
 368 EOOKWOOD. 
 
 oppose me. I would not have a brother's blood upon my 
 soul." 
 
 " ISTor I," cried Eanulph ; " but you pass not." And lie 
 placed himself full in Luke's path. 
 
 Luke, however, steadily moved forward, holding Eleanor 
 between himseK and Ranulph, so as to shield his own person ; 
 but, fancying he saw an oj)portunity of dealing a blow with- 
 out injury to his mistress, the latter was about to hazard 
 the thrust, when his arms were seized behind, and he was 
 rendered powerless. 
 
 " Lost, lost," groaned he ; " she is lost to me for ever !" 
 
 " I fear that's but too true," replied Turpin, for it was the 
 highwayman whose grasp confined Eanulph. 
 
 "Must I see her borne away before my eyes?" cried 
 Ranulph. " Release me — set me free." 
 
 " Quite impossible at present," returned Dick. " Mount 
 and away, Sir Luke," continued he ; " never mind me. Leave 
 me to shift for myself." 
 
 " Eleanor !" cried Ranulph, as she passed close by his side. 
 
 " Ranulph !" shrieked Eleanor, with a loud scream, recalled 
 to consciousness by his voice, " farewell for ever." 
 
 " Ay, for ever," responded Luke, triumphantly. " You 
 meet no more on earth." 
 
 He was about to pass through the panel, when Eleanor 
 exerted all her remaining strength in a last futile attempt 
 at liberation. In the struggle, a packet fell from Luke's 
 bosom. 
 
 Handassah stooped to pick it up. 
 
 "From Sybil!" exclaimed she, glancing at the super- 
 scription. 
 
 " Remember my promise to old Barbara," roared Dick, who 
 had some curiosity, as the reader knows, to learn what the 
 package contained. "The time is arrived. Eleanor is in 
 your power — in your presence." 
 
 "Grive me the packet," said Luke, resigning Eleanor for 
 the instant to Handassah's custody; "take the steel, and 
 grasp her firmly." 
 
 Handassah, who, though shght of figure, was of singular 
 personal strength, twined her arms about Miss Mowbray in 
 such a manner as to preclude all possibility of motion. 
 
 Luke tore open the package. It was a box carefully en- 
 closed in several folds of linen, and lastly within a sheet of 
 paper, on which were inscribed these words : 
 The Dower of Sybil.
 
 liOOKWuuu. 369 
 
 Hastily, and witli much curiosity, Luke raised tlie lid of 
 the box. It contained one long silken tress of blackest hair, 
 curiously braided. It was Sybil's. His first impulse was 
 to cast it from him ; his next, reproachfully to raise it to his 
 lips. He started as if a snake had stung him. 
 
 At this moment a loud clamour was heard in the gallery. 
 In the next, the door was assailed by violent strokes, evi- 
 dently proceeding from some weighty instrument, impelled 
 by the imited strength of several assailants. 
 
 The voice of Turpin rose above the deafening din. "A 
 bullet for the first who enters," shouted he. " Quick, Sir 
 Luke, and the prize is safe — away, and " 
 
 But as he seconded his exhortation with a glance at Luke, 
 he broke of£ the half-uttered sentence, and started with 
 horror and amazement. Ere the cause of his alarm could be 
 expressed, the door was burst open, and a crowd of domes- 
 tics, headed by Major Mowbray and Titus Tyrconnel, rushed 
 into the room. 
 
 " Nay, then, the game's up !" exclaimed Dick ; " I have 
 done with Eookwood." And, springing through the panel, 
 he was seen no more. 
 
 When the new-comers first looked around, they could per- 
 ceive only two figures besides themselves — those of the two 
 lovers — Eleanor having sunk pale, exhausted, and almost 
 senseless, into the arms of Ranulph. Presently, however, a 
 ghastly object attracted their attention. All rushed towards 
 it — all recoiled, as soon as they discovered that it was the 
 lifeless body of Luke Eookwood. His limbs were stiff, like 
 those of a corpse which has for hom's been such ; his eyes 
 protruded from their sockets ; his face was livid and blotched. 
 All bespoke, with terrible certainty, the efiicacy of the poison, 
 and the fuU accomplishment of Barbara's revenge. 
 
 Handassah was gone. Probably she had escaped ere 
 Turpin fled. At all events, she was heard of no more at 
 Eookwood. 
 
 It required Httle to recall the senses of Eleanor. Shortly 
 she revived, and as she gazed around, and became conscious 
 of her escape, she uttered exclamations of thanksgiving, and 
 sank into the embraces of her brother. 
 
 Meanwhile Mrs. Mowbray and Doctor Small had joined 
 the assemblage. 
 
 The worthy doctor had been full of alarm ; but his medi- 
 tated condolences were now changed to congratulations, as 
 
 2 B
 
 370 EOOKWOOD. 
 
 he heard the particulars of the terrible scene that had oc- 
 ciuTed, and of Eleanor's singular and almost providential 
 dehverance. 
 
 "After what has befallen, madam," said the doctor to Mrs. 
 Mowbray, slightly coughing, "you can no longer raise any 
 objec4;ions to a certain union, eh ?" 
 
 " I will answer for my mother in that particular," said 
 Major Mowbray, stepping forward. 
 
 " She will answer for herself, my son," said Mrs. Mow- 
 bray. " The match has her full and entire consent. But 
 to what am I to attribute the unexpected happiness of your 
 return ?" 
 
 " To a chain of singular circumstances," replied the major, 
 " which I will hereafter detail to you. Suffice it to say, that 
 but for this gentleman's fortunate arrival," added he, looking 
 at Titus Tyrconnel, " at the hut on Thorne Waste, I might 
 have been detained a prisoner, without parole, and, what is 
 worse, without provision perhaps for days ; and to add to my 
 distress, fully acquainted with the meditated abduction of my 
 sister. It was excessively lucky for me, Mr. Tyrconnel, that you 
 happened to pass that way, and for poor Paterson, likewise." 
 
 " Arrah, by my soivl, major, and you may say that with 
 safety ; and it was particularly fortunate that we stumbled 
 upon the tits in the cellar, or we'd never have been here just 
 in the nick of it. I begin to think we've lost all chance of 
 taking Dick Turpin this time. He's got clean away." 
 
 " I am not sorry for his escape," said the major. " He's a 
 brave feUow ; and I respect courage wherever I find it, even 
 in a highwayman. I should be sorry to aj)pear as a witness 
 against him ; and I trust it will never be my fate to do so." 
 
 We shall not pause to describe the affectionate meeting 
 which now ensued between the brother and sister — the con- 
 gratulations upon Eleanor's escape from peril, intermingled 
 with the tenderest embraces, and the warmest thanks offered 
 to Eanulph for his gallant sei^vice. " She is yours, my dear 
 boy," said the major ; " and though you are a Eookwood, and 
 she bears the ill-fated name of Eleanor, I predict that, con- 
 trary to the usual custom of our families in such cases, all your 
 misfortunes will have occurred before marriage." 
 
 " There is only one thing," said Small, with a very peculiar 
 expression, which might almost be construed into serio- 
 comic, could we suspect the benevolent doctor of any such 
 waggery, " that can possibly throw a shade over our present 
 felicity. Lady Eookwood is not to be found."
 
 ROOKWOOD. 371 
 
 ** My poor mother," said Eanulph, starting. 
 
 " Make yourself easy," said the doctor ; " I doubt not we 
 shall hear of her to-morrow. My only apprehension," added 
 he, half aside, " is, that she may be heard of before." 
 
 " One other circumstance afflicts me," said Eanulph. " Poor 
 Mr. Coates !" 
 
 " What's that you say of Mr. Coates, Sir Eanulph ?" ex- 
 claimed Titus. 
 
 " I fear he is killed in the recent a&ay," said Eanulph. 
 " Let some one search for the body." 
 
 " Kilt !" echoed Titus. " Is it kilt that Mr. Coates is ? 
 Ah ! ullagone, and is it over with him entirely? Is he gone 
 to rejoin his father, the thief -taker ? Bring me to his 
 remains." 
 
 " He will bring them to you himself," said the attorney, 
 stepping forward. " Luckily, Sir Eanulph," said the in- 
 curable punster, " it was merely the outer coats that your 
 sword passed through ; the inner remains uninjm-ed, so that 
 you did not act as my conveyancer to eternity. Body o' me ! 
 I've as many lives as a cat — ha, ha !" 
 
 Eanulph welcomed the facetious man of law with no little 
 satisfaction. 
 
 We think it unnecessaiy to enter into further detail. 
 Another chamber was prepared for Eleanor's reception, to 
 which she was almost immediately transported. The re- 
 mains of the once fierce and haughty Luke, now stiff and 
 stark, but still wearing, even in death, their proud character, 
 were placed upon the self-same bier, and covered with the 
 self-same pall which, but a week ago, had furnished forth his 
 father's funeral. And as the domestics crowded round the 
 corpse, there was not one of them but commented upon his 
 startling resemblance to the grandsire, Sir Eeginald ; nor, 
 amongst the superstitious, was the falhng of the fatal bough 
 forgotten. 
 
 TranquilHty was at length restored at the hall. Through- 
 out the night, and during the next day, Eanulpi' made every 
 search for his mother, but no tidings could be learned of her. 
 Seriously alarmed, he then caused more strict and general 
 inquiry to be instituted, but with like unsuccessful effect. It 
 was not, indeed, till some years afterwards that her fate was 
 ascertained. 
 
 2 r2
 
 372 EOOKWOOD. 
 
 V. 
 
 THE SAECOPHAGTJS. 
 So now 'tis ended, like an old wife's etor^j — Webster. 
 
 Notwithstanding the obscurity wLicli hung over the fate 
 of Lady Eookwood, the celebration of the nuptials of Sir 
 Eanulph and Eleanor was not long delayed ; the ceremony 
 took place at the parish church, and the worthy vicar offi- 
 ciated upon the occasion. It was a joyous sight to all who 
 witnessed it, and not few were they who did so, for the whole 
 neighbourhood was bidden to the festival. The old avenue 
 was thronged with bright and beaming faces, rustic maidens 
 decked out in ribands of many-coloured splendour, and stout 
 youths in their best holiday trim ; nor was the lusty yeoman 
 and his buxom sj^ouse — nor yet the patriarch of the village, 
 nor prattling child, wanting. Even the ancestral rooks 
 seemed to participate in the universal merriment, and re- 
 turned from their eyries a hoarse greeting, like a lusty chorus 
 of laughter, to the frolic train. The churchyard path was 
 strewn with flowers — the church itself a complete garland. 
 Never was there seen a blither wedding : the sun smiled upon 
 the bride — accounted a fortunate omen, as dark lowering skies 
 and stormy weather had, within the memory of the oldest of 
 the tenantry, inauspiciously ushered in all former espousals. 
 The bride had recovered her bloom and beauty, while the 
 melancholy which had seemingly settled for ever upon the 
 open brow of the bridegroom, had now given place to a pen- 
 sive shade, that only added intei'est to his expressive features ; 
 and, as in simple state, after the completion of the sacred rites, 
 the youthful pair walked, arm in arm, amongst their throng- 
 ing and admiring tenants towards tlie hall, many a fervent 
 prayer was breathed that the curse of the house of Rookwood 
 might be averted fi-om their heads ; and, not to leave a doubt 
 upon the subject, we can add that these aspirations were not 
 in vain, but that the day, which dawned so brightly, was one 
 of serene and unclouded happiness to its close. 
 
 After the ceremonial, the day was devoted to festivity. 
 Crowded with company, from the ample hall to the kitchen 
 ingle, the old mansion could scarce contain its numerous
 
 ROOKWOOD. 373 
 
 guests, ■while tlie walls resounded with hearty peals of 
 laughter, to which they had been long unaccustomed. The 
 tables groaned beneath the lordly baron of beef, the weighty 
 chine, the castled pasty flanked on the one hand with neat's 
 tongue, and on the other defended by a mountainous ham, 
 an excellent /Ji'ece de resistance, and. every other substantial 
 appliance of ancient hospitality. Barrels of mighty ale were 
 broached, and their nut-brown contents widely distributed, 
 and the health of the bride and bridegi-oom was enthusiasti- 
 cally drunk in a brimming wassail cup of spicy wine with 
 floating toast. Titus Tyrconnel acted as master of the cere- 
 monies, and wa5, Mr. Coates declared, " qnite in his elemejii." 
 So much was he elated, that he ventured to cut some of his 
 old jokes upon the vicar, and, strange to say, without incur- 
 ring the resentment of Small. 
 
 To retrace the darker course of our narrative, we must 
 state that some weeks before this happy event the remains of 
 the unfortunate Sir Luke Eookwood had been gathered to 
 those of his fathers. The document that attested his legiti- 
 macy being found upon his person, the claims denied to him 
 in life were conceded in death ; and he was interred with all 
 the pomp and peculiar solemnity proper to one of the house, 
 within the tomb of his ancestry. 
 
 It was then that a discovery was made respecting Alan 
 Eookwood, in order to explain which we must again revert 
 to the night of the meditated enUvement of Eleanor. 
 
 After quitting his grandson in the avenue, Alan shaped 
 his course among the fields in the direction to the church. 
 He sought his own humble, but now deserted dwelling. The 
 door had been forced ; some of its meagre furniture was re- 
 moved ; and the dog, his sole companion, had fled. " Poor 
 Mole !" said he ; " thou hast found, I trust, a better master." 
 And having possessed himself of what he came in search — 
 namely, a bunch of keys and his lantern, deposited in an 
 out-of-the-way cupboard, that had escaped notice, he quickly 
 departed. 
 
 He was once more within the churchyard ; once more upon 
 that awful stage whereou he had chosen to enact, for a long 
 season, his late fantastical character ; and he gazed upon the 
 church tower, glistening in the moonshine, the green and un- 
 dulating hillocks, the " chequered cross-sticks," the clustered 
 head-stones, and the black and portentous yew-trees, as upon 
 *' old familiar faces." He mused, for a few moments, upon
 
 374 EOOKWOOD. 
 
 the scene, apparently with deep interest. He then walked 
 beneath the shadow of one of the yews, chanting an odd 
 stanza or so of one of his wild staves, wrapped the while, it 
 would seem, in affectionate contemplation of the subject- 
 matter of his song : 
 
 THE CHUECHTAED YEW. 
 
 Metuendaque succo 
 
 Taxus. 
 
 A noxious tree is tlie churcliyard yew. 
 As if from the dead its sap it drew ; 
 Dark are its branches, and dismal to see, 
 Like plumes at Death's latest solemnity. 
 Spectral and jagged, and black as the wings 
 Which some spirit of ill o'er a sepulchre flings : 
 Oh ! a terrible tree is the churchyard yew ; 
 Like it is nothing so grimly to view. 
 
 Yet this baleful tree hath a core so sound. 
 
 Can nought so tough in the grove be found : 
 
 From it were fashioned brave English bows, 
 
 The boast of our isle, and the dread of its foes. 
 
 For our sturdy sires cut their stoutest staves 
 
 From the branch that hung o'er their fathers' graves ; 
 
 And though it be dreary and dismal to view, 
 
 Stanch at the heart is the churchyard yew. 
 
 His ditty concluded, Alan entered the churchyard, taking 
 care to leave the door slightly ajar, in order to facilitate his 
 grandson's entrance. For an instant he lingered in the 
 chancel. The yellow moonlight fell upon the monuments of 
 his race ; and, directed by the instinct of hate, Alan's eye 
 rested upon the gilded entablature of his perfidious brother, 
 Eeginalcl, and muttering curses, " not loud but deep," he 
 passed on. Having lighted his lantern in no tranquil mood, 
 he descended into the vault, observing a similar caution with 
 respect to the portal of the cemetery, which he left partially 
 viuclostd, with the key in the lock. Here he resolved to abide 
 Luke's coming. The reader knows what probability there 
 was of his expectations being reahzed. 
 
 For a while he paced the tomb, wrapped in gloomy medita- 
 tion, and pondering, it might be, upon the result of Luke's 
 expedition, and the fulfilment of his own dark schemes, 
 scowling from time to time beneath his bent eyebrows, count- 
 ing the grim array of coflBns, and noticing, with something 
 like satisfaction, that the shell which contained the remains 
 of his daughter had been restored to its former position. He 
 then bethought him of Father Checkley's midnight intrusion
 
 EOOKWOOD. 375 
 
 upon liis conference with Luke, and their apprehension of a 
 supernatural visitation, and his curiosity was stimulated to 
 ascertain by what means the priest had gained admission 
 to the spot unperceived and unheard. He resolved to sound 
 the floor, and see whether any secret entrance existed ; and 
 hollowly and dully did the hard flagging return the stroke of 
 his heel as he pursued his scrutiny. At length the metallic 
 ringing of an iron plate, immediately behind the marble 
 effigy of Sir Ranulph, resolved the point. There it was that 
 the" priest had found access to the vault ; but Alan's dis- 
 appointment was excessive, when he discovered that this 
 plate was fasten '' '. on the underside, and all communication 
 thence with thr ^ihurchyard, or to wherever else it might 
 conduct him, cut off ; but the present was not the season for 
 further investigation, and tolerably pleased with the discovery 
 he had already made, he returned to his silent march around 
 the sepulchre. 
 
 At length a sound, like the sudden shutting of the church 
 door, broke upon the profound stillness of the holy edifice. 
 In the hush that succeeded, a footstep was distinctly heard 
 threading the aisle. 
 
 " He comes — he comes !" exclaimed Alan, joyfully ; add- 
 ing, an instant after, in an altered voice, " but he comes 
 alone." 
 
 The footstep drew near to the mouth of the vault — it was 
 upon the stairs. Alan stepped forward to greet, as he sup- 
 posed, his grandson, but started back in astonishment and 
 dismay as he encountered in his stead Lady EoQJiwood. Alan 
 retreated, while the lady advanced, swinging the iron door 
 after her, which closed with a tremendous clang. Approach- 
 ing the statue of the first Sir Ranulph, she paused, and Alan 
 then remarked the singular and terrible expression of her 
 eyes, which appeared to be fixed upon the statue, or upon 
 some invisible object near it. There was something in her 
 whole attitude and manner calculated to impress the deepest 
 terror on the beholder. And Alan gazed upon her with an 
 awe which momently increased. Lady Eookwood's bearing 
 was as proud and erect as we have formerly described it to 
 have been — her brow was as haxightily bent — her chiselled lip 
 as disdainfully curled ; but the staring, changeless eye, and 
 the deep-heaved sob which occasionally escaped her, betrayed 
 how much she was under the influence of mortal terror, 
 Alan watched her in amazement. He knew not how the
 
 376 ROOKWOOD. 
 
 scene was likely to terminate, nor wliat could have induced 
 her to visit this ghostly spot at such an hour, and alone ; but 
 he resolved to abide the issue in silence — profound as her 
 own. After a time, however, his impatience got the better of 
 his fears and scruples, and he spoke. 
 
 " What doth Lady Eookwood in the abode of the dead ?" 
 asked he, at length. 
 
 She started at the sound of his voice, but still kept her eye 
 fixed upon the vacancy. 
 
 " Hast thou not beckoned me hither, and am I not come?" 
 returned she, in a hollow tone. " And now thou askest 
 wherefore I am here. I am here because, as in thy hfe I 
 feared thee not, neither in death do I fear thee. I am here 
 because " 
 
 " What seest thou ?" interrupted Alan, with ill-suppressed 
 terror. 
 
 " What see I — ha — ha !" shouted Lady Eookwood, amidst 
 discordant laughter ; " that which might appal a heart less 
 stout than mine — a figure anguish-wi'ithen, with veins that 
 glow as with a subtle and consuming flame. A substance, yet 
 a shadow, in thy living likeness. Ha — frown if thou wilt ; I 
 can return thy glances." 
 
 " Where dost thou see this vision?" demanded Alan. 
 
 " Where !" echoed Lady Eookwood, becoming for the first 
 time sensible of the presence of a stranger. " Ha — ^who are 
 you that question me ? — what are you ? — speak !" 
 
 " No matter who or what I am," retm'ned Alan ; " I ask 
 you what you behold." 
 
 " Can you see nothing ?" 
 
 *' Nothing," rephed Alan. 
 
 " You knew Sir Piers Eookwood ?" 
 
 "Is it he ?" asked Alan, drawing near her. 
 
 " It is," replied Lady Eookwood ; " I have followed him 
 hither, and I will follow him whithersoever he leads me, 
 were it to " 
 
 " What doth he now ?" asked Alan ; " do you see him 
 still ?" 
 
 " The figure points to that sarcophagus," returned Lady 
 Eookwood — " can you raise up the lid?" 
 
 " No," replied Alan ; " my strength will not avail to 
 lift it." 
 
 " Yet let the trial be made," said Lady Ecokwonrl ; " the 
 figure points there stiU — my own arm shall aid you."
 
 EOOKWOOD. 377 
 
 Alan watcliecl her in dumb wonder. She advanced towards 
 the marble monument, and beckoned him to follow. He re- 
 luctantly complied. Without any expectation of being able 
 to move the ponderous lid of the sarcophagus, at Lady Eook- 
 wood's renewed request he applied himself to the task. What 
 was his surprise, when, beneath their united efforts, he found 
 the ponderous slab slowly revolve upon its vast hinges, and, 
 with little further difficulty, it was completely elevated; 
 though it still required the exertion of all Alan's strength to 
 prop it open, and prevent its falling back. 
 
 " What does it contain?" asked Lady Eookwood. 
 
 " A warrior's ashes," returned Alan. 
 
 " There is a rusty dagger upon a fold of faded linen," cried 
 Lady Rookwood, holding down the light. 
 
 " It is the weapon with which the first dame of the house 
 of Rookwood was stabbed," said Alan, with a grim smile : 
 
 " Wliicli whoso findetli in the tomb 
 Shall clutch until the hour of doom ; 
 And when 'tis grasped by hand of clay, 
 The curse of blood shall pass away. 
 
 So saith the rhyme. Have you seen enough ?" 
 
 " No," said Lady Rookwood, precipitating herself into the 
 marble coffin. " That weapon shall be mine." 
 
 " Come forth — come forth," cried Alan. " My arm trembles 
 — I cannot support the lid." 
 
 " I will have it, though I grasp it to eternity," shrieked 
 Lady Rookwood, vainly endeavouring to wrest away the 
 dagger, which was fastened, together with the linen upon 
 which it lay, by some adhesive substance to the bottom of the 
 sheU. 
 
 At this moment Alan Rookwood happened to cast his eye 
 upward, and he then beheld what filled him with new terror. 
 The axe of the sable statue was poised above its head, as in 
 the act to strike him. Some secret machinery, it was evident, 
 existed between the sarcophagus lid and this mysterious 
 image. But in the first impulse of his alarm Alan abandoned 
 his hold of the slab, and it sunk slowly downwards. He 
 uttered a loud cry as it moved. Lady Rookwood heard this 
 cry. She raised herself at the same moment — the dagger 
 was in her hand — she pressed it against the lid, but its down- 
 ward force was too great to be withstood. The light was 
 within the sarcophagus, and Alan could discern her features.
 
 378 ROOKWUOD. 
 
 The expression was terrible. She uttered one shriet, and the 
 lid closed for ever. 
 
 Alan was in total darkness. The light had been inclosecj 
 with Lady Rootwood. There was something so horrible in 
 her probable fate, that even he shuddered as he thought upon 
 it. Exerting all his remaining strength, he essayed to raise 
 the lid, but now it was more firmly closed than ever. It 
 defied all his power. Once, for an instant, he fancied that it 
 yielded to his straining sinews, but it was only his hand that 
 slided upon the surface of the marble. It was fixed — im- 
 movable. The sides and lid rang with the strokes which 
 the unfortunate lady bestowed upon them with the dagger's 
 point ; but these sounds were not long heard. Presently all 
 was still ; the marble ceased to vibrate with her blows. Alan 
 struck the lid with his knuckles, but no response was returned. 
 All was silent. 
 
 He now turned his attention to his own situation, which 
 had become sufficiently alarming. An hour must have elapsed, 
 yet Luke had not arrived. The door of the vault was closed 
 — the key was in the lock, and on the outside. He was him- 
 self a prisoner within the tomb. What if Luke should not 
 return ? What if he were slain, as it might chance, in the 
 enterprise ? That thought flashed across his brain like an 
 electric shock. None knew of his retreat but his grandson. 
 He might perish of famine within this desolate vault. 
 
 He checked this notion as soon as it was formed — it was 
 too dreadful to be indulged in. A thousand circumstances 
 might conspire to detain Luke. He was sure to come. Yet 
 the solitude — the darkness was awful, almost intolerable. 
 The dying and the dead were around him. He dared not 
 stir. 
 
 Another houi' — an age it seemed to him — had passed. Still 
 Luke came not. Horrible forebodings crossed him ; but he 
 would not sun-ender himself to them. He rose, and crawled 
 in the direction, as he supposed, of the door — fearful even of 
 the stealthy sound of his own footsteps. He reached it, and 
 his heart once more throbbed with hope. He bent his ear to 
 the key; he drew in his breath ; he listened for some sound, 
 but nothing was to be heard. A groan would have been 
 almost music in his ears. 
 
 Another hoiu' was gone ! He was now a prey to ihe most 
 frightful apprehensions, agitated in turns by the wildest emo- 
 tions of rage and terror. He at one moment imagined tha*;
 
 ROOKWOOD. 379 
 
 Luke had abandoned him, and heaped curses upon his head ; 
 at the next, convinced that he had fallen, he bewailed with 
 equal bitterness his grandson's fate and his own. He paced 
 the tomb like one distracted ; he stamped upon the iron plate ; 
 he smote with his hands upon the door ; he shouted, and the 
 vault hollowly echoed his lamentations. But Time's sand 
 ran on, and Luke arrived not. 
 
 Alan now abandoned himself wholly to despair. He could 
 no longer anticipate his gi'andson's coming — no longer hope 
 for deliverance. His fate was sealed. Death awaited him. 
 He must anticipate his slow but inevitable stroke, enduring 
 all the gi'inding horrors of starvation. The contemplation of 
 such an end was madness, but he was forced to contemplate 
 it now ; and so appalhng did it appear to his imagination, 
 that he half resolved to dash out his brains against the walls 
 of the sepulchre, and put an end at once to his tortures ; 
 and nothing, except a doubt whether he might not, by im- 
 perfectly accomplishing his purpose, increase his own suffer- 
 ing, prevented him from putting this dreadful idea into 
 execution. His dagger was gone, and he had no other 
 weapon. Terrors of a new kind now assailed him. The dead, 
 he fancied, were bursting from their coffins, and he peopled 
 the darkness with grisly phantoms. They were around about 
 him on each side, whirling and rustling, gibbering, groaning, 
 shrieking, laughing, and lamenting. He was stunned, stifled. 
 The air seemed to grow suffocating, pestilential; the wild 
 laughter was redoubled ; the horrible troop assailed him ; 
 they dragged him along the tomb, and amid their howls he 
 fell, and became insensible. 
 
 When he returned to himself, it was some time before he 
 could collect his scattered faculties ; and when the agonising 
 consciousness of his ten-ible situation forced itself upon his 
 mind, he had nigh relapsed into obhvion. He arose. He 
 rushed towards the door; he knocked against it with his 
 knuckles till the blood streamed from them ; he scratched 
 against it with his nails till they were torn off by the roots. 
 With insane fury he hurled himself against the iron frame ; 
 it was in vain. Again he had recourse to the trap-door. He 
 searched for it; he found it. He laid himself upon the 
 ground. There was no interval of space in which he could 
 insert a finger's point. He beat it with his clenched hand ; 
 he tore it with his teeth ; he jumped upon it ; he smote it 
 with his heel. The iron returned a sullen sound.
 
 380 KOOKWOOD. 
 
 He again essayed the lid of the sarcophagus. Despair 
 nerved his strength. He raised the slab a few inches. He 
 shouted, screamed, but no answer was returned j and again 
 the lid feU. 
 
 " She is dead !" cried Alan. " Why have I not shared her 
 fate ? But mine is to come. And such a death ! — oh, oh !" 
 And, frenzied at the thought, he again hurried to the door, 
 and renewed his fruitless attempts to escape, till nature gave 
 way, and he sank upon the floor, groaning and exhausted. 
 
 Physical stiffering now began to take the place of his mental 
 tortures. Parched and consumed with a fierce internal fever, 
 he was tormented by unappeasable thu-st — of all human ills 
 the most unendurable. His tongue was dry and dusty, his 
 throat inflamed ; his lips had lost all moisture. He licked 
 the humid floor ; he sought to imbibe the nitrous drops from 
 the walls ; but, instead of allaying his thirst, they increased 
 it. He would have given the world, had he possessed it, for 
 a draught of cold spring- water. Oh, to have died with his 
 lips upon some bubbling fountain's marge ! But to perish 
 thus ! 
 
 Nor were the pangs of hunger wanting. He had to endure 
 all the horrors of famine, as well as the agonies of quenchless 
 thirst. 
 
 In this dreadful state three days and nights passed over 
 Alan's fated head. Nor night nor day had he. Time, with 
 him, was only measured by its duration, and that seemed 
 interminable. Each hour added to his suffering, and brought 
 with it no rehef. During this period of prolonged misery 
 reason often tottered on her throne. Sometimes he was 
 under the influence of the wildest passions. He dragged 
 coffins from their recesses, hurled them upon the ground, 
 striving to break them open and drag forth their loathsome 
 contents. Upon other occasions he would weep bitterly and 
 wildly ; and once — once only — did he attempt to pray ; but 
 he started from his knees with an echo of infernal laughter, 
 as he deemed, ringing in his ears. Then, again, would he 
 call down imprecations upon himself and his whole line, 
 trampling upon the pile of coffins he had reared ; and, lastly, 
 more subdued, would creep to the boards that contained the 
 body of his child, kissing them with a frantic outbreak of 
 affection. 
 
 At length he became sensible of his approaching dissolu- 
 tion. To him the thought of death might well be terrible;
 
 ROOKWOOD. 381 
 
 but he quailed not before it, or rather seemed, in his latest 
 moments, to resume all his wonted firmness of character. 
 Gathering together his remaining strength, he dragged him- 
 self towards the niche wherein his brother, Sir Eeginald 
 Eookwood, was deposited, and placing his hand upon the 
 cofl&n, solemnly exclaimed, " My curse — my dying curse — be 
 upon thee evermore !" 
 
 FaUing with his faee upon the coffin, Alan instantly ex- 
 pired. In this attitude his remains were discovered.
 
 382 
 
 EOOKWOOD. 
 
 Our tale is told. Yet, perhaps, we may be allowed to add 
 a few words respecting two of the subordinate characters of 
 onr drama (melo-drama we ought to say), namely, Jerry 
 Juniper and the knight of Malta. What became of the 
 Caper Merchant's son after his flight from Kilburn Wells we 
 have never been able distinctly to ascertain. Juniper, how- 
 ever, would seem to be a sort of Wandering Jew ; for certain 
 it is that somehody very like him is extant still, and to be met 
 with at Jerry's old haunts ; indeed, we have no doubt of 
 encountering him at the ensuing meetings of Ascot and 
 Hampton. 
 
 As regards the knight of Malta — (Knight of Boads 
 " Rhodes" as he should have been) — we are sorry to state 
 that the career of the Ruffler terminated in a madhouse, and 
 the poor knight became in reality a Hospitaller ! According to 
 the custom observed in those establishments, the knight was 
 deprived of his luxuriant locks, and the loss of his beard 
 rendered his case incurable ; but, in the mean time, the 
 barber of the place made his fortune by retailing the mate- 
 rials of all the black wigs he could collect to the impostor's 
 dupes. 
 
 Such is the latest piece of intelligence that has reached us 
 
 Vof the Arch-hoaxer of Canterbury ! 
 
 • ' Turpin (why disguise it ?) was hanged at Tork in 1739. 
 His firmness deserted him not at the last. When he mounted 
 
 i the fatal tree his left leg trembled ; he stamped it impatiently 
 
 *!down, and, after a brief chat with the hangman, threw him-
 
 ROOKWOOD. 383 
 
 self suddenly and resolutely from the ladder. His sufferings 
 would appear to have been slight : as he himself sang : 
 
 He died, not as other men, by degrees. 
 
 But at once, without wincing, and quite at his ease ! 
 
 We may, in some other place, lay before the reader the 
 particulars (and thoy are not incurious) of the " night before 
 Larry was stretched." 
 
 The remains of the vagrant highwayman found a final 
 resting-place in the desecrated churchyard of Saint George, 
 without the Fishergate postern, a green and grassy cemetery., 
 but withal a melancholy one. A few recent tombs mark out 
 the spot where some of the victims of the pestilence of 
 1832-33 have been interred ; but we have made vain search 
 for Turpin's grave — unless (as is more than pi-obable) the 
 plain stone with the simple initials R. T. belongs to him. 
 
 The gyves by which he was fettered are still shown at York 
 Castle, and are of prodigious weight and strength ; and though 
 the herculean robber is said to have moved in them with ease, 
 the present turnkey was scarcely able to lift the ponderous 
 irons. An old woman of the same city has a lock of hair, 
 said to have been Turpin's, which she avouches her grand- 
 father cut off from the body after the execution, and which 
 the believers look upon with great reverence. O rare Dick 
 Turpin ! 
 
 We shall, perhaps, be accused of dilating too much upon 
 the character of the highwayman, and we plead guilty to the 
 charge. But we found it impossible to avoid running a little 
 into extremes. Our earliest associations are connected with 
 sunny scenes in Cheshire, said to have been havmted by 
 Turpin ; and with one very dear to us (from whose lips, now, 
 alas ! silent, we have listened to many stories of his exploits) 
 he was a sort of hero. We have had a singular delight in 
 recounting his feats and hair-breadth escapes ; and if the 
 reader derives only half as much pleasure from the perusal 
 of his adventures as we have had in narrating them, our 
 satisfaction will be complete. Perhaps, we may have placed 
 tim in too favourable a point of view; and yet we know not.
 
 384 EOOKWOOD. 
 
 As upon those of more important personages, many doubts 
 rest upon his history. Such as we conceive him to have been, 
 we have drawn him — hoping that the benevolent reader, upon 
 finishing our Tale, will arrive at the same conclusion ; and, in 
 the words of the quaint old Prologue to the Prince of Prigs' 
 Eevels, 
 
 Tbank that man, 
 
 Can wake each thief a complete Eoscian ! 
 
 THE END. 
 
 LONDON : 
 WHITING AND CO , 30 & 32, SARDINIA STREET, LINCOI.N'S-INN-FIELDS.
 
 
 IT>- 
 
 T^TTT- LIBRARY 
 .,x,KSITY OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 Santa Barbara 
 
 THIS BOOK IS DUE ON THE LAST DATE 
 STAMPED BELOW. 
 
 NOTIS APR 2 6 1993 
 
 URNCD 
 
 CHECKED iN FEB 13 '92 5 
 
 i0m-6,'«2(C921]s4)476 
 
 :'*Jl-
 
 3 1205 01110 7016 
 
 UC SOUTHERN REGIONAL LIBRARY FACILITY 
 
 
 A A 001 426 866 8 
 
 ^K 
 
 ^ 
 
 1 
 
 :n-W:{<vj^k^ 
 
 
 I^^K