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 A 'How a net, 
 
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 -LONDON &_ MEW Y O R K 
 G E Q BOD fiOU TLED GE &. S G M S 
 
KOOKWOOD 
 
 & Romance 
 
 BY 
 
 ¥. HARRISON AINSWORTH 
 
 AUTHOR OF "THE TOWER OF LONDON," "THE MISER'S DAUGHTER," &C. &C. 
 
 I see how Ruin, with a palsied hand, 
 Begins to shake our ancient house to dust. 
 
 Yorkshire Tragedy. 
 
 WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY 
 GEORGE CRUIKSHANK AND SIR JOHN GILBERT, A.R.A. 
 
 LONDON : 
 GEORGE ROUTLEDGE AND SONS 
 
 THE BROADWAY, LUDGATE. 
 NEW YORK : 416, BROOME STREET. 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 ♦ — 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Memoir of "William Harrison Ainsworth, by Laman Blanchard . v 
 Lineage oe William Harrison Ainsworth xxix 
 
 ROOKWOOD. 
 
 Dedication xxxi 
 
 Preface ........... .xxxiii 
 
 BOOK I.— THE WEDDING BING. 
 chap. 
 
 I.— The Vault 1 
 
 II. — The Skeleton Hand 10 
 
 III.— The Park 16 
 
 IV.— The Hall 25 
 
 V. — Sir Reginald Book wood 29 
 
 VI. — Sir Piers Bookwood 35 
 
 VII.— The Return 37 
 
 VIII. — An Irish Adventurer 39 
 
 IX. — An English Adventurer 47 
 
 X. — Ranulph Bookwood 63 
 
 XI. — Lady Book wood 71 
 
 XII. — The Chamber of Death 77 
 
 XIII.— The Brothers - . . . . 79 
 
 BOOK n.— THE SEXTON. 
 
 I.— The Storm S7 
 
 II. — The Funeral Oeation 93 
 
 III. — The Churchyard 100 
 
 IV.— The Funeral 107 
 
 V.— The Captive Ill 
 
 VI. — The Apparition . . . 116 
 
 BOOK III.— THE GIPSY. 
 
 I. — A Morning Bide 127 
 
 II. — A Gipsy Encampment 133 
 
 III.— Sybil 147 
 
 IV. — Barbara Lovel 154 
 
 V. — The Inauguration 162 
 
 VI. — Eleanor Mowbray 1S9 
 
 VII. — Mrs. Mowbray 197 
 
 a 
 
IV CONTENTS- 
 
 CHAP. PAGE 
 
 VIII. — The Pasting 201 
 
 IX. — The Philter 204 
 
 X. — Saint Cyprian's Cell 208 
 
 XI. — The Bridal 213 
 
 XII. — Alan Rookwood 223 
 
 XIII.— Mr. Coates .... 230 
 
 XIV.— Dick Turpin 234 
 
 BOOK IV.— THE RIDE TO YORK. 
 
 I. — The Rendezvous at Kilburn 244 
 
 II.— Tom King 253 
 
 III.— A Surprise 262 
 
 IV.— The Hue and Cry 265 
 
 V.— The Short Pipe 268 
 
 VI.— Black Bess 272 
 
 VII.— The York Stage 278 
 
 VIII.— A Road-side Inn 280 
 
 IX. — Excitement . . .284 
 
 X.— The Gibbet 285 
 
 XI. — The Phantom Steed . . . . g . . . . 288 
 
 XII. — Cawood Ferry *..... 294 
 
 BOOK V.— THE OATH. 
 
 I. — The Hut on Thorne Waste 299 
 
 II. — Major Mowbray 304 
 
 III. — Hand ass ah 312 
 
 IV.— The Dower of Sybil 320 
 
 V. — The Sarcophagus 329 
 
MEMOIR 
 
 OF 
 
 WILLIAM HARRISON AINSWORTH. 
 
 BY LAMAN BLANCHARD. 
 
 ■4- 
 
 A RECENT review in a leading journal of France bears testimony 
 to the great popularity which has been obtained in that romance- 
 reading nation by the writer of whom we are now to offer some 
 account. The estimation in which he is held by his own country- 
 men is evinced by the large sale which each new production of his 
 pen successively commands. In America his writings have been 
 extensively read. They have all been translated into German 
 and some of them into Dutch. Dramas have been founded upon 
 them; their more striking passages have become as familiar as 
 household words; and their subjects, in some important instances 
 at least, are associated with the most memorable features of Eng- 
 lish history. The biography of a writer who has secured so pro- 
 minent a position may be supposed calculated to awaken a more 
 than ordinary curiosity; not merely with respect to those early 
 dawnings of intellect, and those traits of personal character, to 
 which a deep interest always attaches, but in relation to the family 
 from which he has sprung. Happily, in the present instance, we 
 are able to gratify the reader's curiosity. 
 
 William Harrison Ainsworth unites in his own name the 
 names of two families which, in the eminent success of various 
 members of them, had obtained celebrity long prior to the present 
 generation. Amongst his paternal ancestors are, Robert Ains- 
 worth, the well-known scholar and author of the Latin Dictionary, 
 
VI MEMOIR OF 
 
 and Henry Ainsworth, the Brownist, who flourished at the com- 
 mencement of the seventeenth century. The latter was one of the 
 most profound Hebrew scholars of his time, and author of " Anno- 
 tations upon the Old Testament," and of a translation of the 
 Pentateuch.* From these we come to the father of the living 
 descendant from this learned stock, Thomas Ainsworth, of Man- 
 chester, a solicitor in very extensive practice. 
 
 This gentleman, though descended from a family residing at 
 Plessington, in Lancashire, was born at Rosthorne, in Cheshire, a 
 village which he always remembered with affection, and where, 
 dying in June, 1824, he was interred. Manchester, however, the 
 stage on which his active life was passed, benefited most largely 
 by the ardour and zeal with which he devoted himself to the pro- 
 motion of public improvements. He was one of the main instruments 
 in causing the rebuilding and widening of one of the principal 
 thoroughfares — Market-street: and though he did not live to see 
 the work accomplished, his name must always be honourably con- 
 nected with it. Of rather an irritable temperament, perhaps, he 
 was known extensively for a singular liberality of character and 
 generosity of disposition. He was a man of taste and virtu; 
 uniting, with a fair degree of classical scholarship, considerable 
 proficiency in botany, and a general fondness for scientific pursuits; 
 and thus the excellent library he possessed was, throughout life, a 
 source of pleasure and recreation that lightened the graver duties 
 he so faithfully discharged. 
 
 He married, in 1802, Ann, daughter of the Rev. Ralph Harri- 
 son, a Presbyterian divine, and Ann Touchet. This divine, him- 
 self the son of a minister, and great-grandson to the Rev. Cuthbert 
 
 * The Novelist's grandfather, Jeremiah Ainsworth, of Manchester, was a 
 distinguished mathematician. In a Memoir of Joint Buttertrorth, the Mathe- 
 matician, by Thomas Wilkinson, of Burnley, it is said, " A cursory glance at 
 some of the Mathematical periodicals of the day (1761) will readily furnish the 
 name of Ainswohtii, whose elegant productions in pure geometry adorn the' 
 pages of the Gentleman's and Burrow's Diaries." And again : " During the 
 greater part of the time just reviewed, Mr. Jeremiah Ainsworth was resident 
 m the neighbourhood of Manchester, and so early as 1761 was in correspond- 
 ence with the editors of the Mathematical Magazine. He subsequently asso- 
 ciated with Mr. George Taylor, a gentleman of kindred habits, then resident in 
 the immediate vicinity, and these worthy veterans of Science, as time wore on, 
 collected around them a goodly array of pupils and admirers, and hence may 
 truly be said not only to have laid the foundation of the ' Oldham Society,' but 
 also to have been the fathers of the Lancashire School of Geometers." Jere- 
 miah Ainsworth was born at llillenden, in Lancashire, in 1713, and died in 
 1784; consequently, the "veteran geometer" could only have been eighteen 
 when he first distinguished himself' 
 
WILLIAM HARRISON AINSWORTH. Vll 
 
 Harrison, who, as a famous Nonconformist teacher, is noticed in 
 Dr. Calamy's account of ejected ministers,* attained a high repu- 
 tation in Manchester as a preacher, an author, and a scholar. In the 
 academy there he was appointed professor of the Greek and Latin 
 languages, and of polite literature. He produced many able works 
 of an educational character; and left behind him a volume of dis- 
 courses that fully bear out his claim to the affectionate regard in 
 which his character and ministrations were held. Of these ser- 
 mons, which, with a biographical memoir, were first printed in 
 
 * From another source, a manuscript to which we have had access, we derive 
 some particulars relative to this said Cuthbert, far too curious to omit. Cuth- 
 bert, the youngest son of Jlichard Harrison, who resided at Newton, was born 
 about 1627, and was regularly ordained. In 1672 he obtained the king's 
 license to preach in Elswick Lees, according to the doctrines of "the per- 
 suasion called Congregational;" but this license served him but for a short 
 time, the Parliament declaring the meetings illegal ; and he preached as before, 
 in his own house at Bankelield, and also at others, "very privately in the 
 night, to such as would venture to hear him." The following extract- from a 
 letter written by one of his descendants explains the rest, and fully develops 
 at once his character and his persecutions : " Mr. Richard Clegg, vicar of Kirk- 
 ham, fell violently upon him, first, in the ecclesiastical court, for preaching, 
 marrying one James Benson, and baptising his child, and got both him and 
 Benson excommunicated. [He was absolved from this censure in 1677.] He 
 sometimes repaired to the parish church at Kirkham, particularly one Lord's 
 day, whilst he was under the aforesaid censure, and took his place amongst the 
 gentlemen in the chancel. Mr. Clegg, the vicar, who wrote his prayer before 
 sermon, and all his sermons also, in characters, was got into the pulpit, and, 
 looking aside and seeing him come in and place himself, lost the end. He 
 could not find it again, and was silent for some time ; then ordered the church- 
 wardens to put him out. They went to our father, and told him what Mr. 
 Clegg had ordered, and desired he would go out. He refused ; and said that, 
 except Mr. Clegg himself would put him out, he would not go. Mr. Clegg 
 then desired Mr. Christopher Parker, who was justice of the peace, and then in 
 church, and sat within six foot of our father, to put him out ; but Mr. Parker 
 refused, and said he would not meddle. Then Mr. Clegg went to our father, 
 and took him by the sleeve, and desired him to go out. He went along with, 
 Mr. Clegg, and opened the chancel-door, and was no sooner out, but with a 
 strong voice said, * It's time to go when the devil drives.' Thou canst scarce 
 imagine a greater disorder than was reported to have been in the church at 
 that time. Shortly after, the vicar sued our father at common law, upon the 
 statute called Qui tarn, for 20/. a month, for six months absenting from the 
 church, and the case was brought to a trial at the assizes at Lancaster; but I 
 could never know the judge's name. Our father, in his defence, proved that 
 he was at church one Lord's day in one of the months, on his jornall to Chester, 
 being cited to appear and answer a libel of Mr. Clegg's, a Lord's day in another 
 month, and under the church censure for the other time, and that he went to 
 church and was put out as aforesaid. The judge was hearty, and after he had 
 summed up the evidence, he told the jury ' There was fiddle and be hanged, and 
 there was fiddle not and be hanged. The defendant was under church censure, 
 which might prevent his going to church. Gentlemen, pray consider it.' The 
 iury brought in for the defendant, and all costs were thrown on Mr. Clegg, with, 
 many affronting scoffs." There are other characteristic stories of this veteran 
 Nonconformist. The war was continued, even to the writing of his epitaph. 
 
 a* 
 
Vlil MEMOIR OF 
 
 1813, a new edition appeared in 1827. It may here be men- 
 tioned, as a somewhat rare occurrence in the life of a Presbyterian 
 minister, that this reverend person, the grandfather of the subject 
 of this sketch, realised, by fortunate speculations in land and build- 
 ing, a large fortune, leaving behind him upwards of 60,000/. Of 
 this union two sons were born; the elder named William Harrison, 
 the younger, Thomas Gilbert, who, distinguishing himself at Cam- 
 bridge, and taking a scholarship there, unfortunately fell into ill- 
 health from over-study, which so affected his nervous system that 
 he never took his degree, and his intention of going into the church 
 was therefore abandoned. 
 
 William Harrison Ainsworth was born on the 4th of February, 
 1805, at the house of his father, in King-street, Manchester; but 
 not long after, the family removed to a very commodious and 
 pleasantly situated country-house, called Beech Hill, about two 
 miles from the town, on the Chetham side. Here was a very ex- 
 tensive garden; and here all the time that could be spared by its 
 possessor from professional pursuits was devoted to the studies and 
 recreations of which he was so passionately fond. The grounds 
 were laid out under his own eye, and several of the trees were 
 planted by the young brothers. 
 
 To the education of the elder of these it is now necessary to 
 refer. The early part of it was undertaken by his uncle, the Rev. 
 William Harrison ; and then, while still very young, he was placed 
 at the free grammar-school in Manchester, in one of the classes of 
 the Rev. Robinson (afterwards Dr.) Elsdale. In this school, which 
 was founded early in the sixteenth century, many persons eminent 
 for science and learning!; have been educated. The list extends as 
 far back as the reign of Mary, opening with the well-known name 
 of John Bradford, who suffered martyrdom in 1555. Reginald 
 Heber (the father of the bishop) was here — Cyril Jackson, and his 
 brother the Bishop of Oxford — the first Lord Alvanley, Mr. 
 Morritt of Rokeby, David Latouche, the celebrated banker, the 
 present Mr. Justice Williams, and many others. Here our youth- 
 ful student so far distinguished himself as to have received very 
 flattering testimonials from Dr. Smith (the then head-master of the 
 school), and his colleague, Dr. Elsdale. He wrote several transla- 
 tions from the Latin and Greek poets, which obtained their appro- 
 bation. At that period (the practice, we believe, has been since 
 • discontinued) there were held, once a year, " speaking days" — the 
 
WILLIAM HA CRISON AINSWORTH. IX 
 
 head boys reciting passages from the poets and orators in Greek 
 and Latin; and upon one of these occasions he obtained great 
 praise and credit by reciting Seneca's Qais vere Rex? with a 
 translation by himself. In this school he remained, gathering 
 honour and advantage, until he reached the first form, when his 
 father, who designed his son to be his successor, placed him as a 
 clerk with Mr. Alexander Kay, a then rising, and since risen, so- 
 licitor in the town. 
 
 The blossom of that literary fruit, on which the public, in more 
 than one nation, has since fed with such eagerness and relish, had 
 begun to develop itself previously even to this youthful period — 
 and not in one form only, but in many ; not in translations merely, 
 but in original compositions — in tales, sketches, dramatic scenes — 
 even in tragedies. 
 
 But, to begin with the beginning, it should be mentioned that 
 these literary predilections had their precursors in other tastes. 
 The first passion, if report speaks truly, took a pyrotechnic direc- 
 tion; it shot upward like a rocket. Firework-making was, in 
 short, the earliest predilection that manifested itself with any con- 
 siderable potency; and the first throb of young ambition was to 
 make a rocket in earnest. Roman candles, serpents, &c, were ac- 
 complished satisfactorily; but the "greatest was behind," the grand 
 triumph was the rocket; and in the blaze and brilliancy of this — for 
 it was at last achieved — the passion for pyrotechnic glory seems to 
 have evaporated. Success sometimes involves terrible disappoint- 
 ment, and has the most unlooked-for consequences — swallowing 
 up, in the moment of victory, all care and concern for the very 
 objects of success. 
 
 We hear no more of this passion ; but of another which suc- 
 ceeded it we may justly say, that while it lasts it burns with such 
 ardour as to consume or draw to itself every other youthful feeling. 
 This is the rage for private theatricals. The nature on which this 
 had now taken hold was not one to surrender itself by halves, with 
 reluctance, or with misgivings. The whole heart of the schoolboy, 
 for as yet he was no more, was freely given to the new passion. 
 He constructed a theatre in the cellar (the majesty of buried Den- 
 mark speaking from the "cellarage !"), put together the machinery, 
 fixed the great essential, the curtain, painted the scenes, made the 
 dresses, acted the characters — having first written the pluys I It is 
 to this circumstance, perhaps, that our libraries are indebted for 
 
X MEMOIR OF 
 
 many admirable romances; as it is to such seemingly trivial acci- 
 dents we may often trace the first workings of a genius which, in 
 its fully developed beauty, delights the world with animated pic- 
 tures drawn from the past or imagined of the future — dazzling 
 the eye with glittering fictions, and filling the soul with sweet 
 perfumes. 
 
 His literary career, ere he had yet left school, may now be said 
 to have commenced, since he contributed largely to a weekly lite- 
 rary journal then existing in Manchester, called "The Iris;" and 
 so profusely were his youthful feelings and opinions poured forth, 
 that it may be doubted whether he ever wrote more, even at the 
 busiest season of his subsequent career. His reputation as a writer 
 was thus so far advanced, that a printer was induced to bring out a 
 small theatrical paper, written solely by him; and, subsequently, a 
 journal (on the plan and in the form of the "Indicator") entitled the 
 a Boeotian." Of this work (the motto of which was Boeotum crasso 
 jurares aire naturn, in merry allusion to the town where it was 
 produced) six numbers were published. Its young editor about 
 the same time contributed regularly to the " European Magazine." 
 
 It had been his father's wish, w T hen the period of the youth's 
 law-studies commenced, that he should devote himself chiefly to 
 that branch of the profession which it was intended he should 
 practise — conveyancing; but no great progress was made in this 
 study. Byron, Scott, and Shelley had charms that title-deeds 
 could never boast; writing verses was far more attractive than 
 making abstracts, and drawing drafts bore no comparison to sketch- 
 ing for Magazines. It was the old story — he was literally 
 
 A youth foredoom'd his father's hopes to cross, 
 Who penn'd a stanza when he should engross. 
 
 The nameless editor of a Magazine was, in his enchanted view, 
 greater by far than the greatest of the whole tribe of lawyers; and 
 the occupation of the editorial chair appeared in his fanciful dream 
 an object worthier of a lofty ambition than a seat on the woolsack. 
 What his present feeling may be — now that he has accomplished 
 his young desire to the full — we pause not to ask. It is enough to 
 know that coming events often cast before them shadows far 
 gaudier than themselves. The glory fades in possession — u the 
 beautiful has vanished, and returns not." And yet — for there is 
 no end to contradictions — the early vision has been more than 
 realised. 
 
WILLIAM HARRISON AINSWORTH. xi 
 
 But if law failed to attract, other studies were not at this time 
 neglected. His father's lavish care had provided masters of various 
 kinds, and he continued to read the classics, on two days of the 
 week, with Dr. Smith, the head-master of the school he had quitted. 
 Literature only consumed the time apportioned by parental anxiety 
 to severer pursuits ; but that the literary fruits of these stolen 
 marches were not slight, a simple enumeration of his published 
 pieces will show. Having composed, prior to the appearance of 
 Lord Byron's "Foscari," a tragedy on the same subject, he sent 
 some account of it to Constable's " Edinburgh Magazine," in which 
 miscellany a notice appeared a month previous to the publication 
 of Byron's drama. A regular contributorship to that periodical en- 
 sued; but it did not absorb all his literary interest, for he wrote a 
 tale for Taylor and Hessey's "London Magazine," called the 
 "Falls of Ohiopyle;" and through the medium of Mr. Arliss, the 
 printer, published with Whittaker two poems, entitled the " Maid's 
 Revenge," and "A Summer Evening's Tale." Some of the tales 
 and essays thus scattered over various periodicals were afterwards 
 collected into a little volume, under the title of " December Tales," 
 and published by Whittaker. 
 
 Of what was unpublished we know nothing ; but all these pro- 
 ductions saw the light before their author was nineteen years of 
 age. Thus early was he a prolific writer. It was at this period 
 that his father's death occurred, from the shock naturally conse- 
 quent upon which he awakened to a sense of the expediency of 
 completing his term as a conveyancer, and qualifying himself for 
 assuming the professional responsibility which this bereavement 
 devolved upon him. With this view he repaired to London, to 
 finish his term with Mr. Jacob Phillips, of the Inner Temple. 
 Yet it does not appear that he devoted himself with the adequate 
 diligence and zeal to professional study. The literary enthusiasm 
 was still the stronger feeling, though less productive in its imme- 
 diate results than before ; for the metropolis was a novel scene, and 
 some time was spent in acquainting himself with its amusements. 
 
 Not long before the completion of his appointed stay in town, he 
 commenced an acquaintance with Mr. Ebers, at that time the ma- 
 nager of the Opera House. A constant attendance there was, of 
 course, included among hisLondon pleasures. Still literature asserted 
 its claims ; and with Mr. Ebers, a few months after the commence- 
 ment of their intimacy, he published a romance entitled " Sir John 
 
Xli MEMOIR OF 
 
 Chiverton." Of this work, which we never happened to read, we 
 cannot, of course, offer any critical opinion ; yet we remember to 
 have observed that Sir Walter Scott has referred to it not uncom- 
 plimentarily in his u Diary." We pass it to record a more im- 
 portant step in life — the marriage of Mr. Ainsworth to Fanny, the 
 youngest daughter of Mr. Ebers. This event occurred in the au- 
 tumn of 1826. Three daughters, still living, were the offspring of 
 this union. They lost their mother in the spring of 1838. 
 
 The connexion thus formed with Mr. Ebers had a material in- 
 fluence in deciding the young law-student as to the course he 
 should pursue. His repugnance to " conveyancing" being insu- 
 perable, and his tastes and inclinations being decidedly literary, he 
 readily listened to the suggestions of Mr. Ebers, to make an expe- 
 riment as a publisher. The sacrifice, to be sure, was considerable. 
 It involved the relinquishment of his share in his father's lucrative 
 business, which had been carried on, meanwhile, by two partners, 
 at the head of whom he would necessarily be placed ; it was the 
 exchanging a certainty for a chance. Yet, on the other hand, he 
 was to secure the advantage of Mr. Ebers's extensive connexion, 
 and of his practical knowledge of a business which as yet was a 
 " book sealed" to him. There were other temptations, not un- 
 worthy of a high literary ambition, and a generous zeal for the 
 interests of authors. The period, that of 1828-9, was the season of 
 the (exclusively) "fashionable novels," when what was most ephe- 
 meral was most triumphant, and when works of a more enduring 
 though less winning- character had fewer charms than usual in a 
 publisher's eye. Let us here pause for a moment to consider what 
 his aims were, and, at the same time, what were his qualifications 
 for giving effect to them. 
 
 Mr. Ainsworth entered upon his speculation doubtless with lite- 
 rary feelings not very dissimilar to those with which he may be 
 supposed to have recently originated his Magazine. His was not 
 the speculation of an ordinary publisher ; his aim was to promote 
 the interests of literature, to advance his own reputation as a 
 writer, and to surround himself with such authors as it was alike 
 honourable to serve and to be associated with ; he thought that he 
 might bring forward sterling works, rejected, perhaps, as not 
 " fashionable," and assist writers of a better class than those who 
 aspired to a merely fleeting popularity ; in any case, he should 
 succeed in showing that such an enterprise might be conducted on 
 
WILLIAM HARRISON AINSWORTH. Xlll 
 
 liberal and gentlemanlike principles. These, as we believe, were 
 his objects ; but he mistook the practicability of the scheme, and 
 misconceived his own qualifications for conducting it. He had 
 great liberality, a highly cultivated literary taste, ripe scholarship, 
 and popular manners; he was borne up by the spirit of youth, and 
 the love of books for their own sake, to make an experiment, and 
 his entering upon it was the best proof of the sacrifices he could 
 cheerfully incur, and that he thought of no selfish or mercenary 
 bargain. But with these fine qualities he wanted some that are 
 not always found in their company and in that of youth, — fore- 
 thought, deliberation, patience under disappointment, submission 
 to repugnant tasks, and indifference to the trifling circumstance of 
 being always unthanked and generally misapprehended. What 
 young man of one-and-twenty understands his own character 
 sufficiently to justify such an attempt? His principles were but 
 partially recognised by the writers with whom he was brought into 
 connexion, and he was of too impatient a temperament to afford 
 them time to understand him. His pride speedily revolted from 
 the position he had voluntarily chosen, and at the expiration of 
 about a year and a half he abandoned the experiment ; the result 
 was — neither good nor harm beyond loss of time. During this 
 period, and up to the year 1830, a few trifles had been written; a 
 tragedy on the subject of Philip van Artevelde was planned, and 
 two acts composed ; a melodrama or two, never acted, swelled the 
 stock ; but nothing was published. A change of scene was now 
 resolved upon : in the summer of that year Mr. Ainsworth started 
 on a tour in Switzerland and Italy. 
 
 It was in the following year, during a visit to Chesterfield, .that 
 he first thought of writing a three-volumed tale, and the idea of 
 " Rookwood" arose. He has told us his object. u Wishing," he 
 says, " to describe somewhat minutely the trim gardens, the pic- 
 turesque domains, the rook-haunted groves, the gloomy chambers, 
 and gloomier galleries of an ancient Hall with which I was ac- 
 quainted, I resolved to attempt a story in the bygone style of Mrs. 
 Radcliffe ; substituting an old English squire, an old manorial 
 residence, and an old English highwayman for the Italian marchese, 
 the castle, and the brigand of that great mistress of romance." 
 
 u Rookwood" was commenced, but many and serious pauses oc- 
 curred in the completion of the story; nor was it until May, 1834, 
 that it was published ; but the power with which the design was 
 
XIV MEMOIR OF 
 
 worked out, the success with which it was accomplished, was in- 
 stantaneously recognised. The " Edinburgh Review" described 
 the novel achievement — " What Mr. Ainsworth has ventured to 
 do, and successfully, was to revive the almost exploded interest 
 afforded by the supernatural ; and to preserve this, too, not in 
 connexion with days long gone by, but side by side with the sober 
 realities of 1737, with the convivialities of Yorkshire squires and 
 country attorneys, with the humours of justices of the peace and 
 the feats of Dick Turpin the highwayman." The same writer 
 describes, also, the influences of all this upon the reader. " Strange 
 as it may seem, the author has contrived to present the terrors of 
 burial vaults and the blood-stained mysteries of family crime side 
 by side with the most familiar scenes of the every-day life of the 
 eighteenth century, without exciting the slightest feeling of the 
 ludicrous — nay, more, with a character of earnestness and solemnity 
 with which, a priori, we should have hardly thought such subjects 
 could have been invested." 
 
 But the truth is, as the critic seems to have felt, that the reader 
 is never allowed to pause for an instant to think at all. The famous 
 picture of the ride to York, now as well known as the name of 
 Turpin himself, is but an. image of the reader's course as he leaps 
 the abrupt gaps and turns the picturesque corners of this singular 
 tale. He goes through it hurried, yet noting everything, and with 
 breathless interest ; and it is not until after a pause at the close 
 that he bethinks him of the songs and ballads whose lively or 
 solemn chimes struck his ear as he passed rapidly; when he is sure 
 to turn back to read them leisurely over one by one, enjoying the 
 true spirit of the old minstrelsy with which they are imbued, and 
 wishing for a whole volume of such tuneful rarities. The effect of 
 this publication was to place Mr. Ainsworth in the first rank of 
 writers of romantic fiction. The first edition was speedily sold off; 
 a second followed. In 1 836, Mr. Macrone issued a beautiful volume 
 with designs by Cruikshank. 
 
 " Crichton" was the next work meditated ; and as soon as pro- 
 jected Mr. Macrone offered 350/. for the manuscript. It appeared 
 in the spring of 1837, and a rapid sale betokened the now esta- 
 blished reputation of the writer. This historical romance afforded, 
 in some respects, indications of a higher aim and more elaborate 
 finish than the happiest pictures of the preceding work. Extensive 
 and curious reading — a minute acquaintance with the modes, 
 
WILLIAM HARRISON AINSWORTH. XV 
 
 usuages > intrigue, and philosophy of the time — a capacity at once 
 to analyse and combine — an eye for grand effects as well as the 
 smallest details — were everywhere recognised. Many rare qualities 
 united in the composition of this work. Its pictures of the times 
 and persons it treats of are " finished sketches," the effect of which, 
 by a truly artist-like skill, is heightened instead of diminished by 
 the small fine touches that denote a thorough familiarity with every 
 incidental particular of the subject. Thus, not only are the king's 
 jester and the king's cook as vividly set before us as Henri him- 
 self; but Henri's lineaments are not more accurately painted than 
 is the quaint figure on a piece of embroidery, the fashion of a 
 jewel, or the cut of a garment. In spite of a most hurried and 
 effect-marring termination, this romance has in it the seeds of life, 
 and contains some of its author's soundest and most brilliant 
 writing. Here, again, we see a lyrical genius in full flow ; some of 
 the songs are o£ a most dainty fashion, and charm equally by their 
 structure and their fancy. 
 
 The " Admirable Crichton" was yet winning admiration when 
 his untired historian commenced another romance, which he origi- 
 nally intended to call " Thames Darrell," and under that name it 
 was announced by its publisher. After considerable delays, the 
 opening chapters of the work made their appearance in " Bentley's 
 Miscellany," under the title of " Jack Sheppard." This was in 
 January, 1839. Two months afterwards, on the retirement of 
 Mr. Dickens, the author of the new romance was installed as 
 editor of the " Miscellany" — the terms agreed upon being 51/. per 
 month. 
 
 As the story month by month developed itself, the circle of its 
 success widened ; not an audible objection to its hero or to its 
 author — to his plot, scenery, or persons — their life, character, or 
 behaviour — was raised, as far as we are aware, in the most fastidious 
 coterie ; but, on the contrary, many established critics of high cha- 
 racter, fully cognisant of the significant fact that the hero of the 
 tale was the veritable housebreaker, welcomed him with winged 
 pens as he broke limb by limb out of the Magazine, and shook 
 him heartily by the hand as a legitimate historical acquaintance. 
 When he stood before them, whole, in the autumn of the same 
 year, he met with astonishing success, and became the " rage " for 
 months. The three volumes were produced in a dramatic form 
 simultaneously at eight different theatres ; and George Cruikshank's 
 
 b 
 
xvi MEMOIR OF 
 
 inimitable designs became set scenes east and west. At last, how- 
 ever, the prison-breaker's popularity became all at once an offence 
 in people's eyes greater than any of which he was ever convicted. 
 He was denounced as something worse than the monster in 
 " Frankenstein." Critics, who had always a passion for heroes in 
 fetters before, now found out that housebreakers are disreputable 
 characters. They were in raptures with the old-established brigand 
 still, and the freebooter of foreign extraction ; they could hug 
 Robin Hood as fondly as ever, and dwell with unhurt morals on 
 the little peccadilloes of Rob Roy ; nay, they had no objection to 
 ride behind Turpin to York any day, and would never feel 
 ashamed of their company ; but they shook their heads at Shep- 
 pardy because low people began to run after him at the theatres; 
 he was a housebreaker ! 
 
 We are here recording facts, and have small space for opinions. 
 It may be observed, however, that the outcry, to have served any 
 moral end, should have been raised much sooner. Why did it not 
 break out when the housebreaker first broke out in January amidst 
 public plaudits? Why was it silent for a whole twelvemonth? 
 But this is not the only question. Why was not that moral outcry 
 raised long before this culprit ever made a literary appearance at all? 
 He had some remarkably suspicious precursors — heroes selected 
 only for their ruffianism ; yet the storm falls on this offender, pro- 
 bably because he comes late in the field. In answer to the charge 
 of choosing a Newgate hero, the romancer is surely entitled to say, 
 u I did not select him because he was a housebreaker, but because 
 he was a prison-breaker" And if mischief arise from the delinea- 
 tion of the characters of such criminals — which is a separate ques- 
 tion, and would lead us as far afield as the " Robbers" of Schiller 
 led the young reprobate nobles who turned thieves in imitation, 
 and might suggest a committee of inquiry concerning Bardolph 
 and Company, amongst a crowd of others — but if mischief arise, 
 which course has the directest tendency to produce it — that which 
 introduces the criminal into the story to play off his brutalities un- 
 restricted, and, as it were, under cover of false dates and places — 
 or that which avows the heroship on the title-page, and warns off 
 those of timid tastes and trembling morals? People seem to object 
 to no atrocity, no vulgarity, so that it be unexpected, and not con- 
 centrated in the hero. We take up the most innocent-looking 
 Arcadian sort of books, and find ourselves in the heart of Newgate. 
 
WILLIAM HARRISON AINSWORTH. XVll 
 
 Of this we may have some cause to complain ; but we cannot com- 
 plain of going to Tyburn, when the hero's very name tells us we 
 shall be taken there in the end, wheresoever the story may pre- 
 viously wind. 
 
 Gay has been libelled for his " Beggar's Opera," and Fielding 
 has been abused for his " Jonathan Wild the Great " (excellent 
 company wherein to sin or to suffer martyrdom); but those exqui- 
 site satires, if liable to be misunderstood by the dull, are as inno- 
 cent of evil as they are brave in purpose and profound in wit. 
 They are what they profess to be, and do not cheat the reader 
 with a promise of something different. It is so, in its degree, with 
 the romance to which we have referred. It can have injured or 
 imposed upon no family on earth, except the Fudge Family. 
 
 We now approach the consideration of works on which their 
 author has unquestionably employed his best powers, and in which 
 at least he has not sinned in point of subject. With the new year 
 he commenced two new romances. u Guy Fawkes " appeared in 
 the " Miscellany," and was completed in eighteen monthly num- 
 bers, when it was reprinted in three volumes. The sum received 
 during this period from the publisher exceeded 1500/. Of the 
 several romances that have been founded partly or entirely upon 
 the same subject, it is by far the most striking. The bold and 
 simple painting of character, the felicitous description, the hair- 
 breadth 'scapes which the reader follows with an interest trem- 
 blingly alive, the constant fertility of invention, while the stream 
 of historical truth flows on in the midst of all, denote the abundance 
 of the resources which this w r riter always brings to his task. The 
 time and subject seem new in his hands, because his manner and 
 his materials (save the simple truth upon and around which he 
 works them) are entirely his own. 
 
 The " Tower of London " — the twin-born romance, running 
 chapter by chapter with the foregoing — is a work of yet more 
 remarkable power, because it is more fully and consistently sus- 
 tained to the close. It had been the author's wish — if we are not 
 misinformed — from the hour when he first saw the old fortress, to 
 write a romance on one of the thousand almost incredible truths 
 with which the memory that sanctifies it is peopled. The com- 
 panion-thought to this was the hope to connect another historical 
 legend with the Castle of Windsor — both so picturesque in them- 
 selves, and both so surpassingly rich in historical recollections. 
 
 12 
 
XVlll MEMOIR OF 
 
 The one object is accomplished, the other is on the eve of com- 
 mencement. 
 
 The project of the u Tower" brought together author and artist 
 — Ainsworth and Cruikshank — in partnership, on equal terms, and 
 on their own responsibility. Considerations, however, connected 
 with publication, led to an arrangement with Mr. Bentley, who 
 was appointed to publish the work in monthly parts. It is still as 
 popular as ever, as it must long remain. " Desirous," says Mr. 
 Ainsworth, " of exhibiting the Tower in its triple light of a palace, 
 a prison, and a fortress, the author has shaped his story with re- 
 ference to that end; and he has also contrived such a series of in- 
 cidents as should naturally introduce every relic of the old pile — 
 its towers, chapels, halls, chambers, gateways, arches, and draw- 
 bridges, so that no part of it should remain unillustrated " It is 
 curious to observe how this purpose is worked out in entire con- 
 sistency with an unbroken and uninterrupted narrative. With 
 every necessity imposed upon the historian for going out of his 
 way in order to realise previously resolved upon effects, there is no 
 appearance of his ever doing so, and indeed, the scene being cir- 
 cumscribed and the locality fixed, there is in this work fewer 
 abrupt turns and changes than in the majority of its predecessors. 
 The historical events chosen for illustration are happily suited for 
 the design: they admit of every variety of agency, and embrace 
 an enormous field in a small space ; — they involve the throne and 
 the block, the siege and the stake, the secret plot and the fiery 
 storm of revolt; — "the mad battle and the ghastly grave." They 
 comprise the cold, insidious foreign bigot, wily as a serpent, and 
 the hot-gospeller, frantic in his fanaticism; the haughty, daring 
 noble and the brutal gaoler; the courtly knight and the headsman 
 — a goodly company, with an infinite train of " dwarf and giant 
 auxiliaries." The characters are extremely numerous; but they 
 are not more skilfully grouped than they are artfully discriminated. 
 Two of them seem to us of first-rate rank in that grand human 
 gallery to which this author has now contributed several noble 
 portraitures; these are, Mary the queen, and the subtle Spaniard, 
 Simon Renard. But the whole space allotted to this memoir 
 would not be too wide a limit for a comprehensive review of the 
 characteristics of this admirable romance. 
 
 One remark may be allowed. Mr. Ainsworth, in his intro- 
 ductory observations, says: " Opposite the matchless White Tower 
 
WILLIAM HARRISON AINSWORTH. XIX 
 
 — William of Orange by the side of "William the Conqueror — is 
 that frightful architectural abomination, the Grand Store-House. 
 It may not be impossible to remove this ugly and incongruous 
 structure." Not long after this was written, the abused building 
 was burnt down. Should not cant or prejudice, when it traces 
 robberies to novels, have traced the conflagration to this romance? 
 
 In the first week of 1841, " Old Saint Paul's" was commenced. 
 The proprietors of the Sunday Times newspaper had proposed to 
 Mr. Ainsworth to write a romance to be published in their journal 
 weekly throughout the year, for which they very liberally offered 
 1000/. This was a new feature in newspaper management and 
 romance-writing. The offer was accepted: the tale appeared in 
 successive numbers, and at the close of the year (the copyright 
 reverting to Mr. Ainsworth) it was re-issued in three handsome 
 volumes, lavishly illustrated by Franklin. A large edition was 
 disposed of. This work, u a tale of the Plague and the Fire," 
 abounds, as this explanation denotes, in the terrible and the sub- 
 lime. The time extends from April, 1665, to September in the 
 following year, embracing the two most fearful and fatal calamities 
 that ever London was visited with. With what grasping power 
 Mr. Ainsworth has seized upon the prominent points arising out of 
 these scenes of devastation and dismay, those best may judge who 
 can most vividly recal past examples of his art in stirring men's 
 blood and lifting the imagination to a point of horror ; but they 
 may not so readily surmise with what a gentle and reconciling 
 humanity he has detained us amidst what was loathsome, to exhibit 
 to us, as it were, the lily in the charnel-house; and carried us 
 through the pestilence and the flame, to vindicate the severity of 
 human trials, to inculcate salutary lessons of exertion and en- 
 durance, and track the course of faith, and courage, and happiness, 
 through all. From the insupportable and unredeemed ghastliness 
 of Defoe's astonishing narrative, we turn to this peopled story, and 
 discover a vitality amidst the shadows of death, and hope stealing 
 silently on through the desolation and the ruin. 
 
 Mr. Ainsworth's engagement as editor of " Bentley's Miscellany " 
 terminated with the year 1841, and in February, 1842, appeared 
 the first number of "Ainsworth's Magazine," a journal of Romance, 
 Literature, and Art. Its success, measured by the sale of the first 
 volume, now completed, surpasses, it is said, by many degrees, that 
 of any similar periodical that ever made its appearance. Its editor 
 
XX MEMOIR OF 
 
 had surrounded himself by many able writers, but his reliance, 
 perhaps, was upon a new tale from his own pen, " The Miser's 
 Daughter." Though scarcely half finished, public opinion seems 
 to have set its seal upon this fine-toned and charmingly-coloured 
 story, as " the favourite and the flower." Of this work Cruikshank 
 is the illustrator; but Mr. Ainsworth, it seems, purposes to keep 
 the imagination of a second artist employed, for in July he opens, 
 in his Magazine, a new tale, entitled " Windsor Castle," for which 
 the celebrated Tony Johannot is to furnish steel engravings, and 
 Alfred Delamotte woodcuts. 
 
 Here draw we to a close, with the observation, that, should 
 these new romances, now in a state of progress, share the good for- 
 tune of their predecessors, they will not only be extensively read, 
 but dramas will be founded upon them in this country; the Paris 
 press will give them a new shape; America will spread them over 
 her surface ; the German translator will ensure them a wide circu- 
 lation in that land of the mysteries; and even the Dutch, as in the 
 case of " Rookwood " and " Crichton," will mark them for their 
 own. There is one event of a domestic nature that should be 
 mentioned in a more saddened tone at the close. On the 15th of 
 March, in the present year (1842), it was Mr. Ainsworth's affliction 
 to lose his surviving parent — the revered mother who had taken 
 pride in his rising fame, and had found joy in his constant affection. 
 A beautiful monumental tribute to both parents has just been 
 erected in the cemetery at Kensal Green. 
 
 What have we to add to what we have here ventured to record, 
 which the engraving that accompanies this memoir* will not more 
 happily embody? Should that fail to do justice to his face — to 
 its regularity and delicacy of feature, its manly glow of health, and 
 the cordial nature that lightens it up, we must refer the dissatisfied 
 beholder to Mr. Pickersgill's masterly full-length portrait, exhibited 
 last year; in which the author of " The Miser's Daughter" maybe 
 seen, not as some pale, worn, pining scholar — some fagging, half- 
 exhausted periodical romancer — but as an English gentleman, of 
 goodly stature and well-set limb, with a fine head on his shoulders, 
 and a heart to match. If to this we add a word, it must be to 
 observe, that, though the temper of our popular author may be 
 marked by impatience on some occasions, it has never been upon 
 
 * This refers to a portrait by Maclise which appeared in the " Mirror." 
 
WILLIAM HARRISON AI'XSWORTH. XXI 
 
 any occasion marked by a want of generosity, whether in con- 
 ferring benefits or atoning for errors. His friends regard him as a 
 man with as few failings, blended with fine qualities, as most 
 people; and his enemies know nothing at all about him. He is 
 liberal towards his contemporaries, and quick to feel a kindness 
 rendered to himself. He writes rapidly, and finds leisure, we are 
 told, for a full portion of social enjoyment and relaxation; so that, 
 at Kensal Manor-House, hospitality is a virtue that is always at 
 home. 
 
 Amongst the possessions which Mr. Ainsworth has more recently 
 inherited is the charming residence at Beech-hill, where, as above 
 stated, his early years were passed. To that house, with which all 
 his younger and pleasanter recollections are connected, he medi- 
 tates, we believe, a return in mature life. But the metropolis and 
 its neighbourhood, the pursuit of fame, and the fields in which he 
 has gathered up so many golden sheaves, will long detain him 
 thence : the delay only tending to enrich his memories, and double 
 the sweetness of a late retirement. And when that late day shall 
 come, and the home of his childhood shall again be his, may he 
 find the end like the beginning — with its "vision splendid " turned 
 to a reality. 
 
 The foregoing Memoir originally appeared in the " Mirror," in 
 1842. 
 
 As emanating from an intimate and very dear (though now, 
 alas! lamented) friend of Mr. Ainsworth, it will naturally be 
 suspected of leaning to the side of partiality. And so it does, no 
 doubt. Still, that does not seem a sufficient reason for withholding 
 it from the present collective edition, to which it forms so appro- 
 priate an introduction. A few more particulars are subjoined. 
 
 Mr. Blanchard's favourable prognostications in regard to the 
 "Miser's Daughter" were fully justified by the result. Of all 
 the writer's productions it has, perhaps, held the chief place in 
 public estimation. 
 
 "Windsor Castle" was completed, and published with illustra- 
 tions, in 1843, and obtained a very large sale. 
 
 In the following year, " Saint James's ; or, the Court of Queen 
 Anne," was commenced in " Ainsworth's Magazine," and was 
 subsequently republished in three volumes. 
 
XX11 MEMOIR OF 
 
 In the spring of 1845, Mr. Ains worth became sole proprietor of 
 the " New Monthly Magazine," by purchase from Mr. Golburn. 
 . In 1848, the " Lancashire Witches" appeared in weekly portions 
 in the Sunday Times. For this romance 1000/. was received by 
 its author, being the same amount as that paid him by the liberal 
 and spirited proprietors of the journal in question for his previous 
 work, " Old Saint Paul's." 
 
 In, 1850-1, cheap editions of all such of Mr. Ainsworth's ro- 
 mances and tales as had appeared up to that date were published 
 by Messrs. Chapman and Hall. Upwards of thirty thousand copies 
 of " Windsor Castle" (the first of the series) were disposed of in a 
 short time, and all the works enjoyed a very large sale. 
 
 Early in 1854, the "Star-Chamber," an historical romance, was 
 published in two volumes. And in May in the same year appeared 
 a Tale of English Home, entitled " The Flitch of Bacon; or, the 
 Custom of Dunmow." This domestic story, very charmingly illus- 
 trated by John Gilbert, seems to have taken rank as one of the 
 most popular productions of its author.* 
 
 In November, 1854, Mr. Ainsworth purchased "Bentley's 
 Miscellany" from its proprietor and publisher; and in December 
 an the same year " Ainsworth's Magazine" w T as discontinued, being 
 ■ combined with the " Miscellany." 
 
 In July, 1855, the ancient ceremony of the Flitch of Bacon was 
 revived at Dunmow by Mr. Ainsworth. The following account of 
 the proceedings on that occasion is from the Illustrated London 
 Neics : 
 
 " Thursday of last week, July 19th, was fixed, it will be re- 
 membered, for the revival of this curious and interesting old 
 custom. The publication of Mr. Harrison Ainsworth's romance, 
 'The Flitch of Bacon; or, the Custom of Dunmow/ last year, 
 produced quite a new excitement on the subject in the neighbour- 
 hood, and some of the inhabitants of Great Dunmow, a small 
 market-town about two miles from the site of the Priory of Little 
 Dunmow, where the flitch was originally given, formed themselves 
 
 * There have been German, Dutch, and Russian translations of this tale. 
 Lawrence, in his Life of Fielding, speaking of Russian versions of English 
 novels, says : " I see by a new number of one of their periodicals (the Otechest- 
 vennuiya Zapiski, for June, 1855), that in the midst of the desperate struggle 
 before Sebastopol, the public of Saint Petersburg was being amused with trans- 
 lations given at full length in that magazine of Lever's ' Dodd Family Abroad 
 .and Ainsworth's ' Flitch of Bacon.' " 
 
WILLIAM HARRISON AINSWORTH. XXm 
 
 into a committee, and placed themselves in communication with 
 Mr. Ainsworth, for the purpose of reviving the custom. Mr. 
 Ainsworth entered warmly into the plan, and not only subscribed 
 handsomely towards the expenses, but offered to give the flitch. 
 "When this was made public, the applications were more numerous 
 than could have been expected; and, eventually, Mr. Ainsworth 
 offered a second flitch. The couple first selected were Mr. Black- 
 well, a surgeon of Cranbrook, in Kent, and his wife ; but, un- 
 fortunately, Mrs. Blackwell died last February, and it became 
 necessary to choose another couple in their place. The honour fell 
 next upon Mr. James Barlow, a builder, of Chipping Ongar, in 
 Essex; and the second flitch was adjudged to a couple from London, 
 the Chevalier de Chatelain and his lady. The Chevalier is a French 
 gentleman, and the lady an Englishwoman, and both of them are 
 favourably known by their literary labours. As the Lord of the 
 Manor of Little Dunmow refused to allow the revival of the custom 
 there, the next best thing was to hold the ceremony in the town of 
 Great Dunmow, which, at the present day, is by much the more 
 appropriate place of the two; and there, accordingly, it was an- 
 nounced that the adjudication of the flitches would take place. 
 But it met with opposition even there ; and the greater part of the 
 clergy of the neighbourhood, rather injudiciously, we think, set 
 their faces against it ; and this feeling was carried to such an extent, 
 that hostile papers were distributed about in some of the neigh- 
 bouring towns and villages. It was evidently, however, very 
 popular among the people of Dunmow generally. 
 
 a The disappointment of the latter may be easily imagined when 
 the morning of Thursday, the 19th of July, was ushered in by a 
 pelting storm of rain, and everything announced its continuance 
 during the whole of the day. This mischance kept away many of 
 the visitors who had to come from a distance; and the special 
 trains from the metropolis brought probably not more than one 
 half of the number who would have been collected in them had 
 the day been fine. In spite, however, of the inclemency of the 
 weather, people poured in from the country around in great num- 
 bers, some of them in waggons and carts decorated with flowers and 
 green branches; and by mid-day the streets and open places in the 
 town were everywhere crowded. Fortunately, the earlier and 
 longer part of the proceedings were to be performed under cover. 
 A chair of state, jury-boxes, seats for the claimants, witnesses, and 
 
Xxiv MEMOIR OF 
 
 counsel, had been prepared in the handsome little Town-hall, and 
 profusely decorated with garlands of roses and other appropriate 
 ornaments. Although the company here was select, as they were 
 admitted only by five-shilling tickets, the hall was well filled with 
 spectators of both sexes, out of whom six maidens and six bachelors 
 volunteered to act as the jurors. At two o'clock Mr. Harrison Ains- 
 worth, as the giver of the flitches, took the chair to preside over the 
 court ; the two sets of claimants, with their two witnesses each, were 
 ushered into the places appropriated ; and the counsel (consisting 
 of Mr. Eobert Bell, for the claimants, and Mr. Dudley Costello, 
 opposed to them) took their seats. The prseco, or crier (Mr. Pavey), 
 with mock ceremony, opened the court, and Mr. Ainsworth from 
 the chair delivered an appropriate address, in which he traced very 
 lucidly all that is known of the history of this custom ; dwelt on 
 the advantage of keeping up old customs like this, which furnished 
 innocent and exhilarating amusement to the people, and tended to 
 protect rather than endanger morality, and upon the injudicious 
 but fruitless opposition which a party had made to it in the present 
 instance. The jury was then called over and received its charge; 
 after which Mr. Bell addressed the company on the history of such 
 courts, instancing others of the same character which had formerly 
 existed in various countries, and comparing them with the Courts 
 of Love in the middle ages, of which he gave a rather learned, but 
 very amusing account. He concluded by confuting two objections 
 which had been made to the court; first, that it was illegal, because 
 held in Great Dunmow instead of Little Dunmow; and, secondly, 
 that the claim was in neither case admissible, because not put in at 
 the exact period of a year and a day after marriage. 
 
 " Mr. and Mrs. Barlow, as the first claimants, were first brought 
 forward. They were a good-humoured and intelligent-looking 
 couple, excellent examples of good old English humanity, and they 
 evidently carried with them the sympathies of the audience, among 
 whom were many of their friends and acquaintance. Mr. Barlow, 
 it appears, is a man who has raised himself to a respectable and 
 comfortable position in life by his own industry and good conduct, 
 having been originally a mere ploughboy; but, having entered into 
 service as a man of all work, he saved sufficient money to put him- 
 self apprentice to the business of a carpenter, in which he worked 
 for some years as a journeyman, and subsequently set up in business 
 for himself; and it was stated as a proof of the respect in which he 
 
WILLIAM HARRISON AIXSWORTH. XXV 
 
 is lield by his townspeople, that they had shut up all their shops 
 during the day in order to come to be witnesses of his triumph. 
 The chief examination by Mr. Bell, and the cross-examination by 
 Mr. Costello, of these claimants and their two witnesses, were 
 carried on with admirable gravity; but they produced a very con- 
 trary effect upon the audience, who were kept in a continual roar 
 of laughter for considerably more than an hour. The position in 
 society of the second claimants, the Chevalier de Chatelain and his 
 lady, made their case far less calculated to afford amusement, and 
 it was passed through more rapidly. At about half-past four this 
 part of the proceedings was concluded, and both sets of claimants 
 were declared worthy of the prize. 
 
 " During this time the weather outside had undergone a propi- 
 tious change, and the rain of the morning had given place to bright 
 sunshine, leaving, however, behind it an abundance of mud. The 
 procession set off from the Town-hall, immediately after the con- 
 clusion of the court, to the great satisfaction of the crowd in the 
 streets, who cheered it loudly as it went along. At the head rode 
 a ' marshal/ or herald, in dress of the olden time ; then followed a 
 party of the riders of the circus on their horses ; next came a car 
 decorated with garlands, in which rode the ' ladies and gentlemen' 
 of the jury. These were followed immediately by four yeomen, 
 also in antiquated costume, carrying a frame, in which was sus- 
 pended the first flitch of bacon, banded with wreaths of roses. 
 This was followed immediately by the first successful couple, 
 carried on men's shoulders, in a chair which appeared as though it 
 were made of flowers. These were followed by another party of 
 the equestrians of the circus, and by the second flitch, carried in 
 the same manner, and by a similar chair, in which were the Cheva- 
 lier and Madame de Chatelain; and the rear of the procession was 
 brought up by Mr. Ainsworth in a carriage and a party of gentle- 
 men on horseback. The procession proceeded through the town 
 to a place outside called Windmill Field, where there was a large 
 enclosure, in which stood the temporary building of Smith's circus, 
 and a large booth for refreshments. From a rough calculation, we 
 should judge that hardly less than seven thousand persons were 
 assembled on this occasion ; and there was a great struggle to get 
 into the enclosure, by those who were unwilling to pay the shil- 
 ling demanded for admission. It w T as here that the concluding 
 part of the ceremony took place. This consisted in taking with 
 
XXVI MEMOIR OF 
 
 due solemnity the ancient Oath of the Flitch, thus expressed in 
 
 rhyme : 
 
 We do swear by custom of confession 
 That we ne'er made nuptial transgression ; 
 Nor since we were married man and wife, 
 By household brawls or contentious strife, 
 Or otherwise at bed or at board, 
 Offended each other in deed or word ; 
 Or since the parish clerk said amen, 
 Wished ourselves unmarried again ; 
 Or in a twelvemonth and a day 
 Repented in thought in any way, 
 But continued true and in desire 
 As when we joined in holy quire. 
 
 " When this oath was taken by each couple, it was the duty of 
 the officer who administered it to reply : 
 
 Since to these conditions, without any fear, 
 Of your own accord you do freely swear, , 
 A whole flitch of bacon you shall receive, 
 And bear it hence with love and good leave ; 
 For this is our custom at Dunmow well known, 
 Though the pleasure be ours, the bacon's your own. 
 
 "After this ceremony, the two couples were carried in their 
 chairs to another part of the field, where the flitches were delivered 
 to them, and acknowledged by the Chevalier in a rather short 
 address, but by Mr. Barlow in a long one, in which he endea- 
 voured to demonstrate to all married pairs how easy it was to live 
 without quarrelling. 
 
 " The remainder of the day, until a late hour, was passed in 
 various sports and amusements, for which ample provision had been 
 made. A party of near thirty gentlemen dined at the Saracen's 
 Head with Mr. Ainsworth, who was supported by several of his 
 literary friends, including Messrs. Robert Bell, Francis Ainsworth, 
 T. Wright, Dudley Costello, J. W. Kaye, Lascelles Wraxall, Bertie 
 Mostyn, &c, and passed a very pleasant social evening. An excellent 
 haunch of venison had been presented by the Viscountess Maynard. 
 Generally speaking, the proceedings of the day seem to have produced 
 a favourable impression, for they presented none of the objection- 
 able characteristics which some people seem to have expected, while 
 the c performance' itself was carried on in a much more refined 
 style of burlesque than any one looked for. No one could deny 
 that there were here as honest couples as in days of yore, as imma- 
 culate a jury, as good counsel, and as honest a judge, and many a 
 good honest English yeoman, with plenty of sturdy lads and buxom 
 
WILLIAM HARRISON AIXSWORTH. xxvil 
 
 lasses. A universal wish was expressed that it might be repeated 
 another year." 
 
 In 1855, appeared a beautifully printed edition of Mr. Ainsworth's 
 poetical works, under the title of " Ballads : Romantic, Fantastical, 
 and Humorous," with illustrations by John Gilbert. 
 
 In 1856, the "Spendthrift" was published, with illustrations by 
 John Gilbert, having previously appeared in " Bentley's Mis- 
 cellany." 
 
 It only remains to be added that a uniform octavo edition of 
 Mr. Ainsworth's entire works, with illustrations by John Gilbert, 
 George Cruikshank, Hablot K. Browne, John Franklin, Tony 
 Johannot, and W. Alfred Delamotte, has been published by 
 Messrs. Routledge and Co.; and that a cheap edition of the same 
 works is included in the " Railway Library." 
 
 " One of the main causes of the great popularity of Mr. Ains- 
 worth's novels," says the Examiner, in a notice of the u Spend- 
 thrift," " is the easy, familiar, natural style in which his narratives 
 are told. Abundant in incident, ingenious in construction, clear 
 and picturesque in description, sharp and decisive in the delineation 
 of character, they excite an interest which never flags. A story 
 in his hand receives a treatment peculiarly his own. From the 
 first page to the last the movement is ever right onward : there are 
 no retrospective pauses — no longueurs; he sets the goal fairly in 
 view at once, and reaches it without swerve or check. But this 
 rapidity is not achieved at the expense of method. That necessar}' 
 adjunct to all successful novel-writing is, on the contrary, notably 
 present in the artistic skill with which the actors in Mr. Ainsworth's 
 spirited dramas are kept together, all advancing with equal foot, 
 and moving by a common impulse. Mr. Ainsworth's predilections 
 in the choice and treatment of a subject are essentially romantic — 
 not to say tragic; but a large proportion of domestic incidents, 
 which are always treated with much breadth and humour, is 
 mingled with his tales ; so that though the general purport of them 
 be serious, that quality does not overlay the lighter matter. There 
 is no need for us to illustrate this fact by special reference to books 
 which are in everybody's hands; and we only allude to it for the 
 purpose of saying, that if a departure from his general plan be ob- 
 servable, it is in his later productions." 
 
AINSWORTH OF SPOTLAND AND BEECH HILL, 
 
 CO. LANCASTER. 
 
 FROM BURKE'S "LANDED GENTRY." 
 
 Ainsworth, William Harrison, Esq., of Spotland and Beech Hill, co. Lan- 
 caster, b. 4 Feb., 1805 ; m. 11 Oct., 1826, Anne-Frances, younger dau. of John 
 Ebers, Esq., and by her (who d. 6 March, 1838) has issue three daus., viz., 
 
 i. Fanny. 
 ii. Emily-Mary. 
 in. Anne-Blanche. 
 
 The Spotland estate came into the possession of Thomas Ainsworth, Esq., of 
 Tottington, co. Lancaster, in 1708, through his wife, Jane, dau. of Jane Hop- 
 wood, and James Echersall, Esq., Beech Hill, Smedley, near Manchester, was 
 purchased in August, 1811, from Samuel Chetham Hilton, Esq., by the late 
 Thomas Ainsworth, Esq., as were land and messuage in King-street, in March, 
 1819, from William Rigby, Esq., of Oldfield, Cheshire, together with other pro- 
 perties in Manchester and Salford, in the years 1811, 1819, 1820, and 1822. 
 Other property in Manchester was bequeathed to Thomas Ainsworth' s wife, 
 Ann, for her separate use, by her father, the Rev. Ralph Harrison, who was the 
 son of the Rev. William Harrison,* a Presbyterian divine, and the great-grand- 
 son of the Rev. Cuthbert Harrison, a famous Nonconformist teacher, noticed in 
 Dr. Calamy's account of ejected ministers. The Rev. Ralph Harrison attained 
 a high reputation in Manchester as a preacher, an author, and a scholar, and 
 realised a large fortune. He produced many able works of an educational cha- 
 racter, and left behind him a volume of discourses that fully bear out his claim 
 to the affectionate regard in which his character and ministration were held. 
 
 William Harrison Ainsworth s. to the property on the death of his mother, 
 15 March, 1842. 
 
 * The Rev. Ralph Harrison, b. 10 Sept., 1748, m. 6 March, 1775, Ann, dau. 
 of John Touchet, Esq., of Manchester, by Sarah, dau. of James Bayley, Esq., and 
 d. 24 Nov., 1810, having had issue six sons and three daus., 
 i. John, b. 7 Jan., 1777, d. 11 Sept., 1777. 
 ii. William, b. 22 May, 1779, minister to a society of Protestant Dissenters 
 
 belonging to Blackley, Lancashire. 
 in. James, b. 27 April, 1783, d. 6 Sept., 1788. 
 iv. Ralph-Cooper, b. 5 Feb., 1785, d. 18 May, 1804. 
 v. John, b. 6 Feb., 1786. 
 vi. James, b. 10 March, 1791. 
 i. Ann, b. 16 July, 1778, m. 23 June,' 1802, to Thomas Ainsworth, Esq., of 
 
 whose line we treat. 
 ii. Sarah, b. 21 Feb., 1787, d. 23 Sept., 1787. 
 in. Sarah, b. 29 Dec., 1788, d. 13 June, 1789. 
 
XXX AINSWORTH OF SPOTLAND. 
 
 Hmeage. 
 
 Jeremiah Ainsworth, Esq., of Tottington, co. Lancaster, was father of 
 Jeremiah Ainsworth, Esq., b. 13 Dec, 1622, whose son, 
 Thomas Ainsworth, Esq., of Tottington, b. in 1656, m. Jane, dau. of James 
 Echersall, Esq., of Spotland, by Jane, his wife, dau. of Edmund Hopwood, Esq., 
 and grand-dau. of Thomas Hopwood, Esq., whose wife, Alice, conveyed the Spot- 
 land estate to Edward Hopwood, Esq., of Hopwood, in trust for her son, John 
 Hopwood, father of Jane Echersall. Thomas Ainsworth d. in 1742. Of this 
 marriage the son and heir, 
 
 James Ainsworth, Esq., of Mottram, m. Apphia, dau. of Joseph Holland, Esq., 
 by Anne, dau. of John Braddock, Esq., and d. leaving four sons and two daus., 
 James, Joseph, Jeremiah, Robert, Jane, and Apphia. The third son, 
 
 Jeremiah Ainsworth, who was b. 25 Feb., 1743, m. Ann, dau. of John Shuttle- 
 worth, Esq., of Rostherne, co. Chester, and d. 13 Nov., 1784, leaving issue, 
 i. Thomas, b. 3 Feb., 1769, d. 29 Dec, 1771. 
 
 ii. John, a capt. in the army, b. 4 April, 1771, m., 1st, Sarah, dau. of Benjamin 
 Bancroft, Esq., by wnom ne had issue, John, likewise a capt. in the army, 
 since deceased; Joseph, a major in the army, who d. in India; and Thomas, 
 in holy orders, of Hartford Hall, co. Chester, who d. 15 May, 1847; Capt. 
 Ainsworth m., 2ndly, Sarah, daughter of Thomas French, Esq., of Fobbing, 
 Essex, by whom he had issue two sons and one dau., of whom the sole sur- 
 vivor is William Francis Ainsworth, F.G.S., F.R.G.S., Corresponding Mem- 
 ber of the Geographical Society of Paris, of the German Oriental Society, 
 and of the German " National Union," Vice-President of the Institut 
 d'Afrique, Corresponding Member of the Natural History Society of Mol- 
 davia, Hon. Member of the Limerick Institution, and Honorary Secretary 
 of the Syro-Egyptian Society, b. 5 Nov., 1807; appointed, in 1835, Surgeon 
 and Geologist to the Euphrates Expedition; and despatched, in 1838, by 
 the Royal Geographical Society, and the Society for Promoting Christian 
 Knowledge, in charge of an expedition to the Chaldean Mountaineers. 
 Captain Ainsworth d. 8 Sept., 1849. 
 in. Jeremiah, b. 2 Sept., 1775, d. 13 Nov., 1784. 
 iv. Thomas, of whose line we treat. 
 
 v. James, F.R.C.S. Lond., and Senior Surgeon to the Manchester Infirmary, b. 
 5 March, 1783, m. Elizabeth, dau. of James Fawsett, Esq., by whom he has 
 issue, 1. Ralph-Fawsett, M.D.,F.R.CP. Edinb., Physician to the Manchester 
 Infirmary, and Lecturer to the Manchester School of Medicine; and 2. Anne, 
 m. to the Rev. Thomas Ainsworth. She d. 30 May, 1847. 
 i. Mary, b. 18 April, 1773. 
 ii. Elizabeth, b. 18 Jan., 1781, since deceased. 
 
 Thomas Ainsworth (the fourth son), b. at Rostherne, 19 June, 1778, m. 23 
 June, 1802, Ann, dau. of the Rev. Ralph Harrison, of Manchester, and d. 20 June, 
 1824, leaving issue, 
 i. William-Harrison, the present representative. 
 ii. Thomas Gilbert, 6. 4 Oct., 1806. 
 
 Arms. — Gu., three battle-axes, arg. 
 
 Crest— An arm in armour, grasping a battle-axe, ppr., suspended therefrom an escutcheon, 
 arg., charged with a spade, sa. 
 Motto. — Vi et virtute. 
 Residence. — Brighton. 
 
TO MY MOTHER. 
 
 When I inscribed this Romance to you, my dear Mother, on 
 its first appearance, I was satisfied that, whatever reception it 
 might meet with elsewhere, at your hands it would be sure of 
 indulgence. Since then, the approbation your partiality would 
 scarcely have withheld, has been liberally accorded by the public ; 
 and I have the satisfaction of reflecting, that in following the 
 dictates of affection, which prompted me to select the dearest 
 friend I had in the world as the subject of a dedication, I have 
 not overstepped the limits of prudence; nor, in connecting your 
 honoured name with this trifling production, involved you in a 
 failure which, had it occurred, would have given you infinitely 
 more concern than myself. After a lapse of three years, during 
 which my little bark, fanned by pleasant and prosperous breezes, 
 has sailed, more than once, securely into port, I again commit it 
 to the waters, with more confidence than heretofore, and with a 
 firmer reliance that, if it should be found " after many days," it 
 may prove a slight memorial of the warmest filial regard. 
 
 Exposed to trials of no ordinary difficulty, and visited by do- 
 mestic affliction of no common severity, you, my dear Mother, 
 have borne up against the ills of life with a fortitude and resigna- 
 tion which those who know you best can best appreciate, but 
 which none can so well understand, or so thoroughly appreciate, 
 as myself. Suffering is the lot of all. Submission under the 
 dispensation is permitted to few. And it is my fervent hope that 
 my own children may emulate your virtues, if they are happily 
 spared your sorrows. 
 
 Hereafter, if I should realise a design, which I have always 
 entertained, of illustrating the early manners and customs, as well 
 
t • 
 
 xxxn DEDICATION. 
 
 as the local peculiarities, of the great commercial town to which I 
 owe my birth, I would inscribe that book to my Father — u line 
 pauvre feuiile de papier, tout ce quefai, en regrettant de ri avoir pas 
 de c/ranil ;" — as a fit tribute to the memory of one whose energies 
 were so unremittingly and so successfully directed towards the pro- 
 motion of the public improvements in Manchester, that his name 
 may, with propriety, be associated with its annals. Would that 
 he had lived to see the good work he so well began entirely ac- 
 complished ! 
 
 But the present Dedication, and that which I meditate, are 
 inseparably connected together in my mind by the same ties of 
 reverence and love. I would offer one to both, and both to one. 
 
 The tenderness lavished on my childhood, the guidance be- 
 stowed upon my youth, and the counsel afforded me in maturer 
 years, — 
 
 All these, still legible in memory's page, 
 
 And still to be so to my latest age, 
 
 Add joy to duty, make me glad to pay 
 
 Such honours to thee as my numbers may : 
 
 Perhaps a frail memorial, but sincere, 
 
 Not seorn'd in heaven, though little noticed here ! 
 
 That you may be long spared to him* is the earnest wish of 
 
 Your very affectionate Son, 
 
 WILLIAM HARRISON AINSWORTH. 
 October 18, 1837. 
 
 * The prayer was not granted. My venerated Mother was lost to mo in 
 little more than four years from the date of this Dedication. She died 15th 
 March, 1842. 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 During a visit to Chesterfield, in the autumn of the year 1831, 
 I first conceived the notion of writing this story. Wishing to de- 
 scribe, somewhat minutely, the trim gardens, the picturesque 
 domains, the rook-haunted groves, the gloomy chambers, and 
 ffloomier galleries, of an ancient Hall with which I was ac- 
 quainted, I resolved to attempt a story in the bygone style of Mrs. 
 RadclifTe (which had always inexpressible charms for me), substi- 
 tuting an old English squire, an old English manorial residence, 
 and an old English highwayman, for the Italian marchese, the 
 castle, and the brigand of the great mistress of Romance. 
 
 While revolving this subject, I happened, one evening, to enter 
 the spacious cemetery attached to the church with the queer, twisted 
 steeple, which, like the uplifted tail of the renowned Dragon of 
 Wantley, to whom u houses and churches were as capons and 
 turkeys," seems to menace the good town of Chesterfield with de- 
 struction. Here an incident occurred, on the opening of a vault, 
 which it is needless to relate, but which supplied me with a hint 
 for the commencement of my romance, as well as for the ballad 
 entitled "The Coffin." Upon this hint I immediately acted; and 
 the earlier chapters of the book, together with the description of 
 the ancestral mansion of the Rookwoods, were completed before I 
 quitted Chesterfield. 
 
 Another and much larger portion of the work was written 
 during a residence at Rottingdean, in Sussex, in the latter part of 
 
XXXIV PREFACE. 
 
 1833, and owes its inspiration to many delightful walks over the 
 South Downs. Romance-writing was pleasant occupation then. 
 
 The Ride to York was completed in one day and one night. 
 This feat — for a feat it was, being the composition of a hundred 
 ordinary novel pages in less than twenty-four hours — was achieved 
 at " The Elms" — a house I then occupied at Kilburn. Well do I 
 remember the fever into which I was thrown- during the time of 
 composition. My pen literally scoured over the pages. So tho- 
 roughly did I identify myself with the flying highwayman, that, 
 once started, I found it impossible to halt. Animated by kindred 
 enthusiasm, I cleared every obstacle in my path with as much 
 facility as Turpin disposed of the impediments that beset his flight. 
 In his company, I mounted the hill-side, dashed through the 
 bustling village, swept over the desolate heath, threaded the silent 
 street, plunged into the eddying stream, and kept an onward course, 
 without pause, without hindrance, without fatigue. "With him I 
 shouted, sang, laughed, exulted, wept. Nor did I retire to rest till, 
 in imagination, I heard the bell of York Minster toll forth the 
 knell of poor Black Bess. 
 
 The supernatural occurrence, forming the groundwork of one 
 of the ballads which I have made the harbinger of doom to the 
 house of Rookwood, is ascribed, by popular superstition, to a 
 family resident in Sussex; upon whose estate the fatal tree (a 
 gigantic lime, with mighty arms and huge girth of trunk, as de- 
 scribed in the song) is still carefully preserved. Cuckfield Place, 
 to which this singular piece of timber is attached, is, I may state, 
 for the benefit of the curious, the real Rookwood Hall ; for I have 
 not drawn upon imagination, but upon memory, in describing the 
 seat and domains of that fated family. The general features of the 
 venerable structure, several of its chambers, the old garden, and, in 
 particular, the noble park, with its spreading prospects, its pic- 
 turesque views of the Hall, " like bits of Mrs. Radcliffe" (as the 
 poet Shelley once observed of the same scene), its deep glades, 
 through which the deer come lightly tripping down, its uplands, 
 slopes, brooks, brakes, coverts, and groves, are carefully delineated. 
 
 The superstition of a fallen branch affording a presage of ap- 
 proaching death is not peculiar to the family I have mentioned. 
 Many other old houses have been equally favoured: in fact, there 
 is scarcely an ancient family in the kingdom without a boding sign. 
 For instance, the Breretons of Brereton, in Cheshire, were warned 
 
PREFACE. XXXV 
 
 by the appearance of stocks of trees floating, like the swollen bodies 
 of long-drowned men, upon the surface of a sombre lake (called 
 Blackmere, from the inky colour of its waters) adjoining their 
 residence; and numerous other examples might be given. The 
 death-presage of the Breretons is alluded to by Drayton in the 
 "PolyoUrion? 
 
 It has been well observed by Barry Cornwall, " that the songs 
 which occur in dramas are more natural than those which proceed 
 from the author in person." With equal force does the reasoning 
 apply to the romance, which may be termed the drama of the 
 closet. It would seem strange, on a first view, that an author 
 should be more at home in an assumed character than his own. 
 But experience shows the position to be correct. Conscious he is 
 no longer individually associated with his work, the writer pro- 
 ceeds with ail the freedom of irresponsibility. His idiosyncrasy is 
 merged in that of the personages he represents. He thinks with 
 their thoughts; sees with their eyes; speaks with their tongues. 
 His strains are such as he himself {per se) would not — perhaps 
 could not — have originated. In this light he may be said to bring 
 to his subject not one mind, but several; he becomes not one poet, 
 but many ; for each actor in his drama has a share, and an im- 
 portant share, in the lyrical estro to which he gives birth. This it 
 is which has imparted any verve, variety, or dramatic character 
 they possess, to the ballads contained in this production. Turpi n 
 I look upon as the real songster of " Black Bess ;" to Jerry Juniper 
 I am unquestionably indebted for a flash melody which, without 
 his hint, would never have been written; while to the Sexton I 
 owe the solitary gleam of light I have been enabled to throw upon 
 the horrors and mystery of the churchyard. 
 
 As I have casually alluded to the flash song of Jerry Juniper, 
 1 may, perhaps, be allowed to make a few observations upon this 
 branch of versification. It is somewhat curious, with a dialect so 
 racy, idiomatic, and plastic as our own cant, that its metrical 
 capabilities should have been so little essayed. The French have 
 numerous chansons d'argot, ranging from the time of Charles 
 Bourdigne and Villon down to that of Vidocq and Victor Hugo, 
 the last of whom has enlivened the horrors of his " Dernier Jour 
 dun Condamne" by a festive song of this class. The Spaniards 
 possess a large collection of Romances de Germania, by various 
 authors, amongst whom Quevedo holds a distinguished place. We, 
 
xxxiv PREFACE. 
 
 1833, and owes its inspiration to many delightful walks over the 
 South Downs. Romance-writing was pleasant occupation then. 
 
 The Ride to York was completed in one day and one night. 
 This feat — for a feat it was, being the composition of a hundred 
 ordinary novel pages in less than twenty-four hours — was achieved 
 at " The Elms" — a house I then occupied at Kilburn. Well do I 
 remember the fever into which I was thrown- during the time of 
 composition. My pen literally scoured over the pages. So tho- 
 roughly did I identify myself with the flying highwayman, that, 
 once started, I found it impossible to halt. Animated by kindred 
 enthusiasm, I cleared every obstacle in my path with as much 
 facility as Turpin disposed of the impediments that beset his flight. 
 In his company, I mounted the hill-side, dashed through the 
 bustling village, swept over the desolate heath, threaded the silent 
 street, plunged into the eddying stream, and kept an onward course, 
 without pause, without hindrance, without fatigue. With him I 
 shouted, sang, laughed, exulted, wept. Nor did I retire to rest till, 
 in imagination, I heard the bell of York Minster toll forth the 
 knell of poor Black Bess. 
 
 The supernatural occurrence, forming the groundwork of one 
 of the ballads which I have made the harbinger of doom to the 
 house of Rookwood, is ascribed, by popular superstition, to a 
 family resident in Sussex; upon whose estate the fatal tree (a 
 gigantic lime, with mighty arms and huge girth of trunk, as de- 
 scribed in the song) is still carefully preserved. Cuckfield Place, 
 to which this singular piece of timber is attached, is, I may state, 
 for the benefit of the curious, the real Rookwood Hall ; for I have 
 not drawn upon imagination, but upon memory, in describing the 
 seat and domains of that fated family. The general features of the 
 venerable structure, several of its chambers, the old garden, and, in 
 particular, the noble park, with its spreading prospects, its pic- 
 turesque views of the Hall, " like bits of Mrs. Radcliffe" (as the 
 poet Shelley once observed of the same scene), its deep glades, 
 through which the deer come lightly tripping down, its uplands, 
 slopes, brooks, brakes, coverts, and groves, are carefully delineated. 
 
 The superstition of a fallen branch affording a presage of ap- 
 proaching death is not peculiar to the family I have mentioned. 
 Many other old houses have been equally favoured: in fact, there 
 is scarcely an ancient family in the kingdom without a boding sign. 
 For instance, the Brerctons of Brereton, in Cheshire, were warned 
 
PREFACE. XXXV 
 
 by the appearance of stocks of trees floating, like the swollen bodies 
 of long-drowned men, upon the surface of a sombre lake (called 
 Blackmere, from the inky colour of its waters) adjoining their 
 residence; and numerous other examples might be given. The 
 death-presage of the Breretons is alluded to by Drayton in the 
 « Polyolbion? 
 
 It has been well observed by Barry Cornwall, u that the songs 
 which occur in dramas are more natural than those which proceed 
 from the author in person." With equal force does the reasoning 
 apply to the romance, which may be termed the drama of the 
 closet. It would seem strange, on a first view, that an author 
 should be more at home in an assumed character than his own. 
 But experience shows the position to be correct. Conscious he is 
 no longer individually associated with his work, the writer pro- 
 ceeds with ail the freedom of irresponsibility. His idiosyncrasy is 
 merged in that of the personages he represents. He thinks with 
 their thoughts; sees with their eyes; speaks with their tongues. 
 His strains are such as he himself (per se) would not — perhaps 
 could not — have originated. In this light he may be said to bring 
 to his subject not one mind, but several; he becomes not one poet, 
 but many; for each actor in his drama has a share, and an im- 
 portant share, in the lyrical estro to which he gives birth. This it 
 is which has imparted any verve, variety, or dramatic character 
 they possess, to the ballads contained in this production. Turpin 
 I look upon as the real songster of u Black Bess ;" to Jerry Juniper 
 I am unquestionably indebted for a flash melody which, without 
 his hint, would never have been written; while to the Sexton I 
 owe the solitary gleam of light I have been enabled to throw upon 
 the horrors and mystery of the churchyard. 
 
 As I have casually alluded to the flash song of Jerry Juniper, 
 1 may, perhaps, be allowed to make a few observations upon this 
 branch of versification. It is somewhat curious, with a dialect so 
 racy, idiomatic, and plastic as our own cant, that its metrical 
 capabilities should have been so little essayed. The French have 
 numerous chansons oVargot, ranging from the time of Charles 
 Bourdigne and Villon down to that of Vidocq and Victor Hugo, 
 the last of whom has enlivened the horrors of his " Dernier Jour 
 dun Condamne" by a festive song of this class. The Spaniards 
 possess a large collection of Romances de Gertnania, by various 
 authors, amongst whom Quevedo holds a distinguished place. We, 
 
XXXVI PREFACE. 
 
 on the contrary, have scarcely any slang songs of merit. With a 
 race of depredators so melodious and convivial as our highwaymen, 
 this is the more to be wondered at. Had they no bards amongst their 
 bands? Was there no minstrel at hand to record their exploits? 
 I can only call to mind one robber who was a poet — Delany, and 
 he was an Irishman. This barrenness, I have shown, is not attri- 
 butable to the poverty of the soil, but to the want of due cultiva- 
 tion. Materials are at hand in abundance, but there have been few 
 operators. Dekker, Beaumont and Fletcher, and Ben Jonson, 
 have all dealt largely in this jargon, but not lyrically; and one of 
 the earliest and best specimens of a canting-song occurs in Brome's 
 u Jovial Crew;" and in the a Adventures of Bamfylde Moore Careio" 
 there is a solitary ode, addressed by the mendicant fraternity to 
 their newly-elected monarch; but it has little humour, and can 
 scarcely be called a genuine canting-song. This ode brings us 
 down to our own time; to the effusions of the illustrious Pierce 
 Egan ; to Tom Moore's Flights of " Fancy ;" to John Jackson's 
 famous chant, " On the High Toby Spice flash the Muzzle" cited 
 by Lord Byron in a note to u Don Juan ;" and to the glorious Irish 
 ballad, worth them all put together, entitled " The Night before 
 Larry was stretched" This facetious performance is attributed to 
 the late Dean Burrowes, of Cork. It is worthy of note, that almost 
 all modern aspirants to the graces of the Musa Pedestris are Irish- 
 men. Of all rhymesters of the " Road" however, Dean Burrowes 
 is, as yet, most fully entitled to the laurel. Larry is quite " the 
 potato ! " 
 
 And here, as the candidates are so few, and their pretensions so 
 humble, 
 
 I can't help putting in my claim for praise. 
 
 I venture to affirm that I have done something more than has 
 been accomplished by my predecessors, or contemporaries, with the 
 significant language under consideration. I have written a purely 
 flash song; of which the great and peculiar merit consists in its 
 being utterly incomprehensible to the uninformed understanding, 
 while its meaning must be perfectly clear and perspicuous to the 
 practised pattercr of Romany, or Pedlar's French. I have, more- 
 over, been the first to introduce and naturalise amongst us a mea- 
 sure which, though common enough in the Argotic minstrelsy of 
 France, has been hitherto utterly unknown to our pedestrian poetry. 
 Some years afterwards the song alluded to, better known under the 
 
PREFACE. xxxvn 
 
 title of u Nix my dolly, pals,— fake away l'^ sprang into extraor- 
 dinary popularity, being set to music by Rodwell, and chanted by 
 glorious Paul Bedford and clever little Mrs. Keeley. 
 
 Before quitting the subject of these songs, I may mention that 
 they probably would not have been written at all if one of the 
 earliest of them (a chance experiment) had not excited the warm 
 approbation of my friend Charles Oilier, author of the striking 
 romance of "Ferrers." This induced me to prosecute the vein 
 accidentally opened. 
 
 Turpin was the hero of my boyhood. I had always a strange 
 passion for highwaymen, and have listened by the hour to their ex- 
 ploits, as narrated by my father, and especially to those of " Daunt- 
 less Dick," that " chief minion of the moon." One of Turpin's 
 adventures in particular, the ride to Hough Green, which took 
 deep hold of my fancy, I have recorded in song. When a boy, I 
 have often lingered by the side of the deep old road where this 
 robbery was committed, to cast wistful glances into its mysterious 
 windings; and when night deepened the shadows of the trees, have 
 urged my horse on his journey, from a vague apprehension of a 
 visit from the ghostly highwayman. And then there was the 
 Bollin, with its shelvy banks, which Turpin cleared at a bound; 
 the broad meadows over which he winged his flight ; the pleasant 
 bowling-green of the pleasant old inn at Hough, where he produced 
 his watch to the Cheshire squires, with whom he was upon terms 
 of intimacy ; all brought something of the gallant robber to mind. 
 No wonder, in after years, in selecting a highwayman for a cha- 
 racter in a tale, I should choose my old favourite, Dick Turpin. 
 
 In reference to two of the characters here introduced, and drawn 
 from personages living at the time the tale was written, it may be 
 mentioned that poor Jerry Juniper met his death from an accident 
 at Chichester, while he was proceeding to Goodwood races; and 
 that the knight of Malta (Mr. Tom, a brewer of Truro, the self- 
 styled Sir William Courtenay, who played the strange tricks at 
 Canterbury chronicled in a song given in these pages), after his re- 
 lease from Banning Heath Asylum, was shot through the head 
 while leading on a mob of riotous Kentish yeomen, whom he had 
 persuaded that he was the Messiah ! 
 
 If the design of Romance be, what it has been held, the expo- 
 sition of a useful truth by means of an interesting story, I fear I 
 have but imperfectly fulfilled the cfiice imposed upon me; havings 
 
XXXVlll PREFACE. 
 
 as I will freely .confess, had, throughout, an eye rather to the 
 reader's amusement than his edification. One wholesome moral, 
 however, may, I trust, be gathered from the perusal of this Tale; 
 namely, that, without due governance of the passions, high aspira- 
 tions and generous emotions will little avail their possessor. The 
 impersonations of the Tempter, the Tempted, and the Better 
 Influence, may be respectively discovered, by those who care to 
 cull the honey from the flower, in the Sexton, in Luke, and in 
 Sybil. 
 
 The chief object I had in view in making the present essay, was 
 to see how far the infusion of a warmer and more genial current 
 into the veins of old Romance would succeed in reviving her flut- 
 tering and feeble pulses. The attempt has succeeded beyond my 
 most sanguine expectation. Romance, if I am not mistaken, is 
 destined shortly to undergo an important change. Modified by 
 the German and French writers — by Hoffman, Tieck, Hugo, 
 Dumas, Balzac, and Paul Lecroix (le Bibliophile Jacob) — the struc- 
 ture commenced in our own land by Horace Walpole, Monk 
 Lewis, Mrs. Radcliffe, and Maturin, but left imperfect and inhar- 
 monious, requires, now that the rubbish which choked up its ap- 
 proach is removed, only the hand of the skilful architect to its entire 
 renovation and perfection. 
 
 And now, having said my say, I must bid you, worthy reader, 
 farewell. Beseeching you, in the words of old Rabelais, " to inter- 
 pret all my sayings and doings in the perfectest sense. Reverence 
 the cheese-like brain that feeds you with all these jolly maggots; 
 and do what lies in you to keep me always merry. Be frolic now, 
 my lads ! Cheer up your hearts, and joyfully read the rest, with all 
 ease of your body, and comfort of your reins." 
 
 Kensal Manou-House, 
 December 15, 1S49. 
 
ROOKWOOD. 
 
 BOOK I. 
 
 THE WEDDING RING. 
 
 It has been observed, and I am apt to believe it is an observation which will 
 generally be found true, that before a terrible truth comes to light, there are 
 certain murmuring whispers fly before it, and prepare the minds of men for the 
 reception of the truth itself. Gallick Reports. 
 
 Case of the Count Saint Geran. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 THE VAULT. 
 
 Let me know, therefore, fully the intent 
 
 Of this thy dismal preparation — 
 
 This talk fit for a charnel. Webster. 
 
 Within a sepulchral vault, and at midnight, two persons were 
 seated. The chamber was of singular construction and consider- 
 able extent. The roof was of solid stone masonry, and rose in a- 
 wide semicircular arch to the height of about seventeen feet, mea 
 sured from the centre of the ceiling to the ground floor, while the 
 sides were divided by slight partition- walls into ranges of low, nar- 
 row catacombs. The entrance to each cavity was surrounded by 
 an obtusely-pointed arch, resting upon slender granite pillars ; and 
 the intervening space was filled up with a variety of tablets, escut- 
 cheons, shields, and inscriptions, recording the titles and heraldic 
 honours of the departed. There were no doors to the niches ; 
 and within might be seen piles of coffins, packed one upon another, 
 till the floor groaned with the weight of lead. Against one of 
 the pillars, upon a hook, hung a rack of tattered, time-out-of-mind 
 hatchments ; and in the centre of the tomb might be seen the 
 effigies of Sir Ranulph de Rokewode, the builder of the mau- 
 soleum, and the founder of the race who slept within its walls. 
 This statue, wrought in black marble, differed from most monu- 
 
 B 
 
2 EOOKWOOD. 
 
 mental carved-work, in that its posture was erect and life-like. Sir 
 Ranulph was represented as sheathed in a complete suit of mail, 
 decorated with his emblazoned and Q-ilded surcoat, his arm leaning 
 upon the pommel of a weighty curtai-axe. The attitude was that 
 of stern repose. A conically-formed helmet rested upon the 
 brow ; the beaver was raised, and revealed harsh but commanding 
 features. The golden spur of knighthood was fixed upon the 
 heel ; and, at the feet, enshrined in a costly sarcophagus of marble, 
 dug from the same quarry as the statue, rested the mortal remains 
 of one of " the sternest knights to his mortal foe that ever put 
 speare in the rest." 
 
 Streaming in a wavering line upon the roof, the sickly flame of 
 a candle partially fell upon the human figures before alluded to, 
 throwing them into darkest relief, and casting their opaque and 
 fantastical shadows along the ground. An old coffin upon a bier, 
 we have said, served the mysterious twain for a seat. Between 
 them stood a bottle and a glass, evidences that whatever might be 
 the ulterior object of their stealthy communion, the immediate 
 comfort of the creature had not been altogether overlooked. At 
 the feet of one of the personages were laid a mattock, a horn 
 lantern (from which the candle had been removed), a crowbar, and 
 a bunch of keys. Near to these implements of a vocation which 
 the reader will readily surmise, rested a strange superannuated 
 terrier with a wiry back and frosted muzzle; a head minus an car, 
 and a leg wanting a paw. His master, for such we shall suppose 
 him, was an old man with a lofty forehead, covered with a sin- 
 gularly shaped nightcap, and clothed, as to his lower limbs, with 
 tight, ribbed, grey worsted hose, ascending externally, after a by- 
 gone fashion, considerably above the knee. The old man's elbow 
 rested upon the handle of his spade, his wrist supported his chin, 
 and his grey glassy eyes, glimmering like marsh-meteors in the 
 candlelight, were fixed upon his companion with a glance of 
 searching scrutiny. 
 
 The object of his investigation, a much more youthful and 
 interesting person, seemed lost in reverie, and alike insensible to 
 time, place, and the object of the meeting. With both hands 
 grasped round the barrel of a fowling-piece, and his face leaning 
 upon the same support, the features were entirely concealed from 
 view; the light, too, being at the back, and shedding its rays over, 
 rather than upon his person, aided his disguise. Yet, even thus 
 imperfectly defined, the outline of the head, and the proportions 
 of the figure, were eminently striking and symmetrical. Attired 
 in a rough forester's costume, of the mode of 1737, and of the 
 roughest texture and rudest make, his wild garb would have de- 
 termined his rank as sufficiently humble in the scale of society, 
 had not a certain loftiness of manner, and bold, though reckless 
 deportment, argued pretensions on the part of the wearer to a 
 more elevated station in life, and contradicted, in a great measure, 
 
f§^£^^ 
 
 THE VAULT 
 
 P. 2. 
 
ROOKWOOD. 3 
 
 the impression produced by the homely appearance of his habili- 
 ments. A cap of shaggy brown fur, fancifully, but not ungrace- 
 fully fashioned, covered his head, from beneath which, dropping, 
 in natural clusters, over his neck and shoulders, a cloud of raven 
 hair escaped. Subsequently, when his face was more fully revealed, 
 it proved to be that of a young man, of dark aspect, and grave, 
 melancholy expression of countenance, approaching even to the 
 stern, when at rest; though sufficiently animated and earnest when 
 emraired in conversation, or otherwise excited. His features were 
 regular, delicately formed, and might be characterised as singularly 
 handsome, were it not for a want of roundness in the contour of 
 the face which gave the lineaments a thin, worn look, totally dis- 
 tinct, however, from haggardness or emaciation. The nose was 
 delicate and line ; the nostril especially so ; the upper lip was 
 short, curling, graceful, and haughtily expressive. As to com- 
 plexion, his skin had a truly Spanish warmth and intensity of 
 colouring. His figure, when raised, was tall and masculine, and 
 though slight, exhibited great personal vigour. 
 
 We will now turn to his companion, the old man with the great 
 grey glittering eyes. Peter Bradley, of Rookwood (comitatu. 
 Ebor.), where he had exercised the vocation of sexton for the best 
 part of a life already drawn out to the full span ordinarily allotted 
 to mortality, was an odd caricature of humanity. His figure was 
 lean, and almost as lank as a skeleton. His bald head reminded 
 one of a bleached skull, allowing for the overhanging and hoary 
 brows. Deep-seated, and sunken within their sockets, his grey 
 orbs gleamed with intolerable lustre. Few could endure his gaze; 
 and, aware of his power, Peter seldom failed to exercise it. He 
 had likewise another habit, which, as it savoured of insanity, made 
 him an object of commiseration with some, while it rendered him 
 yet more obnoxious to others. The habit we allude to, was the 
 indulgence of wild screaming laughter at times when all mei'd- 
 ment should be checked ; and when the exhibition of levity must 
 proceed from utter disregard of human grief and suffering, or from 
 mental alienation. 
 
 Vv r caried with the prolonged silence, Peter at length conde- 
 scended to speak. His voice was harsh and grating as a rusty 
 hi n ire. 
 
 " Another glass ?" said he, pouring out a modicum of the pale 
 fluid. 
 
 His companion shook his head. 
 
 " It will keep out the cold," continued the sexton, pressing the 
 liquid upon him ; " and you, who are not so much accustomed as I 
 am to the damps of a vault, may suffer from them. Besides," 
 added he, sneeringly, u it will give you courage." 
 
 His companion answered not. But the flash of his eye resented 
 the implied reproach. 
 
 " Nay, never stare at me so hard, Luke," continued the sexton; 
 
 b2 
 
4 ROOKWOOD. 
 
 a I doubt neither your courage nor your firmness. But if you 
 won't drink, I will. Here's to the rest eternal of Sir Piers Rook- 
 wood ! You'll say amen to that pledge, or you are neither grand- 
 son of mine, nor offspring of his loins." 
 
 " Why should I reverence his memory," answered Luke, bitterly, 
 refusing the proffered potion, u who showed no fatherly love for 
 me? He disowned me in life: in death I disown him. Sir Piers 
 Rook wood was no father of mine." 
 
 "He was as certainly your father, as Susan Bradley, your mother, 
 was my daughter," rejoined the sexton. 
 
 " And, surely," cried Luke, impetuously, " you need not boast 
 of the connexion ! 'Tis not for you, old man, to couple their 
 names together — to exult in your daughter's disgrace and your 
 own dishonour. Shame ! shame ! Speak not of them in the 
 same breath, if you would not have me invoke curses on the 
 dead ! / have no reverence (whatever you may have) for the se- 
 ducer — for the murderer of my mother." 
 
 " You have choice store of epithets, in sooth, good grandson," 
 rejoined Peter, with a chuckling laugh. u Sir Piers a murderer I" 
 
 " Tush !" exclaimed Luke, indignantly, " afFect not ignorance. 
 You have better knowledge than I have of the truth or falsehood 
 of the dark tale that has gone abroad respecting my mother's fate; 
 and unless report has belied you foully, had substantial reasons for 
 keeping sealed lips on the occasion. But to change this painful 
 subject," added he, with a sudden alteration of manner, "at what 
 hour did Sir Piers Rookwood die?" 
 
 " On Thursday last, in the night-time. The exact hour I know 
 not," replied the sexton. 
 
 "Of what ailment?" 
 
 " Neither do I know that. His end was sudden, yet not with- 
 out a warning sign." 
 
 " What warning?" inquired Luke. 
 
 " Neither more nor less than the death-omen of the house. 
 You look astonished. Is it possible you have never heard of the 
 ominous Lime-Tree, and the Fatal Bough? Why, 'tis a common 
 tale hereabouts, and has been for centuries. Any old crone would 
 tell it you. Peradventure, you have seen the old avenue of lime- 
 trees leading to the hall, nearly a quarter of a mile in length, and 
 as noble a row of timber as any in the West Riding of Yorkshire. 
 Well, there is one tree — the last on the left hand before you come 
 to the clock-house — larger than all the rest — a huge piece of 
 timber, with broad spreading branches, and of I know not what 
 girth in the trunk. That tree is, in some mysterious manner, con- 
 nected with the family of Rookwood, and immediately previous to 
 the death of one of that line, a branch is sure to be shed from the 
 parent stem, prognosticating his doom. But you shall hear the 
 legend." And in a strange sepulchral tone, not inappropriate, how- 
 ever, to his subject, Peter chanted the following ballad: 
 

ROOKWOOD. O 
 
 THE LEGEND OF THE LIME-TREE. 
 
 Amid the grove o'er-archcd above with lime-trees old and tall 
 (The avenue that leads unto the Rookwood's ancient liall), 
 High o'er the rest its towering crest one tree rears to the sky, 
 And wide out-flings, like mighty wings, its arms umbrageously. 
 
 Seven yards its base would scarce embrace — a goodly tree I ween, 
 
 With silver bark, and foliage dark, of melancholy green ; 
 
 And mid its boughs two ravens house, and build from year to year, 
 
 Their black brood hatch — their black brood watch — then screaming disappear. 
 
 In that old tree when playfully the summer breezes sigh, 
 
 Its leaves are stirred, and there is heard a low and plaintive cry ; 
 
 And when in shrieks the storm blast speaks its reverend boughs among, 
 
 Sad wailing moans, like human groans, the concert harsh prolong. 
 
 But whether gale or calm prevail, or threatening cloud hath fled, 
 By hand of Eate, predestinate, a limb that tree will shed : 
 A verdant bough — untouched, I trow, by axe or tempest's breath— 
 To Rookwood's head an omen dread of fast-approaching death. 
 
 Some think that tree instinct must be with preternatural power, 
 Like 'larum bell Death's note to knell at Fate's appointed hour ; 
 While some avow that on its bough are fearful traces seen, 
 Red as the stains from human veins, commingling with the green. 
 
 Others, again, there are maintain that on the shattered bark 
 A print is made, where fiends have laid their scathing talons dark ; 
 That, ere it falls, the raven calls thrice from that wizard bough ; 
 And that each cry doth signify what space the Fates allow. 
 
 In olden days, the legend says, as grim Sir Ranulph view'd 
 
 A wretched hag her footsteps drag beneath his lordly wood, 
 
 His blood-hounds twain he called amain, and straightway gave her chase ; 
 
 Was never seen in forest green, so fierce, so fleet a race ! 
 
 With eyes of flame to Ranulph came each red and ruthless hound, 
 While mangled, torn — a sight forlorn ! — the hag lay on the ground ; 
 E'en where she lay was turned the clay, and limb and reeking bone 
 Within the earth, with ribald mirth, by Ranulph grim were thrown. 
 
 And while as yet the soil was wet with that poor witch's gore, 
 A lime-tree stake did Ranulph take, and pierced her bosom's core ; 
 And, strange to tell, what next befel ! — that branch at once took root, 
 And richly fed, within its bed, strong suckers forth did shoot. 
 
 From year to year fresh boughs appear — it waxes huge in size ; 
 And, with wild glee, this prodigy Sir Ranulph grim espies. 
 One day, when he, beneath that tree, reclined in joy and pride, 
 A branch was found upon the ground — the next, Sir Ranulph died ! 
 
 And from that hour a fatal power has ruled that Wizard Tree, 
 To Ranulph's line a warning sign of doom and destiny : 
 For when a bough is found, I trow, beneath its shade to lie, 
 Ere suns shall rise thrice in the skies a Rookwood sure shall die ! 
 
 " And such an omen preceded Sir Piers's demise ?" said Luke f 
 who had listened with some attention to his grandsire's song. 
 
 66 Unquestionably," replied the sexton. " Not longer ago than 
 Tuesday morning, I happened to be sauntering down the avenue I 
 have just described. I know not what took me thither at that early 
 
6 ROOKWOOD. 
 
 hour, but 1 wandered leisurely on till I came nigh the Wizard 
 Lime-Tree. Great Heaven ! what a surprise awaited me ! a huge 
 branch lay right across the path. It had evidently just fallen, for 
 the leaves were green and unwithered ; the sap still oozed from 
 the splintered wood ; and there was neither trace of knife nor 
 hatchet on the bark. I looked up among the boughs to mark the 
 spot from whence it had been torn by the hand of Fate — for no 
 human hand had done it — and saw the pair of ancestral ravens 
 perched amid the foliage, and croaking as those carrion fowl are 
 wont to do when they scent a carcase afar off. Just then a livelier 
 sound saluted my ears. The cheering cry of a pack of hounds re- 
 sounded from the courts, and the great gates being thrown open, 
 out issued Sir Piers, attended by a troop of his roystering com- 
 panions, all on horseback, and all making the welkin ring with 
 their vociferations. Sir Piers laughed as loudly as the rest, but his 
 mirth was speedily checked. No sooner had his horse (old Rook, 
 his favourite steed, who never swerved at stake or pale before) set 
 eyes upon this accursed branch, than he started as if the fiend 
 stood before him, and, rearing backwards, flung his rider from the 
 saddle. At this moment, with loud screams, the wizard ravens 
 took flight. Sir Piers was somewhat hurt by the fall, but he was 
 more frightened than hurt ; and though he tried to put a bold 
 nice on the matter, it was plain that his efforts to recover himself 
 were fruitless. Dr. Titus Tyrconnel and that wild fellow Jack 
 Palmer (who has lately come to the hall, and of whom you know 
 something) tried to rally him. But it would not do. He broke 
 up the day's sport, and returned dejectedly to the hall. Before 
 departing, however, he addressed a word to me, in private, re- 
 specting you ; and pointed, with a melancholy shake of the head, 
 to the fatal branch. ' It is my death-warrant] said he, gloomily. 
 And so it proved ; two days afterwards his doom was accom- 
 plished." 
 
 " And do you place faith in this idle legend?" asked Luke, with 
 affected indifference, although it was evident, from his manner, 
 that he himself was not so entirely free from a superstitious feel- 
 ing of credulity as he would have it appear. 
 
 " Certes," replied the sexton. " I were more difficult to be 
 convinced than the unbelieving disciple else. Thrice hath it oc- 
 curred to my own knowledge, and ever with the same result : firstly, 
 with Sir Reginald; secondly, with thy own mother; and lastly, as 
 I have just told thee, with Sir Piers." 
 
 " I thought you said, even now, that this death-omen, if such 
 it be, was always confined to the immediate family of Rookwood, 
 and not to mere inmates of the mansion." 
 
 " To the heads only of that house, be they male or female." 
 
 "Then how could it apply to my mother? Was she of that 
 house? Was she a wife?" 
 
 " Who shall say she was not?" rejoined the sexton. 
 
EOOKWOOD. 7 
 
 "Who shall say she was so?" cried Luke, repeating the words 
 with indignant emphasis — " who will avouch that?" 
 
 A smile, cold as a wintry sunbeam, played upon the sexton's 
 rigid lips. 
 
 " I will bear this no longer," cried Luke ; " anger me not, or 
 look to yourself. In a word, have you anything to tell me respect- 
 ing her? if not, let me be gone." 
 
 "I have. But I will not be hurried by a boy like you," replied 
 Peter, doggedly. " Go, if you will, and take the consequences. 
 My lips are sealed for ever, and I have much to say — much that 
 it behoves you to know." 
 
 " Be brief, then. When you sought me out this morning, in 
 my retreat with the gipsy gang at Davenham Wood, you bade me 
 meet you in the porch of Rookwood Church at midnight. I was 
 true to my appointment." 
 
 " And I will keep my promise," replied the sexton. " Draw 
 closer, that I may whisper in thine ear. Of every Rookwood who 
 lies around us — and all that ever bore the name, except Sir Piers 
 himself (who lies in state at the hall), are here — not one — mark 
 what I say — not one male branch of the house but has been sus- 
 pected " 
 
 "Of what?" 
 
 " Of murder!" returned the sexton, in a hissing whisper. 
 
 "Murder!" echoed Luke, recoiling. 
 
 " There is one dark stain — one foul blot on all. Blood — blood 
 hath been spilt." 
 
 "By all?" 
 
 " Ay, and such blood ! theirs was no common crime. Even 
 murder hath its decrees. Theirs was of the first class." 
 
 " Their wives ! — you cannot mean that?" 
 
 " Ay, their wives ! — I do. You have heard it, then? Ha ! ha ! 
 'tis a trick they had. Did you ever hear the old saying? 
 
 No mate ever brook would 
 A Rook of the Rookwood ! 
 
 A merry saying it is, and true. No woman ever stood in a Rook- 
 wood's way but she was speedily removed — that's certain. They 
 had all, save poor Sir Piers, the knack of stopping a troublesome 
 woman's tongue, and practised it to perfection. A rare art, eh?" 
 
 " What have the misdeeds of his ancestry to do with Sir Piers," 
 muttered Luke, " much less with my mother?" 
 
 " Everything. If he could not rid himself of his wife (and she 
 is a match for the devil himself), the mistress might be more 
 readily set aside." 
 
 "Have you absolute knowledge of aught?" asked Luke, his 
 voice tremulous with emotion. 
 
 "Nay, I but hinted." 
 
 " Such hints are worse than open speech. Let me know the 
 
8 ROOKWOOD. 
 
 worst. Did he kill her?" And Luke glared at the sexton as if 
 he would have penetrated his secret soul. 
 
 But Peter was not easily fathomed. His cold, bright eye re- 
 turned Luke's gaze steadfastly, as he answered, composedly, 
 
 " I have said all I know." 
 
 "But not all you think" 
 
 " Thoughts should not always find utterance, else we might 
 often endanger our own safety, and that of others." 
 
 " An idle subterfuge — and, from you, worse than idle. I will 
 have an answer, yea or nay. Was it poison — was it steel?" 
 
 " Enough — she died." 
 
 " No, it is not enough. When ? where ?" 
 
 " In her sleep — in her bed." 
 
 " Why, that was natural." 
 
 A wrinklinsr smile crossed the sexton's brow. 
 
 " What means that horrible gleam of laughter?" exclaimed 
 Luke, grasping the shoulder of the man of graves with such force 
 as nearly to annihilate him. " Speak, or I will strangle you. She 
 died, you say, in her sleep?" 
 
 " She did so," replied the sexton, shaking off Luke s hold. 
 
 ' ' And was it to tell me that I had a mother's murder to avenge, 
 that you brought me to the tomb of her destroyer — when he is 
 beyond the reach of my vengeance ?" 
 
 Luke exhibited so much frantic violence of manner and gesture, 
 that the sexton entertained some little apprehension that his in- 
 tellects were unsettled by the shock of the intelligence. It was, 
 therefore, in what he intended for a soothing tone that he at- 
 tempted to solicit his grandson's attention. 
 
 " I will hear nothing more," interrupted Luke, and the vaulted 
 chamber rang with his passionate lamentations. " Am I the sport 
 of this mocking fiend?" cried he, "to whom my agony is derision 
 — my despair a source of enjoyment — beneath whose withering 
 glance my spirit shrinks — who, with half-expressed insinuations, 
 tortures my soul, awakening fancies that goad me on to dark and 
 desperate deeds? Dead mother! upon thee I call. If in thy 
 grave thou canst hear the cry of thy most wretched son, yearning 
 to avenge thee — answer me, if thou hast the power. Let me have 
 some token of the truth or falsity of these wild suppositions, that 
 I may wrestle against this demon. But no," added he, in accents 
 of despair, il no ear listens to me, save his to whom my wretched- 
 ness is food for mockery." 
 
 " Could the dead hear thee, thy mother might do so," returned 
 the sexton. " She lies within this space." 
 
 Luke staggered back, as if struck by a sudden shot. He spoke 
 not, but fell with a violent shock against a pile of coffins, at which 
 he caught for support. 
 
 " What have I done?" he exclaimed, recoiling. 
 
 A thundering crash resounded through the vault. One of the 
 
ROOKWOOD. 9 
 
 coffins, dislodged from its position by his fall, tumbled to the 
 ground, and, alighting upon its side, split asunder. 
 
 "Great Heavens! what is this?" cried Luke, as a dead body, 
 clothed in all the hideous apparel of the tomb, rolled forth to his 
 feet. 
 
 "It is your mother's corpse," answered the sexton, coldly; "I 
 brought you hither to behold it. But you have anticipated my 
 intentions." 
 
 " This my mother?" shrieked Luke, dropping upon his knees 
 by the body, and seizing one of its chilly hands, as it lay upon the 
 floor, with the face upwards. 
 
 The sexton took the candle from the sconce. 
 
 " Can this be death?" shouted Luke. " Impossible ! Oh, God ! 
 she stirs — she moves. The light ! — quick. I see her stir ! This 
 is dreadful I" 
 
 " Do not deceive yourself," said the sexton, in a tone which 
 betrayed more emotion than was his wont. "*Tis the bewilder- 
 ment of fancy. She will never stir again." 
 
 And he shaded the candle with his hand, so as to throw the 
 light full upon the face of the corpse. It was motionless as that 
 of an image carved in stone. No trace of corruption was visible 
 upon the rigid, yet exquisite tracery of its features. A profuse 
 cloud of raven hair, escaped from its swathements in the fall, hung 
 like a dark veil over the bosom and person of the dead, and pre- 
 sented a startling contrast to the waxlike hue of the skin and the 
 pallid cereclothes. Flesh still adhered to the hand, though it 
 mouldered into dust within the gripe of Luke, as he pressed the 
 fingers to his lips. The shroud was disposed like night-gear about 
 her person, and from without its folds a few withered flowers had 
 fallen. A strong aromatic odour, of a pungent nature, was dif- 
 fused around; giving evidence that the art by which the ancient 
 Egyptians endeavoured to rescue their kindred from decomposi- 
 tion had been resorted to, to preserve the fleeting charms of the 
 unfortunate Susan Bradley. 
 
 A pause of awful silence succeeded, broken only by the convul- 
 sive respiration of Luke. The sexton stood by, apparently an in- 
 different spectator of the scene of horror. His eye wandered 
 from the dead to the living, and gleamed with a peculiar and in- 
 definable expression, half apathy, half abstraction. For one single 
 instant, as he scrutinised the features of his daughter, his brow, 
 contracted by anger, immediately afterwards was elevated in scorn. 
 But otherwise you would have sought in vain to read the purport 
 of that cold, insensible glance, which dwelt for a brief space on 
 the face of the mother, and settled eventually upon her son. At 
 length the withered flowers attracted his attention. He stooped 
 to pick up one of them. 
 
 " Faded as the hand that gathered ye — as the bosom on which 
 ye were strewn!" he murmured. " No sweet smell left — but — 
 
10 ROOKWOOD. 
 
 faugli !" Holding the dry leaves to the flame of the candle, they 
 were instantly ignited, and the momentary brilliance played like a 
 smile upon the features of the dead. Peter observed the effect. 
 " Such was thy life," he exclaimed; a a brief, bright sparkle, fol- 
 lowed by dark, utter extinction !" 
 
 Saying which, he flung the expiring ashes of the floweret from 
 his hand. 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 THE SKELETON HAND. 
 
 Duch. You are very cold. 
 
 I fear you are not well after your travel. 
 
 Ha ! lights. Oh horrible ! 
 
 Fer. Let her have lights enough. 
 
 Duch. What witchcraft doth he practise, that he hath left 
 
 A dead hand here ? Duchess o/Malfy. 
 
 The sexton's waning candle now warned him of the progress 
 of time, and having completed his arrangements, he addressed 
 himself to Luke, intimating his intention of departing. But re- 
 ceiving no answer, and remarking no signs of life about his grand- 
 son, he began to be apprehensive that he had fallen into a swoon. 
 Drawing near to Luke, he took him gently by the arm. Thus 
 disturbed, Luke groaned aloud. 
 
 " I am glad to find you can breathe, if it be only after that 
 melancholy fashion," said the sexton; "but come, I have wasted 
 time enough already. You must indulge your grief elsewhere." 
 
 " Leave me," sighed Luke. 
 
 " What, here? It were as much as my office is worth. You 
 can return some other night. But go you must, now — at least, if 
 you take on thus. I never calculated upon a scene like this, or it 
 had been long ere I brought you hither. So come away; yet, 
 stay; — but first lend me a hand to replace the body in the coffin." 
 
 " Touch it not," exclaimed Luke; "she shall not rest another 
 hour within these accursed walls. I will bear her hence myself." 
 And, sobbing hysterically, he relapsed into his former insen- 
 sibility. 
 
 " Poh ! this is worse than midsummer madness," said Peter ; 
 " the lad is crazed with grief, and all about a mother who has been 
 four-and-twmty years in her grave. I will e'en put her out of the 
 way myself." 
 
 Saying which, he proceeded, as noiselessly as possible, to raise 
 the corpse in his arms, and deposited it softly within its former 
 tenement. Carefully as he executed his task, he could not accom- 
 plish it without occasioning a slight accident to the fragile frame. 
 Insensible as he was, Luke had not relinquished the hold he 
 
ROOKWOOD. 11 
 
 maintained of his mother's hand. And when Peter lifted the 
 body, the ligaments connecting the liand with the arm were sud- 
 denly snapped asunder. It would appear afterwards, that this 
 joint had been tampered with, and partially dislocated. Without, 
 however, entering into further particulars in this place, it may be 
 sufficient to observe that the hand, detached from the socket at the 
 wrist, remained within the gripe of Luke; while, ignorant of the 
 mischief he had occasioned, the sexton continued his labours un- 
 consciously, until the noise which he of necessity made in stamp- 
 ing with his heel upon the plank, recalled his grandson to sensi- 
 bility. The first thing that the latter perceived, upon collecting 
 his faculties, were the skeleton fingers twined within his own. 
 
 u What have you done with the body? Why have you left 
 this with me?" demanded he. 
 
 u It was not my intention to have done so," answered the sexton, 
 suspending his occupation. " I have just made fast the lid. but it 
 is easily undone. You had better restore it." 
 
 u Never," returned Luke, staring at the bony fragment. 
 
 u Pshaw ! of what advantage is a dead hand? 'Tis an unlucky 
 keepsake, and will lead to mischief. The only use I ever heard of 
 such a thing being turned to, was in the case of Bow-legged Ben, 
 who was hanged in irons for murder, on Hardchase Heath, on the 
 York Road, and whose hand was cut off at the wrist the first ni^ht 
 to make a Hand of Glory, or Dead Man's Candle. Hast never 
 heard what the old song says ?" And without awaiting his 
 grandson's response, Peter broke into the following wild strain : 
 
 THE HAND OF GLORY* 
 
 Prom the corse that hangs on the roadside tree 
 
 (A murderer's corse it needs must be). 
 
 Sever the right hand carefully : — 
 
 Sever the hand that the deed hath done, 
 
 Ere the flesh that clings to the bones be gone ; 
 
 In its dry veins must blood be none. 
 
 Those ghastly fingers white and cold, 
 
 Within a winding-sheet enfold ; 
 
 Count the mystic count of seven : 
 
 Name the Governors of Heaven.f 
 
 Then in earthen vessel place them, 
 
 And with dragon-wort encase them, 
 
 Bleach them in the noonday sun, 
 
 Till the marrow melt and run, 
 
 Till the flesh is pale and wan, 
 
 As a moon-ensilvered cloud, 
 
 As an unpolluted shroud. 
 
 Next within their chill embrace 
 
 The dead man's Awful Candle place ; 
 
 * See the celebrated recipe for the Hand of Glory in "Les Secrets du Petit 
 Albert." 
 
 | The seven planets, so called by Mercurius Trismegistus. 
 
12 ROOKWOOD. 
 
 Of murderer's fat must that candle be 
 
 (You may scoop it beneath the roadside tree), 
 
 Of wax, and of Lapland sisame. 
 
 Its wick must be twisted of hair of the dead, 
 
 By the crow and her brood on the wild waste shed. 
 
 Wherever that terrible light shall burn 
 
 Vainly the sleeper may toss and turn ; 
 
 His leaden lids shall he ne'er unclose 
 
 So long as that magical taper glows. 
 
 Life and treasure shall he command 
 
 Who knoweth the charm of the Glorious Hand ! 
 
 But of black cat's gall let him aye have care, 
 
 And of screech-owl's venomous blood beware ! 
 
 " Peace !" thundered Luke, extending his mother's hand towards 
 the sexton. "What seest thou?" 
 
 " I see something shine. Hold it nigher the light. Ha ! that 
 is strange, truly. How came that ring there?" 
 
 " Ask of Sir Piers ! ask of her husband ! " shouted Luke, with 
 a wild burst of exulting laughter. u Ha ! ha ! ha ! 'tis a wedding- 
 ring ! And look ! the finger is bent. It must have been placed 
 upon it in her lifetime. There is no deception in this — no trickery 
 —ha!" 
 
 " It would seem not ; the sinew must have been contracted in 
 life. The tendons are pulled down so tightly, that the ring could 
 not be withdrawn without breaking the finger." 
 
 " You are sure that coffin contains her body?" 
 
 " As sure as I am that this carcase is my own." 
 
 " The hand' — 'tis hers. Can any doubt exist?" 
 
 " Wherefore should it? It was broken from the arm by acci- 
 dent within this moment. I noticed not the occurrence, but it 
 must have been so." 
 
 " Then it follows that she was wedded, and I am not " 
 
 u Illegitimate. For your own sake I am glad of it." 
 
 " My heart will burst. Oh ! could I but establish the fact of 
 this marriage, her wrongs would be indeed avenged." 
 
 u Listen to me, Luke," said the sexton, solemnly. " I told you, 
 when I appointed this midnight interview, I had a secret to com- 
 municate. That secret is now revealed — that secret was your 
 mother's marriage." 
 
 " And it was known to you during her lifetime ?" 
 
 " It was. But I was sworn to secrecy." 
 
 " You have proofs then?" 
 
 " I have nothing beyond Sir Piers's word — and he is silent 
 now." 
 
 61 By whom was the ceremony performed?" 
 
 " By a Romish priest — a Jesuit — one Father Checkley, at that 
 time an inmate of the hall; for Sir Piers, though he afterwards 
 abjured it, at that time professed the Catholic faith, and this 
 Checkley officiated as his confessor and counsellor; as the partner 
 
ROOKWOOD. 13 
 
 of his pleasures, and the prompter of his iniquities. He was your 
 father's evil genius." 
 
 " Is he still alive?" 
 
 " I know not. After your mother's death he left the hall. I 
 have said he was a Jesuit, and I may add, that he was mixed up in 
 dark political intrigues, in which your father was too feeble a 
 character to take much share. But though too weak to guide, he 
 was a pliant instrument, and this Checkley knew. He moulded 
 him according to his wishes. I cannot tell you what was the nature 
 of their plots. Suffice it, they were such as, if discovered, would 
 have involved your father in ruin. He was saved, however, by his 
 wife." 
 
 " And her reward " groaned Luke. 
 
 " Was death," replied Peter, coldly. " What Jesuit ever forgave 
 a wrong — real or imaginary? Your mother, I ought to have said, 
 was a Protestant. Hence there was a difference of religious opinion 
 — (the worst of differences that can exist between husband and 
 wife). Checkley vowed her destruction, and he kept his vow. 
 He was enamoured of her beauty. But while he burnt with 
 adulterous desire, he was consumed by fiercest hate — contending, 
 and yet strangely-reconcilable passions — as you may have reason, 
 hereafter, to discover." 
 
 " Go on," said Luke, grinding his teeth. 
 
 " I have done," returned Peter. u From that hour your father's 
 love for his supposed mistress, and unacknowledged wife, declined; 
 and with his waning love declined her health. I will not waste 
 words in describing the catastrophe that awaited her union. It 
 will be enough to say, she was found one morning a corpse within 
 her bed. Whatever suspicions were attached to Sir Piers were 
 quieted by Checkley, who distributed gold, largely and discreetly. 
 The body was embalmed by Barbara Lovel, the Gipsy Queen." 
 
 " My foster-mother !" exclaimed Luke, in a tone of extreme 
 astonishment. 
 
 " Ah," replied Peter, " from her you may learn all particulars. 
 You have now seen what remains of your mother. You are in 
 possession of the secret of your birth. The path is before you, and 
 if you would arrive at honour you must pursue it steadily, turning 
 neither to the right nor to the left. Opposition you will meet at 
 each step. But fresh lights may be thrown upon this difficult case. 
 It is in vain to hope for Checkley's evidence, even should the caitiff 
 priest be living. He is himself too deeply implicated — ha !" 
 
 Peter stopped, for at this moment the flame of the candle sud- 
 denly expired, and the speakers were left in total darkness. Some- 
 thing like a groan followed the conclusion of the sexton's discourse. 
 It was evident that it proceeded not from his grandson, as an ex- 
 clamation burst from him at the same instant. Luke stretched out 
 his arm. A cold hand seemed to press against his own, commu- 
 nicating a chill like death to his frame. 
 
14 ROOKWOOD. 
 
 " Who is between us?" he ejaculated. 
 
 " The devil !" cried the sexton, leaping from the coffin-lid with 
 an agility that did him honour. " Is aught between us?" 
 
 " I will discharge my gun. Its flash will light us." 
 
 " Do so," hastily rejoined Peter. "But not in this direction." 
 
 " Get behind me," cried Luke. And he pulled the trigger. 
 
 A blaze of vivid light illumined the darkness. Still nothing 
 was visible, save the warrior figure, which was seen for a moment, 
 and then vanished like a ghost. The buck-shot rattled against 
 the further end of the vault. 
 
 u Let us go hence," ejaculated the sexton, who had rushed to 
 the door, and thrown it wide open. " Mole! Mole!" cried he, 
 and the dog sprang after him. 
 
 " I could have sworn I felt something," said Luke ; " whence 
 issued that groan?" 
 
 "Ask not whence," replied Peter. "Reach me my mattock, 
 and spade, and the lantern ; they are behind you. And stay, it 
 were better to bring away the bottle." 
 
 "Take theln, and leave me here." 
 
 "Alone in the vault? — no, no, Luke, I have not told you half 
 I know concerning that mystic statue. It is said to -move — to 
 walk — to raise its axe — be warned, I pray." 
 
 "Leave me, or abide, if you will, my coming, in the church. 
 If there is aught that may be revealed to my ear alone, I will not 
 shrink from it, though the dead themselves should arise to pro- 
 claim the mystery. It may be — but — go — there are your tools." 
 And he shut the door, with a jar that shook the sexton's frame. 
 
 Peter, after some muttered murmurings at the hardihood and 
 madness, as he termed it, of his grandson, disposed his lanky 
 limbs to repose, upon a cushioned bench without the communion 
 railing. As the pale moonlight fell upon his gaunt and cadaverous 
 visage, he looked like some unholy thing suddenly annihilated by 
 the presiding influence of that sacred spot. Mole crouched him- 
 self in a ring at his master's feet. Peter had not dozed many 
 minutes, when he was aroused by Luke's return. The latter was 
 very pale, and the damp stood in big drops upon his brow. 
 
 " Have you made fast the door?" inquired the sexton. 
 
 " Here is the key." 
 
 " What have you seen?" he next demanded. 
 
 Luke made no answer. At that moment, the church clock 
 struck two, breaking the stillness with an iron clang. Luke 
 raised his eyes. A ray of moonlight, streaming obliquely through 
 the painted window, fell upon the gilt lettering of a black mural 
 entablature. The lower part of the inscription was in the shade, 
 but the emblazonment, and the words — 
 
 Orate pro arnrna 3£UgfaaUrf Hooklnoofc ccruttts auratf, 
 
ROOKWOOD. 15 
 
 were clear and distinct. Luke trembled, he knew not why, as 
 the sexton pointed to it. 
 
 " You have heard of the handwriting upon the wall," said Peter. 
 li Look there ! — ' His kingdom hath been taken from him.' Ha, 
 ha ! Listen to me. Of all thy monster race — of all the race of 
 Rookwood I should say — no demon ever stalked the earth more 
 terrible than him whose tablet you now behold. By him a brother 
 was betrayed ; by him a brother's wife was dishonoured. Love, 
 honour, friendship, were with him as words. He regarded no 
 ties: he defied and set at nought all human laws and obligations — 
 and yet he was religious, or esteemed so — received the viaticum, 
 and died full of years and honours, hugging salvation to his sinful 
 heart. And after death he has yon lying epitaph to record his 
 virtues. His virtues ! ha, ha ! Ask him who preaches to the 
 kneeling throng gathering within this holy place what shall be 
 the murderer's portion — and he will answer — Death ! And yet 
 Sir Reginald was long-lived. The awful question, ' Cain, where 
 is thy brother?' broke not his tranquil slumbers. Luke, I have 
 told you much — but not all. You know not, as yet — nor shall 
 you know your destiny; but you shall be the avenger of infamy 
 and blood. I have a sacred charge committed to my keeping, 
 which, hereafter, I may delegate to you. You shall be Sir Luke 
 Rookwood, but the conditions must be mine to propose." 
 
 " No more," said Luke; " my brain reels. I am faint. Let us 
 quit this place, and get into the fresh air." And striding past his 
 grandsire he traversed the aisles with hasty steps. Peter was not 
 slow to follow. The key w r as applied, and they emerged into the 
 churchyard. The grassy mounds were bathed in the moonbeams, 
 and the two yew-trees, throwing their black, jagged shadows over 
 the grave hills, looked like evil spirits brooding over the repose of 
 the righteous. 
 
 The sexton noticed the deathly paleness of Luke's countenance, 
 but he fancied it might proceed from the tinge of the sallow moon- 
 light. 
 
 " I will be with you at your cottage ere daybreak," said Luke. 
 And turning an angle of the church, he disappeared from view. 
 
 u So," exclaimed Peter, gazing after him, "the train is laid; 
 the spark has been applied; the explosion will soon follow. The 
 hour is fast approaching when I shall behold this accursed house 
 shaken to dust, and when my long-delayed vengeance will be 
 gratified. In that hope I am content to drag on the brief rem- 
 nant of my days. Meanwhile, I must not omit the stimulant. In 
 a short time I may not require it." Draining the bottle to the 
 last drop, he flung it from him, and commenced chanting, in a 
 high key and cracked voice, a wild ditty, the words of which ran 
 as follow : 
 
16 ROOKWOOD. 
 
 THE CARRION CROW * 
 
 The Carrion Crow is a sexton bold, 
 He raketh the dead from out the mould ; 
 He delveth the ground like a miser old, 
 Stealthily hiding his store of gold. 
 
 Caw! Caio! 
 
 The Carrion Crow hath a coat of black, 
 Silky and sleek like a priest's to his back ; 
 Like a lawyer he grubbeth — no matter what way — 
 The fouler the offal, the richer his prey. 
 
 Caw! Caw! the Carrion Crow! 
 
 Dig ! Dig ! in the ground below ! 
 
 The Carrion Crow hath a dainty maw, 
 With savoury pickings he crammeth his craw ; 
 Kept meat from the gibbet it pleaseth his whim, 
 It never can hang too long for him ! 
 
 Caw! Caw! 
 
 The Carrion Crow smell eth powder, 'tis said, 
 Like a soldier escheweth the taste of cold lead ; 
 No jester, or mime, hath more marvellous wit, 
 For, wherever he lighteth, he maketh a hit ! 
 
 Caw! Caw! the Carrion Crow! 
 
 Dig ! Dig ! in the ground beloio \ 
 
 Shouldering his spade, and whistling to his dog, the sexton 
 quitted the churchyard. 
 
 Peter had not been gone many seconds, when a dark figure, 
 muffled in a wide black mantle, emerged from among the tombs 
 surrounding the church ; gazed after him for a few seconds, and 
 then, with a menacing gesture, retreated behind the ivied but- 
 tresses of the grey old pile. 
 
 * Set to music by Mr. E. Romer. 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 THE PAKK. 
 
 Brian. Ralph ! nearest thou any stirring ? 
 
 Ralph. I heard one speak here, hard by, in the hollow. Peace ! master, 
 speak low. Nouns ! if I do not hear a bow^ go off, and the bnck bray, I never 
 heard deer in my life. 
 
 Bri. Stand, or I'll shoot. 
 
 Sir Arthur. Who's there ? 
 
 Bri. I am the keeper, and do charge you stand. 
 
 You .have stolen my deer. Merry Devil of Edmonton. 
 
 Luke's first impulse had been to free himself from the restraint 
 imposed by his grandsire's society. He longed to commune with 
 himself. Leaping the small boundary-wall, which defended the 
 
ROOKWOOD. 17 
 
 churchyard from a deep green lane, he hurried along in a direction 
 contrary to that taken by the sexton, making the best of his way 
 until he arrived at a gap in the high-banked hazel hedge, which 
 overhung the road. Heedless of the impediments thrown in his 
 way by the undergrowth of a rough ring fence, he struck through 
 the opening that presented itself', and, climbing over the moss- 
 grown paling, trod presently upon the elastic sward of Rookwood 
 Park. 
 
 A few minutes' rapid walking brought him to the summit of a 
 rising ground crowned with aged oaks, and, as he passed beneath 
 their broad shadows, his troubled spirit, soothed by the quietude 
 of the scene, in part resumed its serenity. 
 
 Luke yielded to the gentle influence of the time and hour. The 
 stillness of the spot allayed the irritation of his frame, and the 
 dewy chillness cooled the fever of his brow. Leaning for support 
 against the gnarled trunk of one of the trees, he gave himself up 
 to contemplation. The events of the last hour — of his whole exis- 
 tence — passed in rapid review before him. The thought of the 
 wayward, vagabond life he had led; of the wild adventures of his 
 youth ; of all he had been ; of all he had done ; of all he had en- 
 dured — crowded his mind ; and then, like the passing of a cloud 
 Hitting across the autumnal moon, and occasionally obscuring the 
 smiling landscape before him, his soul was shadowed by the re- 
 membrance of the awful revelations of the last hour, and the fear- 
 ful knowledge he had acquired of his mother's fate — of his father's 
 guilt. 
 
 The eminence on which he stood was one of the highest p oinls 
 of the park, and commanded a view of the hall, which might be a 
 quarter of a mile distant, discernible through a broken vista of 
 trees, its whitened walls glimmering in the moonlight, and its tali 
 chimney spiring far from out the round masses of wood in which it 
 lay embosomed. The ground gradually sloped in that direction, 
 occasionally rising into swells, studded with magnificent timber — 
 dipping into smooth dells, or stretching out into level glades, until 
 it suddenly sank into a deep declivity, that formed an effectual di- 
 vision, without the intervention of a haw-haw, or other barrier, 
 between the chase and the home-park. A slender stream strayed 
 through this ravine, having found its way thither from a small 
 reservoir, hidden in the higher plantations to the left; and further 
 on, in the open ground, and in a line with the hall, though, of 
 course, much below the level of the building, assisted by many 
 local springs, and restrained by a variety of natural and artificial 
 embankments, this brook spread out into an expansive sheet of 
 water. Crossed by a rustic bridge, the only communication be- 
 tween the parks, the pool found its outlet into the meads below; 
 and even at that distance, and in that still hour, you might almost 
 catch the sound of the brawling waters, as they dashed down the 
 weir in a foaming cascade; while, far away, in the spreading valley, 
 
 a 
 
18 ROOKWOOD. 
 
 the serpentine meanderings of the slender current might be traced, 
 glittering like silvery threads in the moonshine. The mild beams 
 of the queen of night, then in her meridian, trembled upon the 
 topmost branches of the tall timber, quivering like diamond spray 
 upon the outer foliage; and, penetrating through the interstices of 
 the trees, fell upon the light wreaths of vapour then beginning to 
 arise from the surface of the pool, steeping them in misty splendour, 
 and lending to this part of the picture a character of dreamy and 
 unearthly beauty. 
 
 All else was in unison. No sound interrupted the silence of 
 Luke's solitude, except the hooting of a large grey owl, that, 
 scared at his approach, or in search of prey, winged its spectral 
 flight in continuous and mazy circles round his head, uttering at 
 each wheel its startling whoop ; or a deep, distant bay, that ever and 
 anon boomed upon the ear, proceeding from a pack of hounds 
 kennelled in a shed adjoining the pool before mentioned, but 
 which was shrouded from view by the rising mist. No living 
 objects presented themselves, save a herd of deer, crouched in a 
 covert of brown fern beneath the shadow of a few stunted trees, 
 immediately below the point of land on which Luke stood; and 
 although their branching antlers could scarcely be detected from 
 the ramifications of the wood itself, they escaped not his practised 
 ken. 
 
 "How often," murmured Luke, "in years gone by, have I 
 traversed these moonlit glades, and wandered amidst these wood- 
 lands, on nights heavenly as this — ay, and to some purpose, as yon 
 thinned herd might testify ! Every dingle, every dell, every rising 
 brow, every bosky vale and shelving covert, have been as familiar 
 to my track as to that of the fleetest and freest of their number : 
 scarce a tree amidst the thickest of yon outstretching forest with 
 which I cannot claim acquaintance ; 'tis long since I have seen 
 them. By Heavens ! 'tis beautiful ! and it is all my own ! Can 
 I forget that it was here I first emancipated myself from thraldom ? 
 Can I forget the boundless feeling of delight that danced within 
 my veins when I first threw off the yoke of servitude, and roved 
 unshackled, unrestrained, amidst these woods? The wild intoxi- 
 cating bliss still tingles to my heart. And they are all my own — 
 my own ! Softly, what have we there?" 
 
 Luke's attention was arrested by an object which could not fail 
 to interest him, sportsman as he was. A snorting bray was heard, 
 and a lordly stag stal'ked.slowly and majestically from out the copse. 
 Luke watched the actions of the noble animal with great interest, 
 drawing back into the shade. A hundred yards, or thereabouts, 
 might be between him and the buck. It was within range of ball. 
 Luke mechanically grasped his gun ; yet his hand had scarcely 
 raised the piece half way to his shoulder, when he dropped it 
 again to its rest. 
 
 " What am I about to do?" he mentally ejaculated. " Why, for 
 
ROOKWOOD. 19 
 
 mere pastime, should I take away yon noble creature's life, when 
 his carcase would be utterly useless to me? Yet such is the force 
 of habit, that I can scarce resist the impulse that tempted me to 
 fire; and I have known the time, and that not long since, when 
 I should have shown no such self-control." 
 
 Unconscious of the danger it had escaped, the animal moved 
 forward with the same stately step. Suddenly it stopped, with 
 ears pricked, as if some sound had smote them. At that instant 
 the click of a gun-lock was heard, at a little distance to the right. 
 The piece had missed fire. An instantaneous report from another 
 gun succeeded ; and, with a bound high in air, the buck fell upon 
 his back, struggling in the agonies of death. Luke had at once 
 divined the cause ; he was aware that poachers were at hand. He 
 fancied that he knew the parties; nor was he deceived in his con- 
 jecture. Two figures issued instantly from a covert on the right, 
 and making to the spot, the first who reached it put an end to the 
 animal's struggles by plunging a knife into its throat. The 
 affrighted herd took to their heels, and were seen darting swiftly 
 iown the chase. 
 
 One of the twain, meantime, was occupied in feeling for the 
 deer's fat, when he was approached by the other, who pointed in 
 the direction of the house. The former raised himself from his 
 kneeling posture, and both appeared to listen attentively. Luke 
 fancied he heard a slight sound in the distance; whatever the noise 
 proceeded from, it w r as evident the deer-stealers were alarmed. 
 They laid hold of the buck, and, dragging it along, concealed the 
 carcase among the tall fern; they then retreated, halting for an 
 instant to deliberate, within a few yards of Luke, who was con- 
 cealed from their view by the trunk of the tree, behind which he 
 had ensconced his person. They were so near, that he lost not a 
 word of their muttered conference. 
 
 " The game's spoiled this time, Bob Rust, any how," growled 
 one, in an angry tone ; u the hawks are upon us, and we must 
 leave this brave buck to take care of himself. Curse him ! — who'd 
 a' thought of Hugh Badger's quitting his bed to-night? Respect 
 for his late master might have kept him quiet the night before the 
 funeral. But look out, lad, Dost see 'em?" 
 
 " Ay, thanks to old Oliver — yonder they are," returned the 
 other. " One — two — three — and a muzzled bouser to boot. There's 
 Hugh at the head on 'em. Shall we stand and show fight? I 
 have half a mind for it." 
 
 "No, no," replied the first speaker; " that will never do, Rob — 
 no fighting. Why run the risk of being grabb'd for a haunch of 
 venison? Had Luke Bradley or Jack Palmer been with us, it 
 might have been another affair. As it is, it won't pay. Be- 
 sides, we've that to do at the hall to-morrow night that may make 
 men of us for the rest of our nat'ral lives. We've pledged our- 
 selves to Jack Palmer, and we can't be off in honour. It won't do 
 
 C 9- 
 
20 . ROOKWOOD. 
 
 to be snabbled in the nick of it. So let's make for the prad in 
 the lane. Keep in the shade as much as you can. Come along, 
 my hearty." And away the two worthies scampered down the 
 hill-side. 
 
 " Shall I follow," thought Luke, " and run the risk of falling 
 into the keeper's hand, just at this crisis, too? No, but if I am 
 found here, I shall be taken for one of the gang. Something 
 must be done — ha ! — devil take them, here they are already." 
 
 Further time was not allowed him for reflection. A hoarse 
 baying was heard, followed by a loud cry from the keepers. The 
 dog had scented out the game; and, as secrecy was no longer 
 necessary, his muzzle had been removed. To rush forth now were 
 certain betrayal} to remain was almost equally assured detection ; 
 and, doubting whether he should obtain credence if he delivered 
 himself over in that garb and armed, Luke at once rejected the 
 idea. Just then it flashed across his recollection that his gun had 
 remained unloaded, and he applied himself eagerly to repair this 
 negligence, when he heard the dog in full cry, making swiftly in 
 his direction. He threw himself upon the ground, where the fern 
 was thickest; but this seemed insufficient to baffle the sagacity of 
 the hound — the animal had got his scent, and was baying close at 
 hand. The keepers were drawing nigh. Luke gave himself up 
 for lost. Tho dog, however, stopped where the two poachers had 
 halted, and was there completely at fault: snuffing the ground, he 
 bayed, wheeled round, and then set off with renewed barking upon 
 their track. Huidi Badger and his comrades loitered an instant 
 at the same place, looked warily round, and then, as Luke con- 
 jectured, followed the course taken by the hound. 
 
 Swift as thought, Luke arose, and keeping as much as possible 
 under cover of the trees, started in a cross lane for the line. Rapid 
 as was his flight, it was not without a witness : one of the keeper's 
 assistants, who had lagged behind, gave the view-halloo in a loud 
 voice. Luke pressed forward with redoubled energy, endeavouring 
 to gain the shelter of the plantation, and this he could readily 
 have accomplished, had no impediment been in his way. But his 
 rage and vexation were boundless, when he heard the keeper's cry 
 echoed by shouts immediately below him, and the tongue of the 
 hound resounding in the hollow. He turned sharply round, steer- 
 ing a middle course, and still aiming at the fence. It was evi- 
 dent, from the cheers of his pursuers, that he was in full view, and 
 he heard them encouraging and directing the dog. 
 
 Luke had gained the park palings, along which he rushed, in the 
 vain quest of some practicable point of egress, for the fence was 
 higher in this part of the park than elsewhere, owing to the in- 
 equality of the ground. He had cast away his gun as useless. 
 But even without that incumbrance, he dared not hazard the delay 
 of climbing the palings. At this juncture a deep breathing was 
 
ROOKWOOD. 21 
 
 heard close behind him. He threw a glance over his shoulder. 
 Within a few yards was a ferocious bloodhound, with whose savage 
 nature Luke was well acquainted; the breed, some of which he 
 had already seen, having been maintained at the hall ever since the 
 days of grim old SirRanulph. The eye-s of the hound were 
 glaring, blood-red ; his tongue was hanging out, and a row of 
 keen white fangs were displayed, like the teeth of a shark. There 
 was a growl — a leap — and the dog was close upon him. 
 
 Luke's courage was undoubted. But his heart failed him as he 
 heard the roar of the remorseless brute, and felt that he could not 
 avoid an encounter with the animal. His resolution was instantly 
 taken : he stopped short with such suddenness, that the dog, when 
 in the act of springing, flew past him with great violence, and the 
 time, momentary as it was, occupied by the animal in recovering 
 himself, enabled Luke to drop on his knee, and to place one arm, 
 like a buckler, before his face, while he held the other in readiness 
 to grapple his adversary. Uttering a fierce yell, the hound re- 
 turned to the charge, darting at Luke, who received the assault 
 without flinching; and in spite of a severe laceration of the arm, 
 he seized his foe by the throat, and hurling him upon the ground, 
 jumped with all his force upon his belly. There was a yell of 
 agony — the contest was ended, and Luke was at liberty to pursue 
 his flight unmolested. 
 
 Brief as had been the interval required for this combat, it had 
 been sufficient to bring the pursuers within sight of the fugitive. 
 Hugh Badger, who from the acclivity had witnessed the fate of 
 his favourite, with a loud oath discharged the contents of his 
 gun at the head of its destroyer. It was fortunate for Luke 
 that at this instant he stumbled over the root of a tree — the shot 
 rattled in the leaves as he fell, and the keeper, concluding that he 
 had at least winged his bird, descended more leisurely towards him. 
 As he lay upon the ground, Luke felt that he was wounded ; 
 whether by the teeth of the dog, from a stray shot, or from bruises 
 inflicted by the fall, he could not determine. But, smarting with 
 pain, he resolved to wreak his vengeance upon the first person who 
 approached him. He vowed not to be taken with life — to strangle 
 any who should lay hands upon him. At that moment he felt a 
 pressure at his breast. It was the dead hand of his mother ! 
 
 Luke shuddered. The fire of revenge was quenched. He men- 
 tally cancelled his rash oath ; yet he could not bring himself to sur- 
 render at discretion, and without further effort. The keeper and 
 his assistants were approaching the spot where he lay, and search- 
 ing for his body. Hugh Badger was foremost, and within a yard 
 of him. 
 
 "Confound the rascal!" cried Hugh, "he's not half killed; he 
 seems to breathe." 
 
 The words were scarcely out of his mouth ere the speaker was 
 
22 EOOKWOOD. 
 
 dashed backwards, and lay sprawling upon the sod. Suddenly and 
 unexpectedly, as an Indian chief might rush upon his foes, Luke 
 arose, dashing himself with great violence against Hugh, who 
 happened to stand in his way, and before the startled assistants, 
 who were either too much taken by surprise, or unwilling to draw 
 a trigger, could in any way lay hands upon him, exerting all the 
 remarkable activity which he possessed, he caught hold of a pro- 
 jecting, branch of a tree, and swung himself, at a single bound, 
 fairly over the paling. 
 
 Hugh Badger was shortly on his legs, swearing lustily at his 
 defeat. Directing his men to skirt alongside the fence, and make 
 for a particular part of the plantation which he named, and snatch- 
 ing a loaded fowling-piece from one of them, he clambered over 
 the pales, and guided by the crashing branches, and other sounds 
 conveyed to his quick ear, he was speedily upon Luke's track. 
 
 The plantation through which the chase now took place was 
 not, as might be supposed, a continuation of the ring fence which 
 Luke had originally crossed, on his entrance into the park, though 
 girded by the same line of paling, but, in reality, a close pheasant 
 preserve, occupying the banks of a ravine, which, after a deep and 
 tortuous course, terminated in the declivity heretofore described 
 as forming the park boundary. Luke plunged into the heart of 
 this defile, fighting his way downwards, in the direction of the 
 brook. His progress was impeded by a thick undergrowth of brier, 
 and other matted vegetation, as well as by the entanglements 
 thrown in his way by the taller bushes of thorn and hazel, the 
 entwined and elastic branches of which, in their recoil, galled and 
 fretted him, by inflicting smart blows on his face and hands. This 
 was a hardship he usually little regarded. But, upon the present 
 occasion, it had the effect, by irritating his temper, of increasing 
 the thirst of vengeance raging in his bosom. 
 
 Through the depths of the ravine welled the shallow stream be- 
 fore alluded to, and Hugh Badger had no sooner reached its sedgy 
 margin than he lost all trace of the fugitive. He looked cautiously 
 round, listened intently, and inclined his ear to catch the faintest 
 echo. All was still : not a branch shook, not a leaf rustled. Hugh 
 looked aghast. He had made sure of getting a glimpse, and, 
 perhaps, a stray shot at the " poaching rascal," as he termed him, 
 " in the open space, which he was sure the fellow was aiming to 
 reach ; and now, all at once, he had disappeared, like a will-o'-the- 
 wisp or a boggart of the dough." However, he could not be far 
 off, and Hugh endeavoured to obtain some clue to guide him in 
 his quest. He was not long in detecting recent marks deeply in- 
 dented in the mud on the opposite bank. Hugh leaped thither at 
 once. Further on, some rushes were trodden down, and there 
 were other indications of the course the fugitive had taken. 
 
 "Hark forward!" shouted Hugh, in the joy of his heart at this 
 discovery; and, like a well-trained dog, he followed up with 
 
ROOKWOOD. 23 
 
 alacrity the scent he had opened. The brook presented still fewer 
 impediments to expedition than the thick copse, and the keeper 
 pursued the wanderings of the petty current, occasionally splash- 
 ing into the stream; Here and there, the print of a foot on the 
 sod satisfied him he was in the right path. At length he became 
 aware, from the crumbling soil, that the object of his pursuit had 
 scaled the bank, and he forthwith moderated his pace. Halting, 
 he perceived what he took to be a nice peeping at him from be- 
 hind a knot of alders that overhung the steep and shelving bank 
 immediately above him. His gun was instantly at his shoulder. 
 
 u Come down, you infernal deer-stealing scoundrel," crid Hugh, 
 u or I'll blow you to shivers." 
 
 No answer was returned: expostulation was vain; and, fearful 
 of placing himelf at a disadvantage if he attempted to scale the 
 bank, Hugh fired without further parley. The sharp discharge 
 rolled in echoes down the ravine, and a pheasant, scared by the 
 sound, answered the challenge from a neishbourin<r tree. Huirh 
 was an unerring marksman, and on this occasion his aim had been 
 steadily taken. The result was not precisely such as he had an- 
 ticipated. A fur cap, shaken by the shot from the bough on 
 which it hung, came rolling down the bank, proclaiming the ruse 
 that had been practised upon the keeper. Little time was allowed 
 him for reflection. Before he could reload, he felt himself col- 
 lared by the iron arm of Luke. 
 
 Hugh Badger was a man of great personal strength — square- 
 set, bandy-legged, with a prodigious width of chest, and a frame 
 like a Hercules, and, energetic as was Luke's assault, he main- 
 tained his ground without flinching. The struggle was desperate. 
 Luke was of slighter proportion, though exceeding the keeper in 
 stature by the head and shoulders. This superiority availed him 
 little. It was rather a disadvantage in the conflict that ensued. 
 The gripe fastened upon Hugh's throat was like that of a clenched 
 vice. But Luke might as well have grappled the neck of a bull, 
 as that of the stalwart keeper. Defending himself with his hob- 
 nail boots, with which he inflicted several severe blows upon 
 Luke's shins, and struggling vehemently, Hugh succeeded in ex- 
 tricating himself from his throttling grasp ; he then closed with 
 his foe, and they were locked together like a couple of bears at 
 play. Straining, tugging, and practising every sleight and strata- 
 gem coming within the scope of feet, knees, and thighs — now 
 tripping, now jerking, now advancing, now retreating, they con- 
 tinued the strife, but all with doubtful result. Victory, at length, 
 seemed to declare itself in favour of the sturdy keeper. Aware of 
 his opponent's strength, it was Luke's chief endeavour to keep his 
 lower limbs disengaged, and to trust more to skill than force for 
 ultimate success. To prevent this was Hugh's grand object. 
 Guarding himself against every feint, he ultimately succeeded in 
 firmly grappling his agile assailant. Luke's spine was almost 
 
24 ROOKWOOD. 
 
 broken by the shock, when he suddenly gave way; and, without 
 losing his balance, drew his adversary forward, kicking his right 
 leg from under him. With a crash like that of an uprooted oak, 
 Hugh fell, with his foe upon him, into the bed of the rivulet. 
 
 Not a word had been spoken during the conflict. A convul- 
 sive groan burst from Hugh's hardy breast. His hand sought his 
 girdle, but in vain; his knife was gone. Gazing upwards, his 
 dancing vision encountered the glimmer of the blade. The 
 weapon had dropped from its case in the fall. Luke brandished 
 it before his eyes. 
 
 " Villain!" gasped Hugh, ineffectually struggling to free him- 
 self, "you will not murder me?" And his efforts to release him- 
 self became desperate. 
 
 " No," answered Luke, flinging the uplifted knife into the 
 brook. "I will not do that, though thou hast twice aimed at my 
 life to-night. But 1 will silence thee, at all events." Saying 
 which, he dealt the keeper a blow on the head that terminated all 
 further resistance on his part. 
 
 Leaving the inert mass to choke up the current, with whose 
 waters the blood,oozing from the wound, began to commingle, 
 Luke prepared to depart. His perils were not yet past. Guided 
 by the firing, the report of which alarmed them, the keeper's 
 assistants hastened in the direction of the sound, presenting them- 
 selves directly in the path Luke was about to take. He had either 
 to retrace his steps, or face a double enemy. His election was 
 made at once. He turned and fled. 
 
 For an instant the men tarried with their bleeding companion. 
 They then dragged him from the brook, and with loud oaths fol- 
 lowed in pursuit. 
 
 Threading, for a second time, the bosky labyrinth, Luke sought 
 the source of the stream. This was precisely the course his enemies 
 would have desired him to pursue; and when they beheld him 
 take it, they felt confident of his capture. 
 
 The sides of the hollow became more and more abrupt as they 
 advanced, though they were less covered with brushwood. The 
 fugitive made no attempt to climb the bank, but still pressed for- 
 ward. The road was tortuous, and w r ound round a jutting point 
 of rock. Now he was a fair mark — no, he had sw T ept sw r iftly by, 
 and was out of sight before a gun could be raised. They reached 
 the same point. He was still before them, but his race was nearly 
 run. Steep, slippery rocks, shelving down to the edges of a small, 
 deep pool of water, the .source of the stream, formed an apparently 
 insurmountable barrier in that direction. Rooted (Heaven knows 
 how !) in some reft or fissure of the rock, grew a wild ash, throw- 
 ing out a few boughs over the solitary pool ; this was all the sup- 
 port Luke could hope for, should he attempt to scale the rock. 
 The rock was sheer — the pool deep — yet still he hurried on. He 
 
ROOKWOOD. 25 
 
 readied the muddy embankment; mounted its sides; and seemed 
 to hesitate. The keepers were now within a hundred yards of 
 him. Both guns were discharged. And, sudden as the reports, 
 with a dead, splashless plunge, like a diving otter, the fugitive 
 dropped into the water. 
 
 The pursuers were at the brink. They gazed at the pool. A 
 few bubbles floated upon its surface, and burst. The water was 
 slightly discoloured with sand. No ruddier stain crimsoned the 
 tide; no figure rested on the naked rock; no hand clung to the 
 motionless tree. 
 
 " Devil take the rascal!" growled one; "I hope he harn't 
 escaped us, arter all." 
 
 u Noa, noa, he be fast enough, never fear," rejoined the other ; 
 " sticking like a snig at the bottom o' the pond ; and, dang him ! 
 he deserves it, for he's slipp'd out of our fingers like a snig often 
 enough to-night. But come, let's be stumping, and give poor 
 Hugh Badger a helping hand." 
 
 Whereupon they returned to the assistance of the wounded and 
 discomfited keeper. 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 THE HALL. 
 
 I am right against my house — seat of my ancestors. 
 
 Yorkshire Tragedy. 
 
 KoOKWOOD Place was a fine, old, irregular pile, of considerable 
 size, presenting a rich, picturesque outline, with its innumerable 
 gable-ends, its fantastical coigns, and ta'll crest of twisted chim- 
 neys. There was no uniformity of style about the building, yet 
 the general effect was pleasing and beautiful. Its very irregularity 
 constituted a charm. Nothing except convenience had been con- 
 sulted in its construction : additions had from time to time been 
 made to it, but everything dropped into its proper place, and, 
 without apparent effort or design, grew into an ornament, and 
 heightened the beauty of the whole. It was, in short, one of 
 those glorious manorial houses that sometimes unexpectedly greet 
 us in our wanderings, and gladden us like the discovery of a hidden 
 treasure. Some such ancestral hall we have occasionally encoun- 
 tered, in unlooked-for quarters, in our native county of Lancaster, 
 or in its smiling sister shire; and never without feelings of in- 
 tense delight, rejoicing to behold the freshness of its antiquity, 
 and the greenness of its old age. For, be it observed in passing, 
 
26 ROOKWOOD. 
 
 a Cheshire or Lancashire hall, time-honoured though it be, with 
 its often renovated black and white squares, fancifully filled up 
 with trefoils and quatrefoils, rosettes, and other figures, seems 
 to bear its years so lightly, that its age, so far from detracting 
 from its beauty, only lends it a grace ; and the same mansion, to 
 all outward appearance, fresh and perfect as it existed in the days 
 of good Queen Bess, may be seen in admirable preservation in the 
 days of the youthful Victoria. Such is Bramall — such Moreton, 
 and many another we might instance; the former of these houses 
 may, perhaps, be instanced as the best specimen of its class (and 
 its class, in our opinion, 'is the best) to be met with in Cheshire, 
 considered with reference cither to the finished decoration of its 
 exterior, rich in the chequered colouring we have alluded to, pre- 
 served with a care and neatness almost Dutch, or to the consistent 
 taste exhibited by its possessor in the restoration and maintenance 
 of all its original and truly national beauty within doors. As an 
 illustration of old English hospitality (that real, hearty hospitality 
 for which the squirearchy of this country was once so famous — 
 ah ! why have they bartered it for other customs less substantially 
 English?) it may be mentioned, that a road conducted the pas- 
 senger directly through the great hall of this house, literally " of 
 entertainment," where, if he listed, strong ale, and other refresh- 
 ments, awaited his acceptance and courted his stay. Well might 
 old King, the Cheshire historian, in the pride of his honest heart, 
 exclaim, " I know divers men, who are but farmers, that in their 
 housekeeping may compare with a lord or baron, in some countries 
 beyond the seas ; — yea, although I named a higher degree, I icere 
 able to justify it." We have no such " golden farmers" in these 
 degenerate days ! 
 
 The mansion was originally built by Sir Ranulph de Rookwood 
 (or, as it was then written, Rokewode), the first of the name, a 
 stout Yorkist, who flourished in the reign of Edward IV., and 
 received the fair domain and broad lands upon which the edifice 
 was raised, from his sovereign, in reward for good service ; retiring 
 thither in the decline of life, at the close of the wars of the Roses, 
 to sequestrate himself from scenes of strife, and to consult his 
 spiritual weal in the erection and endowment of the neighbouring 
 church. It was of mixed architecture, and combined the pecu- 
 liarities of each successive era. Retaining: some of the sterner 
 features of earlier days, the period ere yet the embattled manor- 
 house peculiar to the reigns of the later Henrys had been merged 
 in the graceful and peaceable hall, the residence of the Rookwoods 
 had early anticipated the gentler characteristics of a later day, 
 though it could boast little of that exuberance of external orna- 
 ment, luxuriance of design, and prodigality of beauty, which, 
 under the sway of the Virgin Queen, distinguished the residence 
 of the wealthier English landowner ; and rendered the hall of 
 
ROOKWDOD. 27 
 
 Elizabeth, properly so called, the pride and boast of our domestic 
 architecture. 
 
 The site selected by Sir Ranulph for his habitation had been 
 already occupied by a vast fabric of oak, which he in part removed, 
 though some vestiges might still be traced of that ancient pile. A 
 massive edifice succeeded, with gate and tower, court and moat 
 complete; substantial enough, one would have thought, to have 
 endured for centuries. But even this ponderous structure grew 
 into disuse, and Sir Ranulph's successors, remodelling, repairing, 
 almost rebuilding the whole mansion, in the end so metamor- 
 phosed its aspect, that at last little of its original and distinctive 
 character remained. Still, as we said before, it was a fine old 
 house, though some changes had taken place for the worse, which 
 could not be readily pardoned by the eye of taste : as, for instance, 
 the deep embayed windows had dwindled into modernised case- 
 ments, of lighter construction; the wide porch, with its flight of 
 steps leading to the great hall of entrance, had yielded to a narrow 
 door ; and the broad quadrangular court was succeeded by a 
 gravel drive. Yet, despite all these changes, the house of the 
 Kookwoods, for an old house (and, after all, what is like an old 
 house?), was no undesirable or uncongenial abode for any wor- 
 shipful country gentleman " who had a great estate." 
 
 The hall was situated near the base of a gently declining hill, 
 terminating a noble avenue of limes, and partially embosomed in 
 an immemorial wood of the same timber, which had given its 
 name to the family that dwelt amongst it rook-haunted shades. 
 Descending the avenue, at the point of access afforded by a road 
 that wound down the hill-side, towards a village distant about 
 half a mile, as you advanced, the eye was first arrested by a 
 singular octagonal turret of brick, of more recent construction 
 than the house ; and in all probability occupying the place where 
 the gateway stood of yore. This tower rose to a height cor- 
 responding with the roof of the mansion; and was embellished 
 on the side facing the house with a flamingly gilt dial, peering, 
 like an impudent observer, at all that passed within doors. Two 
 apartments, which it contained, were appropriated to the house- 
 porter. Despoiled of its martial honours, the gateway still dis- 
 played the achievements of the family — the rook and the fatal 
 branch — carved in granite, which had resisted the storms of two 
 centuries, though stained green with moss, and mapped over with 
 lichens. To the left, overgrown with ivy, and peeping from out 
 a tuft of trees, appeared the hoary summit of a dovecot, indicating 
 the near neighbourhood of an ancient barn, contemporary with 
 the earliest dwelling-house, and of a little world of offices and 
 out-buildings buried in the thickness of the foliage. To the right 
 was the garden — the pleasaunce of the place — formal, precise, old- 
 fashioned, artificial, yet exquisite ! — (for commend us to the bygone, 
 
28 ROOKWOOD. 
 
 beautiful English garden — really a garden — not that mixture of 
 park, meadow, and wilderness,* brought up to one's very windows 
 — which, since the days of the innovators, Kent, and his " bold 
 associates," Capability Brown and Co., has obtained so largely) — 
 this ivas a garden! There might be seen the stately terraces, 
 such as Watteau, and our own Wilson, in his earlier works, 
 painted — the trim alleys exhibiting all the triumphs of topiarian 
 art — 
 
 The sidelong walls 
 Of shaven yew ; the holly s prickly arms, 
 Trimm'd into high arcades; the tonsile box, 
 Wove in mosaic mode of many a curl, 
 Around the figured carpet of the lawn ;\ 
 
 the gayest of parterres and greenest of lawns, with its admonitory 
 sun-dial, its marble basin in the centre, its fountain, and conched 
 water-god; the quaint summer-house, surmounted with its gilt 
 vane; the statue, glimmering from out its covert of leaves; the cool 
 cascade, the urns, the bowers, and a hundred luxuries beside, sug- 
 gested and contrived by Art to render Nature most enjoyable, 
 and to enhance the recreative delights of home-out-of-doors (for 
 such a garden should be), with least sacrifice of in-door comfort 
 and convenience. 
 
 When JEpicurus to the world had taught, 
 That pleasure was the chiefest good 
 (And was perhaps i' W right \ if rightly understood), 
 
 His life he to his doctrine brought — 
 
 And iti his gardens shade that sovereign pleasure sought. % 
 
 All these delights might once have been enjoyed. But at the 
 time of which we write, this fair garden was for the most part a 
 waste. Ill kept, and unregarded, the gay parterres were disfigured 
 with weeds; grass grew on the gravel walk; several of the urns 
 were overthrown ; the hour upon the dial was untold ; the fountain 
 
 * Payne Knight, the scourge of Repton and his school, speaking of the 
 licence indulged in by the modern landscape-gardeners, thus vents his indig- 
 nation : 
 
 But here, once more, ye rural muses weep 
 
 The ivy'd balustrade, and terrace steep ; 
 
 Walls, mellowed into harmony by time, 
 
 On which fantastic creepers used to climb ; 
 
 While statues, labyrinths, and alleys pent 
 
 Within their bounds, at least were innocent ! — 
 
 Our modern taste (alas !) no limit knows ; 
 
 O'er hill, o'er dale, through wood and field it flows ; 
 
 Spreading o'er all its unprolific spawn, 
 
 In never-ending sheets of vapid lawn. 
 
 The Landscape, a didactic Poem, 
 
 addressed to Uvedale Price, Esq. 
 f Mason's English Garden. % Cowley. 
 
ROOKWOOD. 29 
 
 was choked up, and the smooth-shaven lawn only rescued, it would 
 seem, from the general fate, that it might answer the purpose of a 
 bowling-green, as the implements of that game, scattered about, 
 plainly testified. 
 
 Diverging from the garden to the house, we have before re- 
 marked that the more ancient and characteristic features of the 
 place had been, for the most part, destroyed ; less by the hand of 
 time than to suit the tastes of different proprietors. This, how- 
 ever, was not so observable in the eastern wing, which overlooked 
 the garden. Here might be discerned many indications of its 
 antiquity. The strength and solidity of the walls, which had not 
 been, as elsewhere, masked with brickwork; the low, Tudor arches ; 
 the mullioned bars of the windows — all attested its age. This 
 wing was occupied by an upper and lower gallery, communicating 
 with suites of chambers, for the most part deserted, excepting one 
 or two, which were used as dormitories; and another little room 
 on the ground-floor, with an oriel window opening upon the lawn, 
 and commanding the prospect beyond — a favourite resort of the 
 late Sir Piers. The interior was curious for its honeycomb ceiling, 
 deeply moulded in plaster, with the arms and alliances of the 
 Kookwoods. In the centre was the royal blazon of Elizabeth, who 
 had once honoured the hall with a visit during a progress, and 
 whose cipher 15. 3H. was also displayed upon the immense plate of 
 iron which formed the fire-grate. 
 
 To return, for a moment, to the garden, which we linger about 
 as a bee around a flower. Below the lawn there was another ter- 
 race, edged by a low balustrade of stone, commanding a lovely 
 view of park, water, and woodland. Pligh hanging- woods w r avcd 
 in the foreground, and an extensive sweep of flat champaign 
 country stretched out to meet a line of blue, hazy hills bounding 
 the distant horizon. 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 SIR REGINALD R00KW00D. 
 
 Un homme qui ckaugeait de femmes, comme une femme de robes. II repudia 
 la premiere, il nt couper la tete a la seconde, il fit ouvrir le ventre a la troisieme : 
 quant a la quatrieine, il lui fit grace, il la chassa ; mais en revanche il fit couper 
 la tete a la cinquieme. Ce n'est pas le conte de Barbe-Bleue que je vous rais 
 la, e'est de l'histoire. — Victor Hugo : Marie Tudor. 
 
 From the house to its inhabitants the transition is natural. 
 Besides the connexion between them, there were many points of 
 resemblance ; many family features in common ; there was the same 
 melancholy grandeur, the same character of romance, the same 
 fantastical display. Nor were the secret passages, peculiar to the 
 
30 EOOKWOOD. 
 
 one, wanting to the history of the other. Both had their mysteries. 
 One blot there was in the otherwise proud escutcheon of the Rook- 
 woods, that dimmed its splendour, and made pale its pretensions : 
 their sun was eclipsed in blood from its rising to its meridian; and 
 so it seemed would be its setting. This foul reproach attached to 
 all the race; none escaped it. Traditional rumours were handed 
 down from father to son, throughout the county, and, like all other 
 rumours, had taken to themselves wings, and flown abroad : their 
 crimes became a by-word. How was it they escaped punishment? 
 How came they to evade the hand of justice? Proof was ever 
 wanting; justice was ever baffled. They were a stern and stiff- 
 necked people, of indomitable pride and resolution, with, for the 
 most part, force of character sufficient to enable them to breast 
 difficulties and dangers that would have overwhelmed ordinary 
 individuals. No quality is so advantageous to its possessor as 
 firmness ; and the determined energy of the Rookwoods bore them 
 harmless through a sea of troubles. Besides, they were wealthy; 
 lavish even to profusion ; and gold will do much, if skilfully ad- 
 ministered. Yet, despite all this, a dark, ominous cloud settled 
 over their house, and men wondered when the vengeance of 
 Heaven, so long delayed, would fall and consume it. 
 
 Possessed of considerable landed property, once extending over 
 nearly half the West Riding of Yorkshire, the family increased in 
 power and importance for an uninterrupted series of years, until 
 the outbreak of that intestine discord which ended in the civil wars, 
 when the espousal of the royalist party, with sword and substance, 
 by Sir Ralph Rook wood, the then lord of the mansion (a dissolute, 
 depraved personage, who, however, had been made a Knight of the 
 Bath at the coronation of Charles I.), ended in his own destruction 
 at Naseby, and the wreck of much of his property ; a loss which 
 the gratitude of Charles II., on his restoration, did not fail to make 
 good to Sir Ralph's youthful heir, Reginald. 
 
 Sir Ralph Rookwood left two sons, Reginald and Alan. The 
 fate of the latter was buried in obscurity. It was even a mystery 
 to his family. He was, it was said, a youth of much promise, and 
 of gentle manners; who, having made an imprudent match, from 
 jealousy, or some other motive, deserted his wife, and fled his 
 country. Various reasons were assigned for his conduct. Amongst 
 others, it was stated that the object of Alan's jealous suspicions was 
 his elder brother, Reginald ; and that it was the discovery of his 
 wife's infidelity in this quarter which occasioned his sudden dis- 
 appearance with his infant daughter. Some said he died abroad. 
 Others, that he had appeared again for a brief space at the hall. 
 But all now concurred in a belief of his decease. Of his child 
 nothing was known. His inconstant wife, after endurin^ for some 
 years the agonies of remorse, abandoned by Sir Reginald, and ne- 
 glected by her own relatives, put an end to her existence by poison. 
 
ROOKWOOD. 31 
 
 This is all that could be gathered of the story, or the misfortunes 
 of Alan Rookwood. 
 
 The young Sir Reginald had attended Charles, in the character 
 of page, during his exile ; and if he could not requite the devotion 
 of the son, by absolutely reinstating the fallen fortunes of the 
 father, the monarch could at least accord him the fostering in- 
 fluence of his favour and countenance; and bestow upon him 
 certain lucrative situations in his household, as an earnest of his 
 good-will. And thus much he did. Remarkable for his personal 
 attractions in youth, it is not to be wondered at that we should 
 find the name of Reginald Rookwood recorded in the scandalous 
 chronicles of the day, as belonging to a cavalier of infinite address 
 and discretion, matchless wit, and marvellous pleasantry; and 
 eminent beyond his peers for his successes with some of the most 
 distinguished beauties who ornamented that brilliant and volup- 
 tuous court. 
 
 A career of elegant dissipation ended in matrimony. His first 
 match was unpropitious. Foiled in his attempts upon the chastity 
 of a lady of great beauty and high honour, he was rash enough to 
 marry her; rash, we say, for from that fatal hour all became as 
 darkness; the curtain fell upon the comedy of his life, to rise to 
 tragic horrors. When passion subsided, repentance awoke, and 
 he became anxious for deliverance from the fetters he had so 
 heedlessly imposed on himself, and on his unfortunate dame. 
 
 The hapless lady of Sir Reginald was a fair and fragile creature, 
 floating on the eddying current of existence, and hurried to destruc- 
 tion as the summer gossamer is swept away by the rude breeze, and 
 lost for ever. So beautiful, so gentle was she, that if, 
 
 Sorrow had not made 
 Sorrow more beautiful than Beauty's self, 
 
 it would have been difficult to say whether the charm of softness 
 and sweetness was more to be admired than her faultless personal 
 attractions. But when a tinge of melancholy came saddening and 
 shading the once smooth and smiling brow; when tears dimmed 
 the blue beauty of those deep and tender eyes; when hot, hectic 
 flushes supplied the place of healthful bloom, and despair took 
 possession of her heart, then was it seen what was the charm of 
 Lady Rookwood, if charm that could be called which was a sad- 
 dening sight to see, and melted the beholder's soul within him. 
 All acknowledged, that exquisite as she had been before, the sad, 
 sweet lady was now more exquisite still. 
 
 Seven moons had waned and flown — seven bitter, tearful moons 
 — and each day Lady Rookwood's situation claimed more sooth- 
 ing attention at the hand of her lord. About this time his wife's 
 brother, whom he hated, returned from the Dutch wars. Struck 
 with his sister's altered appearance, he readily divined the cause; 
 
32 ROOKWOOD. 
 
 indeed, all tongues were eager to proclaim it to him. Passionately 
 attached to her, Lionel Vavasour implored an explanation of the 
 cause of his sister's griefs. The bewildered lady answered evasively, 
 attributing her wobegone looks to any other cause than her hus- 
 band's cruelty; and pressing her brother, as he valued her peace, 
 her affection, never to allude to the subject again. The fiery 
 youth departed. He next sought out his brother-in-law, and 
 taxed him sharply with his inhumanity, adding threats to his 
 upbraidings. Sir Reginald listened silently and calmly. When 
 the other had finished, with a sarcastic obeisance, he replied, 
 " Sir, I am much beholden for the trouble you have taken in 
 your sister's behalf. But when she entrusted herself to my 
 keeping, she relinquished, I conceive, all claim on your guardian- 
 ship: however, I thank you for the trouble you have taken; 
 but, for your own sake, I would venture to caution you against a 
 repetition of interference like the present." 
 
 " And I, sir, caution you. See that you give heed to my 
 words, or, by the heaven above us ! I will enforce attention to 
 them." 
 
 " You will find me, sir, as prompt at all times to defend my 
 conduct, as I am unalterable in my purposes. Your sister is my 
 wife. What more would you have? Were she a harlot, you 
 should have her back and welcome. The fool is virtuous. Devise 
 some scheme, and take her with you hence — so you rid me of her 
 I am content." 
 
 " Rookwood, you are a villain." And Vavasour spat upon his 
 brother's cheek. 
 
 Sir Reginald's eyes blazed. His sword started from its scab- 
 bard. "Defend yourself!" he exclaimed, furiously attacking 
 Vavasour. Pass after pass was exchanged. Fierce thrusts were 
 made and parried. Feint and appeal, the most desperate and 
 dexterous, were resorted to. Their swords glanced like lightning 
 flashes. In the struggle, the blades became entangled. There 
 was a moment's cessation. Each glanced at the other with deadly, 
 inextinguishable hate. Both were admirable masters of the art of 
 defence. Both were so brimful of wrath as to be regardless of 
 consequences. They tore back their weapons. Vavasour's blade 
 shivered. He was at the mercy of his adversary — an adversary 
 who knew no mercy. Sir Reginald passed his rapier through his 
 brother's body. The hilt struck against his ribs. 
 
 Sir Reginald's ire was kindled, not extinguished, by the deed 
 he had done. Like the tiger, he had tasted blood — like the 
 tiger, he thirsted for more. He sought his home. He was greeted 
 by his wife. Terrified by his looks, she yet summoned courage 
 sufficient to approach him. She embraced his arm — she clasped 
 his hand. Sir Reginald smiled. His smile was cutting as his 
 dagger's edge. 
 
 Ci What ails you, sweetheart?" said he. 
 
ROOKWOOD. 33 
 
 "I know not; your smile frightens me." 
 
 " My smile frightens you — fool ! be thankful that I frown not." 
 
 " Oh ! do not frown. Be gentle, my Reginald, as you were 
 when first I knew you. Smile not so coldly, but as you did then, 
 that I may, for one instant, dream you love me." 
 
 " Silly wench ! There — I do smile." 
 
 " That smile freezes me. Oh, Reginald, could you but know 
 what I have endured this morning, on your account. My brother 
 Lionel has been here." 
 
 "Indeed!" 
 
 " Nay, look not so. He insisted on knowing the reason of my 
 altered appearance." 
 
 "And no doubt you made him acquainted with the cause. 
 You told him your version of the story." 
 
 " Not a word, as I hope to live." 
 
 "A lie!" 
 
 " By my truth, no." 
 
 " A lie, I say. He avouched it to me himself." 
 
 " Impossible ! He could not — would not disobey me." 
 
 Sir Reginald laughed bitterly. 
 
 " He would not, I am sure, give utterance to any scandal," 
 continued Lady Rookwood. " You say this but to try me, do 
 you not? — ha! what is this? Your hand is bloody. You have 
 not harmed him? Whose blood is this?" 
 
 " Your brother spat upon my cheek. I. have washed out the 
 stain," replied Sir Reginald, coldly. 
 
 " Then it is his blood !" shrieked Lady Rookwood, pressing her 
 hands shudderingly before her eyes. " Is he dead?" 
 
 Sir Reginald turned awav. 
 
 " Stay," she cried, exerting her feeble strength to retain him, 
 and becoming white as ashes, " abide and hear me. You have 
 killed me, I feel, by your cruelty. I am sinking fast — dying. I, 
 who loved you, only you ; yes, one beside — my brother, and you 
 have slain him. Your hands are dripping in his blood, and I 
 have kissed them — have clasped them ! And now," continued 
 she, with an energy that shook Sir Reginald, "I hate you — I 
 renounce you — for ever ! May my dying words ring in your ears 
 on your death-bed, for that hour will come. You cannot shun that. 
 Then think o£him! think of me!" 
 
 " Away ! " interrupted Sir Reginald, endeavouring to shake 
 her off. 
 
 " I will not away ! I will cling to you — will curse you. My 
 unborn child shall live to curse you — to requite you — to visit my 
 wrongs on you and yours. Weak as I am, you shall not cast me 
 off. You shall learn to fear even me" 
 
 " I fear nothing living, much less a frantic woman." 
 
 " Fear the dead, then." 
 
 There was a struggle — a blow — and the wretched lady sank, 
 
 D 
 
34 ROOKWOOD. 
 
 shrieking, upon the floor. Convulsions seized her. A mother's 
 pains succeeded fierce and fast. She spoke no more, but died 
 within the hour, giving birth to a female child. 
 
 Eleanor Rookwood became her father's idol — her father's bane. 
 All the love he had to bestow was centred in her. She returned 
 it not. She fled from his caresses. With all her mother's beautv, 
 she had all her father's pride. Sir Reginald's every thought was 
 for his daughter — for her aggrandisement. In vain. She seemed 
 only to endure him, and while his affection waxed stronger, and 
 entwined itself round her alone, she withered beneath his embraces 
 as the shrub withers in the clasping folds of the parasite plant. 
 
 She grew towards womanhood. Suitors thronged around her 
 — gentle and noble ones. Sir Reginald watched them with a 
 jealous eye. He was wealthy, powerful, high in royal favour; — 
 and could make his own election. He did so. For the first 
 time, Eleanor promised obedience to his wishes. They accorded 
 with her own humour. The day was appointed. It came. But 
 with it came not the bride. She had lied, with the humblest 
 and the meanest of the pretenders to her hand — with one upon 
 whom Sir Reginald supposed she had not deigned to cast her 
 eyes. He endeavoured to forget her, and, to all outward seem- 
 ing, was successful in the effort. But he felt that the curse was 
 upon him; the undying flame scorched his heart. 
 
 Once, and once only, they met again, in France, whither she 
 had wandered. It was a dread encounter — terrible to both ; but 
 most so to Sir Reginald. He spoke not of her afterwards. 
 
 Shortly after the death of his first wife, Sir Reginald had made 
 proposals to a dowager of distinction, with a handsome jointure, 
 one of his early attachments, and was, without scruple, accepted. 
 The power of the family might then be said to be at its zenith ; 
 and but for certain untoward circumstances, and the growing in- 
 fluence of his enemies, Sir Reginald would have been elevated to 
 the peerage. Like most reformed spendthrifts, he had become 
 proportionately avaricious, and his mind seemed engrossed in 
 accumulating wealth. In the mean time, his second wife followed 
 her predecessor, dying, it was said, of vexation and disappoint- 
 ment. 
 
 The propensity to matrimony, always a distinguishing charac- 
 teristic of the Rookwoods, largely displayed itself in Sir Reginald. 
 Another dame followed — equally rich, younger, and far more beau- 
 tiful than her immediate predecessor. She was a prodigious flirt, 
 and soon set her husband at defiance. Sir Reginald did not con- 
 descend to expostulate. It was not his way. He effectually pre- 
 vented any recurrence of her indiscretions. She was removed, 
 and with her expired Sir Reginald's waning popularity. So strong 
 was the expression of odium against him, that he thought it 
 prudent to retire to his mansion in the country, and there alto- 
 gether seclude himself. One anomaly in Sir Reginald's other- 
 
ROOKWOOD. 35 
 
 wise utterly selfish character was uncompromising devotion to the 
 house of Stuart; and shortly after the abdication of James II., 
 he followed that monarch to Saint Germain, having previously 
 mixed largely in secret political intrigues ; and only returned 
 from the French court to lay his bones with those of his an- 
 cestry, in the family vault at Kookwood. 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 SIR PIERS ROOKWOOD. 
 
 My old master kept a good house, and twenty or thirty tall sword-and-bucklcr 
 men about him ; and in faith his son differs not much ; he will have metal too ; 
 though he has no store of cutler's blades, he will have plenty of vintners' pots. 
 His father kept a good house for honest men, his tenants that brought him in 
 part ; and his son keeps a bad house with knaves that help to consume all : 'tis 
 but the change of time : why should any man repine at it ? Crickets, good, 
 loving, and lucky worms, were wont to feed, sing, and rejoice in the father's 
 chimney ; and now carrion crows build in the son's kitchen. 
 
 Wilkin s : Miseries of Enforced Marriage. 
 
 Sir Reginald died, leaving issue three children: a daughter, 
 the before-mentioned Eleanor (who, entirely discountenanced by the 
 family, had been seemingly forgotten by all but her father), and 
 two sons by his third wife. Reginald, the eldest, whose military 
 tnste had early procured him the command of a company of horse, 
 and whose politics did not coalesce with those of his sire, fell, 
 during his father's lifetime, at Killiecrankie, under the banners of 
 William. Piers, therefore, the second son, succeeded to the title. 
 
 A very different character, in many respects, from his father 
 and brother, holding in supreme dislike courts and courtiers, party 
 warfare, political intrigue, and all the subtleties of Jesuitical diplo- 
 macy, neither having any inordinate relish for camps or campaigns, 
 Sir Piers Rookwood yet displayed in early life one family propen- 
 sity, viz., unremitting devotion to the sex. Among his other mis- 
 tresses was the unfortunate Susan Bradley, to whom by some he 
 was supposed to have been clandestinely united. In early youth, 
 as has been stated, Sir Piers professed the faith of Rome, but 
 shortly after the death of his beautiful mistress (or wife, as it might 
 be), having quarrelled with his father's confessor, Checkley, he 
 publicly abjured his heresies. Sir Piers subsequently allied him- 
 self to Maud, only daughter of Sir Thomas D'Aubeny, the last of 
 a line as proud and intolerant as his own. The tables were then 
 turned Lady Rookwood usurped sovereign sway over her lord, 
 and Sir Piers, a cipher in his own house, scarce master of himself, 
 much less of his dame, endured an existence so miserable, that he 
 
 D 2 
 
$6 ROOKWOOD. 
 
 was often heard to regret, in his cups, that he had not inherited, 
 with the estate of his forefathers, the family secret of shaking off 
 the matrimonial yoke, when found to press too hardly. 
 
 At the onset, Sir Piers struggled hard to burst his bondage. 
 But in vain — he was fast fettered; and only bruised himself, like 
 the caged lark, against the bars of his prison-house. Abandoning 
 all further effort at emancipation, he gave himself up to the usual 
 resource of a weak mind, debauchery; and drank so deeply to 
 drown his cares, that, in the end, his hale constitution yielded to 
 his excesses. It was even said, that remorse at his abandonment 
 of the faith of his fathers had some share in his misery ; and that 
 his old spiritual, and if report spoke truly, sinful adviser, Father 
 Checkley, had visited him secretly at the hall. Sir Piers was ob- 
 served to shudder whenever the priest's name was mentioned. 
 
 Sir Piers Rookwood was a good-humoured man in the main, 
 had little of the old family leaven about him, and was esteemed 
 by his associates. Of late, however, his temper became soured, 
 and his friends deserted him ; for, between his domestic annoy- 
 ances, remorseful feelings, and the inroads already made upon his 
 constitution by constant inebriety, he grew so desperate and 
 insane in his revels, and committed such fearful extravagances, 
 that even his boon companions shrank from his orgies. Fearful 
 were the scenes between him and Lady Rookwood upon these 
 occasions — appalling to the witnesses, dreadful to themselves. 
 And it was, perhaps, their frequent recurrence, that, more than 
 anything else, banished all decent society from the hall. 
 
 At the time of Sir Piers's decease, which brings us down to the 
 date of our story, his son and successor, Ranulph, was absent on 
 his travels. Shortly after the completion of his academical edu- 
 cation, he had departed to make the tour of the Continent, and 
 had been absent rather better than a year. He had quitted his 
 father in displeasure, and was destined never again to see his face 
 while living. The last intelligence received of young Rookwood 
 was from Bordeaux, whence it was thought he had departed for 
 the Pyrenees. A special messenger had been despatched in 
 search of him, with tidings of the melancholy event. But, as it 
 was deemed improbable by Lady Rookwood that her son could 
 return within any reasonable space, she gave directions for the 
 accomplishment of the funeral rites of her husband on the sixth 
 night after his decease (it being the custom of the Rookwoods 
 ever to inter their dead at midnight), intrusting their solemnisa- 
 tion entirely to the care of one of Sir Piers's hangers-on (Dr. Titus 
 Tyrconnel), for which she was greatly scandalised in the neigh- 
 bourhood. 
 
 Ranulph Rookwood was a youth of goodly promise. The stock 
 from which he sprang would on neither side warrant such conclu- 
 sion. But it sometimes happens that from the darkest elements 
 are compounded the brightest and subtlest substances ■ and so it 
 
KOOKWOOD. 37 
 
 occurred in this instance. Fair, frank, and free — generous, open, 
 unsuspicious — he seemed the very opposite of all his race — their 
 antagonising principle. Capriciously indulgent, his father had 
 allowed him ample means, neither curbing nor restraining his 
 expenditure ; acceding at one moment to every inclination, and 
 the next irresolutely opposing it. It was impossible, therefore, for 
 him, in such a state of things, to act decidedly, without incurring 
 his father's displeasure ; and the only measure he resolved upon, 
 which was to absent himself for a time, was conjectured to have 
 brought about the result he had endeavoured to avoid. Other 
 reasons, however, there were, which secretly influenced him, which 
 it will be our business in due time to detail. 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 THE RETURN. 
 
 Flam. How croaks the raven ? 
 
 Is our good Duchess dead ? 
 Loci. Dead. "Webster. 
 
 The time of the sad ceremonial drew nigh. The hurrying of 
 the domestics to and fro : the multifarious arrangements for the 
 night; the distribution of the melancholy trappings, and the dis- 
 cussion of the " funeral-baked meats," furnished abundant occu- 
 pation within doors. Without, there was a constant stream of the 
 tenantry, thronging down the avenue, mixed with an occasional 
 horseman, once or twice intercepted by a large lumbering car- 
 riage, bringing friends of the deceased, some really anxious to pay 
 the last tribute of regard, but the majority attracted by the anti- 
 cipated spectacle of a funeral by torchlight. There were others, 
 indeed, to whom it was not matter of choice; who were compelled, 
 by a vassal tenure of their lands, held of the house of Rookwood, 
 to lend a shoulder to the coffin, and a hand to the torch, on the 
 burial of its lord. Of these there was a plentiful muster collected 
 in the hall ; they were to be marshalled by Peter Bradley, who 
 was deemed to be well skilled in the proceedings, having been 
 present at two solemnities of the kind. That mysterious per- 
 sonage, however, had not made his appearance — to the great dis- 
 may of the assemblage. Scouts were sent in search of him, but 
 they returned with the intelligence that the door of his habitation 
 was fastened, and its inmate apparently absent. No other tidings 
 of the truant sexton could be obtained. 
 
 It was a sultry August evening. No breeze was stirring in the 
 garden; no cool dews refreshed the parched and heated earth; 
 
38 ROOKWOOD. 
 
 yet from the languishing flowers rich sweets exhaled. The plash 
 of a fountain fell pleasantly upon the ear, conveying in its sound 
 a sense of freshness to the fervid air; while deep and drowsy 
 murmurs hummed heavily beneath the trees, making the twilight 
 slumberously musical. The westering sun, which filled the atmo- 
 sphere with flame throughout the day, was now wildly setting ; 
 and, as he sank behind the hall, its varied and picturesque tracery 
 became each instant more darkly and distinctly defined against the 
 -crimson sky. 
 
 At this juncture a little gate, communicating with the chase, was 
 thrown open, and a young man entered the garden, passing through 
 the shrubbery, and hurrying rapidly forward till he arrived at a 
 vista opening upon the house. The spot at which the stranger 
 halted was marked by a little basin, scantily supplied with water, 
 streaming from a lion's kingly jaws. His dress was travel- soiled, 
 and dusty ; and his whole appearance betokened great exhaustion 
 from heat and fatigue. Seating himself upon an adjoining bench, 
 he threw off his riding-cap, and unclasped his collar, displaying a 
 finely-turned head and neck ; and a countenance which, besides its 
 beauty, had that rare nobility of feature which seldom fails to the 
 lot of the aristocrat, but is never seen in one of an inferior order. 
 A restless disquietude of manner showed that he was suffering 
 from over-excitement of mind, as well as from bodily exertion. 
 His look was wild and hurried ; his black ringlets were dashed 
 heedlessly over a pallid, lofty brow, upon which care was prema- 
 turely written; while his large melancholy eyes were bent, with a 
 look almost of agony, upon the house before him. 
 
 After a short pause, and as if struggling against violent emotions, 
 and some overwhelming remembrance, the youth arose, and plunged 
 his hand into the basin, applying the moist element to his burning 
 brow. Apparently becoming more calm, he bent his steps towards 
 the hall, when two figures, suddenly issuing from an adjoining copse, 
 arrested his progress; neither saw him. Muttering a hurried fare- 
 well, one of the figures disappeared within the shrubbery, and the 
 other, confronting the stranger, displayed the harsh features and 
 gaunt form of Peter Bradley. Had Peter encountered the dead 
 Sir Piers in corporeal form, he could not have manifested more 
 surprise than he exhibited, for an instant or two, as he shrunk back 
 from the stranger's path. 
 
ROOKWOOD. 39 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 AN IRISH ADVENTURER. 
 
 Scapin. A most outrageous, roaring fellow, with a swelled red face inflamed 
 with brandy. — Cheats of Scapin. 
 
 An hour or two prior to the incident just narrated, in a small, 
 cosy apartment of the hall, nominally devoted to justiciary business 
 by its late owner, but, in reality, used as a sanctum, snuggery, or 
 smoking room, a singular trio were assembled, fraught with the 
 ulterior purpose of attending the obsequies of their deceased patron 
 and friend, though immediately occupied in the discussion of a 
 magnum of excellent claret, the bouquet of which perfumed the 
 air, like the fragrance of a bed of violets. 
 
 This little room had been poor Sir Piers's favourite retreat. It 
 was, in fact, the only room in the house that he could call his own ; 
 and thither would he often, with pipe and punch, beguile the 
 flagging hours, secure from interruption. A snug, old-fashioned 
 apartment it was; wainscoted witli rich black oak; with a fine old 
 cabinet of the same material, and a line or two of crazy, worm- 
 eaten bookshelves, laden with sundry dusty, unconsulted law 
 tomes, and a light sprinkling of the elder divines, equally ne- 
 glected. The only book, indeed, Sir Piers ever read, was the 
 u Anatomie of Melancholy ;" and he merely studied Burton be- 
 cause the quaint, racy style of the learned old hypochondriac 
 suited his humour at seasons, and gave a zest to his sorrows, such 
 as the olives lent to his wine. 
 
 Four portraits adorned the walls: those of Sir Reginald Rook- 
 Tvood and his wives. The ladies were attired in the flowing dra- 
 pery of Charles the Second's day, the snow of their radiant bosoms 
 being somewhat sullied by over exposure, and the vermeil tinting 
 of their cheeks darkened by the fumes of tobacco. There was a 
 shepherdess, with her taper crook, whose large, languishing eyes, 
 ripe pouting lips, ready to melt into kisses, and air of voluptuous 
 abandonment, scarcely suited the innocent simplicity of her cos- 
 tume. She was portrayed tending a flock of downy sheep, with 
 azure ribands round their necks, accompanied by one of those in- 
 valuable little dogs, whose length of ear, and siikiness of skin, 
 evinced him perfect in his breeding ; but whose large-eyed indif- 
 ference to his charge, proved him to be as much out of character 
 with his situation, as the refined and luxuriant charms of his mis- 
 tress were out of keeping with her artless attire. This was Sir 
 Piers's mother, the third wife, a beautiful woman, answering to 
 
40 ROOKWOOD. 
 
 the notion of one who had been somewhat of a flirt in her day. 
 Next to her was a magnificent dame, with the throat and arm of a 
 Juno, and a superb bust — (the bust was then what the bustle is 
 now — a paramount attraction; whether the modification be an 
 improvement, we leave to the consideration of the lovers of the 
 beautiful) — this was the dowager. Lastly, there was the lovely 
 and ill-fated Eleanor. Every gentle grace belonging to this un- 
 fortunate lady had been stamped in undying beauty on the canvas 
 by the hand of Lely, breathing a spell on the picture, almost as 
 powerful as that which had dwelt around the exquisite original. 
 Over the high carved mantlepiece was suspended the portrait of 
 Sir Reginald. It had been painted in early youth; the features 
 were beautiful, disdainful, — with a fierceness breaking through the 
 courtly air. The eyes w r ere very fine, black as midnight, and 
 piercing as those of Caesar Borgia, as seen in Raphael's wonderful 
 picture in the Borghese Palace at Rome. They seemed to fasci- 
 nate the gazer — to rivet his glances — to follow him whithersoever 
 he went — and to search into his soul, as did the dark orbs of Sir 
 Reginald in his lifetime. It was the work likewise of Lely, and 
 had all the fidelity and graceful refinement of that great master ; 
 nor was the haughty countenance of Sir Reginald unworthy the 
 patrician painter. 
 
 No portrait of Sir Piers was to be met with. But in lieu thereof, 
 depending from a pair of buck's horns, hung the worthy knight's 
 stained scarlet coat (the same in which he had ridden forth, with 
 the intent to hunt, on the eventful occasion detailed by Peter 
 Bradley), his velvet cap, his buck-handled whip, and the residue 
 of his equipment for the chase. This attire was reviewed with 
 melancholy interest and unaffected emotion by the company, as 
 reminding them forcibly of the departed, of which it seemed a 
 portion. 
 
 The party consisted of the vicar of Rookwood, Dr. Poly- 
 carp Small; Dr. Titus Tyrconnel, an emigrant, and empirical 
 professor of medicine, from the sister isle, whose convivial habits 
 had first introduced him to the hall, and afterwards retained him 
 there ; and Mr. Codicil Coates, clerk of the peace, attorney-at-law, 
 bailiff, and receiver. We were wrong in saying that Tyrconnel 
 was retained. He was an impudent, intrusive fellow, whom, 
 having once gained a footing in the house, it was impossible to 
 dislodge. He cared for no insult; perceived no slight; and pro- 
 fessed, in her presence, the profoundest respect for Lady Rook- 
 wood : in short, he was ever ready to do anything but depart. 
 
 Sir Piers was one of those people who cannot dine alone. He 
 disliked a solitary repast almost as much as a tete-a-tete with his 
 lady. He would have been recognised at once as the true Amphi- 
 tryon, had any one been hardy enough to play the part of Jupiter. 
 Ever ready to give a dinner, he found a difficulty arise, not usually 
 
ROOKWOOD. 41 
 
 experienced on such occasions — there was no one upon whom to 
 bestow it. He had the best of wine; kept an excellent table; was 
 himself no niggard host; but his own merits, and those of his 
 cuisine, were forgotten in the invariable pendant to the feast ; and 
 the best of wine lost its flavour when the last bottle found its way 
 to the guest's head. Dine alone Sir Piers would not. And as his 
 old friends forsook him, he plunged lower in his search of society; 
 collecting within his house a class of persons whom no one would 
 have expected to meet at the hall, nor even its owner have chosen 
 for his companions, had any choice remained to him. He did not 
 endure this state of things without much outward show of discon- 
 tent. " Anything for a quiet life," was his constant saying; and, 
 like the generality of people with whom those words form a fa- 
 vourite maxim, he led the most uneasy life imaginable. Endu- 
 rance, to excite commiseration, must be uncomplaining — an axiom 
 the aggrieved of the gentle sex should remember. Sir Piers en- 
 dured, but he grumbled lustily, and was on all hands voted a bore ; 
 domestic grievances, especially if the husband be the plaintiff, being 
 the most intolerable of all mentionable miseries. No wonder that 
 his friends deserted him; still there was Titus Tyrconnel; his ears 
 and lips were ever open to pathos and to punch; so Titus kept his 
 station. Immediately after her husband's demise, it had been Lady 
 Rookwood's intention to clear the house of all the " vermin," so 
 she expressed herself, that had so long infested it; and forcibly to 
 eject Titus, and one or two other intruders of the same class. But 
 in consequence of certain hints received from Mr. Coates, who re- 
 presented the absolute necessity of complying with Sir Piers's tes- 
 tamentary instructions, which were particular in that respect, she 
 thought proper to defer her intentions until after the ceremonial 
 of interment should be completed, and, in the mean time, strange 
 to say, committed its arrangement to Titus Tyrconnel; who, ever 
 ready to accommodate, accepted, nothing loth, the charge, and 
 acquitted himself admirably well in his undertaking : especially, 
 as he said, " in the aiting and drinking department — the most es- 
 sential part of it all." He kept open house — open dining-room — 
 open cellar; resolved that his patron's funeral should emulate as 
 much as possible an Irish burial on a grand scale, " the finest 
 sight," in his opinion, " in the whole world." 
 
 Inflated with the importance of his office, inflamed with heat, 
 sat Titus, like a " robustious periwig-pated " alderman after a civic 
 feast. The natural rubicundity of his countenance was darkened 
 to a deep purple tint, like that of a full-blown peony, while his 
 ludicrous dignity was augmented by a shining suit of sables, in 
 which his portly person was invested. 
 
 The first magnum had been discussed in solemn silence ; the 
 cloud, however, which hung over the conclave, disappeared under 
 the genial influence of " another and a better " bottle, and gave 
 
42 ROOKWOOD. 
 
 place to a denser vapour, occasioned by the introduction of the 
 pipe and its accompaniments. 
 
 Ensconced in a comfortable old chair (it is not every old chair 
 that is comfortable), with pipe in mouth, and in full unbottomed 
 ease, his bushy cauliflower wig laid aside, by reason of the heat, 
 reposed Dr. Small. Small, indeed, was somewhat of a misnomer, 
 as applied to the worthy doctor, who, besides being no diminutive 
 specimen of his kind, entertained no insignificant opinion of him- 
 self. His height was certainly not remarkable; but his width of 
 shoulder — his sesquipedality of stomach — and obesity of calf — 
 these were unique ! Of his origin we know nothing; but presume 
 he must, in some way or other, have been connected with the 
 numerous family of " the Smalls," who, according to Christopher 
 North, form the predominant portion of mankind. In appearance, 
 the doctor was short-necked and puffy, with a sodden, pasty face, 
 wherein were set eyes, whose obliquity of vision was, in some 
 measure, redeemed by their expression of humour. He was ac- 
 counted a man of parts and erudition, and had obtained high ho- 
 nours at his university. Kigidly orthodox, he abominated the very 
 names of Papists and Jacobites, amongst which heretical herd he 
 classed his companion, Mr. Titus Tyrconnel — Ireland being with 
 him synonymous with superstition and Catholicism — and every 
 Irishman rebellious and schismatical. On this head he was in- 
 clined to be disputatious. His prejudices did not prevent him 
 from passing the claret, nor from laughing, as heartily as a plethoric 
 asthma and sense of the decorum due to the occasion would permit, 
 at the quips and quirks of the Irishman, who, he admitted, not- 
 withstanding his heresies, was a pleasant fellow in the main. And 
 when, in addition to the flattery, a pipe had been insinuated by 
 the officious Titus, at the precise moment that Small yearned for 
 his afternoon's solace, yet scrupled to ask for it ; when the door 
 had been made fast, and the first whiff exhaled, all his misgivings 
 vanished, and he surrendered himself to the soft seduction. In 
 this elysian state we find him. 
 
 "Ah! you may say that, Dr. Small," said Titus, in answer to 
 some observation of the vicar, " that's a most original apophthegm. 
 We all of us hould our lives by a thrid. Och ! many's the sudden 
 finale I have seen. Many's the fine fellow's heels tripped up un- 
 awares, when least expected. Death hangs over our heads by a 
 single hair, as your reverence says, precisely like the sword of Dan 
 Maclisc,* the flatterer of Dinnish what-do-you-call-him, ready to 
 fall at a moment's notice, or no notice at all — eh? — Mr. Coates. 
 And that brings me back again to Sir Piers — poor gentleman — ah ! 
 we sha'n't soon see the like of him again !" 
 
 "Poor Sir Piers!" said Mr. Coates, a small man, in a scratch 
 wig, with a face red and round as an apple, and almost as diminu- 
 
 * Query, Damocles ? — Printer's Devil. 
 
ROOKWOOD. 43 
 
 tive. " It is to be regretted that his over-conviviality should so 
 much have hastened his lamented demise." 
 
 "Conviviality!" replied Titus; "no such thing — it was apo- 
 plexy — extravasation of samm." 
 
 " Extra vase-ation of rum-and- water, you mean," replied Coates, 
 who, like all his tribe, rejoiced in a quibble. 
 
 " The squire's ailment," continued Titus, " was a sanguineous 
 effusion, as we call it — positive determination of blood to the head, 
 occasioned by a low way he got into, just before his attack — a 
 confirmed case of hypochondriasis, as that ould book Sir Piers was 
 so fond of terms the blue devils. He neglected the bottle, which, 
 in a man who has been a hard drinker all his life, is a bad sign. 
 The lowering system never answers — never. Doctor, I'll just 
 trouble you" — for Small, in a fit of absence, had omitted to pass 
 the bottle, though not to help himself. " Had he stuck to this" 
 — holding up a glass, ruby bright — " the elixir vita? — the grand 
 panacea — he might have been hale and hearty at this present 
 moment, and as well as any of us. But he wouldn't be advised. 
 To my thinking, as that was the case, he'd have been all the 
 better for a little of your reverence's sperretual advice; and his 
 conscience having been relieved by confession and absolution, he 
 might have opened a fresh account with an aisy heart and chine 
 breast." 
 
 " I trust, sir," said Small, gravely withdrawing his pip" from 
 his lips, " that Sir Piers Rookwood addressed himself to a higher 
 source than a sinning creature of clay like himself for remission of 
 his sins; but, if there was any load of secret guilt that might have 
 weighed heavy upon his conscience, it is to be regretted that he 
 refused the last offices of the church, and died incommunicate. I 
 was denied all admittance to his chamber." 
 
 " Exactly my case," said Mr. Coates, pettishly. " I was refused 
 entrance, though my business was of the utmost importance — 
 certain dispositions — special bequests — matter connected with his 
 sister — for though the estate is entailed, yet still there are charges 
 — you understand me — very strange to refuse to see me. Some 
 people may regret it — mav live to regret it, I say — that's all. I've 
 just sent up a package to Lady Rookwood, which was not to be 
 delivered till after Sir Piers's death. Odd circumstance that — 
 been in my custody a long while — some reason to think Sir Piers 
 meant to alter his will — ought to have seen me — sad neglect !" 
 
 " More's the pity. But it was none of poor Sir Piers's doing !" 
 replied Titus; " he had no will of his own, poor fellow, during his 
 life, and the devil a will was he likely to have after his death. It 
 was all Lady Rookwood's doing," added he, in a whisper. " I, 
 his medical adviser and confidential friend, was ordered out of the 
 room ; and, although I knew it w T as as much as his life was worth 
 to leave him for a moment in that state, I was forced to comply: 
 and, would you believe it, as I left the room, I heard high words. 
 
44 ROOKWOOD. 
 
 Yes, doctor, as I hope to be saved, words of anger from her at that 
 awful juncture." 
 
 The latter part of this speech was uttered in a low tone, and 
 very mysterious manner. The speakers drew so closely together, 
 that the bowls of their pipes formed a common centre, whence the 
 stems radiated. A momentary silence ensued, during which each 
 man puffed for very life. Small next knocked the ashes from his 
 tube, and began to replenish it, coughing significantly. Mr. Coates 
 expelled a thin, curling stream of vapour from a minute orifice in 
 the corner of his almost invisible mouth, and arched his eyebrows 
 in a singular manner, as if he dared not trust the expression of his 
 thoughts to any other feature. Titus shook his huge head, and, 
 upon the strength of a bumper which he swallowed, mustered re- 
 solution enough to unburden his bosom. 
 
 " By my sowl," said he, mysteriously, " I've seen enough lately 
 to frighten any quiet gentleman out of his senses. I'll not get a 
 wink of sleep, I fear, for a week to come. There must have been 
 something dreadful upon Sir Piers's mind; sure — nay, there's no 
 use in mincing the matter with you — in a word, then, some crime 
 too deep to be divulged." 
 
 " Crime!" echoed Coates and Small, in a breath. 
 " Ay, crime!" repeated Titus. "Whist! not so loud, lest any 
 one should overhear us. Poor Sir Piers, he's dead now. I'm 
 sure you both loved him as I did, and pity and pardon him if he 
 was guilty ; for certain am I that no soul ever took its flight more 
 heavily laden than did that of our poor friend. Och ! it was a 
 terrible ending. But you shall hear how he died, and judge for 
 yourselves. When I returned to his room, after Lady Rookwood's 
 departure, I found him quite delirious. I knew death was not far 
 off then. One minute he was in the chase, cheering on the hounds. 
 1 Halloo ! tallyho !' cried he: ' who clears that fence? — who swims 
 that stream?' The next, he was drinking, carousing, and hurraing, 
 at the head of his table. ' Hip ! hip ! hip !' — as mad, and wild, and 
 frantic as ever he used to be when wine had got the better of him ; 
 and then all of a sudden, in the midst of his shouting, he stopped, 
 exclaiming, 'What! here again? — who let her in? — the door is 
 fast — I locked it myself. Devil ! why did you open it? — you have 
 betrayed me — she will poison me — and I cannot resist. Ha! 
 another ! Who — who is that? — her face is white — her hair hangs 
 about her shoulders. Is she alive again? Susan! Susan! why 
 that look ? You loved me well — too well. You will not drag me 
 to perdition ! You will not appear against me ! No, no, no — it is 
 not in your nature — you whom I doated on, whom I loved — whom 
 I — but I repented — I sorrowed — I prayed — prayed! Oh! oh! 
 no prayers would avail. Pray for me, Susan — for ever ! Your 
 intercession may avail. It is not too late. I will do justice to all. 
 Bring me pen and ink — paper — I will confess — he shall have all. 
 Where is my sister? I would speak with her — would tell her — 
 
ROOIHVOOD. 45 
 
 tell her. Call Alan Rook\voo<l — I shall die before I can tell it. 
 Come hither,' said he to me. i There is a dark, dreadful secret on 
 my mind — it must forth. Tell my sister — no, my senses swim — 
 Susan is near me — fury is in her eyes — avenging fury — keep her 
 off. What is this white mass in my arms? what do I hold? is it 
 the corpse by my side, as it lay that long, long night? It is — it is. 
 Cold, stiff, stirless as then. White — horribly white — as when the 
 moon, that would not set, showed all its ghastliness. Ah ! it 
 moves, embraces me, stifles, suffocates me. Help ! remove the 
 pillow. I cannot breathe — I choke — oh ! ' And now I am coming 
 to the strangest part of my story — and, strange as it may sound, 
 every word is as true as Gospel." 
 
 " Ahem !" coughed Small. 
 
 " Well, at this moment — this terrible moment — what should I 
 hear but a tap against the wainscot. Holy Virgin ! how it startled 
 me. My heart leapt to my mouth in an instant, and then went 
 thump, thump, against my ribs. But I said nothing, though you 
 may be sure I kept my ears wide open — and then presently I heard 
 the tap repeated somewhat louder, and shortly afterwards a third 
 — I should still have said nothing, but Sir Piers heard the knock, 
 and raised himself at the summons, as if it had been the last 
 trumpet. i Come in,' cried he, in a dying voice ; and Heaven for- 
 give me if I confess that I expected a certain person, whose com- 
 pany one would rather dispense with upon such an occasion, to 
 step in. However, though it wasn't the ould gentleman, it was 
 somebody near akin to him ; for a door I had never seen, and 
 never even dreamed of, opened in the wall, and in stepped Peter 
 Bradley — ay, you may well stare, gentlemen; but it was Peter, 
 looking as stiff" as a crowbar, and as blue as a mattock. Well, he 
 walked straight up to the bed of the dying man, and bent his 
 great, diabolical grey eyes upon him — laughing all the while — yes, 
 laughing — you know the cursed grin he has. To proceed. ' You 
 have called me,' said he to Sir Piers; C I am here. What would 
 you with me?' — 'We are not alone,' groaned the dying man. 
 ' Leave us, Mr. Tyrconnel — leave me for five minutes — only 
 five, mark me.' — ' I'll go,' thinks I, ' but I shall never see you 
 ai^ain alive.' And true enough it was — I never did see him a^ain 
 with breath in his body. Without more ado, I left him, and I 
 had scarcelv reached the corridor when I heard the door bolted 
 behind me. I then stopped to listen ; and I'm sure you'll not 
 blame me when I say I clapped my eye to the keyhole; for I sus- 
 pected something wrong. But, Heaven save us I that crafty 
 gravedigger had taken his precautions too well. I could neither 
 see nor hear anything, except, after a few minutes, a wild un- 
 earthly screech. And then the door was thrown open, and I, not 
 expecting it, -was precipitated head foremost into the room, to the 
 great damage of my nose. When I got up, Peter had vanished, I 
 suppose, as he came; and there was poor Sir Piers leaning back 
 
46 ROOKWOOD. 
 
 upon the pillow, with his hands stretched out as if in supplication, 
 his eyes unclosed and staring, and his limbs stark and stiff!" 
 
 A profound silence succeeded this narrative. Mr. Coates 
 would not venture upon a remark. Dr. Small seemed, for 
 some minutes, lost in painful reflection ; at length he spoke : 
 " You have described a shocking scene, Mr. Tyrconnel, and in a 
 manner that convinces me of its fidelity. But I trust you will 
 excuse me, as a friend of the late Sir Piers, in requesting you to 
 maintain silence in future on the subject. Its repetition can be 
 productive of no good, and may do infinite harm, by giving cur- 
 rency to unpleasant reports, and harrowing the feelings of the 
 survivors. Every one acquainted with Sir Piers's history must 
 be aware, as I dare say you are already, of an occurrence which 
 cast a shade over his early life, blighted his character, and endan- 
 gered his personal safety. It was a dreadful accusation. But 
 I believe, nay, I am sure, it was unfounded. Dark suspicions 
 attach to a Romish priest of the name of Checkley. He, I believe, 
 is beyond the reach of human justice. Erring Sir Piers was, 
 undoubtedly. But I trust he was more weak than sinful. I 
 have reason to think he was the tool of others, especially of the 
 wretch I have named. And it is easy to perceive how that in- 
 comprehensible lunatic, Peter Bradley, has obtained an ascendancy 
 over him. His daughter, you are aware, was Sir Piers's mistress. 
 Our friend is now gone, and with him let us bury his offences, 
 and the remembrance of them. That his soul was heavily laden, 
 would appear from your account of his last moments; yet I fer- 
 vently trust that his repentance was sincere, in which case there is 
 hope of forgiveness for him. ' At what time soever a sinner shall 
 repent him of his sins, from the bottom of his heart, I will blot 
 out all his wickedness out of my remembrance, saith the Lord/ 
 Heaven's mercy is greater than man's sins. And there is hope of 
 salvation even for Sir Piers." 
 
 " I trust so, indeed," said Titus, with emotion ; " and as to re- 
 peating a syllable of what I have just said, devil a word more will 
 I utter on the subject. My lips shall be shut and sealed, as close 
 as one of Mr. Coates's bonds, forever and a day : but I thought it 
 just right to make you acquainted with the circumstances. And 
 now, having dismissed the bad for ever, I am ready to speak of 
 Sir Piers's good qualities, and not few they were. What was 
 there becoming a gentleman that he couldn't do, I'd like to know? 
 Couldn't he hunt as well as ever a one in the county? and hadn't 
 he as good a pack of hounds? Couldn't he shoot as well, and fish 
 as well, and drink as well, or better? — only he couldn't carry his 
 wine, which was his misfortune, not his fault. And wasn't he 
 always ready to ask a friend to dinner with him? and didn't he 
 give him a good dinner when he came, barring the cross-cups 
 afterwards ? And hadn't he everything agreeable about him, 
 except his wife ? which was a great drawback. And with all his 
 
EOOKWOOD. 47 
 
 peculiarities and humours, wasn't lie as kind-hearted a man as 
 needs be? and an Irishman at the core? And so, if he wern't 
 dead, I'd say long life to him ! But as he is, here's peace to his 
 memory !" 
 
 At this juncture, a knocking was heard at the door, which some 
 one without had vainly tried to open. Titus rose to unclose it, 
 ushering in an individual known at the hall as Jack Palmer. 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 AN ENGLISH ADVENTURER. 
 
 Mrs. Peachem. Sure the captain's the finest gentleman on the road. 
 
 Beggar's Opera. 
 
 Jack Palmer was a good-humoured, good-looking man, with 
 immense bushy, red whiskers, a freckled, florid complexion, and 
 sandy hair, rather inclined to scantiness towards the scalp of the 
 head, which garnished the nape of his neck with a ruff of crisp 
 little curls, like the ring on a monk's shaven crown. Notwith- 
 standing this tendency to baldness, Jack could not be more than 
 thirty, though his looks were some five years in advance. His 
 face was one of those inexplicable countenances, which appear to 
 be proper to a peculiar class of men — a regular Newmarket phy- 
 siognomy — compounded chiefly of cunning and assurance ; not 
 low cunning, nor vulgar assurance, but crafty sporting subtlety, 
 careless as to results, indifferent to obstacles, ever on the alert for 
 the main chance, game and turf all over, eager, yet easy, keen, yet 
 quiet. He was somewhat showily dressed, in such wise that he 
 looked half like a fine gentleman of that day, half like a jockey of 
 our own. His nether man appeared in well-fitting, well-worn 
 buckskins, and boots with tops, not unconscious of the saddle; 
 while the airy extravagance of his broad-skirted, sky-blue riding- 
 coat, the richness of his vest (the pockets of which were beauti- 
 fully exuberant, according to the mode of 1737), the smart luxu- 
 riance of his cravat, and a certain curious taste in the size and 
 style of his buttons, proclaimed that, in his own esteem at least, 
 his person did not appear altogether unworthy of decoration ; 
 nor, injustice to Jack, can we allow that he was in error. He 
 was a model of a man for five feet ten ; square, compact, capitally 
 built in every particular, excepting that his legs were slightly 
 imbowed, which defect probably arose from his being almost 
 constantly on horseback ; a sort of exercise in which Jack greatly 
 delighted, and was accounted a superb rider. It was, indeed, his 
 daring horsemanship, upon one particular occasion, when he had 
 
48 KOOKWOOD. 
 
 outstripped a whole field, that had procured him the honour of an 
 invitation to Rookwood. Who he was, or whence he came, was 
 a question not easily answered — Jack, himself, evading all solu- 
 tion to the inquiry. Sir Piers never troubled his head about the 
 matter : he was a " deuced good fellow — rode well, and stood on 
 no sort of ceremony;" that was enough for him. Nobody else 
 knew anything about him, save that he was a capital judge of 
 horseflesh, kept a famous black mare, and attended every hunt in 
 the West Riding — that he could sing a good song, was a choice 
 companion, and could drink three bottles without feeling the 
 worse for them. 
 
 Sensible of the indecorum that might attach to his appearance, 
 Dr. Small had hastily laid down his pipe, and arranged his wig. 
 But when he saw who was the intruder, with a grunt of defiance 
 he resumed his occupation, without returning the bow of the 
 latter, or bestowing further notice upon him. Nothing discom- 
 posed at the churchman's displeasure, Jack greeted Titus cordially, 
 and carelessly saluting Mr. Coates, threw himself into a chair. He 
 next filled a tumbler of claret, and drained it at a draught. 
 
 " Have you ridden far, Jack ?" asked Titus, noticing the dusty 
 state of Palmer's azure attire. 
 
 " Some dozen miles," replied Palmer ; " and that, on such a 
 sultry afternoon as the present, makes one feel thirstyish. I'm as 
 dry as a sandbed. Famous wine this — beautiful tipple — better 
 than all your red fustian. Ah, how poor Sir Piers used to like 
 it ! Well, that's all over — a glass like this might do him good in 
 his present quarters ! I'm afraid I'm intruding. But the fact is, 
 I wanted a little information about the order of the procession, and 
 missing you below, came hither in search of you. You're to be 
 chief mourner, I suppose, Titus — rehearsing your part, eh?" 
 
 "Come, come, Jack, no joking," replied Titus; " the subject's 
 too serious. I am to be chief mourner — and I expect you to be 
 a mourner — and everybody else to be mourners. We must all 
 mourn at the proper time. There'll be a power of people at the 
 church." 
 
 " There are a power of people here already," returned Jack, "if 
 they all attend." 
 
 u And they all will attend, or what is the eating and drinking 
 to go for? I sha'n't leave a soul in the house." 
 
 " Excepting one," said Jack, archly. " Lady Rookwood won't 
 attend, I think." 
 
 " Ay, excepting her ladyship and her ladyship's abigail. All 
 the rest go with me, and form part of the procession. You go 
 too." , 
 
 "Of course. At what time do you start?" 
 
 " Twelve precisely. As the clock strikes, we set out — all in a 
 line, and a long line we'll make. I'm waiting for that ould coffin- 
 faced rascal, Peter Bradley, to arrange the order." 
 
ROOKWOOD. 49 
 
 "How long will it all occupy, think you?" asked Jack, care- 
 lessly. 
 
 "That I can't say," returned Titus; "possibly an hour, more or 
 less. But we shall start to the minute — that is, if we can get all 
 together, so don't be out of the way. And hark ye, Jack, you 
 must contrive to change your toggery. That sky-blue coat won't 
 do. It's not the thing at all, at all." 
 
 " Never fear that," replied Palmer. " But who were those in 
 the carriages?" 
 
 "Is it the last carriage you mean? Squire Forester and his 
 sons. They're dining with the other gentlefolk, in the great room 
 up-stairs, to be out of the way. Oh, we'll have a grand berriri. 
 And by St. Patrick ! I must be looking after it." 
 
 " Stay a minute," said Jack ; " let's have a cool bottle first. 
 They are all taking care of themselves below, and Peter Bradley 
 has not made his appearance, so you need be in no hurry. I'll go 
 with you presently. Shall I ring for the claret?" 
 " By all means," replied Titus. 
 
 Jack accordingly arose; and a butler answering the summons, a 
 long-necked bottle was soon placed before them. 
 
 " You heard of the affray last night, I presume?" said Jack, re- 
 newing the conversation. 
 
 "With the poachers? To be sure I did. Wasn't I called in 
 
 to examine Hugh Badger's wounds the first thing this morning; 
 
 and a deep cut there was, just over the eye, besides other bruises." 
 
 "Is the wound dangerous?" inquired Palmer. 
 
 "Not exactly mortal, if you mean that," replied the Irishman; 
 
 " dangerous, certainly." 
 
 "Humph!" exclaimed Jack; "they'd a pretty hardish bout of 
 it, I understand. Anything been heard of the body?" 
 "What body?" inquired Small, who was half-dozing. 
 " The body of the drowned poacher," replied Jack; " they were 
 off to search for it this morning." 
 
 "Found it — not they!" exclaimed Titus. "Ha, ha! — I can't 
 help laughing, for the life and soivl of me ; a capital trick he 
 played 'em, — capital — ha, ha ! What do you think the fellow 
 did ? Ha, ha ! — after leading 'em the devil's dance, all round the 
 park, killing a hound as savage as a wolf, and breaking Hugh 
 Badger's head, which is as hard and thick as a butcher's block, 
 what does the fellow do but dive into a pool, with a great rock 
 hanging over it, and make his way to the other side, through a 
 subterranean cavern, which nobody knew anything about, till they 
 came to drag it, thinking him snuo;lv drowned all the while — 
 ha, ha!" ^ 
 
 " Ha, ha, ha !" chorussed Jack ; " bravo ! he's a lad of the right 
 sort — ha, ha!" 
 
 " He ! who ?" inquired the attorney. 
 
 E 
 
50 ROOKWOOD. 
 
 " Why, the poacher, to be sure," replied Jack; " who else were 
 we talking about?" 
 
 " Beg pardon," returned Coates; " I thought you might have 
 heard some intelligence. We've got an eye upon him. We know 
 who it was." 
 
 "Indeed !" exclaimed Jack; "and who was it?" 
 
 a A fellow known by the name of Luke Bradley." 
 
 "Zounds!" cried Titus, "you don't say it was he? Murder 
 in Irish ! that bates everything; why, he was Sir Piers's " 
 
 " Natural son," replied the attorney; " he has not been heard of 
 for some time — shockingly incorrigible rascal — impossible to do 
 anything with him." 
 
 " You don't say so ?" observed Jack. " I've heard Sir Piers speak 
 of the lad; and, by his account, he's as fine a fellow as ever crossed 
 tit's back ; only a little wildish and unreasonable, as the best of us 
 may be; wants breaking, that's all. Your skittish colt makes the 
 best horse, and so would he. To speak the truth, I'm glad he 
 escaped." 
 
 " So am I," rejoined Titus; " for, in the first place, I've a foolish 
 partiality for poachers, and am sorry when any of 'em come to 
 hurt; and, in the second, I'd be mighty displeased if any ill had 
 happened to one of Sir Piers's flesh and blood, as this young chap 
 appears to be." 
 
 "Appears to be!" repeated Palmer; "there's no appearing in 
 the case, I take it. This Bradley's an undoubted offshoot of the 
 old squire. His mother was a servant-maid at the hall, I rather 
 think. You, sir," continued he, addressing Coates, " perhaps, can 
 inform us of the real facts of the case." 
 
 " She was something better than a servant," replied the attorney, 
 with a slight cough and a knowing wink. "I remember her 
 quite well, though I was but a boy then; a lovely creature, and 
 so taking, I don't wonder that Sir Piers was smitten with her. 
 He was mad after the women in those days, and pretty Sue 
 Bradley above all others. She lived with him quite like his lady." 
 
 " So I've heard," returned Jack; "and she remained with him 
 till her death. Let me see, wasn't there something rather odd in 
 the way in which she died, rather suddenish and unexpected, — a 
 noise made about it at the time, eh?" 
 
 " Not that I ever heard," replied Coates, shaking his head, and 
 appearing to be afflicted with an instantaneous ignorance ; while 
 Titus affected not to hear the remark, but occupied himself with 
 his wine-glass. Small snored audibly. "I was too young, then, 
 to pay any attention to idle rumours," continued Coates. " It's a 
 long time ago. May I ask the reason of your inquiry?" 
 
 " Nothing further than simple curiosity," replied Jack, enjoying 
 the consternation of his companions. "It is, as you say, a long 
 while since. But it's singular how those sort of things are remem- 
 bered. One would think people had something else to do than talk 
 
EOOKWOOD. 51 
 
 of one's private affairs for ever. For my part, I despise such tattle. 
 But there are persons in the neighbourhood who still say it was an 
 awkward business. Amongst others, I've heard that this very 
 Luke Bradley talks in pretty plain terms about it." 
 
 u Does he, indeed?" said Coates. " So much the worse for him. 
 Let me once lay hands upon him, and I'll put a gag in his mouth 
 that shall spoil his talking in future." 
 
 u That's precisely the point I desire to arrive at," replied Jack; 
 " and 1 advise you by all means to accomplish that, for the sake of 
 the family. Nobody likes his friends to be talked about. So I'd 
 settle the matter amicably, were I you. Just let the fellow go his 
 way; he won't return here again in a hurry, I'll be bound. As to 
 clapping him in quod, he might prattle — turn stag." 
 
 a Turn stag !" replied Coates, " what the deuce is that? In my 
 opinion, he has i turned stag' already. At all events, he'll pay deer 
 for his night's sport, you may depend upon it. What signifies it 
 what he says? Let me lay hands upon him, that's all." 
 
 u Well, well," said Jack, " no oflence. I only meant to offer a 
 suggestion. I thought the family, young Sir Ranulph, I mean, 
 mightn't like the story to be revived. As to Lady Ilookwood, she 
 don't, I suppose, care much about idle reports. Indeed, if I've 
 been rightly informed, she bears this youngster no particular good- 
 will to begin with, and has tried hard to get him out of the 
 country. But, as you say, what does it signify what he says? he 
 can only talk. Sir Piers is dead and gone." 
 " Humph!" muttered Coates, peevishly. 
 
 " But it does seem a little hard, that a lad should swing for kill- 
 ing a bit of venison in his own father's park." 
 " Which he'd a nafral right to do," cried Titus. 
 " He had no natural right to bruise, violently assault, and en- 
 danger the life of his father's, or anybody else's gamekeeper," re- 
 torted Coates. " I tell you, sir, he's committed a capital offence, 
 
 and if he's taken " 
 
 " No chance of that, I hope," interrupted Jack. 
 "That's a wish I can't help wishing myself," said Titus: "on 
 my conscience, these poachers are fine boys, when all's said and 
 done." 
 
 " The finest of all boys," exclaimed Jack, with a kindred en- 
 thusiasm, " are those birds of the night, and minions of the moon, 
 whom we call, most unjustly, poachers. They are, after ail, only 
 professional sportsmen, making a business of what we make a 
 pleasure; a nightly pursuit of what is to us a daily relaxation; 
 there's the main distinction. As to the rest, it's all in idea ; they 
 merely thin an overstocked park, # as you would reduce a plethoric 
 patient, doctor ; or as you would work a moneyed client, if you got 
 him into Chancery, Mister Attorney. And then how much more 
 scientilically and systematically they set to work than we amateurs 
 do ! how noiselessly they bag a hare, smoke a pheasant, or knock 
 
 E2 
 
52 KOOKWOOD. 
 
 a buck down with an air-gun ! how independent are they of any 
 license, except that of a good eye, and a swift pair of legs ! how 
 unnecessary is it for them to ask permission to shoot over Mr. So- 
 and-So's grounds, or my Lord That's preserves ! they are free of 
 every cover, and indifferent to any alteration in the game laws. 
 I've some thoughts, when everything else fails, of taking to poach- 
 ing myself. In my opinion, a poacher's a highly respectable cha- 
 racter. What say you, Mr. Coates?" turning very gravely to 
 that gentleman. 
 
 u Such a question, sir," replied Coates, bridling up, " scarcely 
 deserves a serious answer. I make no doubt you will next main- 
 tain that a highwayman is a gentleman." 
 
 u Most undoubtedly," replied Palmer, in the same grave tone, 
 which might have passed for banter, had Jack ever bantered. " I'll 
 maintain and prove it. I don't see how he can be otherwise. It 
 is as necessary for a man to be a gentleman before he can turn 
 highwayman, as it is for a doctor to have his diploma, or an 
 attorney his certificate. Some of the finest gentlemen of their 
 day, as Captains Lovelace, Hind, Hannum, and Dudley, were 
 eminent on the road, and they set the fashion. Ever since their 
 day a real highwayman would consider himself disgraced, if he 
 did not conduct himself in every way like a gentleman. Of course, 
 there are pretenders in this line, as in everything else. But these 
 are only exceptions, and prove the rule. What are the distin- 
 guishing characteristics of a fine gentleman? — perfect knowledge 
 of the world — perfect independence of character — notoriety — 
 command of cash — and inordinate success with the women. You 
 grant all these premises? First, then, it is part of a highwayman's 
 business to be thoroughly acquainted with the world. He is the 
 easiest and pleasantest fellow going. There is Tom King, for ex- 
 ample : he is the handsomest man about town, and the best-bred 
 fellow on the road. Then whose inclinations are so uncontrolled 
 as the highwayman's, so long as the mopuses last ? who produces 
 so great an effect by so few words? — < Stand and deliver !' is 
 sure to arrest attention. Every one is captivated by an address so 
 taking. As to money, he wins a purse of a hundred guineas as 
 easily as you would the same sum from the faro table. And 
 wherein lies the difference? only in the name of the game. Who 
 so little need of a banker as he ? all he has to apprehend is a check 
 — all he has to draw is a trigger. As to the women, they dote 
 upon him: not even your red-coat is so successful. Look at a 
 highwayman mounted on his flying steed, with his pistols in his 
 holsters, and his mask upon his face. What can be a more gallant 
 sight ? The clatter of his horse's heels is like music to his ear — he 
 is in full quest — he shouts to the fugitive horseman to stay — the 
 other flies all the faster — what chase can be half so exciting as 
 that? Suppose he overtakes his prey, which ten to one he will, 
 
ROOKWOOD. 53 
 
 how readily his summons to deliver is obeyed ! how satisfactory is 
 the appropriation of a lusty purse or corpulent pocket-book ! — 
 getting the brush is nothing to it. How tranquilly he departs, 
 takes off his hat to his accommodating acquaintance, wishes him a 
 pleasant journey, and disappears across the heath! England, sir, 
 has reason to be proud of her highwaymen. They are peculiar to 
 her clime, and are as much before the brigand of Italy, the con- 
 trabandist of Spain, or the cut-purse of France — as her sailors are 
 before all the rest of the world. The day will never come, I hope, 
 when we shall degenerate into the footpad, and lose our Night 
 Errantry. Even the French borrow from us — they have only one 
 highwayman of eminence, and he learnt and practised his art in 
 England." 
 
 " And who was he, may I ask ?" said Coates. 
 
 "Claude Du-Val," replied Jack; "and though a Frenchman, 
 he was a deuced fine fellow in his day — quite a tip-top macaroni 
 — he could skip and twirl like a figurant, warble like an opera 
 singer, and play the flageolet better than any man of his day — he 
 always carried a lute in his pocket, along with his snappers. And 
 then his dress — it was quite beautiful to see how smartly he was 
 rigg'd out, all velvet and lace ; and even with his vizard on his 
 face, the ladies used to cry out to see him. Then he took a purse 
 with the air and grace of a receiver-general. All the women 
 adored him — and that, bless their pretty faces ! was the best proot 
 of his gentility. I wish he'd not been a Mounseer. The women 
 never mistake. They can always discover the true gentleman, 
 and they were all, of every degree, from the countess to the 
 kitchen-maid, over head and ears in love with him." 
 
 "But he was taken, I suppose?" asked Coates. 
 
 " Ay," responded Jack, u the women were his undoing, as 
 they've been many a brave fellow's before, and will be again." 
 Touched by which reflection, Jack became tor once in his life 
 sentimental, and sighed. " Poor Du-Val ! he was seized at the 
 Hole-in-the-Wall in Chandos-strect by the bailiff of Westminster, 
 when dead drunk, his liquor having been drugged by his dells — 
 and was shortly afterwards hanged at Tyburn." 
 
 " It was a thousand pities," said Mr. Coates, with a sneer, u that 
 so fine a gentleman should come to so ignominious an end !" 
 
 " Quite the contrary," returned Jack. " As his biographer, 
 Doctor Pope, properly remarks, ' Who is there worthy of the name 
 of man, that would not prefer such a death before a mean, solitary, 
 inglorious life?' By-the-by, Titus, as we're upon the subject, if 
 you like I'll sing you a song about highwaymen?" 
 
 " I should like it of all things," replied Titus, who entertained 
 a very favourable opinion of Jack's vocal powers, and was by no 
 means an indifferent performer ; u only let it be in a minor key." 
 
 Jack required no further encouragement, but, disregarding the 
 
54 KOOKWOOD. 
 
 Lints and looks of Coates, sang with much unction the following 
 ballad to a good old tune, then very popular — the merit of which 
 " nobody can deny." 
 
 A CHAPTER OE HIGHWAYMEN. 
 
 Of every rascal of every kind, 
 . The most notorious to my mind, 
 Was the Cavalier Captain, gay Jemmy Hind !* 
 
 Which nobody can dewy. 
 
 But the pleasautest coxcomb among them all 
 
 Eor lute, coranto, and madrigal, 
 
 Was the galliard Frenchman, Claude Du-Val !f 
 
 Which nobody can deny. 
 
 And Tobygloak never a coach could rob, 
 
 Could lighten a pocket, or empty a fob, 
 
 With a neater hand than Old Mob, Old Mob \% 
 
 Which nobody can deny. 
 
 Nor did housebreaker ever deal harder knocks 
 
 On the stubborn lid of a good strong box, 
 
 Than that prince of good fellows, Tom Cox, .Tom Cox ! § 
 
 Which nobody can deny. 
 
 A blither fellow on broad highway, 
 Did never with oath bid traveller stay, 
 Than devil-may-care Will Holloway ! || 
 
 Which nobody can deny. 
 
 And in roguery nought could exceed the tricks 
 Of Gettings and Grey, and the five or six, 
 Who trod in the steps of bold Neddy Wicks ! ^| 
 
 Which nobody can deny. 
 
 * James Hind (the " Prince of Prigs"), a royalist captain of some distinction, 
 was hanged, drawn, and quartered, in 1652. Some good stories are told of him. 
 He had the credit of robbing Cromwell, Eradshaw, and Peters. His discourse 
 to Peters is particularly edifying. 
 
 f See Du-Val's life by Doctor Pope, or Leigh Hunt's brilliant sketch of him 
 in The Indicator. 
 
 \ We cannot say much in favour of this worthy, whose name was Thomas 
 Simpson. The reason of his sobriquet does not appear. He was not particularly 
 scrupulous as to his mode of appropriation. One of his sayings is, however, on 
 record. He told a widow whom he robbed, " that the end of a woman's husband 
 beginsin tears, but the end of her tears is another husband." " Upon which," 
 says his chronicler, " the gentlewoman gave him about fifty guineas." 
 
 §_ Tom was a sprightly fellow, and carried his sprightliness to the gallows ; 
 for just before he was turned off he kicked Mr. Smith, the ordinary, and the 
 hangman out of the cart — a piece of pleasantry which created, as may be sup- 
 posed, no small sensation. 
 
 || Many agreeable stories arc related of Holloway. His career, however, 
 closed with a murder. He contrived to break out of Newgate, but returned 
 to witness the trial of one of his associates ; when, upon the attempt of a turn- 
 key, one Richard Spurling, to seize him, Will knocked him on the head in the 
 presence of the whole court. For this offence he suffered the extreme penalty 
 of the law in 1712. 
 
 *[f Wicks's adventures with Madame Toly are highly diverting. It was this 
 
ROOKWOOD. 55 
 
 Nor could any so handily break a lock 
 
 As Sheppard, who stood on the Newgate dock, 
 
 And nicknamed the gaolers around him " his flock !"* 
 
 Which nobody can deny. 
 
 Nor did highwayman ever before possess 
 
 For ease, for security, danger, distress, 
 
 Such a mare as Dick Turpin's Black Bess ! Black Bess ! 
 
 Which nobody can deny. 
 
 " A capital song by the powers ! " cried Titus, as Jack's ditty 
 came to a close. u But your English robbers are nothing at all, 
 compared with our Tories f and Rapparees — nothing at all. They 
 were the raal gentlemen — they w T ere the boys to cut a throat 
 aisily" 
 
 " Pshaw !" exclaimed Jack, in disgust, " the gentlemen I speak 
 of never maltreated any one, except in self-defence." 
 
 " Maybe not," replied Titus ; " I'll not dispute the point — but 
 these Rapparees were true brothers of the blade, and gentlemen 
 every inch. I'll just sing you a song I made about them myself. 
 But meanwhile don't let's forget the bottle — talking's dry work. 
 My service to you, doctor !" added he, winking at the somnolent 
 Small. And tossing off his cflass, Titus delivered himself with 
 much joviality of the following ballad; the words of which he 
 adapted to the tune of the Groves of the Pool: 
 
 THE BAPPAREES. 
 
 Let the Englishman boast of his Turpins and Sheppards, as cocks of the walk, 
 His Mulsacks, and Cheneys, and Swiftnecks % — it's all botheration and talk ; 
 Compared with the robbers of Ireland, they don't come within half a mile, 
 There never were yet any rascals like those of my own native isle ! 
 
 hero — not Turpin, as lias been erroneously stated — who stopped the celebrated 
 Lord Mohun. Of Gettings and Grey, and " the five or six," the less said the 
 better. 
 
 * One of Jack's recorded mots. When a Bible was pressed upon his ac- 
 ceptance by Mr. Wagstaif, the chaplain, Jack refused it, saying, " that in his 
 situation one file would be worth all the Bibles in the world." A gentleman 
 who visited Newgate asked him to dinner ; Sheppard replied, " that he would 
 take an early opportunity of waiting upon him." And we believe he kept his 
 word. 
 
 f The word Tory, as here applied, must not be confounded with the term of 
 party distinction now in general use in the political world. It simply means a 
 thief on a grand scale, something more than " a snapper-up of unconsidered 
 trifles," or petty-larceny rascal. We have classical authority for this : — Tory : 
 " An advocate for absolute monarchy ; also, an Irish vagabond, robber, or rap- 
 paree." — Grose's Dictionary. 
 
 % A trio of famous High-Tobygloaks. Swiftneck was a captain of Irish 
 dragoons, by-the-by. 
 
56 KOOKWOOD. 
 
 First and foremost comes Redmond O'Hanlon, allowed the first thief of the 
 
 world,* 
 That o'er the broad province of Ulster the Rapparee banner unfnrled ; 
 Och ! he was an elegant fellow, as ever you saw in your life, 
 At fingering the blunderbuss trigger, or handling the throat-cutting knife. 
 
 And then such a dare-devil squadron as that which composed Redmond's tail I 
 Meel, Mactigh, Jack Reilly, Shan Bernagh, Phil Galloge, and Arthur O'Neal; 
 Share never were any boys like 'em, for rows, agitation, and sprees ; 
 Not a rap did they leave in the country, and hence they were called i&zpparees.f 
 
 Next comes Power, the great ToryJ of Munster, a gentleman born every inch, 
 And strong Jack Macpherson of. Leinster, a horse-shoe who broke at a pinch ; 
 The last was a fellow so lively, not death e'en his courage could damp, 
 Tor as he was led to the gallows, he played his own " march* to the camp."§ 
 
 Paddy Fleming, Dick Balf, and Mulhoni, I think are the next on my list, 
 All adepts in the beautiful science of giving a pocket a twist ; 
 Jemmy Carrick must follow his leaders, ould Purney who put in a huff, 
 By dancing a hornpipe at Tyburn, and bothering the hangman for snuff. 
 
 * Redmond O'Hanlon was the Rob Roy of Ireland, and his adventures, 
 many of which are exceedingly curious, would furnish as rich materials for the 
 novelist, as they have already done for the ballad-mongers : some of them are, 
 however, sufficiently well narrated in a pleasant little tome, published at Bel- 
 fast, entitled, The History of the Rapparees. We are also in possession of a 
 funeral discourse, preached at the obsequies of the "noble and renowned" 
 Henry St. John, Esq., who was unfortunately killed by the Tories (the De- 
 structives of those days), in the induction to which we find some allusion to 
 Redmond. After describing the thriving condition of the north of Ireland, 
 about 16S0, the Rev. Lawrence Power, the author of the sermon, says, " One 
 mischief there was, which indeed in a great measure destroyed all, and that 
 was, a pack of insolent bloody outlaws, whom they here call Tories. These had 
 so riveted themselves in these parts, that by the interest they had among the 
 natives, and some English, too, to their shame be it spoken, they exercise a kind 
 of separate sovereignty in three or four counties in the north of Ireland. 
 Redmond O'Hanlon is their chief, and has been these many years ; a cunning, 
 dangerous fellow, who, though proclaimed an outlaw with the rest of his crew, 
 and sums of money set upon their heads, yet he reigns still, and keeps all in 
 subjection, so far that 'tis credibly reported he raises more in a year by contri- 
 butions a-la-mode de France than the kinr/s land taxes and chimney-money come 
 to, and thereby is enabled to bribe clerks a?id officers, IE not tiieir masters, (!) 
 and makes all too much truckle to him" Agitation, it seems, was not confined 
 to our own days — but the " finest country in the world" has been, and ever will 
 be, the same. The old game is played under a new colour — the only difference 
 being, that had Redmond lived in our time, he would, in all probability, not 
 only have pillaged a county, but represented it in parliament. The spirit of the 
 Rapparee is still abroad — though we fear there is little of the Tory left about 
 it. We recommend this note to the serious consideration of the declaimers 
 against the sufferings of the " six millions." 
 
 t Here Titus was slightly in error. He mistook the cause for the effect. 
 " They were called Rapparces," Mr. Malone says, " from being armed with a 
 half-pike, called by the Irish a rapparee." — Todd's Johnson. 
 
 J Tory, so called from the Irish word Torce, give me your money. — Todd's 
 Johnson. 
 
 § As he was carried to the gallows, Jack played a fine tune of his own com- 
 posing on the bagpipe, which retains the name of Macpherson's tune to this 
 day. — History of the Rapparees. 
 
ROOKWOOD. 57 
 
 There's Paul Liddy, the curly-pate Tory, whose noddle was stuck on a spike, 
 And Billy Delany, the "Songster"* we never shall meet with his like ; 
 For his neck by a witch was anointed, and warranted safe by her charm, 
 No hemp that was ever yet twisted his wonderful throttle could harm. 
 
 And lastly, there's Caiiir na Capful, the handiest rogue of them all, 
 Who only need whisper a word, and your horse will trot out of his stall ; 
 Your tit is not safe in your stable, though you or your groom should be near, 
 And devil a bit in the paddock, if Caiiir gets hould of his ear. 
 
 Then success to the Tories of Ireland, the generous, the gallant, the gay ! 
 With them the best JRitmpadsf of England are not to be named the same day ! 
 And were further proof wanting to show what precedence we take with our 
 
 prigs, 
 Recollect that our robbers are Tories, while those of your country are Wiiigs ! 
 
 66 Bravissimo !" cried Jack, drumming upon the table. 
 
 " Well," said Coates, " we've had enough about the Irish high- 
 waymen, in all conscience. But there's a rascal on our side of the 
 Channel, whom you have only incidentally mentioned, and who 
 makes more noise than them all put together." 
 
 " Who's that?" asked Jack, with some curiosity. 
 
 " Dick Turpin," replied the attorney : " he seems to me quite 
 as worthy of mention as any of the Hinds, the Du-Vals, or the 
 O'llanlons, you have either of you enumerated." 
 
 u I did not think of him," replied Palmer, smiling ; u though, if 
 I had, he scarcely deserves to be ranked with those illustrious 
 heroes." 
 
 "Gads bobs!" cried Titus; "they tell me Turpin keeps the 
 
 * "Notwithstanding he was so great a rogue, Delany was a handsome, portly 
 man, extremely diverting in company, and could behave himself before gentle- 
 men very agreeably. He had a political genius (not altogether surprising in so 
 eminent a Tory), and would have made a great proficiency in learning if he had 
 rightly applied his time. He composed several songs, and put tunes to them ; 
 and by his skill in music gained the favour of some of the leading musicians in 
 the country, who endeavoured to get him reprieved." — History of the Rapparees. 
 The particulars of the Songster's execution are singular : — " When he was 
 brought into court to receive sentence of death, the judge told him that he was 
 informed he should say ' that there was not a rope in Ireland sufficient to hang 
 him. But,' says he, ' I'll try if Kilkenny can't afford one strong enough to do 
 your business ; and if that will not do, you shall have another, and another.' 
 Then he ordered the sheriff to choose a rope, and Delany was ordered for exe- 
 cution the next day. The sheriff having notice of his mother's boasting that 
 no rope could hang her son (and pursuant to the judge's desire), provided two 
 ropes, but Delany broke them one after another ! The sheriff was then in a 
 rage, and went for three bed-cords, which he plaited threefold together, and 
 they did his business I Yet the sheriff was afraid he was not dead; and in a 
 passion, to make trial, stabbed him with his sword in the soles of his feet, and 
 at last cut the rope. After he was cut down, his body was carried into the 
 court-house, where it remained in the coffin for two days, standing up, till the 
 judge and all the spectators were fully satisfied that he was stiff and dead, and 
 then permission was given to his friends to remove the corpse and bury it !" — 
 History of the Rapparees. 
 
 f Highwaymen, as contradistinguished from footpads. 
 
58 ROOKWOOD. 
 
 "best nag in the United Kingdom, and can ride faster and further 
 in a day than any other man in a week." 
 
 " So I've heard," said Palmer, with a glance of satisfaction. 
 " I should like to try a run with him. I warrant me, I'd not be 
 far behind." 
 
 " I should like to get a peep at him," quoth Titus. 
 
 " So should I," added Coa tes. « Vastly ! " 
 
 " You may both of you be gratified, gentlemen," said Palmer. 
 " Talking of Dick Turpin, they say, is like speaking of the devil, 
 he's at your elbow ere the word's well out of your mouth. He 
 may be within hearing at this moment, for anything we know to 
 the contrary." 
 
 "Body o'me!" ejaculated Coates, "you don't say so? Turpin 
 in Yorkshire! I thought he confined his exploits to the neigh- 
 bourhood of the metropolis, and made Epping Forest his head- 
 quarters." 
 
 " So he did," replied Jack, "but the cave is all up now. The 
 whole of the great North Road, from Tottenham Cross to York 
 gates, comes within Dick's present range; and Saint Nicholas only 
 knows in which part of it he is most likely to be found. He 
 shifts his quarters as often and as readily as a Tartar; and lie who 
 looks for him, may chance to catch a Tartar — ha! — ha!" 
 
 " It's a disgrace to the country that such a rascal should remain 
 unhanged," returned Coates, peevishly. u Government ought to 
 look to it. Is the whole kingdom to be kept in a state of agita- 
 tion by a single highwayman ? — Sir Robert Walpole should take 
 the affair into his own hands." 
 
 " Fudge !" exclaimed Jack, emptying his glass. 
 
 " I have already addressed a letter to the editor of the Common 
 Sense on the subject," said Coates, "in which I have spoken my 
 mind pretty plainly : and I repeat, it is perfectly disgraceful that 
 such a rascal should be suffered to remain at large." 
 
 " You don't happen to have that letter by you, I suppose?" said 
 Jack, " or I should beg the favour to hear it. — I am not acquainted 
 with the newspaper to which you allude; — I read Fog's Journal^ 
 
 " So I thought," replied Coates, with a sneer ; " that's the reason 
 you are so easily mystified. But luckily I have the paper in my 
 pocket; and you are quite welcome to my opinions. Here it is," 
 added he, drawing forth a newspaper. " I shall waive my pre- 
 liminary remarks, and come to the point at once." 
 
 " By all means," said Jack. 
 
 " c I thank God,' " began Coates, in an authoritative tone, 
 " 6 that I was born in a country that hath formerly emulated the 
 Romans in their public spirit ; as is evident from their conquests 
 abroad, and their struggles for liberty at home.' " 
 
 " What has all this got to do with Turpin?" interposed Jack. 
 
 " You will hear," replied the attorney — " no interruptions, if 
 you please. i But this noble principle,' " continued he, with great 
 
ROOK WOOD. 59 
 
 emphasis, " i though not utterly lost, I cannot think at present so 
 active as it ought to be in a nation so jealous of her liberty.' ' : 
 
 " Good !" exclaimed Jack. " There is more than c common sense 9 
 in that observation, Mr. Coates." 
 
 u ' My suspicion/ " proceeded Coates, u 'is founded on a late in- 
 stance. I mean the flagrant, undisturbed success of the notorious 
 Turpin, who hath robb'd in a manner scarce ever known before 
 for several years, and is grown so insolent and impudent as to 
 threaten particular persons, and become openly dangerous to the 
 lives as well as fortunes of the people of England.' " 
 
 " Better and better," shouted Jack, laughing immoderately. 
 " Pray go on, sir." 
 
 " i That a fellow,' " continued Coates, " i who is known to be a 
 thief by the whole kingdom, shall for so long a time continue to 
 rob us, and not only rob us, but make a jest of us ' " 
 
 " Ha — ha — ha — capital ! Excuse me, sir," roared Jack, laugh- 
 ing till the tears ran down his cheeks — " pray, pray, go on." 
 
 " I see nothing to laugh at," replied Coates, somewhat offended ; 
 " however, I will conclude my letter, since I have begun it — i not 
 only rob us, but make a jest of us, shall defy the laws, and laugh at 
 justice, argues a want of public spirit, which should make every 
 particular member of the community sensible of the public cala- 
 mity, and ambitious of the honour of extirpating such a notorious 
 highwayman from society, since he owes his long successes to no 
 other cause than his immoderate impudence, and the sloth and 
 pusillanimity of those who ought to bring him to justice.' I will 
 not deny," continued Coates, u that, professing myself, as I do, 
 to be a stanch new Whig, I had not some covert political object 
 in penning this epistle* Nevertheless, setting aside my prin- 
 ciples " 
 
 " Right," observed Jack ; u you Whigs, new or old, always set 
 aside your principles." 
 
 " Setting aside any political feeling I may entertain," continued 
 Coates, disregarding the interruption, " I repeat, I am ambitious 
 of extirpating this modern Cacus — this Autolycus of the eighteenth 
 century." 
 
 "And what course do you mean to pursue?" asked Jack, "for 
 1 suppose you do not expect to catch this ' ongkt-to-lick-usj as you 
 call him, by a line in the newspapers." 
 
 " I am in the habit of keeping my own counsel, sir," replied 
 Coates, pettishly; "and to be plain with you, I hope to finger all 
 the reward myself." 
 
 * Since Mr. Coates here avows himself the writer of this diatribe against 
 Sir Robert Walpole, attacked under the guise of Turpin in the Common Sense of 
 July 30, 1737, it is useless to inquire further into its authorship. And it re- 
 mains only to refer the reader to the Gents. Mag., vol. vii. p. 438, for the article 
 above quoted ; and for a reply to it from the Daily Gazetteer contained in r>. 499 
 of the same volume. 
 
60 KOOKWOOD. 
 
 " Oons, is there a reward offered for Turpin's apprehension ?" 
 asked Titus. 
 
 " No less than two hundred pounds," answered Coates, " and 
 that's no trifle, qs you will both admit. Have you not seen the 
 king's proclamation, Mr. Palmer?" 
 
 " Not I," replied Jack, with affected indifference. 
 
 " Nor I," added Titus, with some appearance of curiosity ; " do 
 you happen to have that by you too?" 
 
 " I always carry it about with me," replied Coates, " that I may 
 refer to it in case of emergency. My father, Christopher, or Kit 
 Coates, as he was familiarly called, was a celebrated thief-taker. 
 He apprehended Spicket, and Child, and half a dozen others, and 
 always kept their descriptions in his pocket. I endeavour to tread 
 in my worthy father's footsteps. I hope to signalise myself by 
 capturing a highwayman. By-the-by," added he, surveying Jack 
 more narrowly, "it occurs to me that Turpin must be rather like 
 you, Mr. Palmer?" 
 
 " Like me," said Jack, regarding Coates askance ; " like me — 
 how am I to understand you, sir, eh?" 
 
 "No offence; none whatever, sir. Ah! stay, you won't object 
 to my comparing the description. That can do no harm. Nobody 
 would take you for a highwayman — nobody whatever — ha ! ha ! 
 Singular resemblance — he — he. These things do happen some- 
 times : not very often, though. But here is Turpin's description 
 in the Gazette, June 28th, A.r>. 1737: — 'It having been repre- 
 sented to the King that Richard Turpin did, on Wednesday, the 
 4th of May last, rob on his Majesty's highway Vavasour Mow- 
 bray, Esq., Major of the 2nd troop of Horse Grenadiers' — (that 
 Major Mowbray, by-the-by, is a nephew of the late Sir Piers, and 
 cousin of the present baronet) — c and commit other notorious 
 felonies and robberies near London, his Majesty is pleased to 
 promise his most gracious pardon to any of his accomplices, and 
 a reward of tioo hundred pounds to any person or persons who 
 shall discover him, so as he may be apprehended and convicted? ' 
 
 "Odsbodikins !" exclaimed Titus, " a noble reward ! I should 
 like to lay hands upon Turpin," added he, slapping Palmer's 
 shoulder: u I wish he were in your place at this moment, Jack." 
 
 "Thank you!" replied Palmer, shifting his chair. 
 
 " ' Turpin? ' continued Coates, " ' ivas born at Thacksted, in 
 Essex; is about thirty' — you, sir, I believe, are about thirty?" 
 added he, addressing Palmer. 
 
 " Thereabouts," said Jack, bluffly. " But what has my age to 
 do with that of Turpin ?" 
 
 " Nothing — nothing at all," answered Coates ; " suffer me, how- 
 ever, to proceed: — 'Is by trade a butcher, 7 — you, sir, I believe, 
 never had any dealings in that line?" 
 
 " I have some notion how to dispose of a troublesome calf," re- 
 turned Jack. " But Turpin, though described as a butcher, is, I 
 
ROOKWOOD. 61 
 
 understand, a lineal descendant of a great French archbishop of 
 the same name." 
 
 "Who wrote the chronicles of that royal robber Charlemagne; 
 I know him," replied Coates — " a terrible liar ! — The modern 
 Turpin i is about jive feet nine inches high ' — exactly your height, 
 sir — exactly !" 
 
 "I am five feet ten," answered Jack, standing bolt upright. 
 
 " You have an inch then in your favour," returned the unper- 
 turbed attorney, deliberately proceeding with his examination — 
 " ( he has a brown complexion, marked with the small-pox! " 
 
 " My complexion is florid — my face without a seam," quoth 
 Jack. 
 
 " Those whiskers would conceal anything," replied Coates, with 
 a grin. "Nobody wears whiskers now-a-days, except a highway- 
 man." 
 
 "Sir!" said Jack, sternly. "You are personal." 
 
 "I don't mean to be so," replied Coates; "but you must allow 
 the description tallies with your own in a remarkable manner. 
 Hear me out. however — i his cheek bones are broad — his face is 
 thinner towards the bottom — his visage short — pretty upright— and 
 broad about the shoulders! Now I appeal to Mr. Tyrconnel if all 
 this does not sound like a portrait of yourself." 
 
 " Don't appeal to me," said Titus, hastily, " upon such a deli- 
 cate point. I can't say that I approve of a gentleman being 
 likened to a highwayman. But if ever there was a highwayman 
 I'd wish to resemble, it's either Redmond O'Hanlon or Richard 
 Turpin; and may the devil burn me if I know which of the two 
 is the greatest rascal !" 
 
 " Well, Mr. Palmer," said Coates, " I repeat, I mean no 
 offence. Likenesses are unaccountable. I am said to be like my 
 Lord North; whether I am or not, the Lord knows. But if ever 
 I meet with Turpin I shall bear you in mind — he — he. Ah ! if 
 ever I should have the good luck to stumble upon him, I've a 
 plan for his capture which couldn't fail. Only let me get a 
 glimpse of him, that's all. You shall see how I'll dispose of him." 
 
 "Well, sir, we shall see," observed Palmer. "And for your 
 own sake, I wish you may never be nearer to him than you are 
 at this moment. With his friends, they say Dick Turpin can be 
 as gentle as a lamb; with his foes, especially with a limb of the 
 law like yourself, he's been found but an ugly customer. I once 
 saw him at Newmarket, where he was collared by two constable 
 culls, one on each side. Shaking off one, and dealing the other a 
 blow in the face with his heavy-handled whip, he stuck spurs into 
 his mare, and though the whole field gave chase, he distanced 
 them all, easily." 
 
 " And how came you not to try your pace with him, if you 
 were there, as you boasted a short time ago?" asked Coates. 
 
 " So I did, and stuck closer to him than any one else. We 
 
62 KOOKWOOD. 
 
 were neck and neck. I was the only person who could have 
 delivered him to the hands of justice, if I'd felt inclined." 
 
 " Zounds!" cried Coates; "if I had a similar opportunity it 
 should be neck or nothing. Either he or I should reach the 
 scragging-post first. I'd take him, dead or alive." 
 
 " You take Turpin !" cried Jack, with a sneer. 
 
 " I'd engage to do it," replied Coates. " I'll bet you a hundred 
 guineas I take him, if I ever have the same chance." 
 
 a Done !" exclaimed Jack, rapping the table at the same time, so 
 that the glasses danced upon it. 
 
 " That's right," cried Titus. " I'll go you halves." 
 
 "What's the matter — what's the matter?" exclaimed Small, 
 awakened from his doze. 
 
 " Only a trifling bet about a highwayman," replied Titus. 
 
 " A highwayman ! " echoed Small. " Eh ! what ? there are none 
 in the house, I hope." 
 
 " I hope not," answered Coates. " But this gentleman has taken 
 up the defence of the notorious Dick Turpin in so singular a man- 
 ner, that " 
 
 " Quod factu fcedum est, idem est et Dictu Turpe" returned 
 Small. " The less said about that rascal the better." 
 
 " So I think," replied Jack. " The fact is as you say, sir — were 
 Dick here, he would, I am sure, take the freedom to hide 'em." 
 
 Further discourse was cut short by the sudden opening of the 
 door, followed by the abrupt entrance of a tall, slender young man, 
 who hastily advanced towards the table, around which the com- 
 pany were seated. His appearance excited the utmost astonish- 
 ment in the whole group: curiosity was exhibited in every coun- 
 tenance — the magnum remained poised midway in the hand of 
 Palmer — Doctor Small scorched his thumb in the bowl of his pipe ; 
 and Mr. Coates was almost choked, by swallowing an inordinate 
 whiff of vapour. 
 
 "Young Sir Ranulph!" ejaculated he, as soon as the syncope 
 would permit him. 
 
 " Sir Ranulph here?" echoed Palmer, rising. 
 
 "Angels and ministers!" exclaimed Small. 
 
 " Odsbodikins !" cried Titus, with a theatrical start ; " this is 
 more than I expected." 
 
 " Gentlemen," said Ranulph, " do not let my unexpected arrival 
 here discompose you. Dr. Small, you will excuse the manner of 
 my greeting ; and you, Mr. Coates. One of the present party, I 
 believe, was my father's medical attendant, Dr. Tyrconnel." 
 
 " I had that honour," replied the Irishman, bowing profoundly 
 — " I am Dr. Tyrconnel, Sir Ranulph, at your service." 
 
 " When, and at what hour, did my father breathe his last, sir?" 
 inquired Ranulph. 
 
 " Poor Sir Piers," answered Titus, again bowing, " departed 
 this life on Thursday last. 
 
EOOKWOOD. , 63 
 
 " The hour ? — the precise minute ?" asked Ranulph, eagerly. 
 
 u Troth, Sir Ranulph, as nearly as I can recollect, it might be a 
 few minutes before midnight." 
 
 "The very hour!" exclaimed Ranulph, striding towards the 
 window. His steps were arrested as his eye fell upon the attire of 
 his father, which, as we have before noticed, hung at that end of 
 the room. A slight shudder passed over his frame. There was a 
 momentary pause, during which Ranulph continued gazing in- 
 tently at the apparel. " The very dress, too !" muttered he ; then 
 turning to the assembly, who were watching his movements with 
 surprise: ec Doctor," said he, addressing Small, " I have something 
 for your private ear. Gentlemen, will you spare us the room for a 
 few minutes ?" 
 
 a On my conscience," said Tyrconnel to Jack Palmer, as they 
 quitted the sanctum, "a mighty fine boy is this young Sir 
 Ranulph ! — and a chip of the ould block ! — he'll be as good 
 a fellow as his father." 
 
 " No doubt," replied Palmer, shutting the door. " But what 
 the devil brought him back, just in the nick of it?" 
 
 CHAPTER, X. 
 
 KANULPH EOOKWOOD. 
 
 Fer. Yes, Erancisco, 
 
 He hath left his curse upon me. 
 Fran. How? 
 Fer. His curse ! dost comprehend what that word carries, 
 
 Shot from a father's angry breath ? Unless 
 
 I tear poor Felisarda from my heart, 
 
 He hath pronounced me heir to all his curses. 
 
 Shirley : The Brothers. 
 
 "There is nothing, I trust, my dear young friend, and 
 quondam pupil," said Doctor Small, as the door was closed, 
 " that weighs upon your mind, beyond the sorrow naturally in- 
 cident to an affliction, severe as the present. Forgive my appre- 
 hensions if I am wron2\ You know the affectionate interest I 
 have ever felt for you — an interest which, I assure you, is nowise 
 diminished, and which will excuse my urging you to unburden 
 your mind to me ; assuring yourself, that whatever may be your dis- 
 closure, you wdli have my sincere sympathy and commiseration. 
 I may be better able to advise with you, should counsel be 
 necessary, than others, from my knowledge of your character and 
 temperament. I would not anticipate evil, and am, perhaps, un- 
 necessarily apprehensive. But I own, I am startled at the in- 
 coherence of your expressions, coupled with your sudden and 
 
64 ROOKWOOD. 
 
 almost mysterious appearance at this distressing conjuncture. 
 Answer me: has your return been the result of mere accident? 
 is it to be considered one of those singular circumstances which 
 almost look like fate, and baffle our comprehension? or were you 
 nearer home than we expected, and received the news of your 
 father's demise through some channel unknown to us? Satisfy my 
 curiosity, I beg of you, upon this point." 
 
 " Your curiosity, my dear sir," replied Ranulph, gravely and 
 sadly, " will not be decreased, when I tell you, that my return has 
 neither been the work of chance (for I came, fully anticipating 
 the dread event, which I find realised), nor has it been occasioned 
 by any intelligence derived from yourself, or others. It was only, 
 indeed, upon my arrival here that I received full confirmation of 
 my apprehensions. I had another, a more terrible summons to 
 return." 
 
 " What summons? you perplex me!" exclaimed Small, gazing 
 with some misgiving into the face of his young friend. 
 
 " I am myself perplexed — sorely perplexed," returned Ranulph. 
 " I have much to relate ; but I pray you bear with me to the end. 
 I have that on my mind which, like guilt, must be revealed." 
 
 " Speak, then, fearlessly to me," said Small, affectionately press* 
 ing Ranulph's hand, " and assure yourself, beforehand, of my 
 sympathy." 
 
 " It will be necessary," said Ranulph, " to preface my narrative 
 by some slight allusion to certain painful events (and yet I know 
 not why I should call them painful, excepting in their conse- 
 quences) which influenced my conduct in my final interview 
 between my father and myself — an interview which occasioned 
 my departure for the Continent — and which was of a character so 
 dreadful, that I would not even revert to it, were it not a necessary 
 preliminary to the circumstance I am about to detail. 
 
 " When I left Oxford, I passed a few weeks alone, in London. 
 A college friend, whom I accidentally met, introduced me, during 
 a promenade in St. James's Park, to some acquaintances of his 
 own, who were taking an airing in the Mall at the same time — a 
 family whose name was Mowbray, consisting of a widow lady, her 
 son, and daughter. This introduction was made in compliance 
 with my own request. I had been struck by the singular beauty 
 of the younger lady, whose countenance had a peculiar and inex- 
 pressible charm to me, from its marked resemblance to the por- 
 trait of the Lady Eleanor Rookwood, whose charms, and unhappy 
 fate, I have so often dwelt upon and deplored. The picture is 
 there," continued Ranulph, pointing to it : " look at it, and you 
 have the fair creature I speak of before you ; the colour of the 
 hair — the tenderness of the eyes. No — the expression is not so 
 
 sad, except when but no matter ! I recognised her features at 
 
 once. 
 
 " It struck me, that upon the mention of my name, the party 
 
ROOKWOOD. 65 
 
 betrayed some surprise, especially the elder lady. For my own 
 part, I was so attracted by the beauty of the daughter, the effect 
 of which upon me seemed rather the fulfilment of a predestined 
 event, originating in the strange fascination which the family 
 portrait had wrought in my heart, than the operation of what is 
 called i love at first sight,' that I was insensible to the agitation' of 
 the mother. In vain I endeavoured to rally myself; my efforts 
 at conversation were fruitless ; I could not talk — all I could do was 
 silently to yield to the soft witchery of those tender eyes ; my ad- 
 miration increasing each instant that I gazed upon them. 
 
 " I accompanied them home. Attracted as by some irresistible 
 spell, I could not tear myself away ; so that, although I fancied I 
 could perceive symptoms of displeasure in the looks of both the 
 mother and the son, yet, regardless of consequences, I ventured, 
 uninvited, to enter the house. In order to shake off the restraint 
 which I felt my society imposed, I found it absolutely necessary 
 to divest myself of bashfulness, and to exert such conversational 
 powers as I possessed. I succeeded so well that the discourse soon 
 became lively and animated ; and what chiefly delighted me was, 
 that she, for whose sake I had committed my present rudeness, 
 became radiant with smiles. I had been all eagerness to seek for 
 some explanation of the resemblance to which I have just alluded, 
 and the fitting moment had, I conceived, arrived. I called atten- 
 tion to a peculiar expression in the features of Miss Mowbray, and 
 then instanced the likeness that subsisted between her and my 
 ancestress. ' It is the more singular,' I said, turning to her 
 mother, i because there could have been no affinity, that I am 
 aware of, between them, and yet the likeness is really surprising/ 
 — * It is not so singular as you imagine,' answered Mrs. Mowbray ; 
 6 there is a close affinity. That Lady Rookwood was my mother. 
 Eleanor Mowbray does resemble her ill-fated ancestress.' 
 
 66 Words cannot paint my astonishment. I gazed at Mrs. 
 Mowbray, considering whether I had not misconstrued her speech 
 — whether I had not so shaped the sounds as to suit my own 
 quick and passionate conceptions. But no ! I read in her calm, 
 collected countenance — in the downcast glance, and sudden sadness 
 of Eleanor, as well as in the changed and haughty demeanour of 
 the brother, that I had heard her rightly. Eleanor Mowbray was 
 my cousin — the descendant of that hapless creature whose image I 
 had almost worshipped. 
 
 " Recovering from mv surprise, I addressed Mrs. Mowbray, 
 endeavouring to excuse my ignorance of our relationship, on the 
 plea that I had not been given to understand that such had been 
 the name of the gentleman she had espoused. ( Nor was it,' 
 answered she, ' the name he bore at Rookwood ; circumstances 
 forbad it then. From the hour I quitted that house until this 
 moment, excepting one interview with my — with Sir Reginald 
 Rookwood — I have seen none of my family — have held no com- 
 
 F 
 
66 ROOKWOOD. 
 
 munication with them. My brothers have been strangers to me ; 
 the very name of Rookwood has been unheard, unknown ; nor 
 would you have been admitted here, had not accident occasioned 
 it.' I ventured now to interrupt her, and to express a hope that 
 she would suffer an acquaintance to be kept up, which had so 
 fortunately commenced, and which might most probably bring 
 about an entire reconciliation between the families. I was so 
 earnest in my expostulations, my whole soul being in them, that 
 she inclined a more friendly ear to me. Eleanor, too, smiled en- 
 couragement. Love lent me eloquence ; and at length, as a token 
 of my success, and her own relenting, Mrs. Mowbray held forth 
 her hand : I clasped it eagerly. It was the happiest moment of 
 my life. 
 
 "I will not trouble you with any lengthened description of 
 Eleanor Mowbray. I hope, at some period or other, you may 
 still be enabled to see her, and judge for yourself; for though ad- 
 verse circumstances have hitherto conspired to separate us, the 
 time for a renewal of our acquaintance is approaching, I trust, for 
 I am not yet altogether without hope. But this much I may be 
 allowed to say, that her rare endowments of person were only 
 equalled by the graces of her mind. 
 
 " Educated abroad, she had all the vivacity of our livelier neigh- 
 bours, combined with every solid qualification which we claim as 
 more essentially our own. Her light and frolic manner was 
 French, certainly ; but her gentle, sincere heart was as surely 
 English. The foreign accent that dwelt upon her tongue com- 
 municated an inexpressible charm, even to the language which 
 she spoke. 
 
 u I will not dwell too long upon this theme. I feel ashamed 
 of my own prolixity. And yet I am sure you will pardon it. 
 Ah, those bright brief days ! too quickly were they fled ! I 
 could expatiate upon each minute — recal each word — revive each 
 look. It may not be. I must hasten on. Darker themes await 
 me. 
 
 u My love made rapid progress — I became each hour more ena- 
 moured of my new-found cousin. My whole time was passed 
 near her ; indeed, I could scarcely exist in absence from her side. 
 Short, however, was destined to be my indulgence in this blissful 
 state. One happy week was its extent. I received a peremptory 
 summons from my father to return home. 
 
 " Immediately upon commencing this acquaintance, I had writ- 
 ten to my father, explaining every particular attending it. This I 
 should have done of my own free will, but I was urged to it by 
 Mrs. Mowbray. Unaccustomed to disguise, I had expatiated 
 upon the beauty of Eleanor, and in such terms, I fear, that I ex- 
 cited some uneasiness in his breast. His letter was laconic. He 
 made no allusion to the subject upon which I had expatiated when 
 writing to him. He commanded me to return. 
 
ROOK WOOD. 67 
 
 "The bitter hour was at hand. I could not hesitate to comply. 
 Without my father's sanction, I was assured Mrs. Mowbray would 
 not permit any continuance of my acquaintance. Of Eleanor's in- 
 clinations I fancied I had some assurance ; but without her mother's 
 consent, to whose will she was devoted, I felt, had I even been in- 
 clined to urge it, that my suit was hopeless. The letter which I 
 had received from my father made me more than doubt whether I 
 should not find him utterly adverse to my wishes. Agonised, 
 therefore, with a thousand apprehensions, I presented myself on 
 the morning of my departure. It was then I made the declara- 
 tion of my passion to Eleanor; it was then that every hope was 
 confirmed, every apprehension realised. I received from her lips 
 a confirmation of my fondest wishes; yet were those hopes blighted 
 in the bud, when I heard, at the same time, that their consumma- 
 tion was dependent on the will of two others, whose assenting 
 voices, she feared, could never be obtained. From Mrs. Mow- 
 bray I received a more decided reply. All her haughtiness was 
 aroused. Her farewell words assured me, that it was indifferent to 
 her whether we met again as relatives or as strangers. Then was 
 it that the native tenderness of Eleanor displayed itself, in an out- 
 break of feeling peculiar to a heart keenly sympathetic as hers. 
 She saw my suffering — the reserve natural to her sex gave way — 
 she flung herself into my arms — and so we parted. 
 
 " With a heavy foreboding I returned to Rookwood, and, op- 
 pressed with the gloomiest anticipations, endeavoured to prepare 
 myself for the worst. I arrived. My reception was such as I had 
 calculated upon ; and, to increase my distress, my parents had 
 been at variance. I will not pain you and myself with any recital 
 of their disagreement. My mother had espoused my cause, chiefly, 
 I fear, with the view of thwarting my poor father's inclinations. 
 He was in a terrible mood, exasperated by the fiery stimulants he 
 had swallowed, which had not, indeed, drowned his reason, but 
 roused and inflamed every dormant emotion to violence. He was 
 as one insane. It was evening when I arrived. I would wil- 
 lingly have postponed the interview till the morrow. It could not 
 be. He insisted upon seeing me. 
 
 u My mother was present. You know the restraint she usually 
 had over my father, and how she maintained it. On this occasion 
 she had none. He questioned me as to every particular ; probed 
 my secret soul; dragged forth every latent feeling, and then thun- 
 dered out his own determination that Eleanor never should be 
 bride of mine; nor would he receive, under his roof, her mother, 
 the discountenanced daughter of his father. I endeavoured to re- 
 monstrate with him. He was deaf to my entreaties. My mother 
 added sharp and stinging words to my expostulations. i I had her 
 consent,' she said; 'what more was needed? The lands were en- 
 tailed. I should at no distant period be their master, and might 
 
 W 2 
 
68 EOOKWOOD 
 
 then please myself.' This I mention in order to give you my 
 father's strange answer. 
 
 " ' Have a care, madam,' replied he, 6 and bridle your tongue; 
 they are entailed, 'tis true, but I need not ask his consent to cut 
 off that entail. Let him dare to disobey me in this particular, and 
 I will so divert the channel of my wealth, that no drop shall 
 reach him. I will — but why threaten? — let him do it, and ap- 
 prove the consequences.' 
 
 " On the morrow I renewed my importunities with no better 
 success. We were alone. 
 
 " ' Ranulph,' said he, c you waste time in seeking to change my 
 resolution. It is unalterable. I have many motives which in- 
 fluence me ; they are inexplicable, but imperative. Eleanor 
 Mowbray never can be yours. Forget her as speedily as may be, 
 and I pledge myself, upon whomsoever else your choice may fix, 
 I will offer no obstacle.' 
 
 " ' But why,' exclaimed I, with vehemence, ' do you object to 
 one whom you have never beheld? At least, consent to see her.' 
 
 Ui Never!' he replied. 6 The tie is sundered, and cannot be 
 reunited; my father bound me by an oath never to meet in friend- 
 ship with my sister; I will not break my vow. I will not violate 
 its conditions, even in the second degree. We never can meet 
 again. An idle prophecy which I have heard has said, " that 
 when a Rookwood shall marry a Rookwood the end of the house 
 draweih nigh? That I regard not. It may have no meaning, or 
 it may have much. To me it imports nothing further, than that, 
 if you wed Eleanor, every acre I possess shall depart from you. 
 And assure yourself this is no idle threat. I can, and will do it. 
 My curse shall be your sole inheritance.' 
 
 " I could not avoid making some reply, representing to him 
 how unjustifiable such a procedure was to me, in a case where the 
 happiness of my life was at stake; and how inconsistent it was 
 with the charitable precepts of our faith, to allow feelings of 
 resentment to influence his conduct. My remonstrances, as in the 
 preceding meeting, were ineffectual. The more I spoke, the more 
 intemperate he grew. I therefore desisted; but not before he 
 had ordered me to quit the house. I did not leave the neigh- 
 bourhood, but saw him again on the same evening. 
 
 u Our last interview took place in the garden. I then told him 
 that I had determined to go abroad for two years, at the expira- 
 tion of which period I proposed returning to England; trusting 
 that his resolution might then be changed, and that he would 
 listen to my request, for the fulfilment of which I could never 
 cease to hope. Time, I hoped, might befriend me. He approved 
 of my plan of travelling, requesting me not to see Eleanor before 
 I set out; adding, in a melancholy tone — ' We may never meet 
 again, Ranulph, in this life; in that case, farewell for ever. In- 
 dulge no vain hopes. Eleanor never can be yours, but upon one 
 
ROOKWOOD. 69 
 
 condition, and to that you would never consent ! ' — ' Propose it ! ' I 
 cried; c there is no condition I could not accede to.' — c Rash boy !' 
 he replied, < you know not what you say ; that pledge you would 
 never fulfil, were I to propose it to you ; but no — should I survive 
 till you return, you shall learn it then — and now, farewell.' — 
 6 Speak now, I beseech you!' I exclaimed; 6 anything, everything 
 — what you will I' — 'Say no more,' replied he, walking towards 
 the house; 'when you return we will renew this subject; farewell 
 — perhaps for ever!' His words were prophetic — that parting 
 was for ever. I remained in the garden till nightfall. I saw my 
 mother, but he came not again. I quitted England without be- 
 holding Eleanor." 
 
 " Did you not acquaint her by letter with what had occurred, 
 and your consequent intentions?" asked Small. 
 
 "I did," replied Ranulph; "but I received no reply. My 
 earliest inquiries will be directed to ascertain whether the family 
 are still in London. It will be a question for our consideration, 
 whether I am not justified in departing from my father's expressed 
 wishes, or whether I should violate his commands in so doing." 
 
 "We will discuss that point hereafter," replied Small; adding, 
 as he noticed the growing paleness of his companion, " you are too 
 much exhausted to proceed — you had better defer the remainder 
 of your story to a future period." 
 
 " No," replied Ranulph, swallowing a glass of water ; " I am 
 exhausted, yet I cannot rest — my blood is in a fever, which 
 nothing will allay. I shall feel more easy when I have made the 
 present communication. I am approaching the sequel of my 
 narrative. You are now in possession of the story of my love — of 
 the motive of my departure. You shall learn what was the occa- 
 sion of my return. 
 
 " I had wandered from city to city during my term of exile — 
 consumed by hopeless passion — with little that could amuse me, 
 though surrounded by a thousand objects of interest to others, and 
 only rendering life endurable by severest study, or most active 
 exertion. My steps conducted me to Bordeaux; — there I made a 
 long halt, enchanted by the beauty of the neighbouring scenery. 
 My fancy was smitten by the situation of a villa on the banks of 
 the Garonne, within a few leagues of the city. It was an old 
 chateau, with fine gardens bordering the blue waters of the river, 
 and commanding a multitude of enchanting prospects. The house, 
 which had in part gone to decay, was inhabited by an aged couple, 
 who had formerly been servants to an English family, the mem- 
 bers of which had thus provided for them on their return to their 
 own country. I inquired the name. Conceive my astonishment 
 to find that this chateau had been the residence of the Mowbrays. 
 This intelligence decided me at once — I took up my abode in the 
 house; and a new and unexpected source of solace and delight 
 was opened to me. I traced the paths she had traced; occupied 
 
70 KOOKWOOD. 
 
 the room she had occupied ; tended the flowers she had tended ; 
 and, on the golden summer evenings, would watch the rapid 
 waters, tinged with all the glorious hues of sunset, sweeping past 
 my feet, and think how she had watched them. Her presence 
 seemed to pervade the place. I was now comparatively happy, 
 and, anxious to remain unmolested, wrote home that I was leaving 
 Bordeaux for the Pyrenees, on my way to Spain." 
 
 u That account arrived," observed Small. 
 
 " One night," continued Ranulph — u 'tis now the sixth since 
 the occurrence I am about to relate — I was seated in a bower that 
 overlooked the river. It had been a lovely evening — so lovely, 
 that I lingered there, wrapped in the heavenly contemplation of 
 its beauties. I watched each rosy tint reflected upon the surface 
 of the rapid stream — now fading into yellow — now shining silvery 
 white. I noticed the mystic mingling of twilight with darkness 
 — of night with day, till the bright current on a sudden became a 
 black mass of waters. I could scarcely discern a leaf — all was 
 darkness — when lo! another change! The moon was up — a flood 
 of light deluged all around — the stream was dancing again in re- 
 flected radiance, and I still lingering at its brink. 
 
 " I had been musing for some moments, with my head resting 
 upon my hand, when, happening to raise my eyes, I beheld a figure 
 immediately before me. I was astonished at the sight, for I had 
 perceived no one approach — had heard no footstep advance to- 
 wards me, and was satisfied that no one besides myself could be in 
 the garden. The presence of the figure inspired me with an un- 
 definable awe ! and, I can scarce tell why, but a thrilling presenti- 
 ment convinced me that it was a supernatural visitant. Without 
 motion — without life — without substance, it seemed; yet still the 
 outward character of life was there. I started to my feet. God ! 
 what did I behold? The face was turned to me — my father's 
 face ! And what an aspect — what a look ! Time can never 
 efface that terrible expression; it is graven upon my memory — I 
 cannot describe it. It was not anger — it was not pain : it was as 
 if an eternity of woe were stamped upon its features. It was too 
 dreadful to behold. I would fain have averted my gaze — my eyes 
 were fascinated — fixed — I could not withdraw them from the 
 ghastly countenance. I shrank from it, yet stirred not — I could 
 not move a limb. Noiselessly gliding towards me, the apparition 
 approached. I could not retreat. It stood obstinately beside me. 
 I became as one half dead. The phantom shook its head with the 
 deepest despair; and as the word c Return I' sounded hollowly in 
 my ears, it gradually melted from my view. I cannot tell how I 
 recovered from the swoon into which I fell, but daybreak saw me 
 on my way to England. I am here. On that night — at that same 
 hour, my father died." 
 
 " It was, after all, then, a supernatural summons that you re- 
 ceived? said Small. 
 
ROOKWOOD. 71 
 
 "Undoubtedly," replied Ranulph. 
 
 " Humph ! — the coincidence, I own, is sufficiently curious," 
 returned Small, musingly; "but it would not be difficult, I think, 
 to discover a satisfactory explanation of the delusion." 
 
 " There was no delusion," replied Ranulph, coldly ; " the 
 figure was as palpable as your own. Can I doubt, when I behold 
 this result? Could any deceit have been practised upon me, at 
 that distance? — the precise time, moreover, agreeing. Did not 
 the phantom bid me return? — I have returned — he is dead. I 
 have gazed upon a being of another world. To doubt were 
 impious, after that look." 
 
 " Whatever my opinions may be, my dear young friend," re- 
 turned Small, gravely, " I will suspend them for the present. 
 You are still greatly excited. Let me advise you to seek some 
 repose." 
 
 "I am easier," replied Ranulph; "but you are right, I will 
 endeavour to snatch a little rest. Something within tells me all 
 is not yet accomplished. What remains? — I shudder to think of 
 it. I will rejoin you at midnight. I shall myself attend the 
 solemnity. Adieu !" 
 
 Ranulph quitted the room. Small sighingly shook his head, 
 and having lighted his pipe, was presently buried in a profundity 
 of smoke and metaphysical speculation. 
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 LADY ROOKWOOD. 
 
 Fran, de Med. Your unhappy husband 
 
 Is dead. 
 Tit. Cor. Oh, lie's a happy husband ! 
 
 Now he owes nature nothing. 
 Jffon. And look upon this creature as his wife. 
 
 She comes not like a widow — she conies armed 
 
 With scorn and impudence. Is this a mourning habit ? 
 
 The White Devil. 
 
 The progress of our narrative demands our presence in another 
 apartment of the hall — a large, lonesome chamber, situate in the 
 eastern wing of the house, already described as the most ancient 
 part of the building — the sombre appearance of which was greatly 
 increased by the dingy, discoloured tapestry that clothed its walls; 
 the record of the patience and industry of a certain Dame Dorothy 
 Rookwood, who flourished some centuries ago, and whose skilful 
 needle had illustrated the slaughter of the Innocents, with a 
 severity of gusto, and sanguinary minuteness of detail, truly sur- 
 prising in a lady so amiable as she was represented to have been. 
 
72 ROOKWOOD. 
 
 Grim-visaged Herod glared from the ghostly woof, with his sha- 
 dowy legions, executing their murderous purposes, grouped like a 
 troop of Sabbath-dancing witches around him. Mysterious twi- 
 light, admitted through the deep, dark, mullioned windows, re- 
 vealed the antique furniture of the room, which still boasted a 
 sort of mildewed splendour, more imposing, perhaps, than its 
 original gaudy magnificence; and showed the lofty hangings, and 
 tall, hearse-like canopy of a bedstead, once a couch of state, but 
 now destined for the repose of Lady Rookwood. The stiff crim- 
 son hangings were embroidered in gold, with the arms and cipher 
 of Elizabeth, from whom the apartment, having once been occu- 
 pied by that sovereign, obtained the name of the " Queen's 
 Room." 
 
 The sole tenant of this chamber was a female, in whose coun- 
 tenance, if time and strong emotion had written strange defeatures, 
 they had not obliterated its striking beauty and classical grandeur 
 of expression. It was a face majestical and severe. Pride was 
 stamped in all its lines ; and though each passion was, by turns, 
 developed, it was evident that all were subordinate to the sin by 
 which the angels fell. The contour of her face was formed in the 
 purest Grecian mould, and might have been a model for Medea ; 
 so well did the gloomy grandeur of the brow, the severe chiselling 
 of the lip, the rounded beauty of the throat, and the faultless sym- 
 metry of her full form, accord with the beau ideal of antique per- 
 fection. Shaded by smooth folds of raven hair, which still 
 maintained its jetty die, her lofty forehead would have been dis- 
 played to the greatest advantage, had it not been at this moment 
 knit and deformed by excess of passion, if that passion can be said 
 to deform which only calls forth strong and vehement expression. 
 Her figure, which wanted only height to give it dignity, was 
 arrayed in the garb of widowhood ; and if she exhibited none of 
 the desolation of heart which such a bereavement might have been 
 expected to awaken, she was evidently a prey to feelings scarcely 
 less harrowing. At the particular time of which we speak, Lady 
 Rookwood, for she it was, was occupied in the investigation of 
 the contents of an escritoir. Examining the papers which it con- 
 tained with great deliberation, she threw each aside, as soon as 
 she had satisfied herself of its purport, until she arrived at a little 
 package, carefully tied up with black riband, and sealed. This, 
 Lady Rookwood hastily broke open, and drew forth a small minia- 
 ture. It was that of a female, young and beautiful, rudely, yet 
 faithfully executed — faithfully, we say, for there was an air of 
 sweetness and simplicity — and, in short, a look of reality and 
 nature about the picture (it is seldom, indeed, that we mistake a 
 likeness, even if we are unacquainted with the original), that at- 
 tested the artist's fidelity. The face was as radiant with smiles as 
 a bright day with sunbeams. The portrait was set in gold, and 
 behind it was looped a lock of the darkest and finest hair. Under- 
 
ROOKWOOD. 73 
 
 neath the miniature was written, in Sir Piers's hand, the words 
 u Lady Rookwood" A slip of folded paper was also attached 
 to it. 
 
 Lady Rookwood scornfully scrutinised the features for a few 
 moments, and then unfolded the paper, at the sight of which she 
 started, and turned pale. "Thank God!" she cried, "this is in 
 my possession — while I hold this, we are safe. Were it not better 
 to destroy this evidence at once? No, no, not now — it shall not 
 part from me. I will abide Ranulph's return. This document 
 will give me a power over him such as I could never otherwise 
 obtain." Placing the marriage certificate, for such it was, within 
 her breast, and laying the miniature upon the table, she next pro- 
 ceeded, deliberately, to arrange the disordered contents of the 
 box. 
 
 All outward traces of emotion had, ere this, become so subdued 
 in Lady Rookwood, that although she had, only a few moments 
 previously, exhibited the extremity of passionate indignation, she 
 now, apparently without effort, resumed entire composure, and 
 might have been supposed to be engaged in a matter of little in- 
 terest to herself. It was a dread calm, which they who knew her 
 would have trembled to behold. " From these letters I gather," 
 exclaimed she, " that their wretched offspring knows not of his 
 fortune. So far well. There is no channel whence he can derive 
 information, and my first care shall be to prevent his obtaining any 
 clue to the secret of his birth. I am directed to provide for him 
 — ha ! ha ! I will provide — a grave ! There will I bury him and 
 his secret. My son's security and my own wrong demand it. I 
 must choose surer hands — the work must not be half done, as 
 heretofore. And now I bethink me, he is in the neighbourhood, 
 connected with a gang of poachers — 'tis as I could wish it." 
 
 At this moment a knock at the chamber door broke upon her 
 meditations. "Agnes, is it you?" demanded Lady Rookw T ood. 
 
 Thus summoned, the old attendant entered the room. 
 
 "Why are my orders disobeyed?" asked the lady, in a severe 
 tone of voice. " Did I not say, when you delivered me this 
 package from Mr. Coates, which he himself wished to present, 
 that 1 would not be disturbed?" 
 
 " You did, my lady, but " 
 
 " Speak out," said Lady Rookwood, somewhat more mildly, 
 perceiving, from Agnes's manner, that she had something of im- 
 portance to communicate. " What is it brings you hither?" 
 
 " I am sorry," returned Agnes, " to disturb your ladyship, but 
 _b u t " 
 
 " But what?" interrupted Lady Rookwood, impatiently. 
 
 "I could not help it, my lady — he would have ine come; he 
 said he was resolved to sec your ladyship, whether you would or 
 not." 
 
 Would see me, ha ! is it so ? I guess his errand, and its 
 
74 ROOKWOOD. 
 
 object — he lias some suspicion. No, that cannot be ; be would 
 not dare to tamper with these seals. Agnes, I will not see him." 
 
 " But he swears, my lady, that he will not leave the house with- 
 out seeing you — he would have forced his way into your presence, 
 if I had not consented to announce him." 
 
 " Insolent!" exclaimed Lady Rookwood, with a glance of in- 
 dignation; " force his way ! I promise you he shall not display 
 an equal anxiety to repeat the visit. Tell Mr. Coates I will see 
 him." 
 
 u Mr. Coates ! Mercy on us, my lady, it's not he. He'd never 
 have intruded upon you unasked. No such thing. He knows his 
 place too well. No, no; it's not Mr. Coates " 
 
 "If not he, who is it?" 
 
 " Luke Bradley; your ladyship knows whom I mean." 
 
 " He here — now? " 
 
 " Yes, my lady ; and looking so fierce and strange, I was quite 
 frightened to see him. He looked so like his — his " 
 
 " His father, you would say. Speak out." 
 
 u No, my lady, his grandfather — old Sir Reginald. He's the 
 very image of him. But had not your ladyship better ring the 
 alarm bell? and when he comes in, I'll run and fetch the servants 
 — lie's dangerous, I'm sure." 
 
 " I have no fears of him. He will see me, you say " 
 
 " Ay, will /" exclaimed Luke, as he threw open the door, and 
 shut it forcibly after him, striding towards Lady Rookwood, " nor 
 abide longer delay." 
 
 It was an instant or two ere Lady Rookwood, thus taken by sur- 
 prise, could command speech. She fixed her eyes with a look of 
 keen and angry inquiry upon the bold intruder, who, nothing 
 daunted, confronted her glances w T ith a gaze as stern and steadfast 
 as her own. 
 
 "Who are you, and what seek you?" exclaimed Lady Rook- 
 wood, after a brief pause, and, in spite of herself, her voice sounded 
 tremulously. " What would you have, that you venture to appear 
 before me at this season, and in this fashion?" 
 
 "I might have chosen a fitter opportunity," returned Luke, 
 " were it needed. My business will not brook delay — you must be 
 pleased to overlook this intrusion on your privacy, at a season of 
 sorrow like the present. As to the fashion of my visit, you must 
 be content to excuse it. I cannot help myself. I may amend 
 hereafter. Who I am, you are able, I doubt not, to divine. What 
 I seek, you shall hear, when this old woman has left the room, un- 
 less you would have a witness to a declaration that concerns you 
 as nearly as myself." 
 
 An indefinite feeling of apprehension had, from the first instant 
 of Luke's entrance, crossed Lady Rookwood's mind. She, how- 
 ever, answered with some calmness: 
 
 " What you can have to say, is of small moment to me — nor 
 
KOOKWOOD. 75 
 
 does it signify who may hear it. It shall not, however, be said 
 that Lady Rookwood feared to be alone, even though she en- 
 dangered her life." 
 
 "I am no assassin," replied Luke, "nor have sought the de- 
 struction of my deadliest foe — though 'twere but retributive justice 
 to have done so." 
 
 Lady Rookwood started. 
 
 "Nay, you need not fear me," replied Luke; " my revenge will 
 be otherwise accomplished." 
 
 " Go," said Lady Rookwood to Agnes ; " yet — stay without, in 
 the antechamber." 
 
 "My lady," said Agnes, scarcely able to articulate, "shall 
 I " 
 
 " Hear me, Lady Rookwood," interrupted Luke. " I repeat, I 
 intend you no injury. My object here is solely to obtain a private 
 conference. You can have no reason for denying me this request. 
 I will not abuse your patience. Mine is no idle mission. Say you 
 refuse me, and I will at once depart. I will find other means of 
 communicating with you — less direct, and therefore less desirable. 
 Make your election. But we must be alone — undisturbed. Sum- 
 mon your household — let them lay hands upon me, and I will pro- 
 claim aloud what you would gladly hide, even from yourself." 
 
 "Leave us, Agnes," said Lady Rookwood. "I have no fear of 
 this man. I can deal with him myself, should I see occasion." 
 
 "Agnes," said Luke, in a stern, deep whisper, arresting the 
 ancient handmaiden as she passed him, "stir not from the door 
 till I come forth. Have you forgotten your former mistress ! — my 
 mother? Have you forgotten Barbara Lovel, and that nightf 
 
 " In Heaven's name, hush !" replied Agnes, with a shudder. 
 
 " Let that be fresh in your memory. Move not a footstep, what- 
 ever you may hear," added he, in the same tone as before. 
 
 " I will not — I will not." And Agnes departed. 
 
 Luke felt some w T avering in his resolution when he found him- 
 self alone with the lady, whose calm, collected, yet haughty de- 
 meanour, as she resumed her seat, prepared for his communication, 
 could not fail to inspire him with a certain degree of awe. Not 
 unconscious of her advantage, nor slow to profit by it, Lady 
 Rookwood remained perfectly silent, with her eyes steadily fixed 
 upon his face, while his embarrassment momentarily increased. 
 Summoning at length, courage sufficient to address her, and 
 ashamed of his want of nerve, he thus broke forth: 
 
 "When I entered this room, you asked my name and object. 
 As to the first, I answer to the same designation as your ladyship. 
 I have long borne my mother's name. I now claim rny father's. 
 My object is, the restitution of my rights." 
 
 " Soh ! — it is as I suspected," thought Lady Rookwood, in 
 voluntarily casting her large eyes down. " Do I hear you rightly? 
 exclaimed she, aloud ; " your name is -" 
 
76 ROOKWOOD. 
 
 " Sir Luke Rookwood. As my father's elder born ; by right of 
 his right to that title." 
 
 If a glance could have slain him, Luke had fallen lifeless at the 
 lady's feet. With a smile of ineffable disdain, she replied, "I 
 know not why I hesitate to resent this indignity, even for an in- 
 stant. But I would see how far your audacity will carry you. 
 The name you bear is Bradley?" 
 
 " In ignorance I have done so," replied Luke. " I am the son 
 of her whose maiden name was Bradley. She was " 
 
 " 'Tis false — I will not hear it — she was not" cried Lady Rook- 
 wood, her vehemence getting the master of her prudence. 
 
 " Your ladyship anticipates my meaning," returned Luke. 
 u Susan Bradlev was the first wife of Sir Piers Rookwood." 
 
 " His minion — his mistress if you will; nought else. Is it new 
 to you, that a village wench, who lends herself to shame, should 
 be beguiled by such shallow pretences? That she was so duped, 
 I doubt not. But it is too late now to complain, and I would 
 counsel you not to repeat your idle boast. It will serve no other 
 purpose, trust me, than to blazon forth your own — your mother's 
 dishonour." 
 
 " Lady Rookwood," sternly answered Luke, " my mother's fame 
 is as free from dishonour as your own. I repeat, she was the first 
 wife of Sir Piers; and that I, her child, am first in the inheritance; 
 nay, sole heir to the estates and title of Rookwood, to the exclu- 
 sion of your son. Ponder upon that intelligence. Men say they 
 fear you, as a thing of ill. i" fear you not. There have been days 
 when the Rookwoods held their dames in subjection. Discern you 
 nought of that in me?" 
 
 Once or twice during this speech Lady Rookwood's glances had 
 wandered towards the bell-cord, as if about to summon aid; but 
 the intention was abandoned almost as soon as formed, probably 
 from apprehension of the consequences of any such attempt. She 
 was not without alarm as to the result of the interview, and was 
 considering how she could bring it to a termination without en- 
 dangering herself, and, if possible, secure the person of Luke, 
 when the latter, turning sharply round upon her, and drawing a 
 pistol, exclaimed, 
 
 "Follow me!" 
 
 "Whither?" asked she, in alarm. 
 
 " To the chamber of death !" 
 
 " Why there? what would you do? Villain! I will not trust 
 my life with you. I will not follow you." 
 
 " Hesitate not, as you value your life. Do aught to alarm the 
 house, and I fire. Your safety depends upon yourself. I would 
 see my father's body ere it be laid in the grave. I will not leave 
 you here." 
 
 "Go," said Lady Rookwood; "if that be all, I pledge myself 
 you shall not be interrupted." 
 
ROOKWOOD. 77 
 
 " I will not take your pledge ; your presence shall be my surety. 
 By my mother's unavenged memory, if you play me false, though 
 all your satellites stand around you, you die upon the spot ! Obey 
 me, and you are safe. Our way leads to the room by the private 
 staircase — we shall pass unobserved — you see I know the road. 
 The room, by your own command, is vacant — save of the dead. 
 We shall, therefore, be alone. This done, I depart. You will 
 then be free to act. Disobey me, and your blood be upon your 
 own head." 
 
 " Lead on !" said Lady Rook wood, pressing towards the ante- 
 chamber. 
 
 " The door I mean is there," pointing to another part of the 
 room — " that panel " 
 
 " Ha ! how know you that?" 
 
 "No matter; follow." 
 
 Luke touched a spring, and the panel flying open, disclosed a 
 dim recess, into which he entered; and, seizing Lady Rookwood's 
 hand, dragged her after him. 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 THE CHAMBER OF DEATH. 
 
 It is the body — I have orders given 
 
 That here it should be laid. Be Montfort. 
 
 The recess upon which the panel opened had been a small 
 oratory, and, though entirely disused, still retained its cushions and 
 its crucifix. There were two other entrances to this place of 
 prayer, the one communicating with a further bedchamber, the 
 other leading to the gallery. Through the latter, after closing the 
 aperture, without relinquishing his grasp, Luke passed. 
 
 It was growing rapidly dark, and at the brightest seasons this 
 gloomy corridor was but imperfectly lighted from narrow, painted, 
 and wire-protected windows that looked into the old quadrangular 
 court-yard below ; and as they issued from the oratory a dazzling 
 flash of lightning (a storm having suddenly arisen) momentarily 
 illumined the whole length of the passage, disclosing the retreating 
 figure of a man, wrapped in a large sable cloak, at the other ex- 
 tremity of the gallery. Lady Rookwood uttered an outcry for 
 assistance; but the man, whoever he might be, disappeared in the 
 instantaneously succeeding gloom, leaving her in doubt whether 
 or not her situation had been perceived. Luke had seen this dark 
 figure at the same instant; and, not without apprehensions lest his 
 plans should be defeated, he griped Lady Rookwood's arm still 
 
78 ROOKWOOD. 
 
 more strictly, and placing the muzzle of the pistol to her breast, 
 hurried her rapidly forwards. 
 
 All was now in total obscurity; the countenance of neither could 
 be perceived. as they trod the dark passage; but Luke's unrelaxed 
 grasp indicated no change in his purposes, nor did the slow, 
 dignified march of the lady betray any apprehension on her part. 
 Descending a spiral staircase, which led from the gallery to a lower 
 story, their way now lay beneath the entrance-hall, a means of 
 communication little used. ■ Their tread sounded hollowly on the 
 flagged floor; no other sound was heard. Mounting a staircase, 
 similar to the one they had just descended, they arrived at another 
 passage. A few paces brought them to the door. Luke turned 
 the handle, and they stood within the chamber of the dead. 
 
 The room which contained the remains of poor Sir Piers was 
 arrayed in all that mockery of state which, vainly attempting to 
 deride death, is itself a bitter derision of the living. It was the 
 one devoted to the principal meals of the day ; a strange choice, but 
 convenience had dictated its adoption by those with whom this part 
 of the ceremonial had originated, and long custom had rendered its 
 usage, for this purpose, almost prescriptive. This room, which was 
 of some size, had originally formed part of the great hall, from 
 which it was divided by a thick screen of black lustrously varnished 
 oak, enriched with fanciful figures carved in bold relief. The walls 
 were paneled with the same embrowned material, and sustained 
 sundry portraits of the members of the family, in every possible 
 costume, from the steely gear of Sir Ranulph, down to the flowing 
 attire of Sir Reginald. Most of the race were ranged around the 
 room ; and, seen in the yellow light shed upon their features by the 
 flambeaux, they looked like an array of stern and silent witnesses, 
 gazing upon their departed descendant. The sides of the chamber 
 were hung with black cloth, and upon a bier in the middle of the 
 room rested the body. Broad escutcheons, decked out in glowing 
 colours, pompously set forth the heraldic honours of the departed. 
 Tall lights burnt at the head and feet, and fragrant perfumes 
 diffused their odours from silver censers. 
 
 The entrance of Luke and his unwilling companion had been 
 abrupt. The transition from darkness to the glare of light was 
 almost blinding, and they had advanced far into the room ere Lady 
 Rookwood perceived a man, whom she took to be one of the mutes, 
 leaning over the bier. The coffin lid was entirely removed, and 
 the person, whose back was towards them, appeared to be wrapt 
 in mournful contemplation of the sad spectacle before him. Sud- 
 denly bursting from Luke's hold, Lady Rookwood rushed forward 
 with a scream, and touched the man's shoulder. He started at the 
 summons, and disclosed the features of her son! 
 
 Rapidly as her own act, Luke followed. He levelled a pistol 
 at her head, but his hand dropped to his side as he encountered 
 
ROOKWOOD. 79 
 
 the glance of Ranulph. All three seemed paralysed by surprise. 
 Ranulph, in astonishment, extended his arm to his mother, who, 
 placing one arm over his shoulder, pointed with the other to 
 Luke; the latter stared sternly and inquiringly at both— yet none 
 Epoke. 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 THE BROTHERS. 
 
 "We're sorry 
 His violent act has e'en drawn blood of honour, 
 And stained our honours ; 
 Thrown ink upon the forehead of our fame, 
 Which envious spirits will dip their pens into 
 After our death, and blot us in our tombs ; 
 For that which would seem treason in our lives, 
 Is laughter when we're dead. Who dares now whisper, 
 That dares not then speak out ; and even proclaim, 
 With loud words, and broad pens, our closest shame ? 
 
 The Revengers Tragedy. 
 
 With that quickness of perception, which at once supplies in- 
 formation on such an emergency, Luke instantly conjectured who 
 was before him. Startled as he was, he yet retained his compo- 
 sure, abiding the result with his arms folded upon his breast. 
 
 " Seize him !" cried Lady Rookwood, as soon as she could com- 
 mand her speech. 
 
 " He rushes on his death if he stirs," exclaimed Luke, pointing 
 his pistol. 
 
 " Bethink you where you are, villain I" cried Ranulph ; " you 
 are entrapped in your own toils. Submit yourself to our mercy 
 — resistance is vain, and will not secure your safety, while it will 
 aggravate your offence. Surrender yourself " 
 
 "Never!" answered Luke. "Know you whom you ask to 
 yield?" 
 
 "How should I?" answered Ranulph. 
 
 " By that instinct which tells me who you are. Ask Lady 
 Rookwood — she can inform you, if she will." 
 
 "Parley not with him — seize him!" cried Lady Rookwood. 
 " He is a robber, a murderer, who has assailed my life." 
 
 " Beware !" said Luke to Ranulph, who was preparing to obey 
 his mother's commands; " I am no robber — no murderer. Do not 
 you make me a fratricide." 
 
 " Fratricide !" echoed Ranulph. 
 
 "Heed him not," ejaculated Lady Rookwood. "It is false — 
 he dares not harm thee, for his soul. I will call assistance." 
 
80 ROOKWOOD. 
 
 "Hold, mother!" exclaimed Ranulph, detaining Lady Rook- 
 wood; " this man may be what he represents himself. Before we 
 proceed to extremities, I would question him. I would not have 
 mentioned it in your hearing could it have been avoided, but my 
 father had another son." 
 
 Lady Rookwood frowned. She would have checked him, but 
 Luke rejoined — 
 
 "You have spoken the truth; he had a son — I am he. I " 
 
 "Be silent, I command you!" said Lady Rookwood. 
 
 "Death!" cried Luke, in a loud voice. " Why should. I be 
 silent at your bidding — at yours — who regard no laws, human or 
 divine; who pursue your own fell purposes, without fear of God 
 or man? Waste not your frowns on me — I heed them not. Do 
 you think I am like a tame hound, to be cowed to silence? I 
 will speak. Ranulph Rookwood, the name you bear is mine, and 
 by a right as good as is your own. From his loins, who lies a 
 corpse before us, I sprang. No brand of shame is on my birth. I 
 am your father's son — his first-born — your elder brother. Hear 
 me !" cried he, rushing to the bier. " By this body, I swear that 
 I have avouched the truth — and though to me the dead Sir Piers 
 Rookwood hath never been what a father should be to a son — 
 though I have never known his smile, felt his caresses, or received 
 his blessing, yet now be all forgiven, all forgotten." And he cast 
 himself with frantic violence upon the coffin. 
 
 It is difficult to describe the feelings with which Ranulph heard 
 Luke's avowal. Amazement and dread predominated. Unable 
 to stir, he stood crazing: on in silence. Not so Ladv Rookwood, 
 The moment for action was arrived. Addressing her son in 
 a low tone, she said, "Your prey is within your power. Se- 
 cure him." 
 
 "Wherefore?" rejoined Ranulph; "if he be my brother, shall 
 I raise my hand against him?" 
 
 "Wherefore not?" returned Lady Rookwood. 
 
 " 'Twere an accursed deed," replied Ranulph. " The mystery 
 is resolved. 'Twas for this that I was summoned home." 
 
 "Ha! what say you? summoned! by whom?" 
 
 "My father!" 
 
 "Your father?" echoed Lady Rookwood, in great surprise. 
 
 " Ay, my dead father ! He has appeared to me since his 
 decease." 
 
 " Ranulph, you rave — you are distracted with grief — with as- 
 tonishment." 
 
 "No, mother; but I will not struggle against my destiny." 
 
 " Pshaw ! your destiny is Rookwood, its manors, its lands, its 
 rent-roll, and its title; nor shall you yield it to a base-born churl 
 like this. Let him prove his rights. Let the law adjudge them 
 to him, and we will yield — but not till then. I tell thee he has not 
 the right, nor can he maintain it. He is a deluded dreamer, who, 
 
ROOKWOOD. 81 
 
 having heard some idle tale of his birth, believes it, because it 
 chimes with his wishes. I treated him with the scorn he deserved. 
 I would have driven him from my presence, but he was armed, as 
 you see, and forced me hither, perhaps to murder me; a deed he 
 might have accomplished had it not been for your intervention. 
 His life is already forfeit, for an attempt of the same sort last 
 night. Why else came he hither? for what else did he dra"- me 
 to this spot? Let him answer that!" 
 
 " I will answer it," replied Luke, raising himself from the bier. 
 
 His face was ghastly as the corpse over which he leaned. u I 
 had a deed to do, which I wished you to witness. It was a wild 
 conception. But the means by which I have acquired the in- 
 formation of my rights were wild. Ranulph, we are both the 
 slaves of fate. You have received your summons hither — I have 
 had mine. Your father's ghost called you ; my mother's spectral 
 hand beckoned me. Both are arrived. One thing more re- 
 mains, and my mission is completed." Saying which, he drew 
 forth the skeleton hand ; and having first taken the wedding- 
 ring from the finger, he placed the withered limb upon the 
 left breast of his father's body. " Rest there," he cried, u for 
 ever." 
 
 " Will you suffer that?" said Lady Rook wood, tauntingly, to 
 her son. 
 
 "No," replied Ranulph; "such profanation of the dead shall 
 not be endured, were he ten times my brother. Stand aside," 
 added he, advancing towards the bier, and motioning Luke 
 away. " Withdraw your hand from my father's body, and re- 
 move what you have placed upon it." 
 
 "I will neither remove it, nor suffer it to be removed," re- 
 turned Luke. " 'Twas for that purpose I came hither. 'Twas to 
 that hand he was united in life, in death he shall not be divided 
 from it." 
 
 " Such irreverence shall not be !" exclaimed Ranulph, seizing 
 Luke with one hand, and snatching at the cereclothes with the 
 other. " Remove it, or by Heaven " 
 
 "Leave go your hold," said Luke, in a voice of thunder; "you 
 strive in vain." 
 
 Ranulph ineffectually attempted to push him backwards; and, 
 shaking away the grasp that was fixed upon his collar, seized his 
 brother's wrist, so as to prevent the accomplishment of his purpose. 
 In this unnatural and indecorous strife, the corpse of their father 
 was reft of its covering, and the hand discovered lying upon the 
 pallid breast. 
 
 And as if the wanton impiety of their conduct called forth an 
 immediate rebuke, even from the dead, a frown seemed to pass 
 over Sir Piers' s features, as their angry glances fell in that direc- 
 tion. This startling effect was occasioned by the approach of 
 
 G 
 
82 ROOKWOOD. 
 
 Lady Rookwood, whose shadow, falling over the brow and visage 
 of the deceased, produced the appearance we have described. 
 Simultaneously quitting each other, with a deep sense of shame, 
 mingled with remorse, both remained, their eyes fixed upon the 
 dead, whose repose they had violated. 
 
 Folding the graveclothes decently over the body, Luke pre- 
 pared to depart. 
 
 " Hold !" cried Lady Rookwood ; "you go not hence." 
 
 " My brother Ranulph will not oppose my departure," returned 
 Luke ; " who else shall prevent it ?" 
 
 "That will I!" cried a sharp voice behind him ; and, ere he 
 could turn to ascertain from whom the exclamation proceeded, 
 Luke felt himself grappled by two nervous assailants, who, snatch- 
 ing the pistol from his hold, fast pinioned his arms. This was 
 scarcely the work of a moment, and he was a prisoner before he 
 could offer any resistance. A strong smile of exultation evinced 
 Lady Rookwood's satisfaction. 
 
 "Bravo, my lads, bravo!" cried Coates, stepping forward, for 
 he it was under whose skilful superintendence the seizure had been 
 effected : " famously managed ; my father the thieftaker's runners 
 couldn't have done it better — hand me that pistol — loaded, I see 
 — slugs, no doubt — oh, he's a precious rascal — search him — turn 
 his pockets inside out, while I speak to her ladyship." Saying 
 which, the brisk attorney, enchanted with the feat he had per- 
 formed, approached Lady Rookwood with a profound bow, and 
 an amazing smirk of self-satisfaction. " Just in time to prevent 
 mischief," said he ; " hope your ladyship does not suffer any in- 
 convenience from the alarm — beg pardon, annoyance I meant to 
 say — which this horrible outrage must have occasioned ; exces- 
 sively disagreeable this sort of thing to a lady at any time, but at 
 a period like this more than usually provoking. However, we 
 have the villain safe enough. Very lucky I happened to be in 
 the way. Perhaps your ladyship would like to know how I dis- 
 covered " 
 
 " Not now," replied Lady Rookwood, checking the volubility 
 of the man of law. "I thank you, Mr. Coates, for the service 
 you have rendered me ; you will now add materially to the 
 obligation by removing the prisoner with all convenient despatch." 
 
 " Certainly, if your ladyship wishes it. Shall I detain him a 
 close prisoner in the hall for the night, or remove him at once to 
 the lock-up house in the village?" 
 
 " Where you please, so you do it quickly," replied Lady 
 Rookwood, noticing, with great uneasiness, the agitated manner 
 of her son, and apprehensive lest, in the presence of so many 
 witnesses, he might say or do something prejudicial to their 
 interests. Nor were her fears groundless. As Coates was about 
 to return to the prisoner, he was arrested by the voice of Ranulph, 
 commanding him to stay. 
 
ROOKWOOD. S 
 
 o 
 
 "Mr. Coates," said he, "however appearances may' be against 
 this man, he is no robber — you must, therefore, release him." 
 " Eh day, what's that? release him, Sir Ranulph?" 
 " Yes, sir ; I tell you he came here neither with the intent to 
 rob nor to offer violence." 
 
 "That is false, Ranulph," replied Lady Rookwood. "I was 
 dragged hither by him at the peril of my life. He is Mr. Coates's 
 prisoner on another charge." 
 
 " Unquestionably, your ladyship is perfectly right ; I have a 
 warrant against him for assaulting Hugh Badger, the keeper, and 
 for other misdemeanors." 
 
 " I will myself be responsible for his appearance to that charge,* 
 replied Ranulph. " Now, sir, at once release him." 
 "At your peril !" exclaimed Lady Rookwood. 
 " Well, really," muttered the astonished attorney, " this is the 
 most perplexing proceeding I ever witnessed." 
 
 " Ranulph," said Lady Rookwood, sternly, to her son, "beware 
 how you thwart me I" 
 
 " Yes, Sir Ranulph, let me venture to advise you, as a friend, 
 not to thwart her ladyship," whispered the attorney ; " indeed, 
 she is in the right." But seeing his advice unheeded, Coates 
 withdrew to a little distance. 
 
 " I will not see injustice done to my father's son," replied Ra- 
 nulph, in a low tone. "Why would you detain him?" 
 
 " Why?" returned she, "our safety demands it — our honour." 
 " Our honour demands his instant liberation ; each moment he 
 remains in those bonds sullies its purity. I will free him myself 
 from his fetters." 
 
 " And brave my curse, foolish boy? You incurred your mise- 
 rable father's anathema for a lighter cause than this. Our honour 
 cries aloud for his destruction. Have I not been injured in the 
 nicest point a woman can be injured? Shall I lend my name to 
 mockery and scorn, by base acknowledgment of such deceit, or 
 will you? Where would be my honour, then, stripped of my fur 
 estates — my son — myself — beggars — dependent on the bounty of 
 an upstart? Docs honour ask you to bear this? It is a phantom 
 sense of honour, unsubstantial as your father's shade, of which you 
 just now spoke, that would prompt you to do otherwise." 
 
 " Do not evoke his awful spirit, mother," cried Ranulph, with 
 a shudder ; " do not arouse his wrath." 
 
 " Do not arouse my wrath," returned Lady Rookwood. " I am 
 the more to be feared. Think of Eleanor Mowbray ; the bar be- 
 tween your nuptials is removed. Would you raise up a greater 
 impediment ?" 
 
 " Enough, mother ; more than enough. You have decided, 
 though not convinced me. Detain him within the house, if you 
 will, until the morrow; in the mean time, I will consider over my 
 line of conduct." 
 
 G2 
 
84 ROOKWOOD. 
 
 "Is this, then, your resolve?" 
 
 " It is. Mr. Coates," said Ranulph, calling the attorney, who 
 had been an inquisitive spectator, though, luckily, not an auditor 
 of this interview, " unbind the prisoner, and bring him hither." 
 
 "Is it your ladyship's pleasure?" asked Mr. Coates, who re- 
 gretted exceedingly that he could not please both parties. 
 
 Lady Rookwood signified her assent by a slight gesture in the 
 affirmative. 
 
 " Your bidding shall be done, Sir Ranulph," said Coates, bow- 
 ing and departing. 
 
 " Sir Ranulph !" echoed Lady Rookwood, with strong em- 
 phasis; " marked you that?" 
 
 " Body o' me," muttered the attorney, " this is the most extra- 
 ordinary family, to be sure. Make way, gentlemen, if you please," 
 added he, pushing through the crowd, towards the prisoner. 
 
 Having described what took place between Lady Rookwood 
 and her son in one part of the room, we must now briefly narrate 
 some incidental occurrences in the other. The alarm of a robber 
 having been taken spread with great celerity through the house, 
 and almost all its inmates rushed into the room, including Doctor 
 Small, Titus Tyrconnel, and Jack Palmer. 
 
 " Odsbodikins ! are you there, honey?" said Titus, who dis- 
 .covered his ally ; " the bird's caught, you see." 
 
 " Caught be d — d," replied Jack, bluffly ; "so I see ; all his 
 own fault; infernal folly to come here, at such a time as this. 
 However, it can't be helped now; he must make the best of it. 
 And as to that sneaking, gimlet- eyed, parchment-skinned quill- 
 driver, if I don't serve him out for his officiousness one of these 
 days, my name's not Jack Palmer." 
 
 " Och ! cushlamacree ! did I ever? why, what's the boy to you, 
 Jack? Fair play's a jewel, and surely Mr. Coates only did his 
 duty. I'm sorry he's captured, for his relationship to Sir Piers, 
 and because I think he'll be tucked up for his pains; and, more- 
 over, I could forgive the poaching ; but as to the breaking into a 
 house on such an occasion as this, och ! it's a plaguy bad look. 
 I'm afraid he's worse than I thought him." 
 
 A group of the tenantry, many of whom were in a state of in- 
 toxication, had, in the mean time, formed themselves round the 
 prisoner. Whatever might be the nature of his thoughts, no 
 apprehension was visible in Luke's countenance. He stood erect 
 amidst the assemblage, his tall form towering above them all, and 
 his eyes fixed upon the movements of Lady Rookwood and her 
 son. He had perceived the anguish of the latter, and the vehe- 
 mence of the former, attributing both to their real causes. The 
 taunts and jeers, threats and insolent inquiries, of the hinds who 
 thronged around him, passed unheeded ; yet one voice in his ear, 
 sharp as the sting of a serpent, made him start. It was that of 
 the sexton. 
 
ROOKWOOD. 85 
 
 "You have done well," said Peter, "have you not? Your 
 fetters are, I hope, to your liking. Well ! a wilful man must 
 have his own way, and perhaps the next time you will be content 
 to follow my advice. You must now free yourself, the best way 
 you can, from these Moabites, and I promise you it will be no 
 easy matter. Ha, ha " 
 
 Peter withdrew into the crowd ; and Luke, vainly endeavour- 
 ing to discover his retreating figure, caught the eye of Jack 
 Palmer fixed upon himself, with a peculiar and very significant 
 expression. 
 
 At this moment Mr. Coates made his appearance. 
 
 " Bring forward the prisoner," said the man of law to his two 
 assistants; and Luke was accordingly hurried along, Mr. Coates 
 using his best efforts to keep back the crowd. It was during the 
 pressure that Luke heard a voice whisper in his ear, " Never fear; 
 all's right !" and turning his head, he became aware of the pro- 
 pinquity of Jack Palmer. The latter elevated his eyebrows with 
 a gesture of silence, and Luke passed on as if nothing had occurred. 
 He was presently confronted with Lady Rookwood and her son; 
 and, notwithstanding the efforts of Mr. Coates, seconded by some 
 few others, the crowd grew dense around them. 
 
 " Remove his fetters," said Ranulph. And his manacles were 
 removed. 
 
 "You will consent to remain here a prisoner till to-morrow?" 
 
 " I consent to nothing," replied Luke; " I am in your hands." 
 
 " He does not deserve your clemency, Sir Ranulph," interposed 
 Coates. 
 
 u Let him take his own course," said Lady Rookwood ; " he 
 will reap the benefit of it anon." 
 
 " Will you pledge yourself not to depart?" asked Ranulph. 
 
 u Of course," cried the attorney ; " to be sure he will. Ha, ha !" 
 
 "No," returned Luke, haughtily, "I will not — and you will 
 detain me at your proper peril." 
 
 " Better and better," exclaimed the attorney. " This is the 
 highest joke I ever heard." 
 
 " I shall detain you, then, in custody, until proper inquiries 
 can he made," said Ranulph. " To your care, Mr. Coates, and to 
 that of Mr. Tyrconnel, whom I must request to lend you his assist- 
 ance, I commit the charge; and I must further request, that you 
 will show him every attention which his situation will permit. 
 Remove him. We have a sacred duty to the dead to fulfil, to 
 which even justice to the living must give way. Disperse this 
 crowd, and let instant preparations be made for the completion of 
 the ceremonial. You understand me, sir." 
 
 " Ranulph Rookwood," said Luke, sternly, as he departed, " you 
 have another — a more sacred office to perform. Fulfil your duty 
 to your father's son." 
 
86 ROOKWOOD. 
 
 " Away with him !" cried Lady Rookwood. " I am out of all 
 patience with this trifling. Follow me to my chamber," added 
 she to her son, passing towards the door. The concourse of spec- 
 tators^ who had listened to this extraordinary scene in astonish- 
 ment, made way for her instantly, and she left the room, accom- 
 panied by Ranulph. The prisoner was led out by the other 
 door. 
 
 " Botheration!" cried Titus to Mr. Coates, as they followed in 
 the wake, "why did he choose out me? I'll lose the funeral en- 
 tirely by his arrangement." 
 
 " That you will," replied Palmer. " Shall I be your deputy?" 
 
 u No, no," returned Coates. " I will have no other than Mr. 
 Tyrconnel. It was Sir Ranulph's express wish." 
 
 "That's the devil of it," returned Titus; "and I, who was to 
 have been chief mourner, and have made all the preparations, am 
 to be omitted. I wish Sir Ranulph had stayed till to-morrow 
 — what could bring him here, to spoil all? — it's cursedly pro- 
 voking!" 
 
 " Cursed provoking!" echoed Jack. 
 
 " But then there's no help, so I must make the best of it," re- 
 turned the good-humoured Irishman. 
 
 " Body o' me," said Coates, " there's something in all this that 
 I can't fathom. As to keeping the prisoner here, that's all moon- 
 shine. But I suppose we shall know the whole drift of it to- 
 morrow. 
 
 "Ay," replied Jack, with a meaning smile, "to-morrow !" 
 
ROOKWOOD. 87 
 
 BOOK II. 
 
 THE SEXTON. 
 
 Duchess. Thou art very plain. 
 
 Bosola. My trade is to flatter the dead — not the living — 
 
 I am a tomb-maker. Webster. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 THE STORM. 
 
 Come, list, and hark ! the bell doth towle, 
 Eor some bnt now departing sowle ! 
 And was not that some ominous fowlc ? 
 The bat, the night-crow, or screech-owle ? 
 To these I hear the wild wolf howle, 
 In this dark night that seems to scowle ; — 
 All these my blacke-booke shall enrowle, 
 For hark ! still hark ! the bell doth towle 
 Tor some but new-departed sowle ! 
 
 Haywood : Rape of Lucrece. 
 
 The night was wild and stormy. The day had been sultry, 
 with a lurid, metallic-looking sky, hanging like a vast galvanic 
 plate over the face of nature. As evening drew on, everything 
 betokened the coming tempest. Unerring indications of its ap- 
 proach were noted by the weatherwise at the hall. The swallow 
 was seen to skim the surface of the pool so closely, that he ruffled 
 its placid mirror as he passed; and then, sharply darting round 
 and round, with twittering scream, he winged his rapid flight 
 to his clay -built home, beneath the barn eaves. The kine that had 
 herded to the margin of the water, and sought, by splashing, to 
 relieve themselves from the keen persecution of their myriad insect 
 tormentors, wended stallwards, undriven, and deeply lowing. The 
 deer, that at twilight had trooped thither also for refreshment, 
 suddenly, " with expanded nostrils, snuffed the air," and bounded 
 off to their coverts, amidst the sheltering fernbrake. The rooks, 
 "obstreperous of wing, in crowds combined," cawed in away that, 
 as plainly as words could have done, bespoke their apprehension; 
 and were seen, some hovering and beating the air with flapping 
 pinion, others shooting upwards in mid space, as if to reconnoitre 
 the weather; while others, again, were croaking to their mates, in 
 loud discordant tone, from the highest branches of the lime-trees; 
 all, seemingly, as anxious and as busy as mariners before a gale of 
 wind. At sunset, the hazy vapours, which had obscured the 
 horizon throughout the day, rose up in spiral volumes, like smoke 
 
88 ROOKWOOD. 
 
 from a burning forest, and, becoming gradually condensed, as- 
 sumed the form of huge, billowy masses, which, reflecting the 
 sun's light, changed, as the sinking orb declined, from purple to 
 flame-colour, and thence to ashy, angry grey. Night rushed on- 
 wards, like a sable steed. There was a dead calm. The stillness 
 was undisturbed, save by an intermittent, sighing wind, which, 
 hollow as a murmur from the grave, died as it rose. At once the 
 grey clouds turned to an inky blackness. A single, sharp, in- 
 tensely vivid flash, shot from the bosom of the rack, sheer down- 
 wards, and struck the earth with a report like that of a piece of 
 ordnance. In ten minutes it was dunnest night, and a rattling 
 thunderstorm. 
 
 The progress of the storm was watched with infinite apprehen- 
 sion by the crowd of tenantry assembled in the great hall; and 
 loud and frequent were the ejaculations uttered, as each succeed- 
 ing peal burst over their heads. There was, however, one amongst 
 the assemblage who seemed to enjoy the uproar. A kindred ex- 
 citement appeared to blaze in his glances, as he looked upon the 
 storm without. This was Peter Bradley. He stood close by the 
 window, and shaded not his eyes, even before the fiercest flashes. 
 A grin of unnatural exhilaration played upon his features, and he 
 seemed to exult in, and to court, the tempestuous horrors, which 
 affected the most hardy amongst his companions with consternation, 
 and made all shrink, trembling, into the recesses of the room. 
 "Peter's conduct was not unobserved, nor his reputation for unholy 
 dealing forgotten. To some he was almost as much an object of 
 ^dread as the storm itself. 
 
 " Did'st ever see the like o' that?" said Farmer Burtenshaw (one 
 -of the guests, whose round, honest face good wine had recently 
 empurpled, but fear had now mottled white), addressing a neigh- 
 bour. " Did'st ever hear of any man that were a Christian laugh- 
 ing in the very face o' a thunderstorm, with the lightnin' fit to 
 put out his eyes, and the rattle above ready to break the drums o' 
 his ears? I always thought Peter Bradley was not exactly what 
 he ought to be, and now I am sure on it." 
 
 "For my part, I think, neighbour Burtenshaw," returned the 
 other, " that this great burst of weather's all of his raising, for in 
 all my born days I never see'd such a hurly-burly, and hope 
 never to see the like of it again. I've heard my grandfather tell 
 of folk as could command wind and rain; and, mayhap, Peter 
 may have the power — we all know he can do more nor any 
 other man." 
 
 " We know, at all events," replied Burtenshaw, " that he lives 
 like no other man ; that he spends night after night by himself in 
 that dreary churchyard; that he keeps no living thing, except an 
 old terrier dog, in his crazy cottage ; and that he never asks a 
 body into his house from one year's end to another. I've never 
 crossed his threshold these twenty years. But," continued he 
 
ROOKWOOD. 89 
 
 mysteriously, " I happened to pass the house one dark, dismal 
 night, and there what dost think I sce'd through the window?" 
 
 « What— what did'st see?" 
 
 " Peter Bradley sitting with a great book open on his knees; it 
 were a Bible, I think, and he crying like a child." 
 
 "Art sure o' that?" 
 
 " The tears were falling fast upon the leaves," returned Burten- 
 shaw ; " but when I knocked at the door, he hastily shut up the 
 book, and ordered me to be gone, in a surly tone, as if he were 
 ashamed of bein"; caught in the fact." 
 
 " I thought no tear had ever dropped from his eye," said the 
 other. " Why, he laughed when his daughter Susan went off at 
 the hall; and, when she died, folks said he received hush-money 
 to say nought about it. That were a bad business, anyhow ; and 
 now that his grandson Luke be taken in the fact of housebreaking, 
 he minds it :io more, not he, than if nothing had happened." 
 
 "Don't be too sure of that," replied Burtenshaw; "he may be 
 scheming summat all tins time. Well, I've known Peter Bradley 
 now these two-and-fifty years, and, excepting that one night, I 
 never saw any good about him, and never heard of nobody who 
 could tell who he be, or where he do come from." 
 
 " One thing's certain at least," replied the other farmer — " he 
 were never born at Rookwood. How he came here the devil only 
 knows. Save us ! what a crash ! — this storm be all of his raising, 
 I tell 'ee." 
 
 " He be what he certainly will be," interposed another 
 
 speaker, in a louder tone, and with less of apprehension in his 
 manner than his comrade, probably from his nerves being better 
 fortified with strong liquor. " Dost thou think, Samuel Plant, 
 as how Providence would entrust the like o' him with the com- 
 mand of the elements? No — no, it's rank blasphemy to suppose 
 such a thing, and I've too much of the true Catholic and apostate 
 church about me, to stand by and hear that said." 
 
 " Maybe, then, he gets his power from the Prince of Darkness," 
 replied Plant ; " no man else could go on as he does — only look 
 at him. He seems to be watching for the thunderbowt." 
 
 " I wish he may catch it, then," returned the other. 
 
 " That's an evil wish, Simon Toft, and thou mayst repent it." 
 
 "Not I," replied Toft; "it would be a good clearance to the 
 neighbourhood to get rid o' th' old croaking curmudgeon." 
 
 Whether or not Peter overheard the conversation, we pretend 
 not to say, but at that moment a blaze of lightning showed him 
 staring fiercely at the group. 
 
 " As I live, he's overheard you, Simon," exclaimed Plant. " I 
 wouldn't be in your skin for a trifle." 
 
 " Nor I," added Burtenshaw. 
 
 " Let him overhear me," answered Toft; "who cares? he shall 
 hear summat worth listening to. I'm not afraid o' him or his arts, 
 
90 ROOKWOOD. 
 
 were they as black as Beelzebuth's own; and to show you I'm 
 not, I'll go and have a crack with him on the spot." 
 
 " Thou'rt a fool for thy pains, if thou dost, friend Toft," 
 returned Plant, " that's all I can say." 
 
 " Be advised by me, and stay here," seconded Burtenshaw — 
 endeavouring to hold him back. 
 
 But Toft would not be advised — 
 
 Kings may be blest, but he was glorious, 
 O'er all the ills of life victorious. 
 
 Staggering up to Peter, he laid a hard grasp upon his shoulder, 
 and, thus forcibly soliciting his attention, burst into a loud horse- 
 laugh. 
 
 But Peter was, or affected to be, too much occupied to look at 
 him. 
 
 " What dost see, man, that thou starest so?" 
 
 u It comes, it comes — the rain — the rain — a torrent — a deluge 
 — ha, ha !" Blessed is the corpse the rain rains on. Sir Piers may 
 be drenched through his leaden covering by such a downfall as 
 that — splash, splash — fire and water and thunder, all together — 
 is not that fine? — ha, ha ! The heavens will weep for him, though 
 friends shed not a tear. When did a great man's heir feel sympa- 
 thy for his sire's decease? When did his widow mourn? When 
 doth any man regret his fellow? Never! He rejoiceth — he 
 maketh glad in his inmost heart — he cannot help it — it is nature. 
 We all pray for — we all delight in each other's destruction. We 
 were created to do so; or why else should we act thus? I never 
 wept for any man's death, but I have often laughed. Natural 
 sympathy ! — out on the phrase. The distant heavens — the senseless 
 trees — the impenetrable stones — shall regret you more than man — 
 shall bewail your death with more sincerity. Ay, 'tis well — rain 
 on — splash, splash: it will cool the hell-fever. Down, down — 
 buckets and pails, ha, ha!" 
 
 There was a pause, during which the sexton, almost exhausted 
 by the frenzy in which he had suffered himself to be involved, 
 seemed insensible to all around him. 
 
 " I tell you what," said Burtenshaw to Plant, u I have always 
 thought there was more in Peter Bradley nor appears on the out- 
 side. He is not what he seems to be, take my word on it. Lord 
 love you ! do you think a man such as he pretends to be could 
 talk in that sort of way — about nat'ral sympering? — no such 
 thing." 
 
 When Peter recovered, his insane merriment broke out afresh, 
 having only acquired fury by the pause. 
 
 " Look out, look out !" cried he; " hark to the thunder — list to 
 the rain ! Marked ye that flash — marked ye the clock-house — and 
 the bird upon the roof? 'tis the rook — the great bird of the house, 
 that hath borne away the soul of the departed. There, there — 
 
EOOEWOOD. 91 
 
 can you not see it? it sits and croaks through storm and rain, and 
 never heeds at all — and wherefore should it heed? See, it flaps 
 its broad black wings — it croaks — ha, ha ! It comes — it comes." 
 
 And driven, it might be by the terror of the storm, from more 
 secure quarters, a bird, at this instant, was dashed against tlie 
 window, and fell to the ground. 
 
 "That's a call," continued Peter; "it will be over soon, and we 
 must set out. The dead will not need to tarry. Look at that 
 trail of fire along the avenue ; dost see yon line of sparkles, like a 
 rocket's tail? That's the path the corpse will take. St. Hermes's 
 flickering fire, Robin Goodfellow's dancing light, or the blue flame 
 of the corpse-candle, which I saw flitting to the churchyard last 
 week, was not so pretty a sight — ha, ha ! You asked me for a 
 song a moment ago — you shall have one now without asking." 
 
 And without waiting to consult the inclinations of his comrades, 
 Peter broke into the following wild strain with all the fervour of a 
 half-crazed improvisatore : 
 
 THE CORPSE-CANDLE. 
 
 Lambere flamma racpos et circum fuiiera pasci. 
 
 Through the midnight gloom did a pale blue light 
 
 To the churchyard mirk wing its lonesome flight : — 
 
 Thrice it floated those old walls round — 
 
 Thrice it paused— till the grave it found. 
 
 Over the grass-green sod it glanced, 
 
 Over the fresh-turned earth it danced, 
 
 Like a torch in the night-breeze quivering — 
 
 Never was seen so gay a thing ! 
 
 Never was seen so blithe a sight 
 
 As the midnight dance of that blue light ! 
 
 Now what of that pale blue flame dost know ? 
 
 Canst tell where it comes from, or where it will go ? 
 
 Is it the soul, released from clay, 
 
 Over the earth that takes its way, 
 
 And tarries a moment in mirth and glee 
 
 Where the corse it hath quitted interr'd shall be ? 
 
 Or is it the trick of some fanciful sprite, 
 
 That taketh in mortal mischance delight, 
 
 And marketh the road the coffin shall go, 
 
 And the spot where the dead shall be soon laid low ? 
 
 Ask him who can answer these questions aright ; 
 
 I know not the cause of that pale blue light ! 
 
 " I can't say I like thy song, Muster Peter," said Toft, as the 
 sexton finished his stave, " but if thou didst see a corpse-candle, 
 as thou call'st thy pale blue flame, whose death doth it betoken? — 
 eh!" 
 
 " Thine own," returned Peter, sharply. 
 
 " Mine ! thou lying old cheat — dost dare to say that to my 
 face? Why, I'm as hale and hearty as ever a man in the house. 
 Dost think there's no life and vigour in this arm, thou drivellins: 
 old dotard?" ° 
 
92 ROOKWOOD. 
 
 Upon which, Toft seized Peter by the throat, with an energy 
 that, but for the timely intervention of the company, who rushed 
 to his assistance, the prophet might himself have anticipated the 
 doom he prognosticated. 
 
 Released from the grasp of Toft, who was held back by the by- 
 standers, Peter as^ain broke forth into his eltrich lau^h: and 
 staring right into the face of his adversary, with eyes glistening, 
 and hands uplifted, as if in the act of calling down an imprecation 
 on his head, he screamed, in a shrill and discordant voice, " Soh ! 
 you will not take my warning? you revile me — you flout me! 
 'Tis well ! your fate shall prove a warning to all unbelievers — they 
 shall remember this night, though you will not. Fool ! fool ! — 
 your doom has long been sealed ! I saw your wraith choose out its 
 last lodgment on Halloween ; I know the spot. Your grave is dug 
 already — ha, ha !" And, with renewed laughter, Peter rushed out 
 of the room. 
 
 " Did I not caution thee not to provoke him, friend Toft?" said 
 Plant; "it's ill playing with edge tools; but don't let him fly off 
 in that tantrum — one of ye go after him." 
 
 "That will I," replied Burtenshaw; and he departed in search 
 of the sexton. 
 
 " I'd advise thee to make it up with Peter so soon as thou 
 canst, neighbour," continued Plant; "he's a bad friend, but a 
 worse enemy." 
 
 " Why, what harm can he do me?" returned Toft, who, how- 
 ever, was not without some misgivings. " If I must die, I can't 
 help it — I shall go none the sooner for him, even if he speak the 
 truth, which I don't think he do; and if I must, I shan't go un- 
 prepared — only I think as how, if it pleased Providence, I could 
 have wished to keep my old missus company some few years 
 longer, and see those bits of lasses of mine grow up into women, 
 and respectably provided for. But His will be done. I shan't 
 leave 'em quite penniless, and there's one eye at least, I'm sure, 
 won't be dry at my departure." Here the stout heart of Toft gave 
 way, and he shed some few "natural tears;" which, however, he 
 speedily brushed away. "I'll tell you what, neighbours," con- 
 tinued he ; " I think we may all as well be thinking of going to 
 our own homes, for, to my mind, we shall never reach the church- 
 yard to-night." 
 
 "That you never will," exclaimed a voice behind him; and 
 Toft, turning round, again met the glance of Peter. 
 
 " Come, come, Master Peter," cried the good-natured farmer, 
 "this be ugly jesting — ax pardon for my share of it — sorry for 
 what I did — so give us thy hand, man, and think no more 
 about it." 
 
 Peter extended his claw, and the parties were, apparently, once 
 more upon terms of friendship. 
 
ROOKWOOD. 93 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 THE FUNEKAL ORATION. 
 
 In northern customs duty was exprest 
 To friends departed by their funeral feast ; 
 Though I've consulted Holingshed and Stow, 
 I find it very difficult to know, 
 "Who, to refresh the attendants to the grave, 
 Burnt claret first, or Naples' biscuit gave. 
 
 King : Art of Cookery. 
 
 Ceterum priusquam corpus humo injecta. contegatur, defunctus oratione fu- 
 nebri laudabatur. — Dukand. 
 
 A SUPPLY of spirits was here introduced; lights were brought 
 at the same time, and placed upon a long oak table. The party 
 gathering round it, ill-humour was speedily dissipated, and even 
 the storm disregarded, in the copious libations that ensued. At 
 this juncture, a loiterer appeared in the hall. His movements 
 were unnoticed by all excepting the sexton, who watched his pro- 
 ceedings with some curiosity. The person walked to the window, 
 appearing, so far as could be discovered, to eye the storm with 
 great impatience. He then paced the hall rapidly backwards and 
 forwards, and Peter fancied he could detect sounds of disappoint- 
 ment in his muttered exclamations. Again he returned to the 
 window, as if to ascertain the probable duration of the shower. It 
 was a hopeless endeavour; all was pitch-dark without; the light- 
 ning was now only seen at long intervals, but the rain still audibly 
 descended in torrents. Apparently seeing the impossibility of 
 controlling the elements, the person approached the table. 
 
 " What think you of the night, Mr. Palmer?" asked the sexton 
 of Jack, for he was the anxious investigator of the weather. 
 
 " Don't know — can't say — set in, I think — cursed unlucky — 
 for the funeral, I mean — we shall be drowned if we go." 
 
 " And drunk if we stay," rejoined Peter. " But never fear, it 
 will hold up, depend upon it, long before we can start. Where 
 have they put the prisoner?" asked he, with a sudden change of 
 manner. 
 
 " I know the room, but can't describe it; it's two or three doors 
 down the lower corridor of the eastern gallery." 
 
 u Good. Who are on guard ?'"' 
 
 " Titus Tyrconnel, and that swivel-eyed quill-driver, Coates." 
 
 " Enough." 
 
 " Come, come, Master Peter," roared Toft, " let's have another 
 stave. Give us one of your odd snatches. No more corpse- 
 candles, or that sort of thing. Something lively — something jolly 
 —ha, ha !" 
 
94 ROOKWOOD. 
 
 " A good move," shouted Jack. " A lively song from you — 
 lillibullero from a death's head — ha, ha !" 
 
 " My songs are all of a sort," returned Peter ; " I am seldom 
 asked to sing a second time. However, you are welcome to the 
 merriest I have." And preparing himself, like certain other ac- 
 complished vocalists, with a few preliminary hems and haws, he 
 struck forth the following doleful ditty : 
 
 THE OLD OAK COEEIN. 
 
 Sic ego componi versus in ossa velim. — Tibullus. 
 
 In a churchyard, upon the sward, a coffin there was laid, 
 And leaning stood, beside the wood, a sexton on his spade. 
 A coffin old and black it was, and fashioned curiously, 
 With quaint device of carved oak, in hideous fantasie. 
 
 Eor here was wrought the sculptured thought of a tormented face. 
 With serpents lithe that round it writhe, in folded strict embrace. 
 Grim visages of grinning fiends were at each corner set, 
 And emblematic scrolls, mort-heads, and bones together met. 
 
 "Ah, well-a-day !" that sexton grey unto himself did cry, 
 " Beneath that lid much lieth hid — much awful mysterie. 
 It is an ancient coffin from the abbey that stood here ; 
 Perchance it holds an abbot's bones, perchance those of a frere. 
 
 " In digging deep, where monks do sleep, beneath yon cloister shrined, 
 That coffin old, within the mould, it was my chance to find ; 
 The costly carvings of the lid I scraped full carefully, 
 In hope to get at name or date, yet nothing could I see. 
 
 " With pick and spade I've plied my trade for sixty years and more, 
 Yet never found, beneath the ground, shell strange as that before ; 
 Eull many coffins have I seen — have seen them deep or flat, 
 Eantastical in fashion — none fantastical as that." 
 
 And saying so, with heavy blow, the lid he shattered wide, 
 And, pale with fright, a ghastly sight that sexton grey espied ; 
 A miserable sight it was, that loathsome corpse to see, 
 The last, last, dreary, darksome stage of fall'n humanity. 
 
 Though all was gone, save reeky bone, a green and grisly heap, 
 
 With scarce a trace of fleshly face, strange posture did it keep. 
 
 The hands were clench'd, the teetli were wrench'd, as if the wretch had risen, 
 
 E'en after death had ta'en his breath, to strive and burst his prison. 
 
 The neck vras bent, the nails were rent, no limb or joint was straight ; 
 Together glued, with blood imbued, black and coagulate. 
 And, as the sexton stooped him down to lift the coffin plank, 
 His fingers were defiled all o'er with slimy substance dank. 
 
 " Ah, well-a-day ! " that sexton grey unto himself did cry, 
 
 " Eull well I see how Eate's decree foredoomed this wretch to die ; 
 
 A living man, a breathing man, within the coffin thrust, 
 
 Alack ! alack ! the agony ere he returned to dust !" 
 
 A vision drear did then appear unto that sexton's eyes ; 
 Like that poor wight before him straight he in a coffin lies. 
 He lieth in a trance within that coffin close and fast; 
 Yet though he slecpeth now, he feels he shall awake at last. 
 
ROOKWOOD. 95 
 
 The coffin then, by reverend men, is borne with footsteps slow, 
 Where tapers shine before the shrine, where breathes the requiem low; 
 And for the dead the prayer is said, for the soul that is not flown — 
 Then all is drown' d in hollow sound, the earth is o'er him thrown ! 
 
 He draweth breath — he wakes from death to life more horrible ; 
 To agony ! such agony ! no living tongue may tell. 
 Die ! die lie must, that wretched one ! he struggles — strives in vain ; 
 No more heaven's light, nor sunshine bright, shall he behold again. 
 
 " Gramercy, Lord!" the sexton roar'd, awakening suddenly, 
 " If this be dream, yet doth it seem most dreadful so to die. 
 Oh, cast my body in the sea ! or hurl it on the shore ! 
 But nail me not in coffin fast — no grave will I dig more." 
 
 It was not difficult to discover the effect produced by this song, 
 in the lengthened faces of the greater part of the audience. Jack 
 Palmer, however, lauo-hed loud and lon£. 
 
 u Bravo, bravo I" cried he; " that suits my humour exactly. I 
 can't abide the thoughts of a coffin. No deal box for me." 
 
 " A gibbet might, perhaps, serve your turn as well," muttered 
 the sexton; adding aloud, "I am now entitled to call upon you; 
 
 ma- ! — a sono- !" 
 
 " Ay, a song, Mr. Palmer, a song !" reiterated the hinds. 
 " Yours will be the rio;ht kind of thing;." 
 
 " Say no more," replied Jack. " I'll give you a chant composed 
 upon Dick Turpin, the highwayman. It's no great shakes, to be 
 sure, but it's the best I have." And, with a knowing wink at 
 the sexton, he commenced, in the true nasal whine, the following 
 strain : 
 
 ONE FOOT IN THE STIRRUP ; 
 
 OK, TURPIN's PIRST FLIXG. 
 
 Cum esset proposita fuga Turju(n)s. — Cicero. 
 
 " One foot in the stirrup, one hand in the rein, 
 
 And the noose be mv portion, or freedom I'll gain ! 
 
 Oh ! give me a seat in my saddle once more, 
 
 And these bloodhounds shall find that the chase is not o'er !" 
 
 Thus muttered Dick Turpin, who found, while he slept, 
 
 That the Philistines old on his slumbers had crept ; 
 
 Had entrapped him as puss on her form you'd ensnare, 
 
 And that gone were his snappers — and gone was his mare. 
 
 Hilloah ! 
 
 How Dick had been captured is readily told, 
 
 The pursuit had been hot, though the night had been cold ; 
 
 So at daybreak, exhausted, he sought brief repose 
 
 Mid the thick of a corn-field, away from his foes. 
 
 But in vain was his caution — in vain did his steed, 
 
 Ever watchful and wakeful in moments of need, 
 
 "With lip and with hoof on her master's cheek press — 
 
 He slept on, nor needed the warning of Bess. 
 
 Hilloah / 
 
96 ROOKWOOD. 
 
 " Zounds ! gem'men !" cried Turpin, "you've found me at fault, 
 
 And the highflying highwayman's come to a halt ; 
 
 You have turned up a trump (for I weigh well my weight), 
 
 And the forty is yours, though the halter's my fate. 
 
 Well, come on't what will, you shall own when all's past, 
 
 That Dick Turpin, the Dauntless, was game to the last. 
 
 But, before we go further, I'll hold you a bet, 
 
 That one foot in my stirrup you won't let me set. 
 
 Hilloah ! 
 
 " A hundred to one is the odds I will stand, 
 A hundred to one is the odds you command ; 
 Here's a handful of goldfinches ready to fly ! 
 May I venture a foot in my stirrup to try ?" 
 As he carelessly spoke, Dick directed a glance 
 At his courser, and motioned her slyly askance : — 
 You might tell by the singular toss of her head, 
 And the prick of her ears, that his meaning she read. 
 
 Hilloah / 
 
 With derision at first was Dick's wager received, 
 And his error at starting as yet unretrieved ; 
 But when from his pocket the shiners he drew, 
 And offered to " make up the hundred to two," 
 There were havers in plenty, and each whispered each, 
 The same thing, though varied in figure of speech, 
 " Let the fool act his folly — the stirrup of Bess ! 
 He has put his foot in it already we guess !" 
 
 Hilloah ! 
 
 Bess was brought to her master — Dick steadfastly gazed 
 At the eye of his mare, then his foot quick upraised; 
 His toe touched the stirrup, his hand grasped the rein — 
 He was safe on the back of his courser again ! 
 As the clarion, fray-sounding and shrill, was the neigh 
 Of Black Bess, as she answered his cry " Hark-away !" 
 " Beset me, ye bloodhounds ! in rear and in van ; 
 My foot's in the stirrup, and catch me who can \" 
 
 Hilloah/ 
 
 There was riding and gibing mid rabble and rout, 
 And the old woods re-echoed the Philistines' shout ! 
 There was hurling and whirling o'er brake and o'er brier, 
 But the course of Dick Turpin was swift as heaven's fire. 
 Whipping, spurring, and straining, would nothing avail, 
 Dick laughed at their curses, and scoffed at their wail ; 
 " My foot's in the stirrup !" — thus rang his last cry ; 
 " Bess has answered my call ; now her mettle we'll try !" 
 
 Hilloah/ 
 
 Uproarious applause followed Jack's song, when the joviality of 
 the mourners was interrupted by a summons to attend in the state 
 room. Silence was at once completely restored ; and, in the best 
 order they could assume, they followed their leader, Peter Bradley. 
 Jack Palmer was amongst the last to enter, and remained a not in- 
 curious spectator of a by no means common scene. 
 
 Preparations had been made to give due solemnity to the cere- 
 monial. The leaden coffin was fastened down, and enclosed in an 
 outer case of oak, upon the lid of which stood a richly-chased 
 
ROOKWOOD. 97 
 
 massive silver flagon, filled with burnt claret, called the grace-cup. 
 All the lights were removed, save two lofty wax flambeaux, which 
 were placed to the back, and threw a lurid glare upon the group 
 immediately about the body, consisting of Ranulph Rookwood and 
 some other friends of the deceased. Doctor Small stood in 
 front of the bier ; and, under the directions of Peter Bradley, 
 the tenantry and household were formed into a wide half-moon 
 across the chamber. There was a hush of expectation, as Doctor 
 Small looked gravely round ; and even Jack Palmer, who was as 
 little likely as any man to yield to an impression of the kind, felt 
 himself moved by the scene. 
 
 The very orthodox Small, as is well known to our readers, held 
 everything savouring of the superstitions of the Scarlet Woman in 
 supreme abomination; and, entertaining such opinions, it can 
 scarcely be supposed that a funeral oration would find much favour 
 in his eyes, accompanied, as it was, with the accessories of censer, 
 candle, and cup; all evidently derived from that period when, 
 under the three-crowned pontiffs sway, the shaven priest pro- 
 nounced his benediction o'er the dead, and released the penitent's 
 soul from purgatorial flame?, while he heavily mulcted the price of 
 his redemption from the possessions of his successor. Small re- 
 sented the idea of treading in such steps, as an insult to himself 
 and his cloth. Was he, the intolerant of Papistry, to tolerate this ? 
 Was he, who could not endure the odour of Catholicism, to have 
 his nostrils thus polluted — his garments thus defiled by actual con- 
 tact with it? It was not to be thought of: and he had formally 
 signified his declination to Mr. Coates, when a little conversation 
 with that gentleman, and certain weighty considerations therein 
 held forth (the advowson of the church of Rookwood residing with 
 the family), and represented by him, as well as the placing in 
 juxtaposition of penalties to be incurred by refusal, that the scruples 
 of Small gave way; and, with the best grace he could muster, 
 very reluctantly promised compliance. 
 
 With these feelings, it will be readily conceived that the doctor 
 was not in the best possible frame of mind for the delivery of his 
 exhortation. His spirit had been ruffled by a variety of petty 
 annoyances, amongst the greatest of which was the condition to 
 which the good cheer had reduced his clerk, Zachariah Trundle- 
 text, whose reeling eye, pendulous position, and open mouth, pro- 
 claimed him absolutely incapable of office. Zachariah was, in 
 consequence, dismissed, and Small commenced his discourse un- 
 supported. But as our recording it would not probably conduce 
 to the amusement of our readers, whatever it might to their edifi- 
 cation, we shall pass it over with very brief mention. Suffice it to 
 say, that the oration was so thickly interstrewn with lengthy 
 quotations from the fathers— Chrysostomus, Hieronymus, Ara- 
 brosius, Basilius, Bernardus, and the rest, with whose recondite 
 Latinity, notwithstanding the clashing of their opinions with his 
 
 II 
 
98 ROOKWOOD. 
 
 own, the doctor was intimately acquainted, and which he moreover 
 delighted to quote, that his auditors were absolutely mystified and 
 perplexed, and probably not without design. Countenances of 
 such amazement were turned towards him, that Small, who had a 
 keen sense of the ludicrous, could scarcely forbear smiling as he 
 proceeded ; and if we could suspect so grave a personage of wag- 
 gery, we should almost think that, by way of retaliation, he had 
 palmed some abstruse, monkish epicidium upon his astounded au- 
 ditors. 
 
 The oration concluded, biscuits and confectionery were, accord- 
 ing to old observance, handed to such of the tenantry as chose to 
 partake of them. The serving of the grace-cup, which ought to 
 have formed part of the duties of Zachariah, had he been capable 
 of office, fell to the share of the sexton. The bcwl was kissed, first 
 by Ranulph, with lips that trembled with emotion, and afterwards 
 by his surrounding friends; but no drop was tasted — a circum- 
 stance which did not escape Peter's observation. Proceeding to 
 the tenantry, the first in order happened to be Farmer Toft. Peter 
 presented the cup, and as Toft was about to drain a deep draught 
 of the wine, Peter whispered in his ear, " Take my advice for 
 once, friend Toft, and don't let a bubble of the liquid pass your 
 lips. For every drop of the wine you drain Sir Piers will have 
 one sin the less, and you a load the heavier on your conscience. 
 Didst never hear of sin swallowing ? For what else was this cus- 
 tom adopted ? Seest thou not the cup's brim hath not yet been 
 moistened ? Well, as you will — ha, ha !" And the sexton passed 
 onwards. 
 
 His work being nearly completed, he looked around for Jack 
 Palmer, whom he had remarked during the oration, but could no- 
 where discover him. Peter was about to place the flagon, now 
 almost drained of its contents, upon its former resting-place, when 
 Small took it from his hands. 
 
 " In poculi fundo residuum non relinque, admonisheth Pytha- 
 goras," said he, returning the empty cup to the sexton. 
 
 u My task here is ended," muttered Peter, tc but not elsewhere. 
 Foul weather or fine, thunder or rain, I must to the church." 
 
 Bequeathing his final instructions to certain of the household 
 who were to form part of the procession, in case it set out, he 
 opened the hall door, and, the pelting shower dashing heavily in 
 his face, took his way up the avenue, screaming, as he strode along, 
 the following congenial rhymes: 
 
 EPHIALTES. 
 
 I ride alone — I ride by night 
 
 Through, the moonless air on a courser white ! 
 
 Over the dreaming earth I fly, 
 
 Here and there — at my fantasy ! 
 
ROOKWOOD. 99 
 
 My frame is withered, my visage old, 
 My locks are frore, and my hones ice cold. 
 The wolf will howl as I pass his lair, 
 The ban-dog moan, and the screech-owl stare. 
 For breath, at my coming, the sleeper strains, 
 And the freezing current forsakes his veins ! 
 Vainly for pity the wretch may sue — 
 Merciless Mara no prayers subdue ! 
 
 To his couch 1 jiit — 
 
 On his breast I sit ! 
 
 Astride I astride ! astride! 
 
 And one charm alone 
 
 {A hollow stone /*) 
 
 Can scare me from his side I 
 
 A thousand antic shapes I take ; 
 
 The stoutest heart at my touch will quake. 
 
 The miser dreams of a bag of gold, 
 
 Or a ponderous chest on his bosom roll'd. 
 
 The drunkard groans 'neath a cask of wine ; 
 
 The reveller swclts 'neath a weighty chine. 
 
 The recreant turns, by his foes assailed, 
 
 To flee ! — but his feet to the ground are nailed. 
 
 The goatherd dreams of his mountain-tops, 
 
 And, dizzily reeling, downward drops. 
 
 The murderer feels at his throat a knife, 
 And gasps, as his victim gasp'd, for life ! 
 The thief recoils from the scorching brand ; 
 The mariner drowns in sight of land ! 
 — Thus sinful man have I power to fray, 
 Torture and rack — but not to slay ! 
 But ever the couch of purity, 
 With shuddering glance I hurry by. 
 
 Then mount ! away ! 
 
 To horse ! I say, 
 
 To horse ! astride / astride ! 
 
 Fhe fire-drake shoots — 
 
 The screech-oicl hoots — 
 
 As through the air I glide ! 
 
 * In reference to this imaginary charm, Sir Thomas Browne observes, in his 
 'Vulgar Errors:" "What natural effects can reasonably be expected, when, 
 to prevent the Ephialtes, or Nightmare, we hang a hollow stone in our stables ?" 
 Grose also states, " that a stone with a hole in it, hung at the bed's head, will 
 prevent the nightmare, and is therefore called a hag-stone." The belief in this 
 charm still lingers in some districts, and maintains, like the horseshoe affixed 
 to the barn-door, a feeble stand against the superstition-destroying "march of 
 intellect." 
 
 H2 
 
100 ROOKWOOD. 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 THE CHURCHYARD. 
 
 Methouglit I walked, about the mid of night, 
 
 Into a churchyard. Webster : The White Devil. 
 
 Lights streamed through the chancel window as the sexton en- 
 tered the churchyard, darkly denning all the ramified tracery of 
 the noble Gothic arch, and illumining the gorgeous dyes of its 
 richly-stained glass, profusely decorated with the armorial bearings 
 of the founder of the fane, and the many alliances of his descend- 
 ants. The sheen of their blazonry gleamed bright in the dark- 
 ness, as if to herald to his last home another of the line whose 
 achievements it displayed. Glowing colourings, checkered like 
 rainbow tints, were shed upon the broken leaves of the adjoining 
 yew-trees, and upon the rounded grassy tombs. 
 
 Opening the gate, as he looked in that direction, Peter became 
 aware of a dark figure, enveloped in a large black cloak, and 
 covered with a slouched hat, standing at some distance, between 
 the window and the tree, and so intervening as to receive the full 
 influence of the stream of radiance which served to dilate its 
 almost superhuman stature. The sexton stopped. The figure re- 
 mained stationary. There was something singular both in the 
 costume and situation of the person. Peter's curiosity was speedily 
 aroused, and, familiar with every inch of the churchyard, he deter- 
 mined to take the nearest cut, and to ascertain to whom the myste- 
 rious cloak and hat belonged. Making his way over the undu- 
 lating graves, and instinctively rounding the headstones that 
 intercepted his path, he quickly drew near the object of his in- 
 quiry. From the moveless posture it maintained, the figure 
 appeared to be unconscious of Peter's approach. To his eyes it 
 seemed to expand as he advanced. He was now almost close 
 upon it, when his progress was arrested by a violent grasp laid on 
 his shoulder. He started and uttered an exclamation of alarm. 
 At this moment a vivid flash of lightning illumined the whole 
 churchyard, and Peter then thought he beheld, at some distance 
 from him, two other figures, bearing upon their shoulders a huge 
 chest, or, it might be, a coffin. The garb of these figures, so far 
 as it could be discerned through the drenching rain, was fantastical 
 in the extreme. The foremost seemed to have a lon<>- white beard 
 descending to his girdle. Little leisure, however, was allowed 
 Peter for observation. The vision no sooner met his glance than 
 it disappeared, and nothing was seen but the glimmering tomb- 
 stones — nothing heard but the whistling wind and the heavily- 
 descending shower. He rubbed his eyes. The muffled figure 
 
ROOKWOOD. 101 
 
 had vanished, and not a trace could be discovered of the mys- 
 terious coffin-bearers, if such they were. 
 
 "What have I seen?" mentally ejaculated Peter: "is this sor- 
 cery or treachery, or both ? No body-snatchers would visit this 
 place on a night like this, when the whole neighbourhood is 
 aroused. Can it be a vision I have seen? Pshaw ! shall I iu^le 
 myself as I deceive these hinds? It was no bearded demon that I 
 beheld, but the gipsy patrico, Balthazar. I knew him at once. 
 But what meant that muffled figure; and whose arm could it have 
 been that griped my shoulder? Ha! what if Lady Rookwood 
 should have given orders for the removal of Susan's body. No, 
 no; that cannot be. Besides, I have the keys of the vault; and 
 there are hundreds now in the church who would permit no such 
 desecration. I am perplexed to think what it can mean. But I 
 will to the vault." Saying which, he hastened to the church 
 porch, and after wringing the wet from his clothes, as a water-dog 
 might shake the moisture from his curly hide, and doffing his 
 broad felt hat, he entered the holy edifice. The interior seemed 
 one blaze of light to the sexton, in his sudden transition from 
 outer darkness. Some few persons were assembled, probably such 
 as were engaged in the preparations ; but there was one group 
 which immediately caught his attention. 
 
 Near the communion-table stood three persons, habited in deep 
 mourning, apparently occupied in examining the various monu- 
 mental carvings that enriched the walls. Peter's office led him to 
 that part of the church. About to descend into the vaults, to 
 make the last preparations for the reception of the dead, with 
 lantern in hand, keys, and a crowbar, he approached the party. 
 Little attention was paid to the sexton's proceedings, till the 
 harsh grating of the lock attracted their notice. 
 
 Peter started as he beheld the face of one of the three, and 
 relaxing his hold upon the key, the strong bolt shot back in the 
 lock. There was a whisper amongst the party. A light step was 
 heard advancing towards him ; and ere the sexton could sufficiently 
 recover his surprise, or force open the door, a female figure stood 
 by his side. 
 
 The keen, inquiring stare which Peter bestowed upon the coun- 
 tenance of the young lady so much abashed her, that she hesitated 
 in her purpose of addressing him, and hastily retired. 
 
 "She here!" muttered Peter; "nay, then, I must no longer 
 withhold the dreaded secret from Luke, or Ranulph may, indeed, 
 wrest his possessions from him." 
 
 Reinforced by her companions, an elderly lady and a tall, 
 handsome man, whose bearing and deportment bespoke him to be 
 a soldier, the fair stranger again ventured towards Peter. 
 
 "You are the sexton," said she, addressing him in a voice sweet 
 and musical. 
 
102 ROOKWOOD. 
 
 " I am," returned Peter. It was harmony succeeded by dis- 
 sonance. 
 
 " You, perhaps, can tell us, then," said the elderly lady, "whether 
 the funeral is likely to take place to-night? We thought it pos- 
 sible that the storm might altogether prevent it." 
 
 " The storm is over, as nearly as may be," replied Peter. " The 
 body will soon be on its way. I am but now arrived from the 
 
 hall." 
 
 " Indeed !" exclaimed the lady. " None of the family will be 
 present, I suppose. Who is the chief mourner?" 
 
 " Young Sir Ranulph," answered the sexton. " There will be 
 more of the family than were expected." 
 
 " Is Sir Ranulph returned?" asked the young lady, with great 
 agitation of manner. " I thought he was abroad — that he was not 
 expected. Are you sure you are rightly informed ?" 
 
 " I parted with him at the hall not ten minutes since," replied 
 Peter. " He returned from France to-night most unexpectedly." 
 
 " Oh, mother!" exclaimed the younger lady, "that this should 
 be — that I should meet him here. Why did we come? — let us 
 
 depart." 
 
 " Impossible !" replied her mother; " the storm forbids it. This 
 man's information is so strange, I scarce can credit it. Are you 
 sure you have asserted the truth ?" said she, addressing Peter. 
 
 " I am not accustomed to be doubted," answered he. " Other 
 things as strange have happened at the hall." 
 
 " What mean you?" asked the gentleman, noticing this last 
 remark. 
 
 " You would not need to ask the question of me, had you been 
 there, amongst the other guests," retorted Peter. " Odd things, I 
 tell you, have been done there this night, and stranger things may 
 occur before the morning." . 
 
 " You are insolent, sirrah ! I comprehend you not." 
 
 " Enough ! I can comprehend you" replied Peter, significantly; 
 " I know the count of the mourners invited to this ceremonial, and 
 I am aware that there are three too many." 
 
 "Know you this saucy knave, mother?" 
 
 " I cannot call him to mind, though I fancy I have seen him 
 before." 
 
 " My recollection serves me better, lady," interposed Peter. " I 
 remember one who was once the proud heiress of Rookwood — ay, 
 proud and beautiful. Then the house was rilled with her gallant 
 suitors. Swords were crossed for her. Hearts bled for her. Yet 
 she favoured none, until one hapless hour. Sir Reginald Rook- 
 wood had a daughter; Sir Reginald lost a daughter. Ha ! — I see 
 I am right. Well, he is dead and buried; and Reginald, his son, 
 is dead likewise; and Piers is on his road hither; and you are the 
 last, as in the course of nature you might have been the first. 
 
ROOKWOOD. 103 
 
 And, now that they are all gone, you do rightly to bury your 
 grievances with them." 
 
 " Silence, sirrah !" exclaimed the gentleman, "or I will beat 
 your brains out with your own spade." 
 
 "No; let him speak, Vavasour," said the lady, with an expres- 
 sion of anguish — " he has awakened thoughts of other days." 
 
 "I have done," said Peter, "and must to work. Will you 
 descend with me, madam, into the sepulchre of your ancestry? 
 All your family lie within — ay, and the Lady Eleanor, your 
 mother, amongst the number." 
 
 Mrs. Mowbray signified her assent, and the party prepared to 
 follow him. 
 
 The sexton held the lantern so as to throw its light upon the 
 steps as they entered the gloomy receptacle of the departed. 
 Eleanor half repented having ventured within its dreary limits, so 
 much did the appearance of the yawning catacombs, surcharged 
 with mortality, and, above all, the ghostly figure of the grim 
 knight, affect her with dread, as she looked wistfully around. She 
 required all the support her brother's arm could afford her ; nor 
 was Mrs. Mowbray altogether unmoved. 
 
 " And all the family are here interred, you say?" inquired the 
 latter. 
 
 " All," replied the sexton. 
 
 "Where, then, lies Sir Reginald's younger brother?" 
 
 " Who?" exclaimed Peter, starting. 
 
 " Alan Rookwoocl." 
 
 "What of him?" 
 
 " Nothing of moment. But I thought you could, perhaps, in- 
 form me. He died young." 
 
 " He did," replied Peter, in an altered tone — " very young; but 
 not before he had lived to an old age of wretchedness. Do you 
 know his story, madam?" 
 
 " I have heard it." 
 
 " From your father's lips?" 
 
 " From Sir Reginald Rookwood's — never. Call him not my 
 father, sirrah ; even here I will not have him named so to me." 
 
 " Your pardon, madam," returned the sexton. " Great cruelty 
 was shown to the Lady Eleanor, and may well call forth impla- 
 cable resentment in her child ; vet methinks the wrons: he did his 
 brother Alan was the foulest stain with which Sir Reginald's black 
 soul was dyed." 
 
 "With what particular wrong dost thou charge Sir Reginald?" 
 demanded Major Mowbray. " What injury did he inflict upon 
 his brother Alan?" 
 
 " He wronged his brother's honour," replied the sexton ; " he 
 robbed him of his wife, poisoned his existence, and hurried him 
 to an untimely grave." 
 
104 ROOKWOOD. 
 
 Eleanor shudderingly held back during this horrible narration, 
 the hearing of which she would willingly have shunned, had it 
 been possible. 
 
 "Can this be true?" asked the major. 
 
 " Too true, my son," replied Mrs. Mowbray, sorrowfully. 
 
 "And where lies the unfortunate Alan?" asked Major Mow- 
 bray. 
 
 "'Twixt two cross roads. Where else should the suicide lie?" 
 
 Evading any further question, Peter hastily traversed the vault, 
 elevating the light so as to reveal the contents of each cell. One 
 circumstance filled him with surprise and dismay — he could no- 
 where perceive the coffin of his daughter. In vain he peered into 
 every catacomb — they were apparently undisturbed ; and, with 
 much internal marvelling and misgiving, Peter gave up the search. 
 " That vision is now explained," muttered he ; the body is re- 
 moved, but by whom? Death! can I doubt? It must be Lady 
 Rookwood — who else can have any interest in its removal. She 
 has acted boldly. But she shall yet have reason to repent her 
 temerity." As he continued his search, his companions silently- 
 followed. Suddenly he stopped, and, signifying that all was 
 finished, they not unwillingly quitted this abode of horror, leaving 
 him behind them. 
 
 " It is a dreadful place," whispered Eleanor to her mother; " nor 
 would I have visited it, had I conceived anything of its horrors. 
 And that strange man ! who or what is he?" 
 
 "Ay, who is he?" repeated Major Mowbray. 
 
 "I recollect him now," replied Mrs. Mowbray; "he is one who 
 has ever been connected with the family. He had a daughter, 
 whose beauty was her ruin: it is a sad tale; I cannot tell it now: 
 you have heard enough of misery and guilt: but that may account 
 for his bitterness of speech. He was a dependent upon my poor 
 brother." 
 
 "Poor man!" replied Eleanor; "if he has been unfortunate, I 
 pity him. I am sorry we have been into that dreadful place. I 
 am very faint: and I. tremble more than ever at the thought of 
 meeting Ranulph Rookwood again. I can scarcely support my- 
 self — I am sure I shall not venture to look upon him." 
 
 " Had I dreamed of the likelihood of his attending the ceremony, 
 rest assured, dear Eleanor, we should not have been here: but I 
 was informed there was no possibility of his return. Compose 
 yourself, my child. It will be a trying time to both of us; but it 
 is now inevitable." 
 
 At this moment the bell began to toll. " The procession has 
 started," said Peter, as he passed the Mowbrays. " That bell an- 
 nounces the setting out." 
 
 " See yonder persons hurrying to the door," exclaimed Eleanor, 
 with eagerness, and trembling violently. "They are coming. 
 Oh ! I shall never be able to go through with it, dear mother." 
 
EOOKWOOD. 105 
 
 Peter hastened to the church door, where he stationed himself, 
 m company with a host of others, equally curious. Flickering 
 lights in the distance, shining like stars through the trees, showed 
 them that the procession was collecting in front of the hall. The 
 rain had now entirely ceased; the thunder muttered from afar, and 
 the lightning seemed only to lick the moisture from the trees. The 
 bell continued to toll, and its loud booming awoke the drowsy 
 echoes of the valley. On the sudden, a solitary, startling concus- 
 sion of thunder was heard; and presently a man rushed down 
 from the belfry, with the tidings that he had seen a ball of fire 
 fall from a cloud right over the hall. Every ear was on the alert 
 for the next sound ; none was heard. It was the crisis of the 
 storm. Still the funeral procession advanced not. The strong 
 sheen of the torchlight was still visible from the bottom of the 
 avenue, now disappearing, now brightly glimmering, as if the 
 bearers were hurrying to and fro amongst the trees. It was evi- 
 dent that much confusion prevailed, and that some misadventure 
 had occurred. Each man muttered to his neighbour, and few 
 were there who had not in a measure surmised the cause of the 
 delay. At this juncture, a person without his hat, breathless with 
 haste and almost palsied with fright, rushed through the midst of 
 them, and, stumbling over the threshold, fell headlong into the 
 church. 
 
 "What's the matter, Master Plant? What has happened? 
 Tell us ! Tell us !" exclaimed several voices simultaneously. 
 
 "Lord have mercy upon us!" cried Plant, gasping for utter- 
 ance, and not attempting to raise himself. " It's horrible ! dread- 
 ful! oh!— oh!" 
 
 "What has happened?" inquired Peter, approaching the fallen 
 man. 
 
 " And dost thou need to ask, Peter Bradley? thou, who foretold 
 it all? but I will not say what I think, though my tongue itches 
 to tell thee the truth. Be satisfied, thy wizard's lore has served 
 thee right — he is dead." 
 
 " Who? , Ranulph Rookwood ! Has anything befallen him, or 
 the prisoner, Luke Bradley?" asked the sexton, with eagerness. 
 
 A scream here burst forth from one who was standing behind 
 the group ; and, in spite of the efforts of her mother to withhold 
 her, Eleanor Mowbray rushed forward. 
 
 "Has aught happened to Sir Ranulph?" asked she. 
 
 " Noa — noa — not to Sir Ranulph — he be with the body." 
 
 "Heaven be thanked for that!" exclaimed Eleanor. And 
 then, as if ashamed of her own vehemence, and, it might seem, 
 apparent indifference to another's fate, she inquired who was 
 hurt? 
 
 " It be poor neighbour Toft, that be killed by a thunderbolt, 
 ma'am," replied Plant. 
 
 Exclamations of horror burst from all around. 
 
106 EOOKWOOD. 
 
 No one was more surprised at this intelligence than the sexton. 
 Like many other seers, he had not, in all probability, calculated 
 upon the fulfilment of his predictions, and he now stared aghast at 
 the extent of his own foreknowledge. 
 
 CD 
 
 " I tell'ee what, Master Peter," said Plant, shaking his bullet- 
 head; "it be well for thee thou didn't live in my grandfather's 
 time, or thou'dst ha' been ducked in a blanket: or mav be burnt 
 at the stake, like Ridley and Latimer, as we read on — but how- 
 ever that may be, ye shall hear how poor Toft's death came to 
 pass, and nobody can tell'ee better nor I, seeing I were near to 
 him, poor fellow, at the time. Well, we thought as how the storm 
 were all over — and had all got into order of march, and were just 
 beginning to step up the avenue, the coffin-bearers pushing lustily 
 along, and the torches shining grandly, when poor Simon Toft, 
 who could never travel well in liquor in his life, reeled to one side, 
 and staggering against the first huge lime-tree, sat himself down 
 beneath it — thou knowest the tree I mean." 
 
 "The tree of fate," returned Peter. "I ought, methinks, to 
 know it." 
 
 " Well, I were just stepping aside to pick him up, when all at 
 once there comes such a crack of thunder, and, whizzing through 
 the trees, flashed a great globe of red fire, so bright and dazzlin', 
 it nearly blinded me; and when I opened my eyes, winkin' and 
 waterin', 1 see'd that which blinded me more even than the flash — 
 that which had just afore been poor Simon, but which was now a 
 mass o' black smouldering ashes, clean consumed and destroyed — 
 his clothes rent to a thousand tatters — the earth and stones tossed 
 up, and scattered all about, and a great splinter of the tree lying 
 beside him." 
 
 " Heaven's will be done !" said the sexton ; " this is an awful 
 judgment." 
 
 "And Sathan cast down; for this is a spice o' his handiwork," 
 muttered Plant; adding, as he slunk away, "If ever Peter Brad- 
 ley do come to the blanket, dang me if I don't lend a helpin' 
 hand." 
 
EOOKTTOOD. 107 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 THE FUNERAL. 
 
 How like a silent stream, shaded by night, 
 And gliding softly with our windy sighs, 
 Moves the whole frame of this solemnity ! 
 Tears, sighs, and blacks, filling the simile ! 
 Whilst I, the only murmur in this grove 
 Of death, thus hollowly break forth. 
 
 The Fatal Dowry. 
 
 Word being given that the funeral train was fast approaching, 
 the church door was thrown open, and the assemblage divided 
 in two lines, to allow it admission. 
 
 Meanwhile, a striking change had taken place, even in this 
 brief period, in the appearance of the night. The sky, heretofore 
 curtained with darkness, was now illumined by a serene, soft 
 moon, which, floating in a watery halo, tinged with silvery radi- 
 ance the edges of a few ghostly clouds that hurried along the deep 
 and starlit skies. The suddenness of the change could not fail to 
 excite surprise and admiration, mingled with regret that the pro- 
 cession had not been delayed until the present time. 
 
 Slowly and mournfully the train was seen to approach the 
 churchyard, winding, two by two, with melancholy step, around 
 the corner of the road. First came Doctor Small; then the mutes, 
 with their sable panoply ; next, the torch-bearers ; next, those who 
 sustained the coffin, bending beneath their ponderous burden, fol- 
 lowed by Sir Ranulph and a long line of attendants, all plainly 
 to be distinguished by the flashing torchlight. There was a slight 
 halt at the gate, and the coffin changed supporters. 
 
 "Ill luck betide them !" ejaculated Peter; "could they find no 
 other place except that to halt at? Must Sir Piers be gatekeeper 
 till next Yule? No," added he, seeing what followed; "it will 
 be poor Toft, after all." 
 
 Following close upon the coffin came a rude shell, containing, 
 as Peter rightly conjectured, the miserable remains of Simon Toft, 
 who had met his fate in the manner described by Plant. The 
 bolt of death glanced from the tree which it first struck, and re- 
 duced the unfortunate farmer to a heap of dust. Universal con- 
 sternation prevailed, and doubts were entertained as to what course 
 should be pursued. It was judged best by Doctor Small to re- 
 move the remains at once to the charnel-house. Thus a un- 
 anointed, unaneled, with all his imperfections on his head," was 
 poor Simon Toft, in one brief second, in the twinkling of an eye, 
 plunged from the height of festivity to the darkness of the grave, 
 
108 ROOKWOOD. 
 
 and so horribly disfigured, that scarce a vestige of humanity was 
 discernible in the mutilated mass that remained of him. Truly 
 may we be said to walk in blindness, and amidst deep pitfalls. 
 
 The churchyard was thronged by the mournful train. The long 
 array of dusky figures — the waving torchlight gleaming ruddily 
 in the white moonshine — now glistening upon the sombre habili- 
 ments of the bearers, and on their shrouded load, now reflected 
 upon the jagged branches of the yew-trees, or falling upon the 
 ivied buttresses of the ancient church, constituted no unimpressive 
 picture. Over all, like a lamp hung in the still sky, shone the 
 moon, shedding a soothing, spiritual lustre over the scene. 
 
 The organ broke into a solemn strain as the coffin was borne 
 along the mid-aisle — the mourners following, with reverent step, 
 and slow. It was deposited near the mouth of the vault, the 
 whole assemblage circling around it. Doctor Small proceeded 
 with the performance of that magnificent service appointed for the 
 burial of the dead, in a tone as remarkable for its sadness as for its 
 force and fervour. There was a tear in every eye — a cloud on 
 every brow. 
 
 Brightly illumined as was the whole building, there were still 
 some recesses which, owing to the intervention of heavy pillars, 
 were thrown into shade; and in one of these, supported by her 
 mother and brother, stood Eleanor, a weeping witness of the 
 scene. She beheld the coffin silently borne along; she saw one 
 dark figure slowly following; she knew those pale features — oh, 
 how pale they were ! A year had wrought a fearful alteration ; she 
 could scarce credit what she beheld. He must, indeed, have suf- 
 fered — deeply suffered ; and her heart told her that his sorrows 
 had been for her. 
 
 Many a wistful look, besides, was directed to the principal 
 figure in this ceremonial, Ranulph Rookwood. He was a prey to 
 unutterable anguish of soul; his heart bled inwardly for the father 
 he had lost. Mechanically following the body down the aisle, he 
 had taken his station near it, gazing with confused vision upon the 
 bystanders; had listened, with a sad composure, to the expressive 
 delivery of Small, until he read — " For man icalketh in a vain 
 shadow, and disquietcth himself in vain ; he heapeth up riches, and 
 cannot tell who shall gather them? 
 
 "Verily!" exclaimed a deep voice; and Ranulph, looking 
 round, met the eyes of Peter Bradley fixed full upon him. But 
 it was evidently not the sexton who had spoken. 
 
 Small continued the service. He arrived at this verse : u Thou 
 hast set our misdeeds before thee ; and our secret sins in the light of 
 thy countenance? 
 
 "Even so!" exclaimed the voice; and as Ranulph raised his 
 eyes in the direction of the sound, he thought he saw a dark figure, 
 muffled in a cloak, disappear behind one of the pillars. He be- 
 stowed, however, at the moment, little thought upon this incident. 
 
ROOKWOOD. 109 
 
 His heart melted within him; and leaning his face upon his hand, 
 he wept aloud. 
 
 " Command yourself, I entreat of you, my dear Sir Ranulph," 
 said Doctor Small, as soon as the service was finished, " and suffer 
 this melancholy ceremonial to be completed." Saying which, he 
 gently withdrew Ranulph from his support, and the coffin was 
 lowered into the vault. 
 
 Ranulph remained for some time in the extremity of sorrow. 
 When he in part recovered, the crowd had dispersed, and few 
 persons were remaining within the church; yet near him stood 
 three apparent loiterers. They advanced towards him. An ex- 
 clamation of surprise and joy burst from his lips. 
 
 "Eleanor!" 
 
 "Ranulph!" 
 
 "Is it possible? Do I indeed behold you, Eleanor?" 
 
 No other word was spoken. They rushed into each other's 
 arms. Oh ! sad — sad is the lover's parting — no pang so keen; but 
 if life hath a zest more exquisite than others — if felicity hath one 
 drop more racy than the rest in her honeyed cup, it is the happi- 
 ness enjoyed in such a union as the present. To say that he was 
 as one raised from the depths of misery by some angel comforter, 
 were a feeble comparison of the transport of Ranulph. To paint 
 the thrilling delight of Eleanor — the trembling tenderness — the 
 fond abandonment which vanquished all her maiden scruples, 
 would be impossible. Reluctantly yielding — fearing, yet comply- 
 ing, her lips were sealed in one long, loving kiss, the sanctifying 
 pledge of their tried affection. 
 
 "Eleanor, dear Eleanor," exclaimed Ranulph, "though I hold 
 you within my arms — though each nerve within my frame assures 
 me of your presence — though I look into those eyes, which seem 
 fraught with irreater endearment than ever I have known them 
 wear — though I see and feel, and know all this, so sudden, so un- 
 looked for is the happiness, that I could almost doubt its reality. 
 Say to what blessed circumstance I am indebted for this unlooked- 
 for happiness." 
 
 " We are staying not far hence, with friends, dear Ranulph; and 
 my mother, hearing of Sir Piers Rook wood's death, and wishing 
 to bury all animosity with him, resolved to be present at the sad 
 ceremony. We were told vou could not be here." 
 
 " And would my presence have prevented your attendance, 
 Eleanor?" 
 
 "Nof that, dear Ranulph; but " 
 
 "But what?" 
 
 At this moment the advance of Mrs. Mowbray offered an inter- 
 ruption to their further discourse. 
 
 " My son and I appear to be secondary in your regards, Sir 
 Ranulph," said she, gravely. 
 
 " Sir Ranulph !" mentally echoed the young man. " What 
 
110 ROOKWOOD. 
 
 will she think, when she knows that that title is not mine? I 
 dread to tell her. He then added aloud, with a melancholy 
 smile, "I crave your pardon, madam; the delight of a meeting so 
 unexpected with your daughter must plead my apology." 
 
 "None is wanting, Sir Ranulph," said Major Mowbray. "I 
 who have known what separation from my sister is, can readily 
 excuse your feelings. But you look ill." 
 
 " I have, indeed, experienced much mental anxiety," said Ra- 
 nulph, looking at Eleanor; " it is now past, and I would fain hope 
 that a brighter day is dawning." His heart answered, 'twas but a 
 hope. 
 
 a You were unlooked for here to-night, Sir Ranulph," said 
 Mrs. Mowbray; "by us, at least: we were told you were abroad." 
 
 "You were rightly informed madam," replied Ranulph. "I 
 only arrived this evening from Bordeaux." 
 
 " I am glad you are returned. We are at present on a visit 
 with your neighbours, the Davenhams, at Braybrook, and trust we 
 shall see you there." 
 
 "I will ride over to-morrow," replied Ranulph; "there is much 
 on which I would consult you all. I would have ventured to re- 
 quest the favour of your company at Rookwood, had the occasion 
 been other than the present." 
 
 "And I would willingly have accepted your invitation," re- 
 turned Mrs. Mowbray; "I should like to see the old house once 
 more. During your father's lifetime I could not approach it. 
 You are lord of broad lands, Sir Ranulph — a goodly inheritance." 
 
 "Madam!" 
 
 " And a proud title, which you will grace well, I doubt not. 
 The first, the noblest of our house, was he from whom you derive 
 your name. You are the third Sir Ranulph ; the first founded the 
 house of Rookwood; the next advanced it; 'tis foi^you to raise its 
 glory to its height." 
 
 " Alas ! madam, I have no such thought." 
 
 " Wherefore not? you are young, wealthy, powerful. With 
 such domains as those of Rookwood — with such a title as its lord 
 can claim, nought should be too high for your aspirations." 
 
 "I aspire to nothing, madam, but your daughter's hand; and 
 even that I will not venture to solicit until you are acquainted 
 with " And he hesitated. 
 
 " With what?" asked Mrs. Mowbray, in surprise. 
 
 " A singular, and to me most perplexing event has occurred to- 
 night," replied Ranulph, " which may materially affect my future 
 fortunes." 
 
 " Indeed !" exclaimed Mrs. Mowbray. " Does it relate to your 
 mother?" 
 
 " Excuse my answering the question now, madam," replied Ra- 
 nulph ; " you shall know all to-morrow." 
 
 "Ay, to-morrow, dear Ranulph," said Eleanor; "and whatever 
 
ROOKWOOD. Ill 
 
 that morrow may bring forth, it will bring happiness to me, if you 
 are bearer of the tidings." 
 
 " I shall expect your coming with impatience," said Mrs. 
 Mowbray. 
 
 "And I," added Major Mowbray, who had listened thus far in 
 silence, " would offer you my services in any way you think they 
 would be useful. Command me as you think fitting." 
 
 " I thank you heartily," returned Ranulph. " To-morrow you 
 shall learn all. Meanwhile, it shall be my business to investigate 
 the truth or falsehood of the statement I have heard, ere I report 
 it to you. Till then, farewell." 
 
 As they issued from the church it was grey dawn. Mrs. Mow- 
 bray's carriage stood at the door. The party entered it; and 
 accompanied by Doctor Small, whom he found within in the 
 vestry, Ranulph walked towards the hall, where a fresh surprise 
 awaited him. 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 THE CAPTIVE. 
 
 Black Will. Which is the place where we're to be concealed ? 
 
 Green. This inner room. 
 
 Black Will. 'Tis well. The word is, " Now I take you." 
 
 Arden of Fevers ham. 
 
 Guarded by the two young farmers who had displayed so 
 much address in seizing him, Luke, meanwhile, had been con- 
 veyed in safety to the small chamber in the eastern wing, destined 
 by Mr. Coates to be his place of confinement for the night. The 
 room, or rather closet, opening from another room, was extremely 
 w T ell adapted for the purpose, having no perceptible outlet; being 
 defended, on either side, by thick partition walls of the hardest 
 oak, and at the extremity by the solid masonry of the mansion. 
 It was, in fact, a remnant of the building anterior to the first Sir 
 Ranulph' s day; and the narrow limits of Luke's cell had been 
 erected long before the date of his earliest progenitor. Having 
 seen their prisoner safely bestowed, the room was carefully ex- 
 amined, every board sounded, every crevice and corner peered 
 into by the curious eye of the little lawyer; and nothing being 
 found insecure, the light was removed, the door locked, the rustic 
 constables dismissed, and a brace of pistols having been loaded 
 and laid on the table, Mr. Coates pronounced himself thoroughly 
 satisfied and quite comfortable. 
 
 Comfortable ! Titus heaved a sio-h as he echoed the word. 
 
112 EOOKWOOD 
 
 He felt anything but comfortable. His heart was with the body 
 all the while. He thought of the splendour of the funeral, the 
 torches, the illumined church, his own dignified march down the 
 aisle, and the effect he expected to produce amongst the bewildered 
 rustics. He thought of all these things, and cursed Luke by all 
 the saints in the calendar. The sight of the musty old apartment, 
 hung round with faded arras, which, as he said, " smelt of nothing 
 but rats and ghosts, and such like varmint," did not serve to 
 inspirit him ; and the proper equilibrium of his temper was not 
 completely restored until the appearance of the butler, with all the 
 requisites for the manufacture of punch, afforded him some pro- 
 spective solace. 
 
 "And what are they about now, Tim?" asked Titus. 
 
 " All as jolly as can be," answered the domestic; " Doctor Small 
 is just about to pronounce the funeral 'ration." 
 
 "Devil take it!" ejaculated Titus, "there's another miss. 
 Couldn't I just slip out, and hear that?" 
 
 " On no account," said Coates. " Consider, Sir Ranulph is 
 there." 
 
 " Well, well," rejoined Titus, heaving a deep sigh, and squeezing 
 a lemon; "are you sure this is biling water, Tim? You know, 
 I'm mighty particular." 
 
 " Perfectly aware of it, sir." 
 
 " Ah, Tim, do you recollect the way I used to brew for poor 
 Sir Piers, with a bunch of red currants at the bottom of the glass? 
 And then to think that, after all, I should be left out of his funeral 
 — its the height of barbarity. Tim, this rum of yours is poorstulf 
 — there's no punch worth the trouble of drinking, except whisky- 
 punch. A glass of right potheen, straw-colour, peat-flavour, ten 
 degrees over proof, would be the only thing to drown my cares. 
 Any such thing in the cellar? There used to be an odd bottle or 
 so, Tim — in the left bin, near the door." 
 
 " I've a notion there be," returned Timothy. " I'll v try the bin 
 your honour mentions, and if I can lay hands upon a bottle you 
 shall have it, you may depend." 
 
 The butler departed, and Titus, emulating Mr. Coates, who had 
 already enveloped himself, like Juno at the approach of Ixion, in 
 a cloud, proceeded to light his pipe. 
 
 Luke, meanwhile, had been left alone, without light. He had 
 much to meditate upon, and with nought to check the current of 
 his thoughts, he pensively revolved his present situation and future 
 prospects. The future was gloomy enough — the present fraught 
 with danger. And now that the fever of excitement was passed, 
 he severely reproached himself for his precipitancy. 
 
 His mind, by degrees, assumed a more tranquil state; and, ex- 
 hausted with his great previous fatigue, he threw himself upon the 
 floor of his prison-house, and addressed himself to slumber. The 
 noise he made induced Coates to enter the room, which he did 
 
ROOK WOOD. 113 
 
 with a pistol in each hand, followed by Titus with a pipe and 
 candle ; but finding all safe the sentinels retired. 
 
 " One may see, with half an eye, that you're not used to a 
 feather-bed, my friend," said Titus, as the door was locked. " By 
 the powers, he's a tall chap, any how — why his feet almost touch 
 the door. I should say that room was a matter of six feet long, 
 Mr. Coates." 
 
 " Exactly six feet, sir." 
 
 " Well, that's a good guess. Hang that ugly rascal, Tim; he's 
 never brought the whisky. But I'll be even with him to-morrow. 
 Couldn't you just see to the prisoner for ten minutes, Mr. Coates?" 
 
 u Not ten seconds. I shall report you, if you stir from your 
 post." 
 
 Here the door was opened, and Tim entered with the whisky. 
 
 " Arrah ! by my soul, Tim, and here you are at last — uncork it, 
 man, and give us a thimble-full — blob ! there goes the stopper — 
 here's a glass" — smacking his lips — " whist, Tim, another drop — 
 stuff like this will never hurt a body. Mr. Coates, try it — no — I 
 thought you'd be a man of more taste." 
 
 u I must limit you to a certain quantity," replied Coates, u or 
 you will not be fit to keep guard — another glass must be the extent 
 of your allowance." 
 
 " Another glass ! and do you think I'll submit to any such ini- 
 quitous proposition?" 
 
 " Beg pardon, gentlemen," said Tim, u but her ladyship desires 
 me to tell you both, that she trusts you will keep the strictest 
 watch upon the prisoner. I have the same message also from Sir 
 Ranulph." 
 
 " Do you hear that?" said Coates. 
 
 " And what are they all about now, Tim ?" groaned Titus. 
 
 " Just starting, sir," returned Tim ; " and, indeed, I must not 
 lose my time gossiping here, for I be wanted below. You must be 
 pleased to take care of yourselves, gentlemen, for an hour or so, 
 for there will be only a few women-kind left in the house. The 
 storm's just over, and the men are all lighting their torches. Oh, 
 it's a grand sight !" And off set Tim. 
 
 u Bad luck to myself, any how," ejaculated Titus; " this is more 
 than I can bear — I've had enough of this watch and ward business 
 ■ — if the prisoner stirs, shoot him, if you think proper — I'll be back 
 in an hour." 
 
 " I tell you what, Mr. Tyrconnel," said Coates, coolly taking up 
 the pistol from the table, " I'm a man of few words, but those few 
 arc, I hope, to the purpose, and I'd have you to know if you stir 
 from that chair, or attempt to leave the room, damme but I'll 
 send a brace of bullets after you. I'm serious, I assure you." 
 And he cocked the pistol. 
 
 By way of reply to this menace, Titus deliberately filled a stiff 
 glass of whisky-and-water. 
 
 I 
 
114 ROOKWOOD. 
 
 " That s your last glass," said the inexorable Coates. 
 
 To return once more to Luke. He slept uneasily for some short 
 space, and was awakened by a sound which reached his dreaming 
 ears, and connected itself with the visions that slumber was weaving 
 around him. It was some moments before he could distinctly re- 
 member where he was. He would not venture to sleep again, 
 though he felt overwhelmed by drowsiness — there was a fixed pain 
 at his heart, as if circulation were suspended. Changing his pos- 
 ture, he raised himself upon one arm ; he then became aware of a 
 scratching noise, somewhat similar to the sound he had heard in 
 his dream, and perceived a light gleaming through a crevice in the 
 oaken partition. His attention was immediately arrested, and 
 placing his eye close to the chink, distinctly saw a dark lantern 
 burning, and by its light a man filing some implement of house- 
 breaking. The light fell before the hard features of the man, with 
 whose countenance Luke was familiar ; and although only one 
 person came within the scope of his view, Luke could make out, 
 from a muttered conversation that was carried on, that he had a 
 companion. The parties were near to him, and though speaking 
 in a low tone,, Luke's quick ear caught the following : 
 
 " What keeps Jack Palmer, I wonder?" said he of the file. 
 " We're all ready for the fakement — pops primed — and I tell you 
 what, Rob Rust, I've made my clasp-knife as sharp as a razor, and 
 damme, if Lady Rookwood offers any resistance, I'll spoil her 
 talking in future, I promise you." 
 
 Suppressed laughter from Rust followed this speech. That 
 laugh made Luke's blood run cold within his veins. 
 
 "Harkee, Dick Wilder, you're a reg'lar out-and-outer, and stops 
 at nothing, and curse me if I'd think any more of it than yourself. 
 But Jack's as squeamish of bloodshed as young Miss that cries at 
 her cut finger. It's the safer plan. Say what you will, nothing 
 but that will stop a woman's tongue." 
 
 " I shall make short work with her ladyship to-night, any how. 
 Hist ! here Jack comes." 
 
 A footstep crossed in the room, and, presently afterwards, ex- 
 clamations of surprise and smothered laughter were heard from the 
 parties. 
 
 " Bravo, Jack ! famous ! that disguise would deceive the devil 
 himself." 
 
 "And now, my lads," said the new comer, " is all right?" 
 
 " Right and tight." ' 
 
 u Nothing forgotten?" 
 
 " Nothing." 
 
 " Then off with your stamps, and on with your list slippers; not 
 a word. Follow me, and, for your lives, don't move a step but as 
 I direct you. The word must be, i Sir Piers Rookwood calls' 
 We'll overhaul the swag here. This crack may make us all 
 for life ; and if you'll follow my directions implicitly, we'll do 
 
KOOKWOOD. 115 
 
 the trick in style. This slum must be our rendezvous when all's 
 over ; for hark ye, my lads, I'll not budge an inch till Luke 
 Bradley be set free. He's an old friend, and I always stick 
 by old friends. I'd do the same for one of you if you were in 
 the same scrape, so, damn you, no flinching; besides, I owe that 
 spider-shanked, snivelling split-cause Coates, who stands sentry, 
 a grudge, and I'll pay him offj as Paul did the Ephesians. You 
 may crop his ears, or slit his tongue as you would a magpie's, 
 or any other chattering varmint ; make him sign his own testa- 
 ment, or treat him with a touch of your Habeas Corpus Act, if 
 you think proper, or give him a taste of blue plumb. One thing 
 only I stipulate, that you don't hurt that fat, mutton-headed Bro- 
 ganeer, whatever he may say or do ; he's a devilish good fellow. 
 And now to business." 
 
 Saying which, they noiselessly departed. But carefully as the 
 door was closed, Luke's ear could detect the sound. His blood 
 boiled with indignation ; and he experienced what all must have 
 felt who have been similarly situated, with the will, but not the 
 power, to assist another — a sensation almost approaching to tor- 
 ture. At this moment a distant scream burst upon his ears — 
 another — he hesitated no longer. With all his force, he thundered 
 at the door. 
 
 "What do you want, rascal?" cried Coates, from without. 
 " There are robbers in the house." 
 
 " Thank you for the information. There is one I know of 
 already." 
 
 "Fool, they are in Lady Rookwood's room. Run to her assist- 
 ance." 
 
 " A likely story, and leave you here." 
 " Do you hear that scream?" 
 " Eh, what — what's that ? I do hear something." 
 Here Luke dashed with all his force against the door. It 
 yielded to the blow, and he stood before the astonished attorney. 
 
 u Advance a footstep, villain," exclaimed Coates, presenting 
 both his pistols, " and I lodge a brace of balls in your head." 
 
 " Listen to me," said Luke ; " the robbers are in Lady Rook- 
 wood's chamber — they will plunder the place of everything — per- 
 haps murder her. Fly to her assistance, I will accompany you — 
 assist you — it is your only chance." 
 
 " My only chance — -your only chance. Do you take me for a 
 greenhorn? This is a poor subterfuge ; could you not have vamped 
 up something better? Get back to your own room, or I shall 
 make no more of shooting you than I would of snuffing that 
 candle." 
 
 "Be advised, sir," continued Luke. "There are three of them 
 — give me a pistol, and fear nothing." 
 
 " Give you a pistol ! Ha, ha ! — to be its mark myself. You 
 are an amusing rascal, I will say." 
 
 12 
 
116 ROOKWOOD. 
 
 " Sir, I tell you not a moment is to be lost. Is life nothing ? 
 Lady Rook wood may be murdered." 
 
 " I tell you, once for all, it won't do. Go back to your room, 
 or take the consequences." 
 
 " By the powers ! but it shall do, any how," exclaimed Titus, 
 flinging himself upon the attorney, and holding both his arms; 
 u you've bullied me long enough. I'm sure the lad's in the 
 right." 
 
 Luke snatched the pistols from the hands of Coates. 
 
 " Very well, Mr. Tyrconnel ; very well, sir," cried the attorney, 
 boiling with wrath, and spluttering out his words. u Extremely 
 well, sir. You are not perhaps aware, sir, what you have done ; 
 but you will repent this, sir — repent, I say — repent was my word, 
 Mr. Tyrconnel." 
 
 "Poh! — poh!" replied Titus. "I shall never repent a good- 
 natured action." 
 
 " Follow me," cried Luke ; u settle your disputes hereafter. 
 Quick, or we shall be too late." 
 
 Coates bustled after him, and Titus, putting the neck of the for- 
 bidden whisky bottle to his lips, and gulping down a hasty 
 mouthful, snatched up a rusty poker, and followed the party with 
 more alacrity than might have been expected from so portly a 
 personage. 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 THE APPARITION. 
 
 Gibbet. "Well, gentlemen, 'tis a fine night for our enterprise. 
 
 Hounslow. Dark as hell. 
 
 Bagshot. And blows like the devil. 
 
 Boniface. You'll have no creature to deal with but the ladies. 
 
 Gibbet. And I can assure you, friend, there's a great deal of address, and 
 good manners, in robbing a lady. I am the most of a gentleman, that way, 
 that ever travelled the road. Beaux Stratagem. 
 
 Accompanied by her son, Lady Rookwood, on quitting the 
 chamber of the dead, returned to her own room. She then re- 
 newed all her arguments; had recourse to passionate supplications — - 
 to violent threats, but without effect. Ranulph maintained pro- 
 found silence. Passion, as it ever doth, defeated its own ends i 
 and Lady Rookwood. seeing the ill effect her anger -would pro- 
 bably produce, gradually softened the asperity of her manner, and 
 suffered him to depart. 
 
 Left to herself, and to the communings of her own troubled 
 spirit, her fortitude, in a measure, forsook her, under the pressure 
 
ROOK WOOD 117 
 
 of the difficulties by which she was environed. There was no plan 
 she could devise — no scheme adopt, unattended with peril. She 
 must act alone — with promptitude and secrecy. To win her son 
 over was her chief desire, and that, at all hazards, she was resolved 
 to do. But how? She knew of only one point on which he was 
 vulnerable — his love for Eleanor Mowbray. By raising doubts in 
 his mind, and placing fresh difficulties in his path, she might 
 compel him to acquiesce in her machinations, as a necessary means 
 of accomplishing his own object. This she hoped to effect. Still 
 there was a depth of resolution in the placid stream of Ranulph's 
 character which she had often noticed with apprehension. Aware 
 of his firmness, she dreaded lest his sense of justice should be 
 stronger than his passion. 
 
 As she wove these webs of darkness, fear, hitherto unknown, 
 took possession of her soul. She listened to the howling of the 
 wind — to the vibration of the rafters — to the thunder's roar, and 
 to the hissing rain — till she, who never trembled at the thought 
 of danger, became filled with vaixue uneasiness. Lights were 
 ordered ; and when her old attendant returned, Lady Rookwood 
 fixed a look so wistful upon her, that Agnes ventured to address 
 her. 
 
 " Bless you, my lady," said the ancient handmaiden, trembling, 
 " you look very pale, and no wonder. I feel sick at heart, too. 
 Oh ! I shall be glad when they return from the church, and hap- 
 pier still when the morning dawns. I can't sleep a wink — can't 
 close mv eves, but I think of him." 
 
 "0f7/?*w?" 
 
 " Of Sir Piers, my lady; for though he's dead, I don't think 
 he's gone." 
 
 "How?" 
 
 u Why, my lady, the corruptible part of him's gone, sure enough. 
 But the incorruptible, as Doctor Small calls it — the spcrrit, my 
 lady. It might be my fancy, your ladyship ; but as I'm standing 
 here, when 1 went back into the room just now for the lights, as I 
 hope to live, I thought I saw Sir Piers in the room." 
 
 " You are crazed, Agnes." 
 
 " No, my lady, I'm not crazed ; it was mere fancy, no doubt. 
 Oh, it's a blessed thing to live with an easy conscience — a thrice 
 blessed thing to die with an easy one, and that's what I never 
 shall, I'm afeard. Poor Sir Piers ! I'd mumble a prayer for him, 
 if I durst." 
 
 " Leave me," said Lady Rookwood, impatiently. 
 
 And Agnes quitted the room. 
 
 " What if the dead can return?" thought Lady Rookwood. 
 Ci All men doubt it, yet all men believe it. I would not believe 
 it, were there not a creeping horror that overmasters me, when I 
 think of the state beyond the grave — that intermediate state, for 
 such it must be, when the body lieth mouldering in the ground, 
 
118 ROOKWOOD. 
 
 and the soul survives, to wander, unconfined, until the hour 
 of doom. And doth the soul survive when disenthralled? Is 
 it dependent on the body ? Does it perish with the body ? 
 These are doubts I cannot resolve. But if I deemed there was 
 no future state, this hand should at once liberate me from my 
 own weaknesses — my fears — my life. There is but one path 
 to acquire that knowledge, which, once taken, can never be re- 
 traced. I am content to live — while living, to be feared — it 
 may be, hated ; when dead, to be contemned — yet still remem- 
 bered. Ha! what sound was that? A stifled scream! Agnes! 
 — without there ! She is full of fears. I am not free from 
 them myself, but I will shake them off. This will divert their 
 channel," continued she, drawing from her bosom the marriage 
 certificate. u This will arouse the torpid current of my blood — 
 6 Piers Rookwood to Susan Bradley? And by whom was it so- 
 lemnised ? The name is Checkley — Richard Checkley. Ha ! I 
 bethink me — a papist priest — a recusant — who was for some time 
 an inmate of the hall. I have heard of this man — he was after- 
 wards imprisoned, but escaped — he is either dead or in a foreign 
 land. No witnesses — 'tis well ! Methinks Sir Piers Rookwood 
 did w r ell to preserve this. It shall light his funeral pyre. Would 
 he could now behold me, as I consume it !" 
 
 She held the paper in the direction of the candle ; but, ere it 
 could touch the flame, it dropped from her hand. As if her hor- 
 rible wish had been granted, before her stood the figure of her 
 husband ! Lady Rookwood started not. No sign of trepidation 
 or alarm, save the sudden stiffening of her form, was betrayed. 
 Her bosom ceased to palpitate — her respiration stopped — her eyes 
 were fixed upon the apparition. 
 
 The figure appeared to regard her sternly. It was at some 
 little distance, within the shade cast by the lofty bedstead. Still 
 she could distinctly discern it. There was no ocular deception ; 
 it was attired in the costume Sir Piers was wont to wear — a hunt- 
 ing dress. All that her son had told her rushed to her recollection. 
 The phantom advanced. Its countenance was pale, and wore a 
 gloomy frown. 
 
 "What would you destroy?" demanded the apparition, in a 
 hollow tone. 
 
 u The evidence of " 
 
 " What?" 
 
 " Your marriage." 
 
 " With yourself, accursed woman?" 
 
 " With Susan Bradley." 
 
 " What's that I hear?" shouted the figure, in an altered tone. 
 " Married to her ! then Luke is legitimate, and heir to this estate !" 
 Whereupon the apparition rushed to the table, and laid a very 
 substantial grasp upon the document. " A marriage certificate!" 
 ejaculated the spectre; u here's a piece of luck! It ain't often in 
 
ROOKWOOD. 119 
 
 our lottery life we draw a prize like this. One way or the other, 
 it must turn up a few cool thousands." 
 
 " Restore that paper, villain," exclaimed Lady Rookwood, re- 
 covering all the audacity natural to her character the instant she 
 discovered the earthly nature of the intruder — u restore it, or. by 
 Heaven, you shall rue your temerity." 
 
 " Softly, softly," replied the pseudo-phantom, witli one hand 
 pushing back the lady, while the other conveyed the precious 
 document to the custody of his nether man — " softly," said he, 
 giving the buckskin pocket a slap — "two words to that, my lady. 
 I know its value as well as yourself, and must make my market. 
 The highest offer has me, your ladyship ; he's but a poor auctioneer 
 that knocks down his ware when only one bidder is present.. 
 Luke Bradley, or, as I find lie now is, Sir Luke Rookwood, may 
 come down more handsomely." 
 
 " Who are you, ruffian, and to what end is this masquerade as- 
 sumed? If lor the purpose of terrifying me into compliance with 
 the schemes of that madman, Luke Bradley, whom I presume to 
 be your confederate, your labour is misspent — your stolen disguise 
 has no more weight with me than his forged claims." 
 
 " Forged claims ! Egad, he must be a clever hand to have forged 
 that certificate. Your ladyship, however, is in error. Sir Luke 
 Rookwood is no associate of mine; I am his late father's friend. 
 But I have no time to bandy talk. What money have you in the 
 house? Be alive." 
 
 a You are a robber, then?" 
 
 "Not I. I'm a tax-gatherer — a collector of Rich-Rates — ha! 
 ha! What plate have you got? Nay, don't be alarmed — take it 
 quietly — these things can't be helped — better make up your mind 
 to it without more ado — much the best plan — no screaming, it 
 may injure your lungs, and can alarm nobody. Your maids have 
 done as much before — it's beneath your dignity to make so much 
 noise. So, you will not heed me? As you will." Saying which, 
 he deliberately cut the bell-cord, and drew out a brace of pistols 
 at the same time. 
 
 "Agnes !" shrieked Lady Rookwood, now seriously alarmed. 
 
 " I must caution your ladyship to be silent," said the robber, 
 who, as our readers will no doubt have already conjectured, was no 
 other than the redoubted Jack Palmer. " Agnes is already dis- 
 posed of," said he, cocking a pistol. " However like your de- 
 ceased ' lord and master' I may appear, you will find you have 
 got a very different spirit from that of Sir Piers to deal with. I 
 am naturally the politest man breathing — have been accounted the 
 best-bred man on the road by every lady whom I have had the 
 honour of addressing ; and I should be sorry to sully my well- 
 earned reputation by anything like rudeness. I must use a little 
 force, of the gentlest kind. Perhaps, you will permit me to hand 
 you to a chair. Bless me ! what a wrist your ladyship has got 
 
120 ROOKWOOD. 
 
 Excuse me if I hurt you, but you are so devilish strong. What 
 ho ! i Sir Piers Rookwood calls ' " 
 
 " Ready," cried a voice. 
 
 " That's the word," rejoined another; "ready," and immediately 
 two men, their features entirely hidden by a shroud of black crape, 
 accoutred in rough attire, and each armed with pistols, rushed into 
 the room. 
 
 " Lend a hand," said Jack. 
 
 Even in this perilous extremity, Lady Rookwood's courage did 
 not desert her. Anticipating their purpose, ere her assailants 
 could reach her she extricated herself from Palmer's grasp, and 
 rushed upon the foremost so unexpectedly, that, before the man 
 could seize her she snatched a pistol from his hand, and presented 
 it at the group with an aspect like that of a tigress at bay — her eye 
 wandering from one to the other, as if selecting a mark. 
 
 There was a pause of a few seconds, in which the men glanced 
 at the lady, and then at their leader. Jack looked blank. 
 
 " Hem ! " said he, coolly ; " this is something new — disarmed — 
 defied by a petticoat. Hark ye, Rob Rust, the disgrace rests with 
 you. Clear your character, by securing her at once. What ! 
 afraid of a woman?" 
 
 " A woman !" repeated Rust, in a surly tone ; " devilish like 
 a woman, indeed. Few men could do what she has done. Give 
 the word, and I fire. As to seizing her, that's more than I'll engage 
 to do." 
 
 (i You are a coward," cried Jack. " I will steer clear of blood 
 - — if I can help it. Come, madam, surrender, like the more sensible 
 part of your sex, at discretion. You will find resistance of no 
 avail." And he stepped boldly towards her. 
 
 Lady Rookwood pulled the trigger. The pistol flashed in the 
 pan. She flung away the useless weapon without a word. 
 
 u Ha, ha !" said Jack, as he leisurely stooped to pick up the pistol, 
 and approached her ladyship; " the bullet is not yet cast that is to 
 be my billet. Here," added he, dealing Rust a heavy thump upon 
 the shoulder with the butt-end of the piece, " take back your 
 snapper, and look you prick the touchhole, or your barking-iron 
 will never bite for you. And now, madam, I must take the liberty 
 of again handing you to a seat. Dick Wilder, the cord — quick. 
 It distresses me to proceed to such lengths with your ladyship — 
 bat safe bind, safe find, as Mr. Coates would say." * 
 
 " You will not bind me, ruffian." 
 
 " Your ladyship is very much mistaken — I have no alternative 
 — your ladyship's wrist is far too dexterous to be at liberty. I must 
 furthermore request of your ladyship to be less vociferous — you in- 
 terrupt business, which should be transacted with silence and de- 
 liberation." 
 
 Lady Rookwood's rage and vexation at this indignity were be- 
 yond all bounds. Resistance, however, was useless, and she sub- 
 

 Q terror GriarCS I ■ 
 
 <hX6£ 
 
i : ^/i&f ' ^? 
 
 RE3CUE OF LADY ROOEWOOD. 
 
 P. 121. 
 
EOOKWOOD. 121 
 
 mitted in silence. The cord was passed tightly round her arms, 
 when it flashed upon her recollection for the first time that Coates 
 and Tyrconnel, who were in charge of her captive in the lower 
 corridor, might be summoned to her assistance. This idea no 
 sooner crossed her mind than she uttered a loud and prolonged 
 scream. 
 
 "'Sdeath !" cried Jack; "civility is wasted here. Give me the 
 gag, Rob." 
 
 " Better slit her squeaking-pipe at once," replied Rust, drawing 
 his clasped knife; "she'll thwart everything." 
 
 " The gag, I say, not that." 
 
 " I can't find the gag," exclaimed Wilder, savagely. "Leave 
 Rob Rust to manage her — he'll silence her, I warrant you, while 
 you and I rummage the room." 
 
 "Ay, leave her to me," said the other miscreant. "Go about 
 your business, and take no heed. Her hands are fast — she can't 
 scratch — I'll do it with a single gash — send her to join her lord, 
 whom she loved so well, before he's under ground. They'll have 
 something to see when they come home from the master's funeral 
 — their mistress cut and dry for another. Ho, ho !" 
 
 "Mercy, mercy!" shrieked Lady Rookwood. 
 
 " Ay, ay, I'll be merciful," said Rust, brandishing his knife be- 
 fore her eyes. " I'll not be long about it. Leave her to me — I'll 
 give her a taste of Sir Sydney." 
 
 " No, no, Rust; no bloodshed," said Jack, authoritatively ; " I'll 
 find some other way to gag the jade." 
 
 At this moment, a noise of rapid footsteps was heard within the 
 passage. 
 
 " Assistance comes," screamed Lady Rookwood. " Help ! help !" 
 
 " To the door !" cried Jack. The words were scarcely out of his 
 mouth before Luke dashed into the room, followed by Coates and 
 Tyrconnel. 
 
 Palmer and his companions levelled their pistols at the intruders, 
 and the latter would have fired, but Jack's keen eye having dis- 
 cerned Luke amongst the foremost, checked further hostilities for 
 the present. Lady Rookwood, meanwhile, finding herself free 
 from restraint, rushed towards her deliverers, and crouched beneath 
 Luke's protecting arms, which were extended, pistol in hand, over 
 her head. Behind them stood Titus Tyrconnel, flourishing the 
 poker, and Mr. Coates, who, upon the sight of so much warlike 
 preparation, began somewhat to repent having rushed so precipi- 
 tately into the lion's den. 
 
 " Luke Bradley !" exclaimed Palmer, stepping forward. 
 
 " Luke Bradley !" echoed Lady Rookwood, recoiling and staring 
 into his face. 
 
 " Fear nothing, madam," cried Luke. " I am here to assist you 
 — I will defend you with my life." 
 
 " You defend me!" exclaimed Lady Rookwood, doubtfully. 
 
122 ROOKWOOD. 
 
 " Even I" cried Luke, " strange as it may sound.' 
 
 " Holy powers protect me!" ejaculated Titus. "As I live, it 
 is Sir Piers himself." 
 
 " Sir Piers !" echoed Coates, catching the infection of terror, as 
 he perceived Palmer more distinctly. " What ! is the dead come 
 to life again ? A ghost, a ghost ! " 
 
 " By my soul," cried Titus, " it's the first ghost I ever heard of 
 that committed a burglary in its own house, and on the night of 
 the body's burial, too. But who the devil are these? maybe 
 they're ghosts likewise." 
 
 " They are," said Palmer, in a hollow tone, mimicking the voice 
 of Sir Piers, "attendant spirits. We are come for this woman; 
 her time is out ; so no more palavering, Titus. Lend a hand to 
 take her to the churchyard, and be hanged to you." 
 
 " Upon my conscience, Mr. Coates," cried Titus, " it's either the 
 devil, or Sir Piers. We'll be only in the way here. He's only 
 just settling his old scores with his lady. I thought it would come 
 to this lon^ ae;o. We'd best beat a retreat." 
 
 Jack took advantage of the momentary confusion created by 
 this incidental alarm at his disguise to direct Rust towards the 
 door by which the new comers had entered ; and, this being ac- 
 complished, he burst into a loud laugh. 
 
 " What ! not know me?" cried he — "not know your old friend 
 with a new face, Luke? Nor you, Titus? Nor you, who can see 
 through a millstone, Lawyer Coates, don't you recognise " 
 
 " Jack Palmer, as I'm a sinner !" cried Titus. " Why, this beats 
 Banaghan. Arrah ! Jack, honey, what does this mean? Is it 
 yourself I see in such company? You're not robbing in earnest?" 
 
 "Indeed but I am, friend Titus," exclaimed Jack; "and it is 
 my own self you see. I just took the liberty of borrowing Sir 
 Piers's old hunting-coat from the justice-room. You said my tog- 
 gery wouldn't do for the funeral. I'm no other than plain Jack 
 Palmer, after all." 
 
 " With half a dozen aliases at your back, I dare say," cried 
 Coates. " / suspected you all along. All your praise of highway- 
 men w r as not lost upon me. No, no ; I can see into a millstone, 
 be it ever so thick." 
 
 " Well," replied Jack, " I'm sorry to see you here, friend Titus. 
 Keep quiet, and you shall come to no harm. As to you, Luke 
 Bradley, you have anticipated my intention by half an hour ; I 
 meant to set you free. For you, Mr. Coates, you may commit all 
 future care of your affairs to your executors, administrators, and 
 assigns. You will have no further need to trouble yourself with 
 worldly concerns," added he, levelling a pistol at the attorney, 
 who, however, shielded himself, in an agony of apprehension, be- 
 hind Luke's person. " Stand aside, Luke." 
 
 " I stir not," replied Luke. " I thank you for your good in- 
 
ROOKWOOD. 123 
 
 tention, and will not injure you — that is, if you do not force me 
 to do so. I am here to defend her ladyship." 
 
 "What's that you say?" returned Jack, in surprise — " defend 
 her ladyship?" 
 
 " With my life," replied Luke. " Let me counsel you to de- 
 part." 
 
 " Are you mad? Defend her — Lady Rookwood — your enemy 
 — who would hang you? Tut, tut! Stand aside, I say, Luke 
 Bradley, or look to yourself." 
 
 "You had better consider well ere you proceed," said Luke. 
 u You know me of old. I have taken odds as great, and not come 
 off the vanquished." 
 
 " The odds are even," cried Titus, " if Mr. Coates will but show 
 fight. I'll stand by you to the last, my dear joy. You're the 
 right son of your father, though on the wrong side. Och ! Jack 
 Palmer, my jewel, no wonder you resemble Dick Turpin." 
 
 "You hear this?" cried Luke. 
 
 "Hot-headed fool!" muttered Jack. 
 
 " Why don't you shoot him on the spot?" said Wilder. 
 
 " And mar my own chance," thought Jack. " No, that will 
 never do ; his life is not to be thrown away. Be quiet," said he, 
 in a whisper to Wilder; "I've another card to play, which shall 
 serve us better than all the plunder here. No harm must come 
 to that youngster; his life is worth thousands to us." Then, turn- 
 ing to Luke, he continued, " I'm loth to hurt you; yet what can 
 I do? You must have the worst of it if we come to a pitched 
 battle. I therefore advise you, as a friend, to draw off your forces. 
 We are three to three, it is true ; but two of your party are un- 
 armed." 
 
 " Unarmed ! " interrupted Titus. " Devil burn me ! this iron 
 shillelah shall convince you to the contrary, Jack, or any of your 
 friends." 
 
 " Make ready then, my lads," cried Palmer. 
 
 " Stop a minute," exclaimed Coates; "this gets serious; it will 
 end in homicide — in murder. We shall all have our throats cut 
 to a certainty ; and though these rascals will as certainly be hanged 
 for it, that will be poor satisfaction to the sufferers. Had we not 
 better refer the matter to arbitration ?" 
 
 " I'm for fighting it out," said Titus, whisking the poker round 
 his head like a flail in action. " My blood's up. Come on, Jack 
 Palmer, I'm for you." 
 
 " I should vote for retreating," chattered the attorney, " if that 
 cursed fellow had not placed a ne exeat at the door." 
 
 " Give the word, captain," cried Rust, impatiently, 
 
 " Ay, ay," echoed Wilder. 
 
 " A skilful general always parleys," said Jack. " A word in 
 your ear, Luke, ere that be done which cannot be undone." 
 
124 KOOKWOOD. 
 
 "You mean me no treachery?" returned Luke. 
 Jack made no answer, but uncocking his pistols, deposited them 
 within his pockets. 
 
 " Shoot him as he advances," whispered Coates; "he is in your 
 power now." 
 
 " Scoundrel !" replied Luke, " do you think me as base as your- 
 self?" 
 
 " Hush, hush ! for God's sake don't expose me," said Coates. 
 Lady Rookwood had apparently listened to this singular con- 
 ference with sullen composure, though in reality she was racked 
 with anxiety as to its results; and, now apprehending that Palmer 
 was about to make an immediate disclosure to Luke, she accosted 
 him as he passed her. 
 
 " Unbind me !" cried she, " and what you wish shall be yours — 
 
 money — jewels " 
 
 "Ha! may I depend?" 
 " I pledge my word." 
 
 Palmer untied the cord, and Lady Rookwood, approaching a 
 table whereon stood the escritoir, touched a spring, and a secret 
 drawer flew open. 
 
 " You do this of your own free will?" asked Luke. " Speak, if 
 it be otherwise." 
 
 " I do," returned the lady, hastily. 
 
 Palmer's eyes glistened at the treasures exposed to his view. 
 " They are jewels of countless price. Take them, and rid me," 
 she added in a whisper, " of him" 
 "Luke Bradley?" 
 "Ay." 
 
 " Give them to me." 
 " They are yours freely on those terms." 
 
 "You hear that, Luke," cried he, aloud; "you hear it, Titus; 
 this is no robbery. Mr. Coates — i Know all men by these presents' 
 — I call you to witness, Lady Rookwood gives me these pretty 
 things." 
 
 " 1 do," returned she ; adding, in a whisper, " on the terms 
 which I proposed." 
 
 "Must it be done at once?" 
 " Without an instant's delay." 
 "Before your own eyes?" 
 
 " I fear not to look on. Each moment is precious. He is off 
 his guard now. You do it, you know, in self-defence." 
 "And you?" 
 " For the same cause." 
 "Yet he came here to aid you?" 
 "What of that?" 
 
 "He would have risked his life for yours?" 
 " I cannot pay back the obligation. He must die !" 
 "The document?" 
 
ROOKWOOD. 125 
 
 " Will be useless then." 
 
 "Will not that suffice; why aim at life?" 
 
 u You trifle with me. You fear to do it." 
 
 " Fear /" 
 
 "About it, then; you shall have more gold." 
 
 " I will about it," cried Jack, throwing the casket to Wilder, 
 and seizing Lady llookwood's hands. " I am no Italian bravo, 
 madam — no assassin — no remorseless cut-throat. What are you 
 — devil or woman — who ask me to do this? Luke Bradley, I 
 
 say." 
 
 "Would you betray me?" cried Lady Rookwood. 
 
 " You have betrayed yourself, madam. Nay, nay, Luke, hands 
 off. See, Lady Rookwood, how you would treat a friend. This 
 strange fellow would blow out my brains for laying a finger upon 
 your ladyship." 
 
 " I will suffer no injury to be done to her," said Luke; "release 
 her." 
 
 "Your ladyship hears him," said Jack. "And you, Luke, 
 shall learn the value set upon your generosity. You will not have 
 her injured. This instant she has proposed, nay, paid for your 
 assassination." 
 
 "How?" exclaimed Luke, recoiling. 
 
 " A lie, as black as hell," cried Lady Rookwood. 
 
 " A truth, as clear as heaven," returned Jack. " I will speedily 
 convince you of the fact." Then, turning to Lady Rookwood, he 
 whispered, "Shall I give him the marriage document?" 
 
 " Beware !" said Lady Rookwood. 
 
 "Do I avouch the truth, then?" 
 
 She was silent. 
 
 " I am answered," said Luke. 
 
 " Then leave her to her fate," cried Jack. 
 
 " No," replied Luke ; " she is still a woman, and I will not 
 abandon her to ruffianly violence. Set her free." 
 
 " You are a fool," said Jack. 
 
 " Hurrah, hurrah !" vociferated Coates, who had rushed to the 
 window. " Rescue, rescue ! they are returning from the church ; 
 I see the torchlight in the avenue; we are saved !" 
 
 " Hell and the devil !" cried Jack; " not an instant is to be lost. 
 Alive, lads ; bring off all the plunder you can ; be handy !" 
 
 " Lady Rookwood, I bid you farewell," said Luke, in a tone 
 in which scorn and sorrow were blended. " We shall meet a^ain." 
 
 " We have not parted yet," returned she ; " will you let this 
 man pass? A thousand pounds for his life." 
 
 "Upon the nail?" asked Rust. 
 
 "By the living God, if any of you attempt to touch him, I 
 will blow his brains out upon the spot, be he friend or foe," cried 
 Jack. "Luke Bradley, we shall meet again. You shall hear from 
 
 me." 
 
126 EOOKWOOD. 
 
 " Lady Rookwood," said Luke, as he departed, " I shall not 
 fomet this night." 
 
 "Is all ready?" asked Palmer of his comrades. 
 
 « All." 
 
 " Then bud^e." 
 
 " Stay !" cried Lady Rookwood, in a whisper to him. " What 
 will purchase that document?" 
 
 "Hem!" 
 
 a A thousand pounds ?" 
 
 " Double it." 
 
 " It shall be doubled." 
 
 " I will turn it over." 
 
 ct Resolve me now." 
 
 " You shall hear from me." 
 
 "In what manner?" 
 
 u I will find speedy means." 
 
 " Your name is Palmer?" 
 
 "Palmer is the name he goes by, your ladyship," replied 
 Coates, " but it is the fashion with these rascals to have an alias." 
 
 " Ha ! ha !" said Jack, thrusting the ramrod into his pistol- 
 barrel, "are you there, Mr. Coates? Pay your wager, sir." 
 
 "What wager?" 
 
 o 
 
 " The hundred we bet that you would take me if ever you had 
 the chance." 
 
 " Take you ! — it was Dick Turpin I betted to take." 
 
 "Jam Dick Turpin — that's my alias!" replied Jack. 
 
 " Dick Turpin ! then I'll have a snap at you at all hazards," 
 cried Coates, springing suddenly towards him. 
 
 "And I at you," said Turpin, discharging his pistol right in the 
 face of the rash attorney; " there's a quittance in full." 
 
ROOKWOOD. 127 
 
 BOOK III. 
 
 THE GIPSY. 
 
 Lay a garland on my hearse 
 
 Of the dismal yew ; 
 Maidens, willow branches bear, 
 
 Say I died true. 
 My love was false, but I was firm 
 
 From my hour of birth ; 
 Upon my buried body lie 
 
 Lightly, gentle earth. 
 
 Beaumont and Fletcher. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 A MORNING RIDE. 
 
 I had a sister, who among the race 
 Of gipsies was the fairest. Fair she was 
 In gentle blood, and gesture to her beauty. Brome. 
 
 On quitting Lady Rookwood's chamber, Luke speeded along 
 the gloomy corridor, descended the spiral stairs, and, swiftly tra- 
 versing sundry other dark passages, issued from a door at the back 
 of the house. Day was just beginning to break. His first object 
 had been to furnish himself with means to expedite his flight; 
 and, perceiving no one in the yard, he directed his hasty steps to- 
 wards the stable. The door was fortunately unfastened; and, 
 entering, he found a strong roan horse, which he knew, from 
 description, had been his father's favourite* hunter, and to the use 
 of which he now considered himself fully entitled. The animal 
 roused himself as he approached, shook his glossy coat, and 
 neighed] as if he recognised the footsteps and voice. 
 
 " Thou art mistaken, old fellow," said Luke; " I am not he thou 
 thinkest; nevertheless, I am glad thy instinct would have it so. If 
 thou bearest my father's son as thou hast borne thy old master, o'er 
 many a held for many a day, he need not fear the best mounted 
 of his pursuers. Soho ! come hither, Rook." 
 
 Ihe noble steed turned at the call. Luke hastily saddled him, 
 vaulted upon his back, and, disregarding every impediment in the 
 shape of fence or ditch, shaped his course across the field towards 
 the sexton's cottage, which he reached just as its owner was in the 
 act of unlocking his door. Peter testified his delight and surprise 
 at the escape of his grandson, by a greeting of chuckling laughter. 
 
 "How? — escaped!" exclaimed he. "Who has delivered you 
 
128 ROOKWOOD. 
 
 from the hands of the Moabites? Ha, ha ! But why do I ask? 
 Who could it have been but Jack Palmer?" 
 
 "My own hands have set me free," returned Luke. "I am in- 
 debted to no man for liberty; still less to him. But I cannot 
 tarry here; each moment is precious. I came to request you to 
 accompany me to the gipsy encampment. Will you go, or not?" 
 
 "And mount behind you?" replied Peter; "I like not the 
 manner of conveyance." 
 
 "Farewell, then." And Luke turned to depart. 
 
 " Stay ; that is Sir Piers' s horse, old Rook. I care not if I do 
 ride him." 
 
 " Quick, then ; mount." 
 
 "I will not delay you a moment," rejoined the sexton, opening 
 his door, and throwing his implements into the cottage. " Back, 
 Mole; back, sir," cried he, as the dog rushed out to greet him. 
 " Bring your steed nigh this stone, grandson Luke — there — a 
 little nearer — all's right." And away they galloped. 
 
 The sexton's first inquiries were directed to ascertain how Luke 
 had accomplished his escape; and, having satisfied himself in this 
 particular, he was content to remain silent; musing, it might be, 
 on the incidents detailed to him. 
 
 The road Luke chose was a rough, unfrequented lane, that 
 skirted, for nearly a mile, the moss-grown palings of the park. It 
 then diverged to the right, and seemed to bear towards a range of 
 hills rising in the distance. High hedges impeded the view on 
 either hand; but there were occasional gaps, affording glimpses of 
 the tract of country through which he was riding. Meadows 
 were seen steaming with heavy dews, intersected by a deep chan- 
 nelled stream, whose course was marked by a hanging cloud of 
 vapour, as well as by a row of melancholy pollard-willows, that 
 stood like stripped, shivering urchins by the river side. Other 
 fields succeeded, yellow with golden grain, or bright with flower- 
 ing clover (the autumnal crop), coloured with every shade, from 
 the light green of the turnip to the darker verdure of the bean, the 
 various products of the teeming land. The whole was backed by 
 round drowsy masses of trees. 
 
 Luke spoke not, nor abated his furious course, till the road 
 began to climb a steep ascent. He then drew in the rein, and 
 from the heights of the acclivity surveyed the plain over which he 
 had passed. 
 
 It was a rich agricultural district, with little picturesque beauty, 
 but much of true EnMish endearing loveliness to recommend it. 
 Such a quiet, pleasing landscape, in short, as one views, at such a 
 season of the year, from every eminence in every county of our 
 merry isle. The picture was made up of a tract of land filled with 
 corn ripe for the sickle, or studded with sheaves of the same golden 
 produce, enlivened with green meadows, so deeply luxuriant as to 
 claim the scythe for the second time ; each divided from the other 
 
ROOKWOOD. 129 
 
 by thick hedgerows, the uniformity of which was broken ever 
 and anon by some towering elm, tall poplar, or wide-branching 
 oak. Many old farm-houses, with their broad barns and crowded 
 haystacks (forming little villages in themselves), ornamented the 
 landscape at different points, and by their substantial look evi- 
 denced the fertility of the soil, and the thriving condition of its 
 inhabitants. Some three miles distant might be seen the scattered 
 hamlet of Rookwood; the dark russet thatch of its houses scarcely 
 perceptible amidst the embrowned foliage of the surrounding 
 timber. The site of the village was, however, pointed out by the 
 square tower of the antique church, that crested the summit of the 
 adjoining hill; and although the hall was entirely hidden from 
 view, Luke readily traced out its locality amidst the depths of the 
 dark grove in which it was embosomed. 
 
 This goodly prospect had other claims to attention in Luke's 
 eyes besides its agricultural or pictorial merit. It was, or he 
 deemed it was, his own. Far as his eye ranged, yea, even beyond 
 the line of vision, the estates of Rookwood extended. 
 
 " Do you see that house below us in the valley?" asked Peter 
 of his companion. 
 
 " I do," replied Luke ; " a snug old house — a model of a farm. 
 Everything looks comfortable and well to do about it. There are 
 a dozen lusty haystacks, or thereabouts; and the great barn, wit-h 
 its roof yellowed like gold, looks built for a granary ; and there are 
 stables, kine-houses, orchards, dovecots, and fishponds, and an old 
 circular garden, with w r all-fruit in abundance. He should be a 
 happy man, and a wealthy one, who dwells therein." 
 
 " He dwells therein no longer," returned Peter; "he died last 
 night." 
 
 "How know you that? None are stirring in the house as 
 yet." 
 
 " The owner of that house, Simon Toft," replied Peter, " was 
 last night struck by a thunderbolt. He was one of the coffin- 
 bearers at your father's funeral. They are sleeping within the 
 house, you say. 'Tis well. Let them sleep on — they will awaken 
 too soon, wake when they may — ha, ha!" 
 
 "Peace!" cried Luke; "you blight everything — even this 
 smiling landscape you would turn to gloom. Does not this morn 
 awaken a happier train of thoughts within your mind? With me 
 it makes amends for want of sleep, effaces resentment, and banishes 
 every black misgiving. 'Tis a joyous thing thus to scour the 
 country at earliest dawn; to catch all the spirit and freshness of 
 the morning ; to be abroad before the lazy world is half awake ; to 
 make the most of a brief existence ; and to have spent a day of 
 keen enjoyment, almost before the day begins with some. I like 
 to anticipate the rising of the glorious luminary; to watch every 
 line of light changing, as at this moment, from shuddering grey to 
 blushing rose! See how the heavens are dyed! Who would 
 
 K 
 
130 ROOKWOOD. 
 
 exchange yon gorgeous spectacle," continued he, pointing towards 
 the east, and again urging his horse to full speed down the hill, 
 endangering the sexton's seat, and threatening to impale him upon 
 the crupper of the saddle — " who would exchange that sight, and 
 the exhilarating feeling of this fresh morn, for a couch of eider- 
 down, and a headache in reversion?" 
 
 " I for one," returned the sexton, sharply, a would willingly 
 exchange it for that, or any other couch, provided it rid me of 
 this accursed crupper, which galls me sorely. Moderate your 
 pace, grandson Luke, or I must throw myself off the horse in self- 
 defence." 
 
 Luke slackened his charger's pace, in compliance with the sex- 
 ton's wish. 
 
 " Ah ! well," continued Peter, restored in a measure to comfort ; 
 " now I can contemplate the sunrise, which you laud, somewhat at 
 mine ease. 'Tis a fine sight, I doubt not, to the eyes of youth ; 
 and, to the sanguine soul of him upon whom life itself is dawning, 
 s, 1 dare say, inspiriting: but when the heyday of existence is 
 past; when the blood flows sluggishly in the veins; when one has 
 known the desolating storms which the brightest sunrise has pre- 
 ceded, the seared heart refuses to trust its false glitter; and, like 
 the experienced sailor, sees oft in the brightest skies a forecast of 
 the tempest. To such a one, there can be no new dawn of the 
 heart; no sun can gild its cold and cheerless horizon; no breeze 
 can revive pulses that have long since ceased to throb with any 
 chance emotion. I am too old to feel freshness in this nipping 
 air. It chills me more than the damps of night, to which I am 
 accustomed. Night — midnight ! is my season of delight. Nature 
 is instinct then with secrets dark and dread. There is a language 
 which he who sleepeth not, but will wake, and watch, may haply 
 learn. Strange organs of speech hath the invisible world; strange 
 lane-uasje doth it talk; strange communion hold with him who 
 would pry into its mysteries. It talks by bat and owl — by the 
 grave-worm, and by each crawling thing — by the dust of graves,, 
 as well as by those that rot therein — but ever doth it discourse by 
 night, and 'specially when the moon is at the full. 'Tis the lore I 
 have then learnt that makes that season dear to me. Like your 
 cat, mine eye expands in darkness. I blink at the sunshine, like 
 your owl." 
 
 " Cease this forbidding strain," returned Luke; "it sounds as 
 harshly as your own screech-owl's cry. Let your thoughts take a 
 more sprightly turn, more in unison with my own and the fair 
 aspect of nature." 
 
 " Shall I direct them to the gipsies' camp, then?" said Peter, 
 with a sneer. " Do your own thoughts tend thither?" 
 
 u You are not altogether in the wrong," replied Luke. " I ivas 
 thinking of the gipsies' camp, and of one who dwells amongst its 
 tents." 
 
ROOKWOOD. 131 
 
 " I knew it," replied Peter. "Did you hope to deceive mo by 
 attributing all your joyousness of heart to the dawn? Your 
 thoughts have been wandering all this while upon one who hath, 
 I will engage, a pair of sloe-black eyes, an olive skin, and yet 
 withal a clear one — i black, yet comely, as the tents of Kedar, ;is 
 the curtains of Solomon' — a mesh of jetty hair, that hath en- 
 tangled you in its network — ripe lips, and a cunning tongue — one 
 of the plagues of Egypt. — Ha, ha!" 
 
 " You have guessed shrewdly," replied Luke; u I care not to 
 own that my thoughts were so occupied." 
 
 (t I was assured of it," replied the sexton. " And what may be 
 the name of her towards whom your imagination was straying?" 
 
 " Sibila Perez," replied Luke. " Her father was a Spanish 
 Gitano. She is known amongst her people by her mother's name 
 of Lovel" 
 
 " She is beautiful, of course?" 
 
 " Ay, very beautiful ! — but no matter ! You shall judge of her 
 charms anon." 
 
 u I will take your word for them," returned the sexton; u and 
 you love her ? " 
 
 " Passionately." 
 
 " You are not married?" asked Peter, hastily. 
 
 u Not as yet," replied Luke; " but my faith is plighted." 
 
 " Heaven be praised ! The mischief is not then irreparable. I 
 would have you married — though not to a gipsy girl." 
 
 "And whom would you select?" 
 
 " One before whom Sybil's beauty would pale as stars at day's 
 approach." 
 
 " There lives not such a one." 
 
 " Trust me there does. Eleanor Mowbray is lovely beyond 
 parallel. I was merely speculating upon a possibility when I 
 wished her yours — it is scarcely likely she would cast her eyes 
 upon you." 
 
 " I shall not heed her neglect. Graced with my title, I doubt 
 not, were it my pleasure to seek a bride amongst those of gentle 
 blood, I should not find all indifferent to my suit." 
 
 " Possibly not. Yet what might weigh with others, would not 
 weigh with her. There are qualities you lack which she has dis- 
 covered in another." 
 
 " In whom?" 
 
 " In Ranulph Rookwood." 
 
 " Is he her suitor?" 
 
 " I have reason to think so." 
 
 a And you would have me abandon my own betrothed love, to 
 beguile from my brother his destined bride? That were to imi- 
 tate the conduct of my grandsire, the terrible Sir Reginald, towards 
 his brother Alan." 
 
 The sexton answered not, and Luke fancied he could perceive a 
 
 k2 
 
132 ROOKWOOD. 
 
 quivering in the hands that grasped his body for support. There 
 was a brief pause in their conversation. 
 
 "And who is Eleanor Mowbray?" asked Luke, breaking the 
 silence. 
 
 " Your cousin. On the mother's side a Rookwood. "lis there- 
 fore I would urge your union with her. There is a prophecy re- 
 lating to your house, which seems as though it would be fulfilled 
 in your person and in hers : 
 
 OTljen tfte strap Book sfjall percl) on tje topmost fcougj), 
 
 Wbm stall be clamour anti screaming, 31 trofo ; 
 
 •HJut of rt'gfit, anfc of rule, of tfje ancient nest, 
 
 ^6e Sfcooft tfmt toitfi Booft mates sfjall fiollJ f)im possest." 
 
 {i I place no faith in such fantasies," replied Luke ; " and yet 
 the lines bear strangely upon my present situation." 
 
 " Their application to yourself and Eleanor Mowbray is un- 
 questionable," replied the sexton. 
 
 " It would seem so, indeed," rejoined Luke; and he again sank 
 into abstraction, from which the sexton did not care to arouse him. 
 
 The aspect of the country had materially changed since their 
 descent of the hill. In place of the richly-cultivated district which 
 lay on the other side, a broad brown tract of waste land spread 
 out before them, covered with scattered patches of gorse, stunted 
 fern, and low brushwood, presenting an unvaried surface of un- 
 baked turf. The shallow coat of sod was manifested by the stones 
 that clattered under the horse's hoofs as he rapidly traversed the 
 arid soil, clearing with ease to himself, though not without dis- 
 comfort to the sexton, every gravelly trench, natural chasm, or 
 other inequality of ground that occurred in his course. Clinging 
 to his grandson with the tenacity of a bird of prey, Peter for some 
 time kept his station in security; but, unluckily, at one dike 
 rather wider than the rest, the horse, owing possibly to the mis- 
 management, intentional or otherwise, of Luke, swerved; and the 
 sexton, dislodged from his " high estate," fell at the edge of the 
 trench, and rolled incontinently to the bottom. 
 
 Luke drew in the rein to inquire if any bones were broken ; and 
 Peter presently upreared his dusty person from the abyss, and 
 without condescending to make any reply, yet muttering curses, 
 " not loud, but deep," accepted his grandson's proffered hand, and 
 remounted. 
 
 While thus occupied, Luke fancied he heard a distant shout, 
 and noting whence the sound proceeded — the same quarter by 
 which he had approached the heath — he beheld a single horseman 
 spurring in their direction at the top of his speed; and to judge 
 from the rate at which he advanced, it was evident he was any- 
 thing but indifferently mounted. Apprehensive of pursuit, Luke 
 
ROOKWOOD. 133 
 
 expedited the sexton's ascent; and that accomplished, without be- 
 stowing further regard upon the object of his solicitude, he re- 
 sumed his headlong flight. He now thought it necessary to 
 bestow more attention to his choice of road, and, perfectly ac- 
 quainted with the heath, avoided all unnecessary hazardous passes. 
 In spite of his knowledge of the ground, and the excellence of his 
 horse, the stranger sensibly gained upon him. The danger, how- 
 ever, was no longer imminent. 
 
 " We are safe," cried Luke ; " the limits of Hardchase are past. 
 In a few seconds we shall enter Davenham Wood. I will turn 
 the horse loose, and we will betake ourselves to flight amongst the 
 trees. I will show you a place of concealment. He cannot follow 
 us on horseback, and on foot I defy him." 
 
 " Stay," cried the sexton. " He is not in pursuit — he takes 
 another course — he wheels to the right. By Heaven ! it is the 
 -Fiend himself upon a black horse, come for Bow-legged Ben. See, 
 he is there already." 
 
 The horseman had turned, as the sexton stated, careering to- 
 wards a revolting object at some little distance on the right hand. 
 It was a gibbet, with its grisly burden. He rode swiftly towards 
 it, and, reining in his horse, took off his hat, bowing profoundly 
 to the carcase that swung in the morning breeze. Just at that 
 moment a gust of air catching the fleshless skeleton, its arms 
 seemed to be waved in reply to the salutation. A solitary crow 
 winged its flight over the horseman's head as he paused. After a 
 moment's halt, he wheeled about, and again shouted to Luke, 
 waving his hat. 
 
 " As I live," said the latter, " it is Jack Palmer." 
 u Dick Turpin, you mean," rejoined the sexton. " He lias been 
 paying his respects to a brother blade. Ha, ha! Dick will never 
 have the honour of a gibbet; he is too tender of the knife. Did 
 you mark the crow? But here he comes." And in another instant 
 Turpin was by their side. 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 A GIPSY ENCAMPMENT. 
 
 I see a column of slow-rising smoke 
 O'ertop the lofty wood, that skirts the wild. 
 
 Cowpee : The Task. 
 
 " The top of the morning to you, gem'men," said Turpin, as he 
 rode up at an easy canter. " Did you not hear my halloo ? I 
 caught a glimpse of you on the hill yonder. I knew you both, 
 two miles off; and so, having a word or two to say to you, Luke 
 
134 ROOKWOOD. 
 
 Bradley, before I leave this part of the country, I put Bess to it, 
 and she soon brought me within hail. Bless her black skin," 
 added he, affectionately patting his horse's neck, " there's not her 
 match in these parts, or in any other ; she wants no coaxing to do 
 her work — no bleeders for her. I should have been up with you 
 before this had I not taken a cross cut to look at poor Ben. 
 
 One night, when mounted on my mare, 
 To Bagshot Heath I did repair, 
 And saw Will Davies hanging there, 
 Upon the gibbet bleak and bare, 
 
 With a rustified, /testified, mustified air. 
 
 Excuse my singing. The sight of a gibbet always puts me in 
 mind of the Golden Farmer. May I ask whither you are bound, 
 comrades?" 
 
 " Comrades!" whispered the sexton to Luke; "you see he does 
 not so easily forget his old friends." 
 
 " I have business that will not admit of delay," rejoined Luke; 
 " and to speak plainly " 
 
 " You want not my society," returned Turpin ; " I guessed as 
 much. Natural enough ! You have got an inkling of your good 
 fortune. You have found out you are a rich man's heir, not a 
 poor wench's bastard. No offence ; I'm a plain spoken man, as you 
 will find, if you know it not already. I have no objection to your 
 playing these fine tricks on others, though it won't answer your 
 turn to do so with me." 
 
 " Sir!" exclaimed Luke, sharply. 
 
 " Sir to you," replied Turpin — " Sir Luke — as I suppose you 
 would now choose to be addressed. I am aware of all. A nod is 
 as good as a wink to me. Last night I learnt the fact of Sir 
 Piers's marriage from Lady Rookwood — ay, from her ladyship. 
 You stare — and old Peter, there, opens his ogles now. She let it 
 out by accident ; and I am in possession of what can alone sub- 
 stantiate your father's first marriage, and establish your claims to 
 the property." 
 
 "The devil!" cried the sexton; adding, in a whisper to Luke, 
 " You had better not be precipitate in dropping so obliging an ac- 
 quaintance." 
 
 " You are jesting," said Luke to Turpin. 
 
 " It is ill jesting before breakfast," returned Dick ; " I am seldom 
 in the mood for a joke so early. What if a certain marriage cer- 
 tificate had fallen into my hand?" 
 
 " A marriage certificate ! " echoed Luke and the sexton simul- 
 taneously. 
 
 "The only existing proof of the union of Sir Piers Rookwood 
 with Susan Bradley," continued Turpin. " What if I had stum- 
 bled upon such a document — nay more, if I knew where to direct 
 you to it?" 
 
ROOKWOOD. 135 
 
 " Peace !" cried Luke to liis tormentor ; and then addressing 
 Turpin, " If what you say be true, my quest is at an end. All 
 that I need, you appear to possess. Other proofs are secondary to 
 this. I know with whom I have to deal. What do you demand 
 for that certificate?" 
 
 " We will talk about the matter after breakfast," said Turpin. 
 " I wish to treat with you as friend with friend. Meet me on 
 those terms, and I am your man; reject my offer, and I turn my 
 mare's head, and ride back to Rookwood. With me now rests all 
 your hopes. I have dealt fairly with you, and I expect to be fairly 
 dealt with in return. It were idle to say, now I have an oppor- 
 tunity, that I should not turn this luck to my account. I were a 
 fool to do otherwise. You cannot expect it. And then I have 
 Rust and Wilder to settle with. Though I have left them behind, 
 they know my destination. We have been old associates. I like 
 your spirit — I care not for your haughtiness; but I will not help 
 you up the ladder to be kicked down myself. Now you under- 
 stand me. Whither are you bound?" 
 
 " To Davcnham Priory, the gipsy camp." 
 
 "The gipsies arc your friends?" 
 
 " They are." 
 
 " I am alone." 
 
 " You are safe." 
 
 " You pledge your word that all shall be on the square. You 
 will not mention to one of that Canting Crew what I have told 
 you?" 
 
 " With one exception, you may rely upon my secrecy." 
 
 "Whom do you except?" 
 
 " A woman." 
 
 " Bad ! never trust a petticoat." 
 
 " I will answer for her with my life." 
 
 "And for your granddad there?" 
 
 " Pie will answer for himself," said Peter. " You need not fear 
 treachery in me. Honour among thieves, you know." 
 
 "Or where else should you seek it?" rejoined Turpin; "for it 
 has left all other classes of society. Your highwayman is your 
 only man of honour. I will trust you both; and you shall find 
 you may trust me. After breakfast, as I said before, we will bring 
 the matter to a conclusion. Tip us your daddle, Sir Luke, and I 
 am satisfied. You shall rule in Rookwood, I'll engage, ere a week 
 
 be flown ; and then But so much parleying is dull work ; let's 
 
 make the best of our way to breakfast." 
 
 And away they cantered. 
 
 A narrow bridle-road conducted them singly through the defiles 
 of a thick wood. Their route lay in the shade, and the air felt 
 chilly amidst the trees, the sun not having attained sufficient alti- 
 tude to penetrate its depths, while overhead all was warmth and 
 light. Quivering on the tops of the timber, the horizontal sun- 
 
136 ROOKWOOD. 
 
 beams created, in their refraction, brilliant prismatic colourings, 
 and filled the air with, motes like golden dust. Our horsemen 
 heeded not the sunshine or the shade. Occupied each with, his 
 own train of thought, they silently rode on. 
 
 Davenham Wood, through which they urged their course, had, 
 in the olden time, been a forest of some extent. It was then an 
 appendage to the domains of Rookwood, but had passed from the 
 hands of that family to those of a wealthy adjoining landowner 
 and lawyer, Sir Edward Davenham, in the keeping of whose de- 
 scendants it had ever after continued. A noble wood it was, and 
 numbered many patriarchal trees. Ancient oaks, with broad, 
 gnarled limbs, which the storms of five hundred years had vainly 
 striven to uproot, and which were now sternly decaying ; gigantic 
 beech-trees, with silvery stems shooting smoothly upwards, sus- 
 taining branches of such size, that each, dissevered, would in 
 itself have formed a tree, populous with leaves, and variegated 
 with rich autumnal tints; the sprightly sycamore, the dark ches- 
 nut, the weird wych-elm, the majestic elm itself, festooned with 
 ivy, every variety of wood, dark, dense, and intricate, composed 
 the forest through which they rode; and so multitudinous was the 
 timber, so closely planted, so entirely filled up with a thick matted 
 vegetation, which had been allowed to collect beneath, that little 
 view was afforded, had any been desired by the parties, into the 
 labyrinth of the grove. Tree after tree, clad in the glowing livery 
 of the season, was passed, and as rapidly succeeded by others. 
 Occasionally a bough projected over their path, compelling the 
 riders to incline their heads as they passed ; but, heedless of such 
 difficulties, they pressed on. Now the road grew lighter, and they 
 became at once sensible of the genial influence of the sun. The 
 transition was as agreeable as instantaneous. They had opened 
 upon an extensive plantation of full-grown pines, whose tall, branch- 
 less stems grew up like a forest of masts, and freely admitted the 
 pleasant sunshine. Beneath those trees, the soil was sandy and 
 destitute of all undergrowth, though covered with brown, hair- 
 like fibres and dry cones, shed by the pines. The agile squirrel, 
 that freest denizen of the grove, starting from the ground as the 
 horsemen galloped on, sprang up the nearest tree, and might be 
 seen angrily gazing at the disturbers of his haunts, beating the 
 branches with his fore feet, in expression of displeasure; the rabbit 
 darted across their path ; the jays flew screaming amongst the 
 foliage; the blue cushat, scared at the clatter of the horses' hoofs, 
 sped on swift wing into quarters secure from their approach ; while 
 the particoloured pies, like curious village gossips, congregated to 
 peer at the strangers, expressing their astonishment by loud and 
 continuous chattering. Though so gentle of ascent as to be almost 
 imperceptible, it was still evident that the path they were pursuing 
 gradually mounted a hill-side; and when at length they reached 
 an opening, the view disclosed the eminence they had insensibly 
 
ROOKWOOD. 137 
 
 won. Pausing for a moment upon the brow of the hill, Luke 
 pointed to a stream that wound through the valley, and, tracing 
 its course, indicated a particular spot amongst the trees. There 
 was no appearance of a dwelling-house — no cottage roof, no white 
 canvas shed, to point out the tents of the wandering tribe whose 
 abode they were seeking. The only circumstance betokening that 
 it had once been the haunt of man, were a few grey monastic ruins, 
 scarce distinguishable from the stony barrier by which they were 
 surrounded ; and the sole evidence that it was still frequented by 
 human beings was a thin column of pale blue smoke, that arose 
 in curling wreaths from out the brake, the light-coloured vapour 
 beautifully contrasting with the green umbrage whence it issued, 
 
 " Our destination is yonder," exclaimed Luke, pointing in the 
 direction of the vapour. 
 
 " I am glad to hear it," cried Turpin, u as well as to perceive 
 there is some one awake. That smoke holds out a prospect of 
 breakfast. No smoke without lire, as old Lady Scanmag said ; and 
 I'll wager a trifle that fire was not lighted for the fayter fellows to 
 count their fingers by. We shall find three sticks, and a black 
 pot with a kid seething in it, I'll engage. These gipsies have 
 picked out a prettyish spot to quarter in — quite picturesque, as 
 one may say — and but for that tell-tale smoke, which looks for all 
 the world like a Dutch skipper blowing his morning cloud, no one 
 need know of their vicinity. A pretty place, upon my soul." 
 
 The spot, in sooth, merited Tur pin's culogium. It was a little 
 valley, in the midst of wooded hills, so secluded, that not a single 
 habitation appeared in view. Clothed with timber to the very 
 summits, excepting on the side where the party stood, which 
 verged upon the declivity, these mountainous ridges presented a 
 broken outline of foliage, variegated with tinted masses of bright 
 orange, umber, and deepest green. Four hills hemmed in the 
 valley. Here and there a grey slab of rock might be discerned 
 amongst the wood, and a mountain-ash figured conspicuously upon 
 a jutting crag immediately below them. Deep sunken in the 
 ravine, and concealed in part from view by the wild herbage and 
 dwarf shrubs, ran a range of precipitous rocks, severed, it would 
 seem, by some diluvial convulsion, from the opposite mountain 
 side, as a corresponding rift was there visible, in which the same 
 clip of strata might be observed, together with certain ribbed cavi- 
 ties, matching huge bolts of rock which had once locked these 
 stony walls together. Washing this cliif, swept a clear stream, 
 well known and well regarded, as it waxed in width, by the honest 
 brethren of the angle, who seldom, however, tracked it to its rise 
 amongst these hills. The stream found its way into the valley 
 through a chasm far to the left, and rushed thundering down the 
 inountain side in a boiling cascade. The valley was approached 
 in this direction from Rookwood by an unfrequented carriage- 
 road, which Luke had, from prudential reason?, avoided. All 
 
138 EOOKWOOD. 
 
 seemed consecrated to silence — to solitude — to the hush of nature ; 
 yet this quiet scene was the chosen retreat of lawless depredators, 
 and had erstwhile been the theatre of feudal oppression. We have 
 said that no habitation was visible; that no dwelling tenanted by 
 man could be seen ; but following the spur of the furthest moun- 
 tain hill, some traces of a stone wall might be discovered; and 
 upon a natural platform of rock stood a stern square tower, which 
 had once been the donjon of the castle, the lords of which had 
 called the four hills their own. A watch-tower then had crowned 
 each eminence, every vestige of which had, however, long since 
 disappeared. Sequestered in the vale stood the Priory before al- 
 luded to (a Monastery of Grey Friars, of the Order of St. Francis), 
 some of the venerable walls of which were still remaining; and 
 if they had not reverted to the bat and owl, as is wont to be 
 the fate of such sacred structures, their cloistered shrines were de- 
 voted to beings whose natures partook, in some measure, of the 
 instincts of those creatures of the night — a people whose deeds 
 were of darkness, and whose eyes shunned the light. Here the 
 gipsies had pitched their tent ; and though the place was often, in 
 part, deserted by the vagrant horde, yet certain of the tribe, who 
 had grown into years (over whom Barbara Lovel held queenly 
 sway), made it their haunt, and were suffered, by the authorities 
 of the neighbourhood, to remain unmolested — a lenient piece of 
 policy, which, in our infinite regard for the weal of the tawny 
 tribe, we recommend to the adoption of all other justices and 
 knights of the shire. 
 
 Bidding his grandsire have regard to his seat, Luke leaped a 
 high bank; and, followed by Turpin, began to descend the hill. 
 Peter, however, took care to provide for himself. The descent 
 was so perilous, and the footing so insecure, that he chose rather 
 to trust to such conveyance as nature had furnished him with, 
 than to hazard his neck by any false step of the horse. He con- 
 trived, therefore, to slide off from behind, shaping his own course 
 in a more secure direction. 
 
 He who has wandered amidst the Alps must have often had 
 occasion to witness the wonderful surefootedness of that mountain 
 pilot, the mule. He must have remarked how, with tenacious 
 hoof, he will claw the rock, and drag himself from one impending 
 fragment to another, with perfect security to his rider; how he 
 will breast the roaring currents of air, and stand unshrinking at 
 the verge of almost unfathomable ravines. But it is not so with 
 the horse : fleet on the plain, careful over rugged ground, he is 
 timid and uncertain on the hill-side, and the risk incurred by Luke 
 and Turpin, in their descent of the almost perpendicular sides of 
 the clifTJ was tremendous. Peter watched them in their descent 
 with some admiration, and with much contempt. 
 
 "He will break his neck, of a surety," said he; "but what 
 matters it? As well now as hereafter." 
 
IIOOKWOOD. 139 
 
 So saying, he approached the verge of the precipice, where he 
 could see them more distinctly. 
 
 The passage along which Luke rode had never before been tra- 
 versed by horse's hoof. Cut in the rock, it presented a steep zig- 
 zag path amongst the cliffs, without any defence for the foot tra- 
 veller, except such as was afforded by a casual clinging shrub, and 
 no protection whatever existed for a horseman ; the possibility of 
 any one attempting the passage not having, in all probability, 
 entered into the calculation of those who framed it. Added to 
 this, the steps were of such unequal heights, and withal so narrow, 
 that the danger was proportionately increased. 
 
 "Ten thousand devils!" cried Turpin, staring downwards; "is 
 this the best road you have got?" 
 
 " You will find one more easy," replied Luke, " if you ride for 
 a quarter of a mile down the wood, and then return by the brook 
 side. You will meet me at the priory." 
 
 " No," answered the highwayman, boldly ; " if you go, I go too. 
 It shall never be said that Dick Turpin was afraid to follow where 
 another would lead. Proceed." 
 
 Luke gave his horse the bridle, and the animal slowly and 
 steadily commenced the descent, fixing his fore legs upon the 
 steps, and drawing his hinder limbs carefully after him. Here it 
 was that the lightness and steadiness of Turpin's mare was com- 
 pletely shown. No Alpine mule could have borne its rider with 
 more apparent ease and safety. Turpin encouraged her by hand 
 and word; but she needed it not. The sexton saw them, and, 
 tracking their giddy descent, he became more interested than he 
 anticipated. His attention was suddenly drawn towards Luke. 
 
 " He is gone," cried Peter. " He falls — he sinks — my plans are 
 all defeated — the last link is snapped. No," added he, recovering 
 his wonted composure, " his end is not so fated." 
 
 Rook had missed his footing. He rolled stumbling down the 
 precipice a few yards. Luke's fate seemed inevitable. His feet 
 were entangled in the stirrup, he could not free himself. A 
 birch- tree, growing in a chink of the precipice, arrested his 
 further fall. But for this timely aid all had been over. Here 
 Luke was enabled to extricate himself from the stirrup and to re- 
 gain his feet ; seizing the bridle, he dragged his faulty steed back 
 again to the road. 
 
 " You have had a narrow escape, by Jove," said Turpin, who 
 had been thunderstruck with the whole proceeding. " Those big 
 cattle are always clumsy; devilish lucky it's no Avorse." 
 
 It was now comparatively smooth travelling ; but they had not 
 as yet reached the valley, and it seemed to be Luke's object to take 
 a circuitous path. This was so evident, that Turpin could not 
 help commenting upon it. 
 
 Luke evaded the question. " The crag is steep there," said he ; 
 " besides, to tell you the truth, I want to surprise them." 
 
140 ROOKWOOD. 
 
 " Ho, ho !" laughed Dick. " Surprise them, eh? What a pity 
 the birch-tree was in the way; you would have done it properly 
 then. Egad, here's another surprise." 
 
 Dick's last exclamation was caused by his having suddenly come 
 upon a wide gully in the rock, through which dashed a headlong 
 torrent, crossed by a single plank. 
 
 " You must be mad to have taken this road," cried Turpin, 
 gazing down into the roaring depths in which the waterfall raged, 
 and measuring the distance of the pass with his eye. u So, so, 
 Bess ! — Ay, look at it, wench. Curse me, Luke, if I think your 
 horse will do it, and, therefore, turn him loose." 
 
 But Dick might as well have bidden the cataract to flow back- 
 wards. Luke struck his heels into his horse's sides. The steed 
 galloped to the brink, snorted, and refused the leap. 
 
 61 1 told you so — he can't do it," said Turpin. " Well, if you 
 are obstinate, a wilful man must have his way. Stand aside, while 
 I try it for you." Patting Bess, he put her to a gallop. She 
 cleared the gulf bravely, landing her rider safely upon the oppo- 
 site rock. 
 
 " Now then," cried Turpin, from the other side of the chasm. 
 
 Luke again urged his steed. Encouraged by what he had seen, 
 this time the horse sprang across without hesitation. The next 
 instant they were in the valley. 
 
 For some time they rode along the banks of the stream in 
 silence. A sound at length caught the quick ears of the high- 
 wayman. 
 
 " Hist I" cried he; u some one sings. Do you hear it?" 
 
 " I do," replied Luke, the blood rushing to his cheeks. 
 
 " And could give a guess at the singer, no doubt," said Turpin, 
 with a knowing look. " Was it to hear yon woodlark that you 
 nearly broke your own neck, and put mine in jeopardy?" 
 
 " Prithee be silent," whispered Luke. 
 
 " I am dumb," replied Turpin; " I like a sweet voice as well as 
 another." 
 
 Clear as the note of a bird, yet melancholy as the distant dole 
 of a vesper-bell, arose the sound of that sweet voice from the wood. 
 A fragment of a Spanish gipsy song it warbled : Luke knew it 
 well. Thus ran the romance : 
 
 LA G1TANILLA.* 
 
 By the Guadalquivir, 
 
 Ere the sun be flown, 
 By that glorious river 
 
 Sits a maid alone. 
 Like the sunset splendour 
 
 Of that current bright, 
 Shone her dark eyes tender 
 
 As its witching light ; i 
 
 * Set to music by Mr. F. Komcr and Lady Stracey. 
 
ROOKWOOD. ]41 
 
 Like the ripple flowing, 
 
 Tinged with purple sheen, 
 Darkly, richly glowing, 
 Is her warm cheek seen. 
 'Tis the Gitanilla 
 
 By the stream doth linger, 
 In the hope that eve 
 Will her lover bring her. 
 
 See, the sun is sinking ; 
 
 All grows dim, and dies ; 
 See, the waves are drinking 
 
 Glories of the skies. 
 Day's last lustre playeth 
 On that current dark ; 
 Yet no speck betrayeth 
 
 His long lookcd-for bark. 
 'Tis the hour of meeting ! 
 Nay, the hour is past ; 
 Swift the time is fleeting ! 
 Fleeteth hope as fast. 
 Still the Gitanilla 
 
 By the stream doth linger, 
 In the hope that night 
 Will her lover bring her. 
 
 'a 
 
 The tender trembling of a guitar was heard in accompaniment 
 of the ravishing melodist. 
 
 The song ceased. 
 
 " Where is the bird?" asked Turpin. 
 
 " Move on in silence, and you shall see," said Luke ; and keep- 
 ing upon the turf, so that his horse's tread became inaudible, lie 
 presently arrived at a spot where, through the boughs, the object 
 of his investigation could plainly be distinguished, though he him- 
 self was concealed from view. 
 
 Upon a platform of rock, rising to the height of the trees, nearly 
 perpendicularly from the river's bed, appeared the figure of the 
 gipsy maid. Her footstep rested on the extreme edge of the 
 abrupt cliff, at whose base the water boiled in a deep whirlpool, 
 and the bounding chamois could not have been more lightly 
 poised. One small hand rested upon her guitar, the other pressed 
 her brow. Braided hair, of the jettiest dye and sleekest texture, 
 was twined around her brow in endless twisted folds: 
 
 Bowled it was in many a curious fret, 
 Much like a rich and curious coronet,- 
 Upon whose arches twenty Cupids lay, 
 And were as tied, or loth to fly away.* 
 
 And so exuberant was this rarest feminine ornament, that, after 
 encompassing her brow, it was passed behind, and hung down in 
 long thick plaits almost to her feet. Sparkling, as the sunbeams 
 
 * Brown's Pastorals. 
 
142 riOOKWOOD. 
 
 that played upon her dark yet radiant features, were the large, 
 black, Oriental eyes of the maiden, and shaded with lashes long 
 and silken. Hers was a Moorish countenance, in which the mag- 
 nificence of the eyes eclipses the face, be it ever so beautiful (an 
 effect to be observed in the angelic pictures of Murillo), and the 
 lovely contour is scarcely noticed in the gaze which those long, 
 languid, luminous orbs attract. Sybil's features were exquisite, 
 yet you looked only at her eyes — they were the loadstars of her 
 countenance. Her costume was singular, and partook, like herself, 
 of other climes. Like the Andalusian dame, her choice of colour 
 inclined towards black, as the material of most of her dress was of 
 that sombre hue. A bodice of embroidered velvet restrained her 
 delicate bosom's swell ; a rich girdle, from which depended a silver 
 chain, sustaining a short poniard, bound her waist; around her 
 slender throat was twined a costly kerchief; and the rest of her 
 dress was calculated to display her slight, yet faultless, figure to 
 the fullest advantage. 
 
 Unconscious that she was the object of regard, she raised her 
 guitar, and essayed to touch the chords. She struck a few notes, 
 and resumed her romance: 
 
 Swift that stream flows on, 
 
 Swift the night is wearing, — 
 Yet she is not gone, 
 
 Though with heart despairing. 
 
 Her song died away. Her hand was needed to brush off the 
 tears that were gathering in her large dark eyes. At once her 
 attitude was changed. The hare could not have started more 
 suddenly from her form. She heard accents well known con- 
 cluding the melody : 
 
 Dips an oar-plash — hark ! — 
 
 Gently on the river ; 
 'Tis her lover's bark, 
 
 On the Guadalquivir. 
 Hark ! a song she hears ! 
 
 Every note she snatches ; 
 As the singer ncars, 
 
 Her own name she catches. 
 Now the Gitanilla 
 
 Stays not by the water, 
 For the midnight hour 
 
 Hath her lover brought her. 
 
 It was her lover's voice. She caught the sound at once, and, 
 starting, as the roe would arouse herself at the hunter's approach, 
 bounded down the crag, and ere he had finished the refrain, was 
 by his side. 
 
 Flinging the bridle to Turpin, Luke sprang to her, and caught 
 her in his arms. Disengaging herself from his ardent embrace, 
 Sybil drew back, abashed at the sight of the highwayman. 
 
EOOKWOOD. 143 
 
 " Heed him not," said Luke ; " it is a friend." 
 
 " He is welcome here then," replied Sybil. " But where have 
 you tarried so long, dear Luke?" continued she, as they walked to 
 a little distance from the highwayman. " What hath detained 
 you? The hours have passed wearily since you departed. You 
 bring good news?" 
 
 " Good news, my girl; so good, that I falter even in the telling 
 of it. You shall know all anon. And see, our friend yonder 
 grows impatient. Are there any stirring? We must bestow a 
 meal upon him, and that forthwith : he is one of those who brook 
 not much delay." 
 
 " I came not to spoil a love meeting," said Turpin, who had 
 good-humouredly witnessed the scene; "but, in sober seriousness, 
 if there is a stray capon to be met with in the land of Egypt, I 
 shall be glad to make his acquaintance. Methinks I scent a stew 
 afar off." 
 
 "Follow me," said Sybil; "your wants shall be supplied." 
 
 " Stay," said Luke ; " there is one other of our party whose 
 coming we must abide." 
 
 " He is here," said Sybil, observing the sexton at a distance. 
 " Who is that old man ?" 
 
 " My grandsire, Peter Bradley." 
 
 "Is that Peter Bradley?" asked Sybil. 
 
 " Ay, you may well ask whether that old dried-up otomy, who 
 ought to grin j n a gl ass case for folks to stare at, be kith and kin 
 of such a bang-up cove as your fancy man, Luke," said Turpin, 
 laughing — "but i'faith he is." 
 
 " Though he is your grandsire, Luke," said Sybil, " I like him 
 not. His glance resembles that of the Evil Eye." 
 
 And, in fact, the look which Peter fixed upon her was such as 
 the rattlesnake casts upon its victim, and Sybil felt like a poor 
 fluttering bird under the fascination of that venomous reptile. 
 She could not remove her eyes from his, though she trembled as 
 she gazed. We have said that Peter's orbs were like those of the 
 toad. Age had not dimmed their brilliancy. In his harsh features 
 you could only read bitter scorn or withering hate ; but in his eyes 
 resided a magnetic influence of attraction or repulsion. Sybil un- 
 derwent the former feeling in a disagreeable degree. She was 
 drawn to him as by the motion of a whirlpool, and involuntarily 
 clung to her lover. 
 
 "It is the Evil Eye, dear Luke." 
 
 " Tut, tut, clear Sybil ; I tell you it is my grandsire." 
 
 "The girl says rightly, however," rejoined Turpin; "Peter has 
 a confounded ugly look about the ogles, and stares enough to put 
 a modest wench out of countenance. Come, come, my old earth- 
 worm, crawl along, we have waited for you long enough. Is this 
 the first time you have seen a pretty lass, eh?" 
 
 " It is the first time I have seen one so beautiful," said Peter ; 
 
144 ROOKWOOD. 
 
 " and I crave her pardon if my freedom has offended her. I won- 
 der not at your enchantment, grandson Luke, now I behold the 
 object of it. But there is one piece of counsel I would give to 
 this fair maid. The next time she trusts you from her sight, 
 I would advise her to await you at the hill-top, otherwise the 
 chances are shrewdly against your reaching the ground with neck 
 nnbroken." 
 
 There was something, notwithstanding the satirical manner 
 in which Peter delivered this speech, calculated to make a more 
 favourable impression upon Sybil than his previous conduct had 
 inspired her with ; and, having ascertained from Luke to what his 
 speech referred, she extended her hand to him, yet not without a 
 shudder, as it was enclosed in his skinny grasp. It was like the 
 fingers of Venus in the grasp of a skeleton. 
 
 " This is a little hand," said Peter, " and I have some skill my- 
 self in palmistry. Shall I peruse its lines?" 
 
 " Not now, in the devil's name !" said Turpin, stamping impa- 
 tiently. " We shall have Old Rufrln himself amongst us pre- 
 sently, if Peter Bradley grows gallant." 
 
 Leading their horses, the party took their way through the 
 trees. A few minutes' walking brought them in sight of the 
 gipsy encampment, the spot selected for which might be termed 
 the Eden of the valley. It was a small green plain, smooth as a 
 well-shorn lawn, kept ever verdant (save in the spots where the fre- 
 quent fires had scorched its surface) by the flowing stream that 
 rushed past it, and surrounded by an amphitheatre of wooded 
 hills. Here might be seen the canvas tent with its patches of 
 varied colouring; the rude-fashioned hut of primitive construc- 
 tion; the kettle slung 
 
 Between two poles, upon a stick transverse ; 
 
 the tethered beasts of burden, the horses, asses, dogs, carts, cara- 
 vans, wains, blocks, and other movables and immovables belonging 
 to the wandering tribe. Glimmering through the trees, at the ex- 
 tremity of the plain, appeared the ivy-mantled walls of Davenham 
 Priory. Though much had gone to decay, enough remained to 
 recal the pristine state of this once majestic pile, and the long, 
 though broken line of Saxon arches, that still marked the cloister 
 wall; the piers that yet supported the dormitory; the enormous 
 horse-shoe arch that spanned the court; and, above all, the great 
 marigold, or circular window, which terminated the chapel, and 
 which, though now despoiled of its painted honours, retained, like 
 the skeleton leaf, its fibrous intricacies entire, — all eloquently 
 spoke of the glories of the past, while they awakened reverence 
 and admiration for the still-enduring beauty of the present. 
 
 Towards these ruins Sybil conducted the party. 
 
 "Do you dwell therein?" asked Peter, pointing towards the 
 priory. 
 
ROOKWOOD. 145 
 
 " That is my dwelling," said Sybil. 
 
 " It is one I should covet more than a modern mansion, 
 returned the sexton. 
 
 " I love those old walls better than any house that was ever 
 fashioned," replied Sybil. 
 
 As they entered the Prior's Close, as it was called, several 
 swarthy figures made their appearance from the tents. Many a 
 greeting was bestowed upon Luke, in the wild jargon of the tribe. 
 At length an uncouth dwarfish figure, with a shock head of black 
 hair, hopped towards them. He seemed to acknowledge Luke as 
 his master. 
 
 " What ho ! Grasshopper," said Luke, " take these horses, and 
 see that they lack neither dressing nor provender." 
 
 " And hark ye, Grasshopper," added Turpin ; " I give you a 
 special charge about this mare. Neither dress nor feed her till I 
 see both done myself. Just walk her for ten minutes, and if you 
 have a glass of ale in the place, let her sip it." 
 
 " Your bidding shall be done," chirped the human insect, as he 
 fluttered away with his charges. 
 
 A motley assemblage of tawny-skinned varlets, dark-eyed women 
 and children, whose dusky limbs betrayed their lineage, in strange 
 costume, and of wild deportment, checked the path, muttering 
 welcome upon welcome into the ear of Luke as he passed. As it 
 was evident he was in no mood for converse, Sybil, who seemed 
 to exercise considerable authority over the crew, with a word dis- 
 persed them, and they herded back to their respective habitations. 
 
 A low door admitted Luke and his companions into what had 
 once been the garden, in which some old moss-encrusted apple 
 and walnut-trees were still standing, bearing a look of antiquity 
 almost as venerable as that of the adioininfr fabric. 
 
 Another open door gave them entrance to a spacious chamber, 
 formerly the eating-room or refectory of the holy brotherhood, 
 and a goodly room it had been, though now its slender lanceolated 
 windows were stuffed witli hay to keep out the air. Large holes 
 told where huge oaken rafters had once crossed the roof, and a 
 yawning aperture marked the place where a cheering fire had for- 
 merly blazed. As regarded this latter spot, the good old custom 
 was not, even now, totally abrogated. An iron plate, covered 
 with crackling wood, sustained a ponderous black caldron, the 
 rich steam from which gratefully affected the olfactory organs oi 
 the highwayman. 
 
 " That augurs well," said he, rubbing his hands. 
 
 " Still hungering after the fleshpots of Egypt," said the sexton, 
 with a ghastly smile. 
 
 " We will see what that kettle contains," said Luke. 
 
 "Handassah— Grace!" exclaimed Sybil, calling. 
 
 Her summons was answered by two maidens, habited, not un- 
 becomingly, in gipsy gear. 
 
 L 
 
146 ROOKWOOD. 
 
 " Bring the best our larder can furnish," said Sybil, u and use 
 despatch. You have appetites to provide for, sharpened by a long 
 ride in the open air." 
 
 " And by a night's fasting," said Luke, " and solitary confine- 
 ment to boot." 
 
 u And a night of business," added Turpin — " and plaguy per- 
 plexing business into the bargain." 
 
 u And the night of a funeral too," doled Peter ; u and that 
 funeral a father's. Let us have breakfast speedily, by all means. 
 We have rare appetites." 
 
 An old oaken table (it might have been the self-same upon 
 which the holy friars had broken their morning fast) stood in the 
 middle of the room. The ample board soon groaned beneath the 
 weight of the savoury caldron, the unctuous contents of which 
 proved to be a couple of dismembered pheasants, an equal propor- 
 tion of poultry, great gouts of ham, mushrooms, onions, and other 
 piquant condiments, so satisfactory to Dick Turpin, that, upon 
 tasting a mouthful, he absolutely shed tears of delight. The dish 
 was indeed the triumph of gipsy cookery; and so sedulously did 
 Dick apply himself to his mess, and so complete was his abstrac- 
 tion, that he perceived not he was left alone. It was only when 
 about to wash down the last drumstick of the last fowl with a can 
 of excellent ale that he made this discovery. 
 
 " What ! all gone? And Peter Bradley, too? What the devil 
 does this mean?" mused he. "I must not muddle my brain with 
 any more Pharaoh, though I have feasted like a king of Egypt. 
 That will never do. Caution, Dick, caution. Suppose I shift yon 
 brick from the wall, and place this precious document beneath it. 
 Pshaw ! Luke would never play me false. And now for Bess ! 
 Bless her black skin ! she'll wonder where I've been so long. It's 
 not my way to leave her to shift for herself, though she can do 
 that on a pinch." 
 
 Soliloquising thus, he arose and walked towards the door. 
 
ROOKWOOD. 147 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 SYBIL. 
 
 The wiving vine, that round the friendly elm 
 Twines her soft limbs, and weaves a leafy mantle 
 For her supporting lover, dares not venture 
 To mix her humble boughs with the embraces 
 Of the more lofty cedar. 
 
 Glapthorne : Albert 'us Wallemtein. 
 
 Beneath a mouldering wall, whither they had strayed, to be 
 free from interruption, and upon a carpet of the greenest moss, sat 
 Sybil and her lover. 
 
 With eager curiosity she listened to his talc. He recounted all 
 that had befallen him since his departure. Pie told her of the 
 awful revelations of the tomb ; of the ring that, like a talisman, 
 had conjured up a thousand brilliant prospects; of his subsequent 
 perils; his escapes; his rencontre with Lady Rookwood; his visit 
 to his father's body; and his meeting with his brother. All this 
 she heard with a cheek now flushed with expectation, now made 
 pale with apprehension; with palpitating bosom, and suppressed 
 breath. But when taking a softer tone, love, affection, happiness 
 inspired the theme, and Luke sought to paint the bliss that should 
 be theirs in his new estate ; when he would throw his fortune into 
 her lap, his titles at her feet, and bid her wear the;n with him; 
 when, with ennobled hand and unchanged heart, he would fulfil 
 the troth plighted in his outcast days; in lieu of tender, grateful 
 acquiescence, the features of Sybil became overcast, the soft smile 
 faded away, and, as spring sunshine is succeeded by the sudden 
 shower, the light that dwelt in her sunny orbs grew dim with 
 tears. 
 
 "Why — why is this, dear Sybil?" said Luke, gazing upon her 
 in astonishment, not unmingled with displeasure. " To what am 
 I to attribute these tears? You do not, surely, regret my good 
 fortune ?" 
 
 "Not on your own account, dear Luke," returned she, sadly. 
 " The tears I shed were for myself — the first, the only tears that I 
 have ever shed for such cause; and," added she, raising her head 
 like a flower surcharged with moisture, " they shall be the last." 
 
 " This is inexplicable, dear Sybil. Why should you lament for 
 yourself, if not for me? Does not the sunshine of prosperity that 
 now shines upon me gild you with the same beam? Did I not 
 even now affirm that the day that saw me enter the hall o c my 
 forefathers should dawn upon our espousals?" 
 
 l2 
 
148 ROOKWOOD. 
 
 " True ; but the sun that shines upon you, to me wears a threat- 
 ening aspect. The day of those espousals will never dawn. You 
 cannot make me the lady of Rookwood." 
 
 "What do I hear?" exclaimed Luke, surprised at this avowal 
 of his mistress, sadly and deliberately delivered. u Not wed you ! 
 And wherefore not? Is it the rank I have acquired, or hope to 
 acquire, that displeases you? Speak, that I may waste no further 
 time in thus pursuing the shadows of happiness, while the reality 
 fleets from me." 
 
 "And are they shadows; and is this the reality, dear Luke? 
 Question your secret soul, and you will find it otherwise. You 
 could not forego your triumph ; it is not likely. You have dwelt 
 too much upon the proud title which will be yours to yield it to 
 another, when it may be won so easily. And, above all, when 
 your mother's reputation, and your own stained name, may be 
 cleared by one word, breathed aloud, would you fail to utter it? 
 No, dear Luke, I read your heart; you would not." 
 
 " And if I could not forego this, wherefore is it that you re- 
 fuse to be a sharer in my triumph ? Why will you render my 
 honours valueless when I have acquired them? You love me 
 not." 
 
 "Not love you, Luke?" 
 
 " Approve it, then." 
 
 " I do approve it. Bear witness the sacrifice I am about to 
 make of all my hopes, at the shrine of my idolatry to you. Bear 
 witness the agony of this hour. Bear witness the horror of the 
 avowal, that I never can be yours. As Luke Bradley, I would 
 joyfully — oh, how joyfully! — have been your bride. As Sir 
 Luke Rookwood" — and she shuddered as she pronounced the 
 name — " I never can be so." 
 
 " Then, by Heaven ! Luke Bradley will I remain. But where- 
 fore — wherefore not as Sir Luke Rookwood?" 
 
 " Because," replied Sybil, with reluctance — " because I am no 
 longer your equal. The gipsy's low-born daughter is no mate for 
 Sir Luke Rookwood. Love cannot blind me, dear Luke. It 
 cannot make me other than I am ; it cannot exalt me in my own 
 esteem, nor in that of the world, with which you, alas ! too soon 
 will mingle, and which will regard even me as — no matter what ! 
 — it shall not scorn me as your bride. I will not bring shame 
 and reproach upon you. Oh! if for me, dear Luke, the proud 
 ones of the earth were to treat you with contumely, this heart 
 would break with agony. For myself, I have pride sufficient — 
 perchance too much. Perchance 'tis pride that actuates me now. 
 I know not. But for you I am all weakness. As you were 
 heretofore, I would have been to you the tenderest and truest wife 
 that ever breathed ; as you are now " 
 
 " Hear me, Sybil." 
 
 H Hear me out, dear Luke. One other motive there is that 
 
EOOKWOOD. 149 
 
 determines my present conduct, which, were all else surmounted, 
 would in itself suffice. Ask me not what that is. I cannot explain 
 it. For your own sake, I implore you, be satisfied with my re- 
 fusal." 
 
 " What a destiny is mine !" exclaimed Luke, striking his fore- 
 head with his clenched hand. " No choice is left me. Either 
 way I destroy my own happiness. On the one hand stands love 
 — on the other ambition; yet neither will conjoin." 
 
 u Pursue, then, ambition," said Sybil, energetically, " if you 
 can hesitate. Forget that I have ever existed ; forget you have 
 ever loved ; forget that such a passion dwells within the human 
 heart, and you may still be happy, though you are great." 
 
 u And do you deem," replied Luke, with frantic impatience, 
 " that I can accomplish this; that I can forget that I have loved 
 you; that I can forget you? Cost what it will, the effort shall 
 be made. Yet by our former love, I charge you tell me what has 
 wrought this change in you? Why do you now refuse me?" 
 
 " 1 have said you are Sir Luke Rookwood," returned Sybil, 
 with painful emotion. " Does that name import nothing?" 
 
 "Imports it aught of ill?" 
 
 "To me, everything of ill. It is a fated house. Its line ara 
 all predestined." 
 
 "To what?" demanded Luke. 
 
 " To murder /" replied Sybil, with solemn emphasis. " To the 
 murder of their wives. Forgive me, Luke, if I have dared to 
 utter this. Yourself compelled me to it." 
 
 Amazement, horror, Avrath, kept Luke silent for a few mo- 
 ments. Starting to his feet, lie cried : 
 
 " And can you suspect me of a crime so foul ? Think you, 
 because I shall assume the name, that I shall put on the nature 
 likewise of my race? Do you believe me capable of aught so 
 horrible?" 
 
 " Oh, no, I believe it not. I am sure you would not do it. 
 Your soul would reject with horror such a deed. But if Fate 
 should guide your hand, if the avenging spirit of your murdered 
 ancestress should point to the steel, you could not shun it then." 
 
 u In Heaven's name! to what do you allude?" 
 
 u To a tradition of your house," replied Sybil. u Listen to 
 me, and you shall hear the legend." And with a pathos that 
 produced a thrilling effect upon Luke, she sang the following 
 ballad: 
 
 THE LEGEND OF THE LADY OF ROOKWOOD. 
 
 Grim Ranulph home hath at midnight come, from the long wars of the Roses, 
 And the sqnire, who waits at his ancient gates, a secret dark discloses ; 
 To that varlet's words no response accords his lord, but his visage stern 
 Grows ghastly white in the wan moonlight, and his eyes like the lean wolf's burn. 
 
150 KOOKYVOOD. 
 
 Tc his lady's bower, at that lonesome hour, unannounced, is Sir Ranulph gone; 
 Through the dim corridor, through, the hidden door, he glides— she is all alone ! 
 Full of holy zeal doth his young dame kneel at the meek Madonna's feet, 
 Her hands are pressed on her gentle breast, and upturned is her aspect sweet. 
 
 Beats Eanulph's heart with a joyful start, as he looks on her guiltless face; 
 And the raging fire of his jealous ire is subdued by the words of grace ; 
 His own name shares her murmured prayers — more freely can he breathe ; 
 But 2 a ! that look ! Why doth he pluck his poniard from its sheath ? 
 
 On fi footstool thrown lies a costly gown of saye and of minevere 
 
 (A mantle fair for the dainty wear of a migniard cavalier), 
 
 Ani on it flung, to a bracelet hung, a picture meets his eye ; 
 
 "Joy my father's head !" grim Ranulph. said, "false wife, thy end draws nigh." 
 
 From off its chain hath the fierce knight ta'en that fond and fatal pledge ; 
 His dark eyes blaze, no word he says, thrice gleams his dagger's edge, ! 
 Her blood it drinks, and, as she sinks, his victim hears his cry, 
 " lor kiss impure of paramour, adult'ress, dost thou die !" 
 
 Silent he stood, with hands embrued in gore, and glance of flame, 
 As thus her plaint, in accents faint, made his ill-fated dame : 
 e * Kind Heaven can tell, that all too well, I've loved thee, cruel lord ; 
 But now with hate commensurate, assassin, thou'rt abhorred. 
 
 " I've loved thee long, through doubt and wrong ; I've loved thee and no other ; 
 And my love was pure for my paramour, for alas ! he was my brother ! 
 The Red, Red Rose, on thy banner glows, on his pennon gleams the White, 
 And the bitter feud, that ye both have rued, forbids ye to unite. 
 
 "My bower ho sought, what time he thought thy jealous vassals slept, 
 Of joy we dreamed, and never deemed that watch those vassals kept ; 
 An hour flew by, too speedily ! — that picture was his boon : 
 Ah ! little thrift to me that gift : he left me all too soon ! 
 
 "Wo worth the hour ! dark fates did lower, when our hands were first united, 
 For my heart's firm truth, 'mid tears and ruth, with death hast thou requited : 
 In prayer sincere, full many a year of my wretched life I've spent ; 
 But to hell's control would I give my soul to work thy chastisement !" 
 
 These wild words said, low drooped her head, and Ranulph's life-blood froze, 
 For the earth did gape, as an awful shape from out its depths arose : 
 " Thy prayer is heard, Hell hath concurred," cried the fiend, " thy soul is mine ! 
 Like fate may dread each dame shall wed with Ranulph or his line !" 
 
 Within the tomb to await her doom is that hapless lady sleeping, 
 And another bride by Ranulph's side through the livelong night is weeping. 
 This dame declines — a third repines, and fades, like the rest, away ; 
 Her lot she rues, whom a Rookwood woos — cursed is her Wedding Day ! 
 
 a And this is the legend of my ancestress ?•" said Luke, as Sybil's 
 strains were ended. 
 
 u It is," replied she. 
 
 " An idle tale," observed Luke, moodily. 
 
 " Not so," answered Sybil. " Has not the curse of blood clung 
 to all your line? Has it not attached to your father — to Sir 
 Reginald — Sir Ralph — Sir Ranulph — to all ? Which of them 
 has escaped it? And when I tell you this, dear Luke; when I 
 
ROOK WOOD, 151 
 
 find you bear the name of this accursed race, can you wonder if I 
 shudder at adding to the list of the victims of that ruthless spirit, 
 and that I tremble for you? I would die for you willingly — but 
 not by your hand. I would not that my blood, which I would 
 now pour out for you as freely as water, should rise up in judg- 
 ment against you. For myself I have no fears — for you, a thou- 
 sand. My mother, upon her death-bed, told me I should never be 
 yours. I believed her not, for I was happy then. She said that 
 we never should be united ; or, if united " 
 
 " What, in Heaven's name?" 
 
 u That you would be my destroyer. How could I credit her 
 words then? How can I doubt them now, when I find you are 
 a Rookwood? And think not, dear Luke, that I am ruled by 
 selfish fears in this resolution. To renounce you may cost me my 
 life; but the deed will be my own. You may call me super- 
 stitious, credulous : I have been nurtured in credulity. It is the 
 faith of my fathers. There are those, methinks, who have an in- 
 sight into futurity; and such boding words have been spoken, 
 that, be they true or false, I will not risk their fulfilment in my 
 person. I may be credulous; I may be weak; I may be erring; 
 but I am steadfast in this. Bid me perish at your feet, and I will 
 do it. I will not be your Fate. I will not be the wretched in- 
 strument of your perdition. I will love, worship, watch, serve, 
 perish for you — but I will not wed you." 
 
 Exhausted by the vehemence of her emotion, she would have 
 sunk upon the ground, had not Luke caught her in his arms. 
 Pressing her to his bosom, he renewed his passionate protestations. 
 Every argument was unavailing. Sybil appeared inflexible. 
 
 " You love me as you have ever loved me?" said she, at length. 
 
 "A thousand-fold more fervently," replied Luke; "put it to 
 the test." 
 
 "How if I dared to do so? Consider well: I may ask too 
 much." 
 
 " Name it. If it be not to surrender you, by my mother's body 
 I will obey you." 
 
 " I would propose an oath." 
 
 "Ha!" 
 
 ' A solemn, binding oath, that, if you wed me not, you will 
 not wed another. Ha ! do you start? Have I appalled you? ; ' 
 
 " I start? I will take it. Hear me— by " 
 
 • Hold!" exclaimed a voice behind them. " Do not forswear 
 yourself." And immediately afterwards the sexton made his 
 appearance. There was a malignant smile upon his countenance. 
 The lovers started at the ominous interruption. 
 
 " Begone !" cried Luke. 
 
 " Take not that oath," said Peter, " and I leave you. Remem- 
 ber the counsel I gave you on our way hither." 
 
152 ROOKWOOD. 
 
 " What counsel did he give you, Luke?" inquired Sybil, 
 eagerly, of her lover. 
 
 " We spoke of you, fond girl," replied Peter. " I cautioned 
 him against the match. I knew not your sentiments, or I had 
 spared myself the trouble. You have judged wisely. Were he 
 to wed you, ill would come of it. But he must wed another." 
 
 " Must !" cried Sybil, her eyes absolutely emitting sparkles of 
 indignation from their night-like depths; and, unsheathing as she 
 spoke the short poniard which she wore at her girdle, she rushed 
 towards Peter, raising her hand to strike. 
 
 " Must wed another ! And dare you counsel this?" 
 
 u Put up your dagger, fair maiden," said Peter, calmly. " Had 
 I been younger, your eyes might have had more terrors for me 
 than your weapon; as it is, I am proof against both. You would 
 not strike an old man like myself, and of your lover's kin?" 
 
 Sybil's uplifted hand fell to her side. 
 
 " 'Tis true," continued the sexton, " I dared to give him this 
 advice; and when you have heard me out, you will not, I am 
 persuaded, think me so unreasonable as, at first, I may appear to 
 be. I have been an unseen listener to your converse; not that I 
 desire to pry into your secrets — far from it; I overheard you by 
 accident. I applaud your resolution; but if you are inclined to 
 sacrifice all for your lover's weal, do not let the work be incom- 
 plete. Bind him not by oaths which he will regard as spiders' 
 webs, to be burst through at pleasure. You see, as well as I do, 
 that he is bent on being lord of Rookwood ; and, in truth, to an 
 aspiring mind, such a desire is natural, is praiseworthy. It will be 
 pleasant, as well as honourable, to efface the stain cast upon his 
 birth. It will be an act of filial duty in him to restore his mother's 
 good name ; and I, her father, laud his anxiety on that score ; 
 though, to speak truth, fair maid, I am not so rigid as your nice 
 moralists in my view of human nature, and can allow a latitude 
 to love which their nicer scruples will not admit. It will be a 
 proud thing to triumph over his implacable foe; and this he may 
 accomplish " 
 
 " Without marriage," interrupted Sybil, angrily. 
 " True," returned Peter; " yet not maintain it. May win it, 
 but not wear it. You have said truly, the house of Rookwood is 
 a lilted house; and it hath been said likewise, that if he wed not 
 one of his own kindred — that if Rook mate not with Rook, his 
 possessions shall pass away from his hands. Listen to this pro- 
 phetic quatrain: 
 
 OTfjen t&e stray Hloou sljall pcrcj) on tfte topmost i)ouc$, 
 
 W)m sjjall be clamour anct screening, 1 trotu ; 
 
 23ut of ricrJjt to, anU rule of tlje ancient nest, 
 
 ^6e Hook tjjat foit!) Hook mates sjjall jjolct Ijiux possest. 
 
ROOKWOOD. 153 
 
 You hear what these quaint rhymes say. Luke is, doubtless, the 
 stray rook, and a fledgling hath flown hither from a distant coun 
 try. lie must take her to his mate, or relinquish her and 'the 
 aneient nest' to his brother. For my own part, I disregard such 
 sayings. I have little faith in prophecy and divination. I know 
 not what Eleanor Mowbray, for so she is called, can have to do 
 with the tenure of the estates of Rookwood. But if Luke Rook- 
 wood, after he has lorded it for awhile in splendour, be cast forth 
 again in rags and wretchedness, let him not blame his grandsire 
 for his own want of caution." 
 
 "Luke, I implore you, tell me," said Sybil, who had listened, 
 horror-stricken, to the sexton, shuddering, as it were, beneath the 
 chilly influence of his malevolent glance, "is this true? Docs 
 your fate depend upon Eleanor Mowbray? Who is she? What 
 has she to do with Rookwood? Have you seen her? Do you 
 love her?" 
 
 " I have never seen her," replied Luke. 
 
 " Thank Heaven for that!" cried Sybil. " Then you love her 
 not?" 
 
 " How were that possible?" returned Luke. " Do I not say 1 
 have not seen her?" 
 "Who is she, then?" 
 
 " This old man tells me she is my cousin. She is betrothed to 
 my brother Ranulph." 
 
 " How?" ejaculated Sybil. "And would you snatch his be- 
 trothed from your brother's arms? Would you do him this 
 grievous wrong? Is it not enough that you must wrest from him 
 that which he has long deemed his own? And if he has falsely 
 deemed it so, it will not make his loss the less bitter. If you do 
 thus wrong your brother, do not look for happiness; do not look 
 for respect; for neither will be your portion. Even this stony- 
 hearted old man shrinks aghast at such a deed. His snake-like 
 eves are buried on the ground. See, I have moved even him" 
 And in truth Peter did appear, for an instant, strangely moved. 
 " 'Tis nothing," returned he, mastering his emotion by a strong 
 effort. "What is all this to me? I never had a brother. I 
 never had aught — wife, child, or relative, that loved me. And I 
 love not the world, nor the things of the world, nor those that in- 
 habit the world. But I know what sways the world and its inha- 
 bitants; and that is, self ! and self-interest ! Let Luke re- 
 flect on this. The key to Rookwood is Eleanor Mowbray. The 
 hand that grasps hers, grasps those lands: thus saith the pro- 
 phecy." 
 
 " It is a lying prophecy." 
 
 " It was uttered by one of your race." 
 
 "By whom?" 
 
 " By Barbara Lovel," said Peter, with a sneer of triumph. 
 
154 ROOKWOOD. 
 
 "Ha!" 
 
 " Heed him not," exclaimed Luke, as Sybil recoiled at this in- 
 telligence. " I am yours." 
 
 " Not mine ! not mine !" shrieked she; " but, oh ! not hers ."' 
 
 " Whither go you?" cried Luke, as Sybil, half bewildered, tore 
 herself from him. 
 
 " To Barbara Lovel." 
 
 " I will go with you." 
 
 " No ! let me go alone. I have much to ask her; yet tarry not 
 with this old man, dear Luke, or close your ears to his crafty talk. 
 Avoid him. Oh, I am sick at heart. Follow me not; I implore 
 you, follow me not." 
 
 And with distracted air she darted amongst the mouldering 
 cloisters, leaving Luke stupified with anguish and surprise. The 
 sexton maintained a stern and stoical composure. 
 
 " She is a woman, after all," muttered he; "all her high-flown 
 resolves melt like snow in the sunshine at the thought of a rival. 
 I congratulate you, grandson Luke ; you are free from your 
 fetters." 
 
 " Free !" echoed Luke. " Quit my sight; I loathe to look upon 
 you. You have broken the truest heart that ever beat in woman's 
 bosom." 
 
 u Tut, tut," returned Peter ; " it is not broken yet. Wait till 
 we hear what old Barbara has got to say; and, meanwhile, we 
 must arrange with Dick Turpin the price of that certificate. The 
 knave knows its value well. Come, be a man. This is worse 
 than womanish." 
 
 And at length he succeeded, half by force and half by persua- 
 sion, in dragging Luke away with him. 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 BARBARA LOVEL. 
 
 Los Gitanos son encantadores, adivinos, magos, chyromanticos, que diceii por 
 las ray as de las manos lo Future, que ellos llamau Buenaventura, y gencralmentc 
 son dados a toda supersticion. Doctor Sanciio de Moncada. 
 
 Discurso sobre Espulsioti de los Gitanos. 
 
 Like a dove escaped from the talons of the falcon, Sybil iled 
 from the clutches of the sexton. Her brain was in a whirl, her 
 blood on fire. She had no distinct perception of external objects; 
 no definite notion of what she herself was about to do, and glided 
 more like a flitting spirit than a living woman along the ruined 
 ambulatory. Her hair had fallen in disorder over her face. She 
 
EOOKWOOD. 155 
 
 stayed not to adjust it, but tossed aside the blinding locks with 
 frantic impatience. She felt as one may feel who tries to strain 
 his nerves, shattered by illness, to the endurance of some dreadful, 
 yet necessary pain. 
 
 Sybil loved her granddame, old Barbara; but it was with a 
 love tempered by fear. Barbara was not a person to inspire esteem 
 or to claim affection. She Avas regarded by the wild tribe which 
 she ruled as their queen-elect, with some such feeling of inex- 
 plicable awe as is entertained by the African slave for the Obeali 
 woman. They acknowledged her power, unhesitatingly obeyed 
 her commands, and shrank with terror from her anathema, which 
 was indeed seldom pronounced; but when uttered, was considered 
 as doom. Her tribe she looked upon as her flock, and stretched 
 her maternal hand over all, ready alike to cherish or chastise ; and 
 having already survived a generation, that which succeeded, having 
 from infancy imbibed a superstitious veneration for the " cunning 
 woman," as she was called, the sentiment could never be wdiolly 
 effaced. 
 
 Winding her way, she knew not how, through roofless halls, over 
 disjointed fragments of fallen pillars, Sybil reached a flight of 
 .steps. A door, studded with iron nails, stayed her progress; it 
 was an old strong oaken frame, surmounted by a Gothic arch, in 
 the keystone of which leered one of those grotesque demoniacal 
 faces with which the fathers of the church delighted to adorn their 
 shrines. Sybil looked up — her glance encountered the fantastical 
 visage. It recalled the features of the sexton, and seemed to mock 
 her — to revile her. Her fortitude at once deserted her. Her 
 fingers were upon the handle of the door. She hesitated: she 
 even drew back, with the intention of departing, for she felt then 
 that she dared not face Barbara. It was too late — she had moved 
 the handle. A deep voice from within called to her by name. 
 She dared not disobey that call — she entered. 
 
 The room in which Sybil found herself was the only entire 
 apartment now existing in the priory. It had survived the ravages 
 oi time; it had escaped the devastation of man, whose ravages 
 outstrip those of time. Octagonal, lofty, yet narrow, you saw at 
 once that it formed the interior of a turret. It was lighted by a 
 small oriel window, commanding a lovely view of the scenery 
 around, and paneled with oak, richly wrought in ribs and groins ; 
 and from overhead depended a moulded ceiling of honeycomb 
 plaster-work. This room had something, even now, in the days 
 of its desecration, of monastic beauty about it. Where the odour 
 of sanctity had breathed forth, the fumes of idolatry prevailed; 
 but imagination, ever on the wing, flew back to that period (and a 
 tradition to that effect warranted the supposition) when, perchance, 
 it had been die sanctuary and the privacy of the prior's self. 
 
 Wrapped in a cloak composed of the skins of various animals, 
 upon a low pallet, covered with stained scarlet cloth, sat Barbara. 
 
15G EOOKWOOD. 
 
 Around her head was coifFed, in folds like those of an Asiatic 
 turban, a rich, though faded shawl, and her waist was encircled 
 with the magic zodiacal zone — proper to the sorceress — the Mago 
 Cineo of the Cingara (whence the name Zingaro, according to 
 Moncada), which Barbara had brought from Spain. From her 
 ears depended long golden drops, of curious antique fashioning ; 
 and upon her withered fingers, which looked like a coil of lizards, 
 were hooped a multitude of silver rings, of the purest and simplest 
 manufacture. They seemed almost of massive unwrought metal. 
 Her skin was yellow as the body of a toad; corrugated as its back. 
 She might have been steeped in saffron from her finger tips, the 
 nails of which were of the same hue, to such portions of her neck. 
 as were visible, and which was puckered up like the throat of a 
 turtle. To look at her, one might have thought the embalmer had 
 experimented her art upon herself. So dead, so bloodless, so 
 blackened seemed the flesh, where flesh remained, leather could 
 scarce be tougher than her skin. She seemed like an animated 
 mummy. A frame, so tanned, appeared calculated to endure for 
 ages; and, perhaps, might have done so. But, alas ! the soul can- 
 not be embalmed. No oil can re-illumine that precious lamp ! 
 And that Barbara's vital spark was fast waning, was evident, from 
 her heavy, bloodshot eyes, once of a swimming black, and lengthy 
 as a witch's, which were now sinister and sunken. 
 
 The atmosphere of the room was as strongly impregnated as a 
 museum with volatile odours, emitted from the stores of drugs 
 with which the shelves were loaded, as well as from various stuffed 
 specimens of birds and wild animals. Barbara's only living com- 
 panion was a monstrous owl, which, perched over the old gipsy's 
 head, hissed a token of recognition as Sybil advanced. From a 
 hook, placed in the plaster roof, was suspended a globe of crystal 
 glass, about the size and shape of a large gourd, filled with a pure 
 pellucid liquid, in which a small snake, the Egyptian aspic, de- 
 scribed perpetual gyrations. 
 
 Dim were the eyes of Barbara, yet not altogether sightless. The 
 troubled demeanour of her grandchild struck her as she entered. 
 She felt the hot drops upon her hand as Sybil stooped to kiss it; 
 she heard her vainly-stifled sobs. 
 
 " What ails you, child?" said Barbara, in a voice that rattled in 
 her throat, and hollow as the articulation of a phantom. " Have 
 you heard tidings of Luke Bradley? Has any ill befallen him? 
 I said you would either hear of him or see him this morning. He 
 is not returned, I see. What have you heard?" 
 
 " He is returned," replied Sybil, faintly ; " and no ill hath hap- 
 pened to him." 
 
 " He is returned, and you are here," echoed Barbara. " No ill 
 hath happened to him, thou sayest — am I to understand there is 
 
 to ?jou?" 
 
 Sybil answered not. She could not answer. 
 
KOOKTVOOD. 157 
 
 " I see, I see," said Barbara, more gently, her head and hand 
 shaking with paralytic affection: "a quarrel, a lovers' quarrel. 
 Old as I am, I have not forgotten my feelings as a girl. What 
 woman ever does, if she be woman ? and you, like your poor 
 mother, are a true-hearted wench. She loved her husband, as a 
 husband should be loved, Sybil; and though she loved me well, 
 she loved him better, as was right. Ah ! it was a bitter day when 
 she left me for Spain; for though, to one of our wandering race, 
 all countries are alike, yet the soil of our birth is dear to us, and 
 the presence of our kindred dearer. Well, well, I will not think 
 of that. She is gone. Nay, take it not so to heart, wench. Luke 
 has a hasty temper. 'Tis not the first time I have told you so. 
 He will not bear rebuke, and you have questioned him too shrewdly 
 touching his absence. Is it not so? Heed it not. Trust me, you 
 will have him seek your forgiveness ere the shadows shorten 'neath 
 the noontide sun." 
 
 "Alas! alas!" said Sybil, sadly, "this is no lovers' quarrel, 
 which may, at once, be forgotten and forgiven — would it were 
 so !" 
 
 " What is it, then?" asked Barbara; and without waiting Sybil's 
 answer, she continued, with vehemence, "has he wronged you? 
 Tell me, girl, in what way? Speak, that I may avenge you, if 
 your wrong requires revenge. Are you blood of mine, and think 
 I will not do this for you, girl? None of the blood of Barbara 
 Lovel were ever unrcvenged. When Richard Cooper stabbed my 
 first-born, Francis, he fled to Flanders to escape my wrath. But 
 he did not escape it. I pursued him thither. I hunted him out; 
 drove him back to his own country, and brought him to the gal- 
 lows. It took a power of gold. AVhat matter? Revenue is 
 dearer than gold. And as it was with Richard Cooper, so it shall 
 be with Luke Bradley. I w T ill catch him, though he run. I will 
 trip him, though he leap. I will reach him, though he flee afar. 
 I will drag him hither by the hair of his head," added she, with a 
 . livid smile, and clutching at the air with her hands, as if in the 
 act of pulling some one towards her. " He shall wed you within 
 the hour, if you will have it, or if your honour need that it should 
 be so. My power is not departed from me. My people are yet 
 at my command. I am still their queen, and woe to him that 
 offendeth me !" 
 
 " Mother ! mother \" cried Sybil, affrighted at the storm she had 
 unwittingly aroused, "he has not injured me. 'Tis I alone who 
 am to blame, not Luke." 
 
 " You speak in mysteries," said Barbara. 
 
 " Sir Piers Rookwood is dead." 
 
 "Dead!" echoed Barbara, letting fall her hazel rod. " Sir 
 Piers dead !"' 
 
 " And Luke Bradley ; ' 
 
 "Ha!" 
 
158 ROOKWOOD. 
 
 u Is his successor." 
 
 "Who told you that?" asked Barbara, with increased astonish- 
 ment. 
 
 " Luke himself. All is disclosed." And Sybil hastily recounted 
 Luke's adventures. u He is now Sir Luke Rookwood." 
 
 "This is news, in truth," said Barbara; "yet not news to weep 
 for. You should rejoice, not lament. Well, well, I foresaw it. I 
 shall live to see all accomplished; to see my Agatha's child en- 
 nobled; to see her wedded; ay, to see her well wedded." 
 
 "Dearest mother!" 
 
 " I can endow you, and I will do it. You shall bring your hus- 
 band not alone beauty, you shall bring him wealth." 
 
 " But, mother— — " ' 
 
 " My Agatha's daughter shall be Lady Rookwood." 
 
 " Never ! It cannot be." 
 
 " What cannot be ?" 
 
 " The match you now propose." 
 
 "What mean you, silly wench? Ha ! I perceive the meaning 
 of those tears. The truth flashes upon me. He has discarded 
 you." 
 
 " No, by the Heaven of Heavens, he is still the same — unaltered 
 in affection." 
 
 " If so, your tears are out of place." 
 
 " Mother, it is not fitting that I, a gipsy born, should wed with 
 him." 
 
 " Not fitting ! Ha ! and you my child ! Not fitting ! Get up, 
 or I will spurn you. Not fitting ! This from you to me ! I tell 
 you it is fitting; you shall have a dower as ample as that of any 
 lady in the land. Not fitting ! Do you say so, because you think 
 that he derives himself from a proud and ancient line — ancient and 
 proud — ha, ha ! I tell you, girl, that for his one ancestor I can 
 number twenty; for the years in which his lineage hath flourished, 
 my race can boast centuries, and was a people — a kingdom ! — ere 
 the land in which he dwells was known. What! if, by the curse» 
 of Heaven, we were driven forth, the curse of hell rests upon his 
 house." 
 
 " I know it," said Sybil; " a dreadful curse, which, if I wed him, 
 will alight on me." 
 
 " No ; not on you ; you shall avoid that curse. I know a means 
 to satisfy the avenger. Leave that to me." 
 
 " I dare not, as it never can be; yet, tell me — you saw the body 
 of Luke's ill-fated mother. Was she poisoned? Nay, you may 
 speak. Sir Piers's death releases you from your oath. How died 
 she?" 
 
 "By strangulation," said the old gipsy, raising her palsied hand 
 to her throat. 
 
 " Oh !" cried Sybil, gasping with horror. " Was there a ring 
 upon her finger when you embalmed the body?" 
 
ROOKWOOD. 159 
 
 " A ring — a weddin^-rin^ ! TJic finder was crookencd. Listen, 
 girl. I could have told Luke the secret of his birth lom>- airo, but 
 the oath imposed by Sir Piers sealed fast my lips. His mother 
 was wedded to Sir Piers; his mother was murdered by Sir Piers. 
 Luke was entrusted to my care by his father. I have brought him 
 up with you. I have affianced you together; and I shall live to 
 see you united. He is now Sir Luke. He is your husband." 
 
 u Do not deceive yourself, mother," said Sybil, with a fearful 
 earnestness. " He is not yet Sir Piers Rookwood; would he had 
 no claim to be so ! The fortune that has hitherto been so propi- 
 tious may yet desert him. Bethink you of a prophecy you 
 uttered." 
 
 " A prophecy ? Ha !" 
 
 And with slow enunciation Sybil pronounced the mystic words 
 which she had heard repeated by the sexton. 
 
 As she spoke, a gloom, like that of a thunder-cloud, began to 
 gather over the brow of the old gipsy. The orbs of her sunken 
 eyes expanded, and wrath supplied her frame with vigour. She 
 arose. 
 
 "Who told you that?" cried Barbara. 
 
 " Luke's grandsire, Peter Bradley." 
 
 "How learnt he it?" said Barbara. "It was to one who hath 
 long been in his grave I told it; so long ago, it had passed from 
 my memory. 'Tis strange ! old Sir Reginald had a brother, I 
 know. But there is no other of the house." 
 
 " There is a cousin, EleaiiQr Mowbray." 
 
 " Ha ! I see ; a daughter of that Eleanor Rookwood who lied 
 from her father's roof. Fool, fool. Am I caught in my own 
 toils? Those words were words of truth and power, and compel 
 the future and c the will be ' as with chains of brass. They must 
 be fulfilled, yet not by Ranulph. Pie shall never wed Eleanor. 
 
 "Whom then shall she wed?" 
 
 " His elder brother." 
 
 "Mother!" shrieked Sybil. "Do you say so? Oh! recal your 
 words." 
 
 " I may not; it is spoken. Luke shall wed her." 
 
 " Oh God, support me !" exclaimed Sybil. 
 
 ■' Silly wench, be firm. It must be as I say. He shall wed her 
 —yet shall he wed her not. The nuptial torch shall be quenched 
 as soon as lighted; the curse of the avenger shall fall — yet not on 
 thee." ° J 
 
 " Mother," said Sybil, "if sin must fall upon some innocent head, 
 let it be on mine — not upon hers. I love him. I would gladly 
 die lor him. She is young — unoffending — perhaps happy. Oh ! 
 do not let her perish." 
 
 m "Peace, I say !" cried Barbara, "and mark me. This is your 
 birthday.^ Eighteen summers have flown over } T our young head — 
 eighty winters have sown their snows on mine. You have yet to 
 
160 ROOKWOOD. 
 
 learn. Years have brought wrinkles — they have brought wisdom 
 likewise. To struggle with Fate, I tell you, is to wrestle with 
 Omnipotence. We may foresee, but not avert our destiny. What * 
 will be, shall be. This is your eighteenth birthday, Sybil : it is a 
 day of fate to you; in it occurs your planetary hour — an hour of 
 good or ill, according to your actions. I have cast your horoscope. 
 I have watched your natal star; it is under the baleful influence 
 of Scorpion, and fiery Saturn sheds his lurid glance upon it. Let 
 me see your hand. The line of life is drawn out distinct and clear 
 — it runs — ha! what means that intersection? Beware — beware, 
 my Sybil. Act as I tell you, and you are safe. I will make an- 
 other trial, by the crystal bowl. Attend." 
 
 Muttering some strange words, sounding like a spell, Barbara, 
 with the bifurcate hazel staff which she used as a divining-rod, 
 described a circle upon the floor. Within this circle she drew 
 other lines, from angle to angle, forming seven triangles, the basis 
 of which constituted the sides of a septilateral figure. This figure 
 she studied intently for a few moments. She then raised her wand 
 and touched the owl with it. The bird unfolded its wings, and 
 arose in flight; then slowly circled round the pendulous globe. 
 Each time it drew nearer, until at length it touched the <*lassv 
 bowl with its flapping pinions. 
 
 "Enough!" ejaculated Barbara. And at another motion from 
 her rod the bird stayed its flight and returned to its perch. 
 
 Barbara arose. She struck the globe with her staff. The pure 
 lymph became instantly tinged with crimson, as if blood had been 
 commingled with it. The little serpent could be seen within, 
 coiled up and knotted, as in the struggles of death. 
 
 "Again I say, beware!" ejaculated Barbara, solemnly. "This 
 is ominous of ill." 
 
 Sybil had sunk, from faintness, on the pallet. A knock was 
 heard at the door. 
 
 " Who is without?" cried Barbara. 
 
 " 'Tis I, Balthazar," replied a voice. 
 
 "Thou mayest enter," answered Barbara; and an old man 
 with a lono: beard, white as snow, reaching to his girdle, and a 
 costume which might be said to resemble the raiment of a Jew- 
 ish high priest, made his appearance. This venerable personage 
 was no other than the patrico, or hierophant of the Canting 
 Crew. 
 
 " I come to tell you that there are strangers — ladies — within the 
 priory," said the patrico, gravely. " I have searched for you in 
 vain," continued he, addressing Sybil; "the younger of them 
 seems to need your assistance." 
 
 " Whence come they?" exclaimed Barbara. 
 
 " They have ridden, I understand, from Rookwood," answered 
 the patrico. " They were on their way to Davenham, when they 
 were prevented." 
 
•jj^jtlSu^W^ 
 
 'aJawfaz/JZc- 
 
ROOKWOOD. 161 
 
 " From Rookwood?" echoed Sybil. " Their names — did you 
 hear their names?" 
 
 "Mowbray is the name of both; they are a mother and a 
 daughter; the younger is called " 
 
 " Eleanor?" asked Sybil, -with an acute foreboding of cala- 
 mity. 
 
 " Eleanor is the name, assuredly," replied the patrico, somewhat 
 surprised. " I heard the elder, whom I guess to be her mother, so 
 address her." 
 
 " Gracious God! She here!" exclaimed Sybil. 
 
 " Here ! Eleanor Mowbray here," cried Barbara; "within my 
 power. Not a moment is to be lost. Balthazar, hasten round the 
 tents — not a man must leave his place — above all, Luke Bradley. 
 See that these Mowbrays are detained within the abbey. Let the 
 bell be sounded. Quick, quick; leave this wench to me; she is 
 not well. I have much to do. Away w T ith thee, man, and let me 
 know when thou hast done it." And as Balthazar departed on his 
 mission, with a glance of triumph in her eyes, Barbara exclaimed, 
 " Soh, no sooner hath the thought possessed me, than the means of 
 accomplishment appear. It shall be done at once. I will tie the 
 knot. I will untie, and then retie it. This weak wench must be 
 nerved to the task," added she, regarding the senseless form of 
 Sybil. " Here is that will stimulate her," opening the cupboard, 
 and taking a small phial; "this will fortify her; and this," con- 
 tinued she, with a ghastly smile, laying her hand upon another 
 vessel, "this shall remove her rival when all is fulfilled; this 
 liquid shall constrain her lover to be her titled, landed husband. 
 Ha, ha !" 
 
 M 
 
162 ROOK WOOD. 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 THE INAUGURATION. 
 
 Beggar. Concert, sir ! we have musicians, too, among us. True, merry 
 beggars, indeed, that, being within the reach of the lash for singing libellous 
 songs at London, were fain to fly into one cover, and here they sing all our 
 poets' ditties. They can sing anything, most tuneably, sir, but psalms. What 
 they may do hereafter, under a triple tree, is much expected; but they live 
 very civilly and genteelly among us. 
 
 Spring. But what is here — that solemn old fellow, that neither speaks of 
 himself, or any for him ? 
 
 Beggar. O, sir, the rarest man of all : he is a prophet. See how he holds up 
 his prognosticating nose. He is divining now. 
 
 Spring. How, a prophet ? 
 
 Beggar. Yes, sir ; a cunning man, and a fortune-teller ; a very ancient stroller 
 all the' world over, and has travelled with gipsies : and is a patrico. 
 
 Tlie Merry Beggars. 
 
 In consequence of some few words which the sexton let fall, in 
 the presence of the attendants, during breakfast, more perhaps by 
 design than accident, it was speedily rumoured throughout the 
 camp that the redoubted Richard Turpin was for the time 'its 
 inmate. This intelligence produced some such sensation as is ex- 
 perienced by the inhabitants of a petty town on the sudden arrival 
 of a prince of the blood, a commander-in-chief, or other illustrious 
 and distinguished personage, whose fame has been vaunted abroad 
 amongst his fellow-men by Rumour, "and her thousand tongues;" 
 and who, like our highwayman, has rendered himself sufficiently 
 notorious to be an object of admiration and emulation amongst 
 his contemporaries. 
 
 All started up at the news. The upright man, the chief of the 
 crew, arose from his chair, donned his gown of state, a very 
 ancient brocade dressing-gown, filched, most probably, from the 
 wardrobe of some strolling player, grasped his baton of office, a 
 stout oaken truncheon, and sallied forth. The ruffler, who found 
 his representative in a very magnificently equipped, and by no 
 means ill-favoured knave, whose chin was decorated with a beard 
 as lengthy and as black as Sultan Mahmoud's, together with the 
 dexterous hooker, issued forth from the hovel which they termed 
 their boozing ken, eager to catch a glimpse of the prince of the 
 high-tobygloaks. The limping palliard tore the bandages from 
 his mock wounds, shouldered his crutch, and trudged hastily after 
 them. The whip-jack unbuckled his strap, threw away his timber 
 leg, and " leapt exulting, like the bounding roe." " With such a 
 sail in sight," he said, & he must heave to, like the rest." The 
 dummerar, whose tongue had been cut out by the Algerines, sud- 
 
EOOKWOOD. 163 
 
 denly found the use of it, and made the welkin ring with his 
 shouts. Wonderful were the miracles Dick's advent wrought. 
 The lame became suddenly active, the blind saw, the dumb 
 spoke; nay, if truth must be told, absolutely gave utterance to 
 " most vernacular execrations." Morts, autem morts, walking 
 morts, dells, doxies, kindling morts, and their coes, with all the 
 shades and grades of the Canting Crew, were assembled. There 
 were, to use the words of Brome — 
 
 Stark, errant, downright beggars. Ay, 
 
 Without equivocation, statute beggars, 
 
 Couchant and passant, guardant, rampant beggars ; 
 
 Current and vagrant, stockant, whippant beggars !* 
 
 Each sunburnt varlet started from his shed; each dusky dame, 
 with her brown, half-naked urchins, followed at his heels; each 
 " ripe young maiden, with the glossy eye," lingered but to sleek 
 her raven tresses, and to arrange her straw bonnet, and then over- 
 took the others; each wrinkled beldame hobbled as quickly after 
 as her stiffened joints would permit; while the ancient patrico, the 
 priest of the crew (who joined the couples together by the hedge- 
 side, u with the nice custom of dead horse between"f), brought up 
 the rear; all bent on one grand object, that of having a peep at 
 the u foremost man of all this prigging world !" 
 
 Dick Turpin, at the period of which we treat, was in the zenith 
 of his reputation. His deeds were full blown; his exploits were 
 in every man's mouth ; and a heavy price was set upon his head. 
 That he should show himself thus openly, where he might be so 
 easily betrayed, excited no little surprise among the craftiest of 
 the crew, and augured an excess of temerity on his part. Rash 
 daring was the main feature of Turpin's character. Like our 
 great Nelson, he knew fear only by name; and when he thus 
 trusted himself in the hands of strangers, confident in himself and 
 in his own resources, he felt perfectly easy as to the result. He 
 relied also in the continuance of his good fortune, which had as yet 
 never deserted him. Possessed of the belief that his hour was not 
 yet come, he cared little or nothing for any risk he might incur; 
 and though he might, undoubtedly, have some presentiment of the 
 probable termination of his career, he never suffered it to militate 
 against his present enjoyment, which proved that he was no despi- 
 cable philosopher. 
 
 Turpin was the ultimus Romanorum, the last of a race, which 
 (we were almost about to say we regret) is now altogether ex- 
 
 * The Merry Beggars. 
 
 | The parties to be wedded find out a dead horse, or any other beast, and 
 standing one on the one side, and the other on the other, the patrico bids them 
 live together till death do them part; and so shaking hands, the wedding dinner 
 is kepi at the next aleJioase they stumble into, where the union is nothing but 
 knocking of Cannes, and the sauce, none but drunken brawles. — Dekkie. 
 
 M 2 
 
164 ROOKWOOD. 
 
 tinct. Several successors lie had, it is true, but no name worthy 
 to be recorded after his own. With him expired the chivalrous 
 spirit which animated successively the bosoms of so many knights 
 of the road; with him died away that passionate love of enter- 
 prise, that high spirit of devotion to the fair sex, which was first 
 breathed upon the highway by the gay, gallant Claude Du-Val, 
 the Bayard of the road — Le filou sans peur et sans reprocke — but 
 which was extinguished at last by the cord that tied the heroic 
 Turpin to the remorseless tree. It were a subject well worthy of 
 inquiry, to trace this decline and fall of the empire of the tobymen 
 to its remoter causes; to ascertain the why and the wherefore, that 
 with so many half-pay captains; so many poor curates; so many 
 lieutenants, of both services, without hopes of promotion; so many 
 penny-a-liners, and fashionable novelists ; so many damned drama- 
 tists, and damning critics; so many Edinburgh and Quarterly 
 Reviewers ; so many detrimental brothers, and younger sons ; 
 when there are horses to be hired, pistols to be borrowed, purses 
 to be taken, and mails are as plentiful as partridges — it were 
 worth serious investigation, we repeat, to ascertain why, with the 
 best material imaginable for a new race of highwaymen, we have 
 none, not even an amateur. Why do not some of these choice 
 spirits quit the salons of Pail-Mall, and take to the road ? the air 
 of the heath is more bracing and wholesome, we should conceive, 
 than that of any "hell" whatever, and the chances of success 
 incomparably greater. We throw out this hint, without a doubt 
 of seeing it followed up. Probably the solution of our inquiry 
 may be, that the supply is greater than the demand; that, in the 
 present state of things, embryo highwaymen may be more abun- 
 dant than purses; and then, have we not the horse-patrol? With 
 such an admirably-organised system of conservation, it is vain to 
 anticipate a change. The highwaymen, we fear, like their Irish 
 brothers, the Rapparees, went out with the Tories. They were 
 averse to reform, and eschewed emancipation. 
 
 Lest any one should think we have overrated the pleasures of 
 the highwayman's existence, they shall hear what " the right 
 villanous" Jack Hall, a celebrated tobyman of his day, has got 
 to say on the subject. " His life (the highwayman's) has, gene- 
 rally, the most mirth and the least care in it of any man's breath- 
 ing, and all he deals for is clear profit: he has that point of good 
 conscience, that lie always sells as he buys, a good pennyworth, 
 which is something rare, since he trades with so small a stock. 
 The fence* and he are like the devil and the doctor, they live by 
 one another; and, like traitors, 'tis best to keep each other's coun- 
 sel. He has this point of honesty, that he never robs the house 
 he frequents" (Turpin had the same scruples respecting the Hall 
 of Rookwood in Sir Piers's lifetime); " and perhaps pays his debts 
 
 * Receiver. 
 
ROOKWOOD. 165 
 
 better than some others, for he holds it below the dignity of his 
 employment to commit so ungenteel a crime as insolvency, and 
 loves to pay nobly. He has another quality, not much amiss, 
 that he takes no more than he has occasion for" (Jack, we think, 
 was a little mistaken here); " which he verifies this way : he craves 
 no more while that lasts. He is a less nuisance in a common- 
 wealth than a miser, because the money he engrosses all circulates 
 again, which the other hoards as though 'twere only to be found 
 again at the day of judgment. He is the tithe-pig of his family,, 
 which the gallows, instead of the parson, claims as its due. lie 
 has reason enough to be bold in his undertakings, for, though all 
 the world threaten him, he stands in fear of but one man in it, 
 and that's the hangman; and with him, too, he is generally in 
 fee: however, I cannot affirm he is so valiant that he dares look 
 any man in the face, for in that point he is now and then a little 
 modest. Newgate may be said to be his country-house, where he 
 frequently lives so many months in the year; and he is not so 
 much concerned to be carried thither for a small matter, if 'twere 
 only for the benefit of renewing his acquaintance there. He holds 
 a petit larceny as light as a nun does auricular confession, though 
 the priest has a more compassionate character than the hangman. 
 Every man in this community is esteemed according to his par- 
 ticular quality, of which there are several degrees, though it is 
 contrary often to public government; for here a man shall be 
 valued purely for his merit, and rise by it too, though it be but to 
 a halter, in which there is a great deal of glory in dying like a 
 hero, and making a decent figure in the cart to the last two staves 
 of the fifty-first psalm."* 
 
 This, we repeat, is the plain statement of a practical man, and 
 again we throw out the hint for adoption. All we regret is, that 
 we are now degenerated from the grand tobyman to the cracksman 
 and the sneak, about whom there are no redeeming features. How 
 much lower the next generation of thieves will dive it boots not to 
 conjecture: 
 
 iEtas parentum pejor avis tulit, 
 Nos nequiores ; mox daturos, 
 Progeniem vitiosiorem. 
 
 " Cervantes laughed Spain's chivalry away," sang Byron ; and 
 if Gay did not extinguish the failing flame of our night errantry 
 (unlike the " Robbers" of Schiller, which is said to have inflamed 
 the Saxon youth with an irrepressible mania for brigandage), the 
 " Beggar's Opera" helped not to fan the dying fire. That laugh 
 was fatal, as laughs generally are. Macheath gave the highway- 
 man his coup de grace. 
 
 * Memoirs of the right villanous John Hall, the famous and notorious 
 Robber, penned from his Month some Time before his Death, 1708. 
 
166 ROOKWOOD. 
 
 The last of this race (for we must persist in maintaining that he 
 was the last), Turpin, like the setting sun, threw up some parting 
 rays of glory, and tinged the far highways with a lustre that may 
 yet be traced like a cloud of dust raised by his horse's retreating 
 heels. Unequalled in the command of his steed, the most singular 
 feat that the whole race of the annals of horsemanship has to record, 
 and of which we may have more to say hereafter, was achieved by 
 him. So perfect was his jockey ship, so clever his management of 
 the animal he mounted, so intimately acquainted was he with every 
 cross-road in the neighbourhood of the metropolis (a book of which 
 he constructed, and carried constantly about his person), as well as 
 with many other parts of England, particularly the counties of 
 Chester, York, and Lancaster, that he outstripped every pursuer, 
 and baffled all attempts at capture. His reckless daring, his rest- 
 less rapidity (for so suddenly did he change his ground, and renew 
 his attacks in other quarters, that he seemed to be endowed with 
 ubiquity), his bravery, his resolution, and, above all, his generosity, 
 won for him a high reputation amongst his compatriots, and 
 even elicited applauses from those upon whom he levied his con- 
 tributions. 
 
 Beyond dispute, he ruled as master of the road. His hands were, 
 as yet, unstained with blood; he was ever prompt to check the dis- 
 position to outrage, and to prevent, as much as lay in his power, the 
 commission of violence by his associates. Of late, since he had 
 possessed himself of his favourite mare, Black Bess, his robberies 
 had been perpetrated with a suddenness of succession, and at dis- 
 tances so apparently impracticable, that the idea of all having been 
 executed by one man, was rejected as an impossibility; and the 
 only way of reconciling the description of the horse and rider, 
 which tallied in each instance, was the supposition that these attacks 
 were performed by confederates similarly mounted and similarly 
 accoutred. 
 
 There was, in all this, as much of the u fames sacra fames" as 
 of the "auri" of the hungering after distinction, as well as of 
 the appetite of gain. Enamoured of his vocation, Turpin delighted 
 to hear himself designated as the Flying Highwayman ; and it was 
 with rapturous triumph that he found his single-handed feats attri- 
 buted to a band of marauders. But this state of things could not 
 long endure; his secret was blown; the vigilance of the police 
 was aroused ; he was tracked to his haunts ; and, after a number of 
 hair-breadth 'scapes, which he only effected by miracle, or by the 
 aid of his wonder-working mare, he reluctantly quitted the heathy 
 hills of Bagshot, the Pampas plains of Hounslow (over which, like 
 an archetype of the galloping Sir Francis Head, he had so often 
 scoured), the gorsy commons of Highgate, Hampstead, and Finch- 
 ley, the marshy fields of Battersea, almost all of which he had been 
 known to visit in a single night, and leaving these beaten tracks 
 to the occupation of younger and less practised hands, he be- 
 
EOOKWOOD. 167 
 
 queathcd to them, at the same time, his own reversionary in- 
 terest in the gibbets thereupon erected, and betook himself to the 
 country. 
 
 After a journey of more or less success, our adventurer found 
 himself at Rookwood, whither he had been invited after a grand 
 field-day by its hospitable and by no means inquisitive owner. 
 Breach of faith and good fellowship formed no part of Turpin's 
 character; he had his lights as well as his shades; and as long as 
 Sir Piers lived, his purse and coffers would have been free from 
 molestation, except " so far," Dick said, " as a cog or two of dice 
 went. My dice, you know, are longs for odd and even, a bale of 
 bar'd cinque deuces," a pattern of which he always carried with 
 him; beyond this, excepting a take-in at a steeple-chase, Rook- 
 wood church being the mark, a u do" at a leap, or some such trifle, 
 to which the most scrupulous could not raise an objection, Dick 
 was all fair and aboveboard. But when poor Sir Piers had u put 
 on his wooden surtout," to use Dick's own expressive metaphor, 
 his conscientious scruples evaporated into thin air. Lady Rook- 
 wood was nothing to him ; there was excellent booty to be appro- 
 priated — 
 
 The wise convey it call. 
 
 He began to look about for hands; and having accidentally en- 
 countered his old comrades, Rust and Wilder, they were let into 
 the business, which was imperfectly accomplished in the manner 
 heretofore described. 
 
 To return from this digression. When Turpin presented him- 
 self at the threshold of the door, on his way to inquire after his 
 mare, to his astonishment he found it closely invested. A cheer- 
 ing shout from the tawny throng, succeeded by a general clapping 
 of hands, and attended by a buzzing susurration of applause, such 
 as welcomes the entrance of a popular actor upon the stage, greeted 
 the appearance of the highwayman. At the first sight of the 
 crowd he was a little startled, and involuntarily sought for his 
 pistols. But the demonstrations of admiration were too unequi- 
 vocal to be for a moment mistaken; his hand was drawn from his 
 pocket to raise his hat from his brow. 
 
 Thunders of applause. 
 
 Turpin's external man, we have before said, was singularly pre- 
 possessing. It was especially so in the eyes of the sex (fair we cer- 
 tainly cannot say upon the present occasion), amongst whom not a 
 single dissentient voice was to he heard. All concurred in think- 
 ing him a fine fellow; could plainly read his high courage in his 
 bearing; his good breeding in his debonnaire deportment; and his 
 manly beauty in his extravagant red whiskers. Dick saw the 
 effect that he produced. He was at home in a moment. Your 
 true highwayman has ever a passion for effect. This does not de- 
 sert him at the gallows; it rises superior to death itself, and has 
 
168 ROOKWOOD. 
 
 been known to influence the manner of his dangling from the 
 gibbet ! To hear some one cry, " There goes a proper handsome 
 man," saith our previously quoted authority, Jack Hall, " some- 
 what ameliorates the terrible thoughts of the meagre tyrant death ; 
 and to go in a dirty shirt were enough to save the hangman a 
 labour, and make a man die with grief and shame at being in that 
 deplorable condition." With a gracious smile of condescension, 
 like a popular orator — with a look of blarney like that of O'Connell, 
 and of assurance like that of Hume — he surveyed the male portion 
 of the spectators, tipped a knowing wink at the prettiest brunettes 
 he could select, and finally cut a sort of fling with his well-booted 
 legs, that brought down another peal of rapturous applause. 
 
 "A rank scamp!"* cried the upright man; and this exclama- 
 tion, however equivocal it may sound, was intended, on his part, 
 to be highly complimentary. 
 
 " I believe ye," returned the ruffler, stroking his chin — " one 
 may see that he's no half swell by the care with which he culti- 
 vates the best gifts of nature, his whiskers. He's a rank nib."f 
 
 " Togged out to the ruffian, no doubt," said the palliard, who 
 was incomparably the shabbiest rascal in the corps. " Though a 
 needy mizzler mysel, I likes to see a cove vot's vel dressed. Jist 
 twig his swell kickseys and pipes; J if they ain't the thing, I'm 
 done. Lame Harry can't dance better nor he — no, nor Jerry 
 Juniper neither." 
 
 "I'm dumb founded," roared the dummerar, "if he can't 
 patter romany§ as vel as the best on us ! He looks like a rum 
 'un." 
 
 " And a rum 'un he be, take my word for it," returned the 
 whip-jack, or sham sailor. " Look at his rigging — see how he 
 flashes his sticks|| — those are the tools to rake a three-decker. He's 
 as clever a craft as I've seen this many a day, or I'm no judge." 
 
 The women were equally enchanted — equally eloquent in the 
 expression of their admiration. 
 
 " What ogles !" cried a mort. 
 
 "What pins!" said an autem mort, or married woman. 
 
 " Sharp as needles," said a dark-eyed dell, who had encountered 
 one of the free and frolicsome glances which our highwayman 
 distributed so liberally among the petticoats. 
 
 It was at this crisis Dick took off his hat. Caesar betrayed his 
 baldness. 
 
 " A thousand pities !" cried the men, compassionating his thinly 
 covered skull, and twisting their own ringlets, glossy and luxuriant, 
 though unconscious of Macassar. " A thousand pities that so fine 
 a fellow should have a sconce like a cocoa-nut!" 
 
 " But then his red whiskers," rejoined the women, tired of the 
 
 * A famous liighwayman. t A- rea ^ gentleman. 
 
 X Breeches and boots. § Gipsy flash. || How he exposes his pistols. 
 
JERRY JUNIPER. 
 
 P. 168. 
 
ROOKWOOD. 169 
 
 uniformity of thick black heads of hair ; u what a warmth of 
 colouring they impart to his face; and then only look how beauti- 
 fully bushy they make his cheeks appear !" 
 
 La Fosseuse and the court of the Queen of Navarre were not 
 more smitten with the Sieur de Croix's jolly pair of whiskers. 
 
 The hawk's eye of Turpin ranged over the whole assemblage. 
 Amidst that throng of dark faces there was not one familiar to 
 him. 
 
 Before him stood the upright man, Zoroaster (so was he called), 
 a sturdy, stalwart rogue, whose superior strength and stature (as 
 has not unfrequently been the case in the infancy of governments 
 that have risen to more importance than is likely to be the case 
 with that of Lesser Egypt) had been the means of his elevation to 
 his present dignified position. Zoroaster literally fougkt his way 
 upwards, and had at first to maintain his situation by the strong 
 arm; but he now was enabled to repose upon his hard- won laurels, 
 to smoke "the calumet of peace," and quaff his tipple with impu- 
 nity. For one of gipsy blood, he presented an unusually jovial, 
 liquor-loving countenance: his eye w T as mirthful; his lip moist, as 
 if from oft potations; his cheek mellow as an Orleans plum, which 
 fruit, in colour and texture, it mightily resembled. Strange to 
 say, also, for one of that lithe race, his person was heavy and 
 hebetudinous ; the consequence, no doubt, of habitual intem- 
 perance. Like Cribb, he waxed obese upon the championship. 
 There was a kind of mock state in his carriage, as he placed him- 
 self before Turpin, and with his left hand twisted up the tail of his 
 dressing-gown, while the right thrust his truncheon into his hip, 
 which was infinitely diverting to the highwayman. 
 
 Turpin's attention, however, was chiefly directed towards his 
 neighbour, the ruffler, in whom he recognised a famous impostor 
 of the day, with whose history he was sufficiently well, acquainted 
 to be able at once to identify the individual. We have before 
 stated, that a magnificent coal-black beard decorated the chin of 
 this worthy; but this was not all — his costume was in perfect 
 keeping with his beard, and consisted of a very theatrical-looking 
 tunic, upon the breast of which was embroidered, in golden wire, 
 the Maltese cross; while over his shoulders were thrown the folds 
 of an ample cloak of Tyrian hue. To his side was girt a long and 
 doughty sword, which he termed, in his knightly phrase, Excali- 
 bur; and upon his profuse hair rested a hat as broad in the brim 
 as a Spanish sombrero. 
 
 Exaggerated as this description may appear, we can assure our 
 readers that it is not overdrawn; and that a counterpart of the 
 sketch we have given of the ruffler certainly " strutted his hour" 
 upon the stage of human life, and that the very ancient and dis- 
 criminating city of Canterbury (to which be all honour) was his 
 theatre of action. His history is so far curious, that it exemplifies, 
 more strongly than a thousand discourses could do, how prone we 
 
170 EOOKWOOD. 
 
 are to be governed by appearances, and how easily we may be made 
 the dupes of a plausible impostor. Be it remembered, however, 
 that we treat of the eighteenth century, before the march of intel- 
 lect had commenced ; we are much too knowing to be similarly 
 practised upon in these enlightened times. But we will let the 
 knight of Malta, for such was the title assumed by the ruffler, tell 
 his own story in his own way hereafter ; contenting ourselves with 
 the moral precepts we have already deduced from it. 
 
 Next to the knight of Malta stood the whip-jack, habited in his 
 sailor gear — striped shirt and dirty canvas trousers; and. adjoining 
 him was the palliard, a loathsome tatterdemalion, his dress one 
 heap of rags, and his discoloured skin one mass of artificial leprosy 
 and imposthumes. 
 
 As Turpin' s eye shifted from one to another of these figures he 
 chanced upon an individual who had been long endeavouring to 
 arrest his attention. This personage was completely in the back* 
 ground. All that Dick could discern of him was a brown curly 
 head of hair, carelessly arranged in the modern mode; a handsome, 
 impudent, sun-freckled face, with one eye closed, and the other 
 occupied by a broken bottle-neck, through which, as a substitute 
 for a lorgnette, the individual reconnoitred him. A cocked hat 
 was placed in a very degagee manner under his arm, and he held 
 an ebony cane in his hand, very much in the style of a "fassion- 
 able" as the French have it, of the present day. This glimpse was 
 sufficient to satisfy Turpin. He recognised in this whimsical per- 
 sonage an acquaintance. 
 
 Jerry Juniper was what the classical Captain Grose would de- 
 signate a "gentleman with three outs;" and, although he was not 
 entirely without wit, nor, his associates avouched, without money, 
 nor, certainly, in his own opinion, had that been asked, without 
 manners; yet was he assuredly without shoes, without stockings, 
 without shirt. This latter deficiency was made up by a voluminous 
 cravat, tied with proportionately large bows. A jaunty pair of 
 yellow breeches, somewhat faded; a waistcoat of silver brocade, 
 richly embroidered, somewhat tarnished and lack-lustre ; a murrey- 
 coloured velvet coat, somewhat chafed, completed the costume of 
 this beggar Brummell, this mendicant macaroni ! 
 
 Jerry Juniper was a character well known at the time, as a 
 constant frequenter of all races, fairs, regattas, ship-launches, bull- 
 baits, and prize-fights, all of which he attended, and to which he 
 transported himself with an expedition little less remarkable than 
 that of Turpin. You met him at Epsom, at Ascot, at Newmarket, 
 at Doncaster, at the Roodee of Chester, at the Curragh of Kildare. 
 The most remote as well as the most adjacent meeting attracted 
 him. The cock-pit was his constant haunt, and in more senses 
 than one was he a leg. No opera-dancer could be more agile, 
 more nimble; scarcely, indeed, more graceful, than was Jerry, 
 
ROOKWOOD. 171 
 
 with his shoeless and stockingless feet ; and the manner in which 
 he executed a pirouette, or a pas, before a line of carriages, seldom 
 failed to procure him " golden opinions from all sorts of dames." 
 With the ladies, it must be owned, Jerry was rather upon too easy 
 terms; but then, perhaps, the ladies were upon too easy terms with 
 Jerry; and if a bright-eyed fair one condescended to jest with him, 
 what marvel if he should sometimes slightly transgress the laws of 
 decorum. These aberrations, however, were trifling: altogether 
 he was so well known, and knew everybody else so well, that he 
 seldom committed himself; and, singular to say, could on occa- 
 sions even be serious. In addition to his other faculties, no one cut 
 a sly joke, or trolled a merry ditty, better than Jerry. His pecu- 
 liarities, in short, were on the pleasant side, and he was a general 
 favourite in consequence. 
 
 No sooner did Jerry perceive that he was recognised, than, after 
 kissing his hand, with the air of a peiit-maltre, to the highwayman, 
 he strove to edge his way through the crowd. All his efforts were 
 fruitless; and, tired of a situation in the rear rank, so inconsistent, 
 he conceived, with his own importance, he had recourse to an ex- 
 pedient often practised with success in harlequinades, and not 
 unfrequently in real life, where a flying leap is occasionally taken 
 over our heads. He ran back a lew yards to give himself an 
 impetus, returned, and, placing his hands upon the shoulders of a 
 stalwart vagabond near to him, threw a summerset upon the broad 
 cap of a palliarcl, who was so jammed in the midst that he could 
 not have stirred to avoid the shock; thence, without pausing, he 
 vaulted forwards, and dropped lightly upon the ground in front of 
 Zoroaster, and immediately before the highwayman. 
 
 Dick laughed immoderately at Jerry's manoeuvre. He shook 
 his old chum cordially by the hand, saying, in a whisper, " What 
 the devil brings you here, Jerry?" 
 
 u I might retort, and ask you that question, Captain Turpin," 
 replied Jerry, sotto voce. " It is odd to see me here, certainly — 
 quite out of my element — lost amongst this canaille — this Canting 
 Crew — all the fault of a pair of gipsy eyes, bright as a diamond, 
 dark as a sloe. You comprehend — a little affair, ha ! Liable to 
 these things. Bring your ear closer, my boy; be upon your guard 
 — keep a sharp look out — there's a devil of a reward upon your 
 head — I won't answer for all those rascals." 
 
 "Thank you for the hint, Jerry," replied Dick, in the same 
 tone. " I calculated my chances pretty nicely when I came here. 
 But if I should perceive any symptoms of foul play — any attempt 
 to snitch or nose, amongst this pack of pedlers — I have a friend or 
 two at hand, who won't be silent upon the occasion, llest assured 
 I shall have my eye upon the gnarling scoundrels. I won't be sold 
 for nothing." 
 
 u Trust you for that," returned Juniper, with a wink. " Stay," 
 
172 ROOKWOOD. 
 
 added he; "a thought strikes me. I have a scheme in petto 
 which may, perhaps, afford you some fun, and will, at all events, 
 insure your safety during your stay." 
 
 "What is it?" asked Dick. 
 
 "Just amuse yourself with a flirtation for a moment or two 
 with that pretty damsel, who has been casting her ogles at you for 
 the last five minutes without success, while I effect a master- 
 stroke." 
 
 And as Turpin, nothing loth, followed his advice, Jerry 
 addressed himself to Zoroaster. After a little conference, accom- 
 panied by that worthy and the knight of Malta, the trio stepped 
 forward from the line, and approached Dick, when Juniper, 
 assuming some such attitude as our admirable Jones, the come- 
 dian, is wont to display, delivered himself of the following address. 
 Turpin listened with the gravity of one of the distinguished per- 
 sons alluded to, at the commencement of the present chapter, upon 
 their receiving the freedom of a city at the hands of a mayor and 
 corporation. Thus spoke Jerry: 
 
 " Highest of High-Tobymen ! rummest of rum Padders, and 
 most scampish of Scampsmen ! We, in the name of Barbara, our 
 most tawny queen; in the name of Zoroaster, our Upright Man, 
 Dimber Damber, or Olli Campolli, by all which titles his excel- 
 lency is distinguished ; in our own respective names, as High Pads 
 and Low Pads, Rum Gills and Queer Gills, Patricos, Palliards, 
 Priggers, Whip-Jacks, and Jarkmen, from the Arch Rogue to 
 the Needy Mizzler, fully sensible of the honour you have conferred 
 upon us in gracing Stop-Hole Abbey with your presence; and 
 conceiving that we can in no way evince our sense of your con- 
 descension so entirely as by offering you the freedom of our crew, 
 together with the privileges of an Upright Man, # which you may 
 be aware are considerable, and by creating you an honorary mem- 
 ber of the Vagrant Club, which we have recently established ; and 
 in so doing, we would fain express the sentiments of gratification 
 and pride which we experience in enrolling among our members 
 one who has extended the glory of roguery so widely over the 
 land, and who has kicked up such a dust upon the highways of 
 England, as most effectually to blind the natives — one, who is in 
 himself a legion — of highwaymen ! Awaiting, with respectful 
 deference, the acquiescence of Captain Richard Turpin, we beg to 
 tender him the freedom of our crew." 
 
 66 Really, gentlemen," said Turpin, who did not exactly see the 
 drift of this harangue, " you do me a vast deal of honour. I am 
 quite at a loss to conceive how I can possibly have merited so 
 much attention at your hands; and, indeed, I feel myself so un- 
 worthy " Here Dick received an expressive wink from 
 
 * For an account of these, see Grose. They are much too gross to be set 
 down here. 
 
ROOKWOOD. 173 
 
 Juniper, and therefore thought it prudent to alter his expression. 
 " Could I suppose myself at all deserving of so much distinction," 
 continued the modest speaker, " I should at once accept your very 
 obliging offer; hut " 
 
 " None so worthy," said the upright man. 
 
 " Can't hear of a refusal," said the knight of Malta. 
 
 " Refusal — impossible!" reiterated Juniper. 
 
 " No: no refusal," exclaimed a chorus of voices. " Dick Turpin 
 must be one of us. He shall be our dimber damber." 
 
 " Well, gentlemen, since you are so pressing," replied Turpin, 
 "even so be it. I will be your dimber damber." 
 
 " Bravo! bravo!" cried the mob, not " of gentlemen." 
 
 "About it pals at once," said the knight of Malta, flourishing 
 excalibur. " By St. Thomas a Becker, we'll have as fine a scene 
 as I myself ever furnished to the Canterbury lieges." 
 
 "About what?" asked Dick. 
 
 " Your matriculation," replied Jerry. " There are certain forms 
 to be gone through, with an oath to be taken, merely a trifle. 
 We'll have a jolly boose when all's over. Come bing avast, my 
 merry pals; to the green, to the green: a Turpin! a Turpin ! a 
 new brother !" 
 
 " A Turpin ! a Turpin ! a new brother !" echoed the crew. 
 
 " I've brought you through," said Jerry, taking advantage of 
 the uproar that ensued to whisper to his chum ; " none of them 
 will dare to lift a finger against you now. They are all your 
 friends for life." 
 
 "Nevertheless," returned Turpin, " I should be glad to know 
 what has become of Bess." 
 
 " If it's your prancer you are wanting," chirped a fluttering 
 creature, whom Turpin recognised as Luke's groom, Grasshopper, 
 " I gave her a fresh loaf and a stoup of stingo, as you bade me, 
 and there she be, under yon tree, as quiet as a lamb." 
 
 "I see her," replied Turpin; "just tighten her girths, Grass- 
 hopper, and bring her after me, and thou shalt have wherewithal 
 to chirp over thy cups at supper." 
 
 Away bounded the elfin dwarf to execute his behest. 
 
 A loud shout now rent the skies, and presently afterwards was 
 heard the vile scraping of a fiddle, accompanied by the tattoo of a 
 drum. Approaching Turpin, a host of gipsies elevated the high- 
 wayman upon their shoulders, and in this way he was carried to 
 the centre of the c;reen, where the lone: oaken table, which had 
 once served the Franciscans for refection, was now destined for the 
 stage of the pageant. 
 
 Upon this table three drums were placed; and Turpin was re- 
 quested to seat himself on the central one. A solemn prelude, 
 more unearthly than the incantation in the Freyschiitz, was played 
 by the orchestra of the band, conducted by the Paganini of the 
 place, who elicited the most marvellous notes from his shell. A 
 
174 ROOKWOOD. 
 
 couple of shawms* emitted sepulchral sounds, while the hollow 
 rolling of the drum broke ever and anon upon the ear. The effect 
 was prodigiously fine. During this overture the patrico and the 
 upright man had ascended the rostrum, each taking their places; 
 the former on the right hand of Turpin, the latter upon his left. 
 Below them stood the knight of Malta, with excalibur drawn in 
 his hand, and gleaming in the sunshine. On the whole, Dick was 
 amused with what he saw, and with the novel situation in which 
 he found himself placed. Around the table were congregated a 
 compact mass of heads; so compact, indeed, that they looked like 
 one creature — an Argus, with each eye upturned upon the high- 
 wayman. The idea struck Turpin that the restless mass of parti- 
 coloured shreds and patches, of vivid hues and varied tintings, 
 singularly, though accidentally disposed to produce such an effect, 
 resembled an immense tiger-moth, or it might be a Turkey carpet, 
 spread out upon the grass ! 
 
 The scene was a joyous one. It was a brilliant sunshiny morn- 
 ing. Freshened and purified by the storm of the preceding 
 night, the air breathed a balm upon the nerves and senses of the 
 robber. The wooded hills were glittering in light; the brook was 
 flowing swiftly past the edge of the verdant slope, glancing like a 
 wreathed snake in the sunshine — its "quiet song" lost in the rude 
 harmony of the mummers, as were the thousand twitterings of 
 the rejoicing birds; the rocks bared their bosoms to the sun, or 
 were buried in deep-cast gloom ; the shadows of the pillars and 
 arches of the old walls of the priory were projected afar, while the 
 rose-like ramifications of the magnificent marigold window were 
 traced, as if by a pencil, upon the verdant tablet of the sod. 
 
 The overture was finished. With the appearance of the prin- 
 cipal figures in this strange picture the reader is already familiar. 
 It remains only to give him some idea of the patrico. Imagine, 
 then, an old superannuated goat, reared upon its hind legs, and 
 clad in a white sheet, disposed in folds like those of a simar about 
 its limbs, and you will have some idea of Balthazar, the patrico. 
 This resemblance to the animal before mentioned was rendered 
 the more striking by his huge hanging, goat-like under-lip, his 
 lengthy white beard, and a sort of cap, covering his head, which 
 was ornamented with a pair of horns, such as are to be seen in 
 Michael Angelo's tremendous statue of Moses. Balthazar, besides 
 being the patrico of the tribe, was its principal professor of divi- 
 nation, and had been the long-tried and faithful minister of 
 Barbara Lovel, from whose secret instructions he was supposed. to 
 have derived much of his magical skill. 
 
 Placing a pair of spectacles upon his " prognosticating nose," 
 
 * " The shalm, or shawm, was a wind instrument, like a pipe, with a swelling 
 protuberance in the middle." — Earl of Northumberland* s Household Book. 
 
dp 
 
 - 
 
 •i 
 1 
 
 Deorft G-n^o-f^sKoiAvtCc^ 
 
 P >^^ Qy/?z^^/?s?&Wy- 
 
ROOKWOOD. 1 75 
 
 and unrolling a vellum skin, upon which strange characters were 
 written, Balthazar, turning to Turpin, thus commenced in a 
 solemn voice: 
 
 Thou who wouldst our brother be, 
 Say how we shall enter thee ? 
 Name the name that thou wilt bear 
 Ere our livery thou wear ? 
 
 " I see no reason why I should alter my designation," replied 
 the noviciate; "but as popes change their titles on their creation, 
 there can be no objection to a scampsman following so excellent 
 an example. Let me be known as the Night Hawk." 
 
 " The Night Hawk — good," returned the hierophant, proceed- 
 ing to register the name upon the parchment. u Kneel down," 
 continued he. 
 
 After some hesitation, Turpin complied. 
 
 " You must repeat the ' salamon,' or oath of our creed, after my 
 dictation," said the patrico; and Turpin, signifying his assent by 
 a nod, Balthazar propounded the following abjuration: 
 
 OATH OF THE CANTING CHEW. 
 
 I, Crank-Cuffin, swear to be 
 
 True to this fraternity ; 
 
 That I will in all obey 
 
 Ride and order of the lay. 
 
 Never blow the gab, or squeak ; 
 
 Never snitch to bum or beak ; 
 
 But religiously maintain 
 
 Authority of those who reign 
 
 Over Stop-Hole Abbey Green, 
 
 Be they tawny king, or queen. 
 
 In their cause alone will light ; 
 
 Think what they think, wrong or right; 
 
 Serve them truly, and no other, 
 
 And be faithful to my brother ; 
 
 Suffer none, from far or near, 
 
 With their rights to interfere ; 
 
 No strange Abram, ruffler crack, 
 
 Hooker of another pack, 
 
 Rogue or rascal, frater, maunderer, 
 
 Irish to vie, or other wanderer; 
 
 No climber clamber, angler, dancer, 
 
 Prig of cackler, prig of prancer ; 
 
 No swigman, swaddler, clapperdudgeon ; 
 
 Cadgc-gloak, curtai, or curmudgeon; 
 
 No whip-jack, palliard, patrico ; 
 
 No jarkman, be he high or low ; 
 
 No dummerar, or romany ; 
 
 No member of "the Family ;" 
 
 No ballad-basket, bouncing buffer, 
 
 Nor any other, will I suffer ; 
 
176 ROOKWOOD. 
 
 But stall-off now and for ever, 
 All outliers whatsoever : 
 And as I keep to the foregone. 
 So may help me Salanion !* 
 
 "So help me Salamon!" repeated Turpin, with emphasis. 
 
 " Zoroaster," said the patrico to the upright man, " do thy part 
 of this ceremonial." 
 
 Zoroaster obeyed; and, taking excalibur from the knight 01 
 Malta, bestowed a hearty thwack with the blade upon the shoul- 
 ders of the kneeling highwayman, assisting him afterwards to 
 arise. 
 
 The inauguration was complete. 
 
 " Well," exclaimed Dick, " I'm glad it's all over. My leg feels 
 a little stiffish. I'm not much given to kneeling. I must dance 
 it off;" saying which, he began to shuffle upon the boards. " I 
 tell you what," continued he, " most reverend patrico, that same 
 ' salmon ' of yours has a cursed long tail. I could scarce swallow 
 it all, and it's strange if it don't give me an indigestion. As to you, 
 sage Zory, from the dexterity with which you flourish your sword, 
 I should say you had practised at court. His majesty could scarce 
 do the thing better, when, slapping some fat alderman upon the 
 shoulder, he bids him arise Sir Richard. And now, pals," added 
 he, glancing round, " as I am one of you, let's have a boose to- 
 gether ere I depart, for I don't think my stay will be long in the 
 land of Egypt." 
 
 This suggestion of Turpin was so entirely consonant to the 
 
 * Perhaps the most whimsical laws that were ever prescribed to a gang of 
 thieves were those framed by William Holliday, one of the prigging community, 
 who was hanged in 1695 : 
 
 Art. I. directs — That none of his company should presume to wear shirts, 
 upon pain of being cashiered. 
 
 II. — That none should lie in any other places than stables, empty houses, or 
 other bulks. 
 
 III. — That they should eat nothing but what they begged, and that they 
 should give away all the money they got by cleaning boots among one another, 
 for the good of the fraternity. 
 
 IV. — That they should neither learn to read nor write, that he may have 
 them the better under command. 
 
 V. — That they should appear every morning by nine, on the parade, to re- 
 ceive necessary orders. 
 
 VI. — That none should presume to follow the scent but such as he ordered 
 on that party. 
 
 VII. — That if any one gave them shoes or stockings, they should convert them 
 into money to play. 
 
 VIII. — That they should steal nothing they could not come at, for fear of 
 bringing a scandal upon the company. 
 
 IX. — That they should cant better than the Newgate birds, pick pockets 
 without bungling, outlie a Quaker, outswear a lord at a gaming-table, and 
 brazen out all their villanies beyond an Irishman. 
 
ROOKWOOD. 177 
 
 wishes of the assemblage, that it met with universal approbation; 
 and upon a sign from Zoroaster, some of his followers departed in 
 search of supplies for the carousal. Zoroaster leaped from the 
 table, and his example was followed by Turpin, and more leisurely 
 by the patrico. 
 
 It was rather early in the day for a drinking bout. But the 
 Canting Crew were not remarkably particular. The chairs were 
 removed, and the jingling of glasses announced the arrival of the 
 preliminaries of the matutine symposion. Poles, canvas, and cords 
 were next brought; and in almost as short space of time as one 
 scene is substituted for another in a theatrical representation, a tent 
 was erected. Benches, stools, and chairs appeared with equal 
 celerity, and the interior soon presented an appearance like that of 
 a booth at a fair. A keg of brandy was broached, and the health 
 of the new brother quaffed in brimmers. 
 
 Our highwayman returned thanks. Zoroaster was in the chair, 
 the knight of Malta acting as croupier. A second toast was pro- 
 posed — the tawny queen. This was drunk with a like enthusiasm, 
 and with a like allowance of the potent spirit ; but as bumpers of 
 brandy are not to be repeated with impunity, it became evident to 
 the president of the board that he must not repeat his toasts quite 
 so expeditiously. To create a temporary diversion, therefore, he 
 called for a sono\ 
 
 O 
 
 The dulcet notes of the fiddle now broke through the clamour; 
 and, in answer to the call, Jerry Juniper volunteered the fol- 
 lowing: 
 
 JERRY JUNIPER'S CHANT * 
 
 In a box (1) of the stone jug (2) I was born, 
 Of a hempen widow (3) the kid forlorn, 
 
 Fake away. 
 And my father, as I've heard say, 
 
 Fake away, 
 "Was a merchant of capers (4) gay, 
 Who cnt his last fling with great applause, 
 
 (5) Nix my doll pals, fake away. 
 
 Who cut his last fling with great applause (6), 
 To the tune of a "hearty choke with caper sauce." 
 
 Fake away. 
 The knucks in quod (7) did my schoolmen play, 
 
 Fake away, 
 
 * Set to music by Mr. Rodwell. 
 
 (1) Cell. (2) Newgate. 
 
 (3) A woman whose husband has been hanged. (i) A dancing-master. 
 
 (5) "Nothing, comrades ; on, on," supposed to be addressed by a thief to 
 his confederates. 
 
 (6) Thus Victor Hugo, in "Le Dernier Jour d'un Condamne," makes an 
 imprisoned felon sing : 
 
 " J'le ferai danser nne danse 
 Ou il n'y a pas de plancher." 
 
 (7) Thieves in prison. 
 
 N 
 
178 EOOKWOOD. 
 
 And put me up to the time of day ; 
 Until at last there was none so knowing, 
 
 Nix my doll pals, fake away* 
 
 Until at last there was none so knowing, 
 
 No such sneaksman (8) or buzgloak (9) going. 
 
 Fake away. 
 Eogles (10) and fawnies (11) soon went their way, 
 
 Fake away, 
 To the spont (12) with the sneezers (13) in grand array. 
 No dummy hunter (14) had forks (15) so fly ; 
 
 Nix my doll pals, fake away. 
 
 No dummy hunter had forks so fly, 
 
 No knuckler (16) so deftly could fake a cly, (17) 
 
 Fake away. 
 No slour'd hoxter (18) my snipes (19) could stay, 
 
 Fake aicay. 
 None knap a reader (20) like me in the lay. 
 Soon then I mounted in swell-street high. 
 
 Nix my doll pals, fake away. 
 
 Soon then I mounted in swell-street high, 
 And sported my flashiest toggery, (21) 
 
 Fake away. 
 Firmly resolved I would make my hay, 
 
 Fake away, 
 While Mercury's star shed a single ray ; 
 And ne'er was there seen such a dashing prig, (22) 
 
 Nix my doll pals, fake away. 
 
 And ne'er was there seen such a dashing prig, 
 With my strummel faked in the newest twig. (23) 
 
 Fake away. 
 With my fawnied famms, (21) and my onions gay, (25) 
 
 Fake away ; 
 My thimble of ridge, (26) and my driz kemesa; (27) 
 All my togs were so niblike (28) and splash, 
 
 Nix my doll pals, fake away. 
 
 All my togs were so niblike and splash, 
 
 Readily the queer screens I then could smash ; (29) 
 
 Fake away. 
 But my nuttiest blowen, (30) one fine day, 
 
 Fake aicay, 
 To the beaks (31) did her fancy man betray, 
 And thus was I bowled out at last. (32) 
 
 Nix my doll pals, fake away. 
 
 (8) Shoplifter. (9) Pickpocket. (10) Handkerchiefs. 
 
 (11) Rings. (12) To the pawnbroker. (13) Snuff-boxes. 
 
 (14) Pickpockets. (15) The two forefingers used in picking a pocket. 
 
 (16) Pickpocket. (17) Pick a pocket. 
 
 (18) No inside coat-pocket, buttoned up. (19) Scissors. 
 
 (20) Steal a pocket-book. (21) Best-made clothes. 
 
 (22) Thief. (23) With my hair dressed in the first fashion. 
 
 (24) With several rings on my hands. (25) Seals. 
 
 (26) Gold watch. (27) Laced shirt. (28) Gentlemanlike. 
 
 (29) Easily than forged notes could I pass. (30) Favourite mistress. 
 
 (31) Police. (32) Taken at length. 
 
ROOKWOOD. 179 
 
 And thus was I bowled out at last, 
 And into the jug for a lag was cast ; (33) 
 
 Fake away. 
 But I slipped my darbies (34) one morn in May, 
 
 Fake a way, 
 And gave to the dubsman (35) a holiday. 
 And here I am, pals, merry and free, 
 A regular rollicking romany. (36) 
 
 Nix my doll pah, fake aicay. 
 
 Much laughter and applause rewarded Jerry's attempt to please; 
 and though the meaning of his chant, even with the aid of the 
 numerous notes appended to it, may not be quite obvious to our 
 readers, we can assure them that it was perfectly intelligible to the 
 Canting Crew. Jerry was now entitled to a call ; and happening, 
 at the moment, to meet the fine dark eyes of a sentimental gipsy, 
 one of that better class of mendicants who wandered about the 
 country with a guitar at his back, his election fell upon him. The 
 youth, without prelude, struck up a 
 
 GIPSY SERENADE * 
 
 Merry maid, merry maid, wilt thou wander with me ? 
 We will roam through the forest, the meadow, and lea ; 
 We will haunt the sunny bowers, and when day begins to flee, 
 Our couch shall be the ferny brake, our canopy the tree. 
 
 Merry maid, merry maid, come and wander with me ! 
 
 No life like the gipsy's, so joyous and free! 
 
 Merry maid, merry maid, though a roving life be ours, 
 
 We will laugh away the laughing and quickly fleeting hours ; 
 
 Our hearts are free, as is the free and open sky above, 
 
 And we know what tamer souls know not, how lovers ought to love. 
 
 Merry maid, merry maid, come and wander with me > 
 
 No life like the gipsy's, so joyotis and free! 
 
 Zoroaster now removed the pipe from his upright lips to inti- 
 mate his intention of proposing a toast. 
 
 An universal knocking of knuckles by the knucklersf was fol- 
 lowed by profound silence. The sage spoke: 
 
 " The city of Canterbury, pals," said he ; u and may it never 
 want a knight of Malta." 
 
 The toast was pledged with much laughter, and in many 
 bumpers. 
 
 The knight, upon whom all eyes were turned, rose, "with 
 stately bearing and majestic motion," to return thanks. 
 
 u I return you an infinitude of thanks, brother pals," said he, 
 glancing round the assemblage ; and bowing to the president, u and 
 
 (33) Cast for transportation. (34) Fetters. 
 
 (35) Turnkey. (36) Gipsy. 
 
 * Set to music by Mr. Alexander Roche. f Pickpockets. 
 
 n2 
 
180 ROOKWOOD. 
 
 to you, most upright Zory, for the honour yon have done me in 
 associating my name with that city. Believe me, I sincerely ap- 
 preciate the compliment, and echo the sentiment from the bottom 
 of my soul. I trust it never will want a knight of Malta. In 
 return for your consideration, but a poor one you will say, you 
 shall have a ditty, which I composed upon the occasion of my pil- 
 grimage to that city, and which I have thought proper to name 
 after myself." 
 
 THE KNIGHT OF MALTA. ' 
 
 A Canterbury Tale.* 
 
 Come list to me, and you shall have, without a hem or haw, sirs, 
 A Canterbury pilgrimage, much better than old Chaucer's. 
 'Tis of a hoax I once played off upon that city clever, 
 The memory of which, 1 hope, will stick to it for ever. 
 
 With my coal-black beard, and purple cloak, 
 jack- boots, and broad-brimmed castor, 
 
 Hey -ho ! for the knight of Malta ! 
 
 * This song describes pretty accurately the career of an extraordinary indi- 
 vidual, who, in the lucid intervals of a half-crazed understanding, imposed him- 
 self upon the credulous inhabitants of Canterbury, in the year 1832, as a certain 
 "Sir William Percy Honeywood Courtenay, Knight or Malta;" and 
 contrived — for there was considerable "method in his madness" — to support 
 the deception during a long period. The anachronism of Ins character in a 
 tale (the date of which is nearly a century back) will, perhaps, be overlooked, 
 when it is considered of how much value, in the illustration of " wise saws," 
 are " modern instances?' Imposture and credulity are of all ages ; and the 
 Courtenays of the nineteenth are rivalled by the Tofts and Andres of the 
 eighteenth century. The subjoined account of the soi-disant Sir William 
 Courtenay is extracted from " An Essay on his Character, and Reflections on 
 his Trial," published at the theatre of his exploits : " About Michaelmas last it 
 was rumoured that an extraordinary man was staying at the Rose Inn of this 
 city (Canterbury), who passed under the name of Count Rothschild, but had 
 been recently known in London by the name of Thompson ! This would hav& 
 been sufficient to excite attention, had not other incidents materially added to 
 the excitement. His costume and countenance denoted foreign extraction, 
 while his language and conversation showed that he was well acquainted with 
 almost every part of this kingdom. He was said to live with singular frugality, 
 notwithstanding abundant samples of wealth, and professions of an almost un- 
 limited command of money. He appeared to study retirement, if not conceal- 
 ment, although subsequent events have proved that society of every grade, 
 beneath the middle class, is the element in which he most freely breathes. He 
 often decked his person with a fine suit of ^Italian clothing, and sometimes icith the 
 more gay and imposing costume of the Eastern nations ; yet these foreign habits 
 were for months scarcely visible beyond the limits of the inn of his abode, and the 
 chapel not far from it, in which he was accustomed to offer his Sabbath devotions. 
 This place was the first to which he made a public and frequent resort ; and 
 though he did not always attempt to advance towards the uppermost seat in 
 the synagogue, he attracted attention from the mere singularity of his appear- 
 ance. 
 
 " Such was the eccentric, incongruous individual who surprised our city by 
 proposing himself as a third candidate for its representation, and who created 
 an entertaining contest for the honour, long after the sitting candidates had 
 
ROOKWOOD. 181 
 
 To execute my purpose, in the first place, you must know, sirs, 
 My locks I let hang down my neck — my beard and whiskers grow, sirs ; 
 A purple cloak I next clapped on, a sword tagged to my side, sirs, 
 And mounted on a charger black, I to the town did ride, sirs. 
 
 With my coal-black beard, fyc. 
 
 composed themselves to the delightful vision of an ^inexpensive and unopposed 
 return. The notion of representing the city originated beyond all doubt in the 
 fertile brain of the man himself. It would seem to have been almost as sudden 
 a thought in his mind, as it was a sudden and surprising movement in the view 
 of the city ; nor have we been able to ascertain whether his sojourn at the Rose 
 was the cause or the effect of his offering to advocate our interests in Parlia- 
 ment — whether he came to the city with that high-minded purpose, or subse- 
 quently formed the notion, when he saw, or thought he saw, an opening for a 
 stranger of enterprise like himself. 
 
 /fr yfc yfc yfc yfc "^ 
 
 "As the county election drew on, we believe between the nomination on 
 Barham Downs and the voting in the cattle market of the city, the draught of 
 a certain handbill was sent to a printer of this city, with a request that he 
 would publish it without delay. Our readers will not be surprised that he in- 
 stantly declined the task ; but as we have obtained possession of the copy, and 
 its publication can now do no injury to any one, we entertain them with a sight 
 of this delectable sample of Courtenay prudence and politeness. 
 
 " ' yes ! yes ! yes ! I, Lord Viscount William Courtenay, of Powder- 
 ham Castle, Devon, do hereby proclaim Sir Thomas Tylden, Sir Brook Brydges, 
 Sir Edward Knatchbull, and Sir William Cosway, four cowards, unfit to repre- 
 sent, or to assist in returning members of Parliament to serve the brave men of 
 Kent. 
 
 " ' Percy Honeywood Courtenay, of Hales and Evington Place, Kent, and 
 Knight of Malta. 
 
 " ' Any gentleman desiring to know the reasons why Lord Courtenay so 
 publicly exposes backbiters, any man of honour shall have satisfaction at his 
 hands, and in a public way, according to the laws of our land — trial by combat ; 
 when the Almighty God, the Lord of Hosts is his name, can decide the "truth," 
 whether it is a libel or not. I worship truth as my God, and will die for it— 
 and upon this we will see who is strongest, God or man.' 
 
 " It is a coincidence too curious to be overlooked, that this doughty champion 
 of truth should so soon have removed himself from public life by an act of de- 
 liberate and wanton perjury. We never read any of his rhapsodies, periodical 
 or occasional, till the publication of this essay imposed the self-denying task 
 upon us ; but now we find that they abound in strong and solemn appeals to 
 the truth; in bold proclamations that truth is his palladium ; in evidences that 
 he writes and raves, that he draws his sword and clenches his fist, that he ex- 
 pends his property and the property of others committed to his hands, in no 
 cause but that of truth/ His famous periodical contains much vehement de- 
 clamation in defence of certain doctrines of religion, which he terms the truth 
 of the sublime system of Christianity, and for which alone he is content to live, 
 and also willing to die. All who deviate from his standard of truth, whether 
 theological or moral, philosophical or political, he appears to consider as neither 
 fit for life nor death. Now it is a little strange, his warmest followers being 
 witness, that such an advocate of truth should have become the willing victim 
 of falsehood, the ready and eager martyr of the worst form of falsehood — perjury. 
 
 " The decline of his influence between the city and county elections has been 
 partly attributed, and not without reason, to the sudden change in his appear- 
 ance from comparative youth to advancing, if not extreme age. On the hustings 
 of the city he shone forth in all the dazzling lustre of an Oriental chief ; and such 
 was the effect of gay clothing on the meridian of life, that his admirers, especially 
 of the weaker sex, would insist upon it that he had not passed the beautiful sjpring- 
 
182 ROOKWOOD. 
 
 Two pages were there by my side, upon two little ponies, 
 Decked out in scarlet uniform, as spruce as macaronies; 
 Caparisoned my charger was, as grandly as his master, 
 And o'er my long and curly locks I wore a broad-brimmed castor. 
 
 With my coal-black beard, Sfc. 
 
 The people all nocked forth, amazed to see a man so hairy, 
 Oh ! such a sight had ne'er before been seen in Canterbury ! 
 My flowing robe, my flowing beard, my horse with flowing mane, sirs ! 
 They stared — the days of chivalry, they thought, were come again, sirs ! 
 
 With my coal-black beard, 8fc. 
 
 I told them a long rigmarole romance, that did not halt a 
 
 Jot, that they beheld in me a real knight of Malta ! 
 
 Tom a Becket had I sworn I was, that saint and martyr hallowed, 
 
 I doubt not just as readily the bait they would have swallowed. 
 
 With my coal-black beard, fyc. 
 
 I rode about, and speechified, and everybody gullied, 
 
 The tavern-keepers diddled, and the magistracy bullied ; 
 
 Like puppets were the townsfolk led in that show they call a raree ; 
 
 The Gotham sages were a joke to those of Canterbury. 
 
 With my coal-black beard, 8fc. 
 
 The theatre I next engaged, where I addressed the crowd, sirs, 
 And on retrenchment and reform I spouted long and loud, sirs ; 
 On tithes and on taxation I enlarged with skill and zeal, sirs, 
 Who so able as a Malta knight, the malt tax to repeal, sirs. 
 
 With my coal-black beard, 8fC 
 
 As a candidate I then stepped forth to represent their city, 
 And my non-election to that place was certainly a pity ; 
 For surely I the fittest was, and very proper, very, 
 To represent the wisdom and the wit of Canterbury. 
 
 With my coal-black beard, fyc. 
 
 time of May. There were, indeed, some suspicious appearances of a near approach 
 to forty, if not two or three years beyond it ; but these were fondly ascribed to his 
 foreign travels in distant and insalubrious climes ; he had acquired his duskiness 
 of complexion, and his strength of feature and violence of gesture, and his pro- 
 fusion of beard, in Egypt and Syria, in exploring the catacombs of the one country, 
 and bowing at the shrines of the other. On the other hand, the brilliancy of his 
 eye, the melody of his voice, and the elasticity of his muscles and limbs, were suffi- 
 cient arguments in favour of his having scarcely passed the limit that separates 
 manhood from youth. 
 
 "All doubts on these points were removed, when the crowd of his fair ad- 
 mirers visited him at the retirement of his inn, and the intervals of his polling. 
 These sub-Rosa interviews — we allude to the name of the inn, and not to any- 
 thing like privacy there, which the very place and number of the visitors alto- 
 gether precluded — convinced them that he was even a younger and lovelier 
 man than his rather boisterous behaviour in the hall would allow them to hope, 
 in fact, he was now installed by acclamation Knight of Canterbury as well as 
 Malta, and King of Kent as well as Jerusalem ! It became dangerous then to 
 whisper a syllable of suspicion against his wealth or rank, his wisdom or beauty ; 
 and all who would not bow down before this golden image were deemed worthy 
 of no better fate than Shadrach, Meshech, and Abednego — to be cast into a 
 burning fiery furnace." 
 
 As a sequel to the above story, it may be added, that the knight of Malta 
 became the inmate of a lunatic asylum ; and on his liberation was shot at the 
 head of a band of Kentish hinds, whom he had persuaded that he was the 
 Messiah ! 
 
KOOKWOOD. 183 
 
 At the trial of some smugglers next, one thing I rather queer did, 
 And the justices upon the bench T literally bearded; 
 For I swore that I some casks did see, though proved as clear as day, sirs, 
 That I happened at the time to be some fifty miles away, sirs. 
 
 With my coal-black beard, $rc. 
 
 This last assertion, I must own, was somewhat of a blunder, 
 And for perjury indicted they compelled me to knock under; 
 To my prosperous career this slight error put a stop, sirs, 
 And thus crossed, the knight of Malta was at length obliged to hop sirs. 
 
 With his coal-black beard, and purple cloak, 
 jack-boots, and broad-brimmed castor, 
 Good-by to the knight of Malta. 
 
 The knight sat down amidst the general plaudits of the com- 
 pany. 
 
 The party, meanwhile, had been increased by the arrival of Luke 
 and the sexton. The former, who was in no mood for revelry, 
 refused to comply with his grandsire's solicitation to enter, and re- 
 mained sullenly at the door, with his arms folded, and his eyes 
 fixed upon Turpin, whose movements he commanded through the 
 canvas aperture. The sexton walked up to Dick, who was seated 
 at the post of honour, and, clapping him upon the shoulder, con- 
 gratulated him upon the comfortable position in which he found 
 him. 
 
 " Ha, ha ! Are you there, my old death's head on a mop-stick?'* 
 said Turpin, with a laugh. "Ain't we merry mumpers, eh? 
 Keeping it up in style. Sit down, old Noah — make yourself com- 
 fortable, Methusalem." 
 
 u What say you to a drop of as fine Nantz as you ever tasted in 
 your life, old cove?" said Zoroaster. 
 
 " I have no sort of objection to it," returned Peter, " provided 
 you will all pledge my toast." 
 
 " That I will, were it old Ruffin himself," shouted Turpin- 
 " Here's to the three-legged mare," cried Peter. u To the tree 
 that bears fruit all the year round, and yet has neither bark nor 
 branch. You won't refuse that toast, Captain Turpin?" 
 
 u Not I," answered Dick ; u I owe the gallows no grudge. If, 
 as Jerry's song says, I must have a * hearty choke and caper sauce' 
 for my breakfast one of these fine mornings, it shall never be said 
 that I fell to my meal without appetite, or neglected saying grace 
 before it. Gentlemen, here's Peter Bradley's toast, 'The scrag- 
 ging post — the three-legged mare,' with three times three." 
 
 Appropriate as this sentiment was, it did not appear to be so in- 
 viting to the party as might have been anticipated, and the shouts 
 soon died away. 
 
 "They like not the thoughts of the gallows," said Turpin to 
 Peter. u More fools they. A mere bugbear to frighten children, 
 believe me; and never yet alarmed a brave man. The gallows, 
 pshaw ! One can but die once, and what signifies it how, so that 
 
184 ROOKWOOD. 
 
 it be over quickly. I think no more of the last leap into eternity 
 than clearing a five-barred gate. A rope's end for it ! So let us 
 be merry, and make the most of our time, and that's true philo- 
 sophy. I know you can throw off a rum chant," added he, turn- 
 ing to Peter. " I heard you sing last night at the hall. Troll us 
 a stave, my antediluvian file, and, in the mean time, tip me a gage 
 of fogus,* Jerry; and if that's a bowl of huckle-my-butt"f" you are 
 brewing, Sir William," added he, addressing the knight of Malta, 
 "you may send me a jorum at your convenience." 
 
 Jerry handed the highwayman a pipe, together with a tumbler 
 of the beverage which the knight had prepared, which he pro- 
 nounced excellent; and while the huge bowl was passed round to 
 the company, a prelude of shawms announced that Peter was ready 
 to break into song. 
 
 Accordingly, after the symphony was ended, accompanied at 
 intervals by a single instrument, Peter began his melody, in a key 
 so high, that the utmost exertions of the shawm-blower failed to 
 approach its altitudes. The burden of his minstrelsy was — 
 
 THE MANDRAKE.! 
 
 Ma>Xu Se \iiv KaXtovari Oeol, x a ^ €7T ou de r opixrcreiu 
 
 Avdpdcri ye 6vr\To\ai 6eo\, de re Travra dvvavrai. 
 
 H0MEEUS. 
 
 The mandrake grows 'neath the gallows-tree, 
 And rank and green are its leaves to see ; 
 Green and rank, as the grass that waves 
 Over the nnctuous earth of graves ; 
 And though all around it be bleak and bare, 
 Freely the mandrake flourisheth there. 
 
 Maranatha — Anathema ! 
 Bread is the curse of mandragora ! 
 
 Euthanasy ! 
 
 * A pipe of tobacco. f A drink composed of beer, eggs, and brandy. 
 
 X The supposed malignant influence of this plant is frequently alluded to by 
 •our elder dramatists ; and with one of the greatest of them, Webster (as might 
 be expected from a muse revelling like a ghoul in graves and sepulchres), it is 
 an especial favourite. But none have plunged so deeply into the subject as Sir 
 Thomas Browne. He tears up the fable root and branch. Concerning the danger 
 ensuing from eradication of the mandrake, the learned physician thus writes : 
 " The last assertion is, that there follows a hazard of life to them that pull it up, 
 that some evil fate pursues them, and that they live not very long hereafter. 
 Therefore the attempt hereof among the ancients was not in ordinary way; but, 
 as Pliny informeth, when they intended to take up the root of this plant, they 
 took the wind thereof, and with a sword describing three circles about it, they 
 digged it up, looking toward the west. A conceit not only injurious unto truth 
 and confutable by daily experience, but somewhat derogatory unto the provi- 
 dence of God ; that is, not only to impose so destructive a quality on any plant, 
 but to conceive a vegetable whose parts are so useful unto many, should, in the 
 only taking up, prove mortal unto any. This were to introduce a second for- 
 bidden fruit, and enhance the first malediction, making it not only mortal for 
 Adam . to taste the one, but capital for his posterity to eradicate or dig up the 
 other." — Vulgar Errors, book ii. c. vi. 
 
KOOKWOOD. 185 
 
 At the foot of the gibbet the mandrake springs ; 
 
 Just where the creaking carcase swings ; 
 
 Some have thought it engendered 
 
 From the fat that drops from the bones of the dead ; 
 
 Some have thought it a human tiling ; 
 
 But this is a vain imagining. 
 
 Maranatha — Anathema ! 
 Dread is the curse of mandragora ! 
 
 Euthanasy I 
 A charncl leaf doth the mandrake wear, 
 A charnel fruit doth the mandrake bear ; 
 Yet none like the mandrake hath such great power, 
 Such virtue resides not in herb or flower ; 
 Aconite, hemlock, or moonshade, I ween, 
 None hath a poison so subtle and keen. 
 
 Maranatha — Anathema / 
 Bread is the curse of mandragora ! 
 
 Euthanasy I 
 And whether the mandrake be create 
 Flesh with the power incorporate, 
 I know not ; yet, if from the earth 'tis rent, 
 Shrieks and groans from the root are sent ; 
 Shrieks and groans, and a sweat like gore 
 Oozes and drops from the clammy core. 
 
 Maranatha — Anathema ! 
 Dread is the curse of mandragora ! 
 
 Euthanasy ! 
 
 Whoso gathereth the mandrake shall surely die ; 
 Blood for blood is his destiny. 
 Some who have plucked it have died with groans, 
 Like to the mandrake's expiring moans ; 
 Some have died raving, and some beside— 
 With penitent prayers — but all have died. 
 
 Jesu ! save us by night and day ! 
 From the terrible death of mandragora ! 
 
 Euthanasy I 
 
 " A queer chant that," said Zoroaster, coughing loudly, in token 
 of disapprobation. 
 
 " Not much to my taste," quoth the knight of Malta. u We 
 like something more sprightly in Canterbury." 
 
 " Nor to mine," added Jerry; " don't think its likely to have an 
 encore. 'Pon my soul, Dick, you must give us something your- 
 self, or we shall never cry Euthanasy at the Triple Tree." 
 
 " With all my heart," replied Turpin. " You shall have — but 
 what do I see, my friend Sir Luke ? Devil take my tongue, Luke 
 Bradley, I mean. What, ho ! Luke — nay, nay, man, no shrink- 
 ing — stand forward ; I've a word or two to say to you. We must 
 have a hob-a-nob glass together for old acquaintance sake. Nay, 
 no airs, man; damme you're not a lord yet, nor a baronet either, 
 though I do hold your title in my pocket; never look glum at me. 
 It won't pay. I'm one of the Canting Crew now; no man shall 
 sneer at me with impunity, eh, Zory? Ha, ha! here's a glass of 
 Nantz; we'll have a bottle of black strap when you are master of 
 your own. Make ready there, you gut-scrapers, you shawm- 
 
186 ROOKWOOD. 
 
 shavers; I'll put your lungs in play for you presently. In the 
 mean time — charge, pals, charge — a toast, a toast ! Health and 
 prosperity to Sir Luke Rookwood ! I see you are surprised — this, 
 gemmen, is Sir Luke Rookwood, somewhile Luke Bradley, heir 
 to the house of that name, not ten miles distant from this. Say, 
 shall we not drink a bumper to his health?" 
 
 Astonishment prevailed amongst the crew. Luke himself had 
 been taken by surprise. When Turpin discovered him at the door 
 of the tent, and summoned him to appear, he reluctantly complied 
 with the request; but when, in a half-bantering vein, Dick began 
 to rally him upon his pretensions, he would most gladly have re- 
 treated, had it been in his power. It was then too late. He felt 
 he must stand the ordeal. Every eye was fixed upon him with a 
 look of inquiry. 
 
 Zoroaster took his everlasting pipe from his mouth. 
 
 " This ain't true, surely ?" asked the perplexed Magus. 
 
 " He has said it," replied Luke ; " 1 may not deny it." 
 
 This was sufficient. There was a wild hubbub of delight amongst 
 the crew, for Luke was a favourite with all. 
 
 " Sir Luke Rookwood !" cried Jerry Juniper, who liked a title 
 as much as Tommy Moore is said to dote upon a lord. a Upon 
 my soul I sincerely congratulate you; devilish fortunate fellow. 
 Always cursed unlucky myself. I could never find out my own 
 father, unless it were one Monsieur des Capriolles, a French 
 dancing-master, and he never left anything behind him that I could 
 hear of, except a broken kit and a hempen widow. Sir Luke 
 Rookwood, we shall do ourselves the pleasure of drinking your 
 health and prosperity." 
 
 Fresh bumpers and immense cheering. 
 
 Silence being in a measure restored, Zoroaster claimed Turpin's 
 promise of a song. 
 
 u True, true," replied Dick ; " I have not forgotten it. Stand 
 to your bows, my hearties." 
 
 THE GAME OE HIGH TOBY. 
 
 Now Oliver (1) puts his black nightcap on, 
 
 And every star its glim (2) is hiding, 
 And forth to the heath is the scampsinan (3) gone, 
 
 His matchless cherry-black (4) prancer riding ; 
 Merrily over the common lie flies, 
 
 East and free as the rush of rocket, 
 His crape-covered vizard drawn over his eyes, 
 
 His tol (5) by his side, and his pops (6) in his pocket. 
 
 CHORUS. 
 Then who can name 
 So merry a game, 
 As the game of all games — high toby? (7) 
 
 (1) The moon. (2) Light. (3) Highwayman. 
 
 (4) " Cherry-coloured — black ; there being black cherries as well as red." — 
 Grose. (5) Sword. (6) Pistols. (7) Highway robbery. 
 
EOOKWOOD. 187 
 
 The traveller hears him, away ! away ! 
 
 Over the wide wide heath he scurries ; 
 He heeds not the thunderbolt summons to stay, 
 
 But ever the faster and taster he hurries. 
 But what daisy-cutter can match that black tit ? 
 
 He is caught — he must " stand and deliver;" 
 Then out with the dummy, (8) and off with the bit, (9) 
 
 Oh ! the game of high toby for ever ! 
 
 CHORUS. 
 
 Then who can name 
 
 So merry a game, 
 
 As the game of all games— high toby ? 
 
 Believe me, there is not a game, my brave boys, 
 
 To compare with the game of high toby ; 
 No rapture can equal the tobyman's joys, 
 
 To blue devils, blue plumbs (10) give the go-by; 
 And what if, at length, boys, he come to the crap ! (11) 
 
 Even rack punch lias some bitter in it, 
 Eor the mare-with-three-legs, (12) boys, I care not a rap, 
 
 'Twill be over in less than a minute ! 
 
 GRAND CHORUS. 
 
 Then hip, hurrah ! 
 
 Fling care away! 
 
 Hurrah for the game of high toby ! 
 
 a And now, pals," said Dick, who began to feel the influence of 
 these morning cups, u I vote that we adjourn. Believe me I shall 
 always bear in mind that I am a brother of your band. Sir Luke 
 and I must have a little chat together ere I take my leave. 
 Adieu!" 
 
 And taking Luke by the arm, he walked out of the tent. Peter 
 Bradley rose, and followed them. 
 
 At the door they found the dwarfish Grasshopper with Black 
 Bess. Rewarding the urchin for his trouble, and slipping the 
 bridle of his mare over his hand, Turpin continued his walk over 
 the green. For a few minutes he seemed to be lost in rumi- 
 nation. 
 
 "I tell you what, Sir Luke," said he; "I should like to do a 
 generous thing, anct make you a present of this bit of paper. But 
 one ought not to throw away one's luck, you know — there is a 
 tide in the affairs of thieves, as the player coves' say, which must 
 
 be taken at the flood, or else no matter ! Your old dad, Sir 
 
 Piers (God help him !), had the gingerbread, that I know; he was, 
 as we say, a regular rhino-cerical cull. You won't feel a few 
 thousands, especially at starting ; and besides, there are two others, 
 Rust and Wilder, who row in the same boat with me, and must 
 therefore come in for their share of the res'lars. All this COn- 
 
 CS 
 
 (S) Pocket-book. (9) Money. (10) Bullets. 
 
 (11) The gallows. (12) Ditto. 
 
188 ROOKWOOD. 
 
 sidered, you can't complain, I think, if I ask five thousand for it. 
 That old harridan, Lady Rookwood, offered me nearly as much." 
 
 " I will not talk to you of fairness," said Luke; u I will not say 
 that document belongs of right to me. It fell by accident into 
 your hands. Having possessed yourself of it, I blame you not that 
 you dispose of it to the best advantage. I must, perforce, agree to 
 your terms." 
 
 " Oh no," replied Dick, " it's quite optional ; Lady Rookwood 
 will give as much, and make no mouths about it. Soho, lass! 
 What makes Bess prick her ears in that fashion? — Ha! carriage- 
 wheels in the distance ! that jade knows the sound as well as I do. 
 I'll just see what it's like! — you will have ten minutes for re- 
 flection. Who knows if I may not have come in for a good thing 
 here?" 
 
 At that instant the carriage passed the angle of a rock some 
 three hundred yards distant, and was seen slowly ascending the 
 hill- side. Eager as a hawk after his quarry, Turpin dashed 
 after it. 
 
 In vain the sexton, whom he nearly overthrew in his career, 
 called after him to halt. He sped like a bolt from the bow. 
 
 "May the devil break his neck!" cried Peter, as he saw him 
 dash through the brook; "could he not let them alone?" 
 
 "This must not be," said Luke; "know you whose carriage 
 it is?" 
 
 " It is a shrine that holds the jewel that should be dearest in 
 your eyes," returned Peter; " haste, and arrest the spoiler's hand. 
 
 " Whom do you mean?" asked Luke. 
 
 " Eleanor Mowbray," replied Peter. " She is there. To the 
 rescue — away." 
 
 " Eleanor Mowbray !" echoed Luke — " and Sybil ! " 
 
 At this instant a pistol-shot was heard. 
 
 " Will you let murder be done, and upon your cousin?" cried 
 Peter, with a bitter look. " You are not what I took you for." 
 
 Luke answered not, but, swift as the hound freed from the 
 ] eash, darted in the direction of the carriage. 
 
ROOKWOOD. 139 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 ELEANCIt MOWBRAY. 
 
 Mischiefs 
 
 Are like the visits of Franciscan friars, 
 They never come to prey npon us single. 
 
 Devils' Law Case. 
 
 The course of our tale returns now to Eleanor Mowbray. 
 After she had parted from Ranulph Rookwood, and had watched 
 him disappear beneath the arches of the church porch, her heart 
 sank, and, drawing herself back within the carriage, she became a 
 prey to the most poignant affliction. In vain she endeavoured to 
 shake off this feeling of desolation. It would not be. Despair 
 had taken possession of her; the magic fabric of delight melted 
 away, or only gleamed to tantalise, at an unreachable distance. A 
 presentiment that Ranulph would never be hers had taken root in 
 her imagination, and overshadowed all the rest. 
 
 While Eleanor pursued this train of reflection, the time insen- 
 sibly wore away, until the sudden stoppage of the carriage aroused 
 the party from their meditation. Major Mowbray perceived that 
 the occasion of the halt was the rapid advance of a horseman, 
 who was nearing them at full speed. The appearance of the rider 
 was somewhat singular, and might have created some uneasiness as 
 to the nature of his approach, had not the major immediately re- 
 cognised a friend; he was, nevertheless, greatly surprised to see 
 him, and turned to Mrs. Mowbray to inform her that Father 
 Ambrose, to his infinite astonishment, was coming to meet them, 
 and appeared, from his manner, to be the bearer of unwelcome 
 tidings. 
 
 Father Ambrose was, perhaps, the only being whom Eleanor 
 disliked. She had felt an unaccountable antipathy towards him, 
 which she could neither extirpate nor control, during their long 
 and close intimacy. It may be necessary to mention that her reli- 
 gious culture had been in accordance with the tenets of the Romish 
 Church, in whose faith (the faith of her ancestry) her mother had 
 continued; and that Father Ambrose, with whom she had first be- 
 come acquainted during the residence of the family near Bordeaux, 
 was her ghostly adviser and confessor. An Englishman by birth, 
 he had been appointed pastor to the diocese in which they dwelt, 
 and was, consequently, a frequent visitor, almost a constant inmate, 
 of the chateau; yet though duty and respect would have prompted 
 her to regard the father with affection, Eleanor could never con- 
 quer the feelings of dislike and distrust which she had at first 
 
190 ROOKWOOD. 
 
 entertained towards him; a dislike which was increased by the 
 strange control in which he seemed to hold her mother, who 
 regarded him with a veneration approaching to infatuation. It 
 was, therefore, with satisfaction that she bade him adieu. He had, 
 however, followed his friends to England under a feigned name 
 as (being a recusant Romish priest, and supposed to have been 
 engaged in certain Jesuitical plots, his return to his own country- 
 was attended with considerable risk), and had now remained do- 
 mesticated with them for some months. That he had been in some 
 way, in early life, connected with a branch of the house of Rook- 
 wood, Eleanor was aware (she fancied he might have been engaged 
 in political intrigue with Sir Reginald, which would have well ac- 
 corded with his ardent, ambitious temperament), and the know- 
 ledge of this circumstance made her doubly apprehensive lest the 
 nature of his present communication should have reference to her 
 lover, towards whose cause the father had never been favourable, 
 and respecting whose situation he might have made some discovery, 
 which she feared he might use to Ranulph's disadvantage. 
 
 Wrapped in a long black cloak, with a broad-brimmed hat 
 drawn closely over his brows, it was impossible to distinguish 
 further of the priest's figure and features beyond the circumstance 
 of his height, which was remarkable, until he had reached the car- 
 riage window, when, raising his hat, he disclosed a head that Titian 
 might have painted, and which, arising from the dark drapery, 
 looked not unlike the visage of some grave and saturnine Venetian. 
 There was a venerable expanse of forehead, thinly scattered with 
 hair, towering over black pent-house-like brows, which, in their 
 turn, shadowed keen penetrating eyes; the temples were hollow, 
 and blue veins might be traced beneath the sallow skin; the cheek- 
 bones were high, and there was something in the face that spoke 
 of self-mortification; while the thin livid lips, closely compressed, 
 and the austere and sinister expression of his countenance, showed 
 that his self-abasement, if he had ever practised it, had scarcely 
 prostrated the demon of pride, whose dominion might still be 
 traced in the lines and furrows of his haughty physiognomy. The 
 father looked at Mrs. Mowbray, and then glanced suspiciously at 
 Eleanor. The former appeared to understand him. 
 
 " You would say a word to me in private," said Mrs. Mowbray; 
 "shall I descend?" 
 
 The priest bowed assent. 
 
 a It is not to you alone that my mission extends," said he, 
 gravely ; " you are all in part concerned ; your son had better 
 alight with you." 
 
 " Instantly," replied the major. " If you will give your horse 
 in charge to the postilion, we will attend you at once." 
 
 With a feeling of renewed apprehension, connected, she knew 
 not why, with Ranulph, Eleanor beheld her relatives descend from 
 the carriage ; and, in the hope of gaining some clue from their 
 
ROOKWOOD. 191 
 
 gestures to the subject of their conversation, she watched their mo- 
 tions as narrowly as her situation permitted. From the earnest 
 manner of the priest, and the interest his narrative seemed to 
 excite in his hearers, it was evident that his communication was 
 of importance. 
 
 Presently, accompanied by Father Ambrose, Mrs. Mowbray 
 returned to the carriage, while the major, mounting the priest's 
 horse, after bidding a hasty adieu to his sister, adding, with a look 
 that belied the consolation intended to be conveyed by his words, 
 that " all .was well," but without staying to offer her any explana- 
 tion of the cause of his sudden departure, rode back the way they 
 had just traversed, and in the direction of Rookwood. Bereft of 
 the only person to whom she could have applied for information, 
 though dying with curiosity and anxiety to know the meaning of 
 this singular interview, and of the sudden change of plans which 
 she felt so intimately concerned herself, Eleanor was constrained 
 to preserve silence, as, after their entrance into the carriage, her 
 mother again seemed lost in painful reflection, and heeded her not ; 
 and the father, drawing from his pocket a small volume, appeared 
 intently occupied in its perusal. 
 
 " Dear mother," said Eleanor, at length, turning to Mrs. Mow- 
 bray, a my brother is gone " 
 
 " To Rookwood," said Mrs. Mowbray, in a tone calculated to 
 check further inquiry ; but Eleanor was too anxious to notice it. 
 
 "And wherefore, mother?" said she. "May I not be in- 
 formed?" 
 
 " Not as yet, my child — not as yet," replied Mrs. Mowbray. 
 " You will learn all sufficiently early." 
 
 The priest raised his cat-like eyes from the book to watch the 
 effect of this speech, and dropped them instantly as Eleanor turned 
 towards him. She had been about to appeal to him, but having 
 witnessed this look, she relinquished her scarce-formed purpose, and 
 endeavoured to divert her tristful thoughts by gazing through the 
 glimmering medium of her tears upon the soothing aspect of ex- 
 ternal nature — that aspect which, in sunshine or in storm, has ever 
 relief in store for a heart embittered by the stormy coldness of the 
 world. 
 
 The road, meanwhile, led them through a long woody valley, 
 and was now climbing the sides of a steep hill. They were soon 
 in the vicinity of the priory, and of the gipsies' encampment. The 
 priest leaned forward, and whispered something in Mrs. Mowbray's 
 ear, who looked towards the ruined shrine, part of the mouldering 
 walls being visible from the road. 
 
 At the moment the clatter of a horse's hoofs, and the sound of a 
 loud voice, commanding the postilion, in a menacing tone, to stop, 
 accompanied by a volley of imprecations, interrupted the confer- 
 ence, and bespoke the approach of an unwelcome intruder, and 
 one whom all, too truly, feared would not be readily dismissed. 
 
192 RGOKWOOD. 
 
 The postilion did his best to rid them of the assailant. Perceiving 
 a masked horseman behind him, approaching at a furious rate, he 
 had little doubt as to his intentions, and Turpin, for it was our 
 highwayman, soon made his doubts certainties. He hallooed to 
 him to stop ; but the fellow paid no attention to his command, and 
 disregarded even the pistol which he saw, in a casual glimpse over 
 his near side, presented at his person. Clapping spurs into his 
 horse's flanks, he sought succour in flight. Turpin was by his 
 side in an instant. As the highwayman endeavoured to catch his 
 reins, the lad suddenly wheeled the carriage right upon him, and 
 but for the dexterity of Turpin, and the clever conduct of his mare, 
 would inevitably have crushed him against the roadside. As it 
 was, his left leg was slightly grazed. Irritated at this, Turpin 
 fired over the man's head, and with the butt-end of the pistol felled 
 him from his seat. Startled by the sound, and no longer under 
 the governance of their rider, the horses rushed with frantic vio- 
 lence towards a ditch, that bounded the other side of the highway, 
 down which the carriage was precipitated, and at once overturned. 
 Turpin's first act, after he had ascertained that no mischief had 
 been occasioned to those within, beyond the alarm incident to the 
 shock, was to compel the postilion, who had by this time gained 
 his legs, to release the horses from their traces. This done, with 
 the best grace he could assume, and, adjusting his mask, he opened 
 the carriage, and proceeded to liberate the captives. 
 
 " Beg pardon, ma'am," said he, as soon as lie had released Mrs. 
 Mowbray; "excessively sorry, upon my soul, to have been the 
 cause of so much unnecessary alarm to you — all the fault, I assure 
 you, of that rascal of a postilion ; had the fellow only pulled up 
 when I commanded him, this botheration might have been avoided. 
 You will remember that, when you pay him — all his fault, I assure 
 you, ma'am." 
 
 Receiving no reply, he proceeded to extricate Eleanor, with 
 whose beauty the inflammable highwayman was instantly smitten. 
 Leaving the father to shift for himself, he turned to address some 
 observation of coarse gallantry to her: but she eluded his grasp, 
 and flew to her mother's side. 
 
 " it is useless, sir," said Mrs. Mowbray, as Turpin drew near 
 them, " to affect ignorance of your intentions. You have already 
 occasioned us serious alarm ; much delay and inconvenience. I 
 trust, therefore, that beyond our purses, to which, though scantily 
 supplied, you are welcome, we shall sustain no molestation. You 
 seem to have less of the ruffian about you than the rest of your 
 lawless race, and are not, I should hope, destitute of common 
 humanity." 
 
 " Common humanity !" replied Turpin : " bless you, ma'am, I'm 
 the most humane creature breathing — would not hurt a fly, much 
 less a lady. Incivility was never laid to my charge. This busi- 
 ness may be managed in a few seconds; and as soon as we have 
 
ROOKWOOD. 193 
 
 settled the matter, I'll lend your stupid jack-boy a hand to put the 
 horses to the carriage again, and get the wheels out of the ditch. 
 You have a banker, ma'am, I suppose, in town — perhaps in the 
 country; but I don't like country bankers; besides, I want a little 
 ready cash in Rumville — beg pardon, ma'am, London I mean. 
 My ears have been so stunned with those Romany patterers, I 
 almost think in flash. Just draw me a check; I've pen and ink 
 always ready : a check for fifty pounds, ma'am — only fifty. What's 
 your banker's name? I've blank checks of all the best houses in 
 my pocket; that and a kiss from the pretty lips of that cherry - 
 cheek'd maid," winking to Eleanor, " will fully content me. You 
 see you have neither an exorbitant nor uncivil personage to deal 
 with." 
 
 Eleanor shrank closer towards her mother. Exhausted by pre- 
 vious agitation of the night, greatly frightened by the shock which 
 she had just sustained, and still more alarmed by the words and 
 gestures of the highwayman, she felt that she was momentarily in 
 danger of fainting, and with difficulty prevented herself from fall- 
 ing. The priest, who had succeeded in freeing himself from the 
 carriage, now placed himself between Turpin and the ladies. 
 
 u Be satisfied, misguided man," said the father, in a stern voice, 
 offering a purse, which Mrs. Mowbray hastily extended towards 
 him, " with the crime you have already committed, and seek not 
 to peril your soul by deeper guilt; be content with the plunder 
 you now obtain, and depart; for, by my holy calling, I affirm to 
 you, that if you advance one footstep towards the further molesta- 
 tion of these ladies, it shall be at the hazard of your life." 
 
 "Bravo!" exclaimed Turpin. "Now this is what I like; who 
 would have thought the old autem-bawler had so much pluck in 
 him? Sir, I commend you for your courage, but you are mis- 
 taken. I am the quietest man breathing, and never harm a human 
 being; in proof of which, only look at your rascal of a postilion, 
 whom any one of my friends would have sent post-haste to the 
 devil for half the trouble he gave me. Easy as I am, I never 
 choose to be balked in my humours. I must have the fifty and 
 the buss, and then I'm off, as soon as you like; and I may as well 
 have the kiss while the old lady signs the check, and then we shall 
 have the seal as well as the signature. Poh — poh — no nonsense ! 
 Many a pretty lass has thought it an honour to be kissed by 
 JLurpin. 
 
 Eleanor recoiled with deepest disgust, as she saw the highway- 
 man thrust aside the useless opposition of the priest, and approach 
 her. He had removed his mask; his face, flushed with insolent 
 triumph, was turned towards her. Despite the loathing, which 
 curdled the blood within her veins, she could not avert her eyes. 
 He drew near her; she uttered a shrill scream. At that moment 
 a powerful grasp was laid upon Turpin's shoulder; he turned and 
 beheld Luke. 
 
 O 
 
194 KOOKWOOD. 
 
 " Save me ! save me !" cried Eleanor, addressing the new 
 comer. 
 
 "Damnation!" said the highwayman, "what has brought you 
 here? one would think you were turned assistant to all distressed 
 damsels. Quit your hold, or, by the God above us, you will 
 repent it." 
 
 "Fool!" exclaimed Luke, "talk thus to one who heeds you." 
 And as he spoke he hurled Turpin backwards with so much 
 force that, staggering a few yards, the highwayman fell to the 
 ground. 
 
 The priest stood like one stunned with surprise at Luke's 
 sudden appearance and subsequent daring action. 
 
 Luke, meanwhile, approached Eleanor. He gazed upon her 
 with curiosity mixed with admiration, for his heart told him she 
 was very fair. A deathlike paleness had spread over her cheeks; 
 yet still, despite the want of colour, she looked exquisitely beautiful, 
 and her large blue eyes eloquently thanked her deliverer for her 
 rescue. The words she wanted were supplied by Mrs. Mowbray, 
 who thanked him in appropriate terms, when they were inter- 
 rupted by Turpin, who had by this time picked himself up, and 
 was drawing near them. His countenance wore a fierce expres- 
 sion. 
 
 " I tell you what," said he, " Luke Bradley, or Luke Rookwood, 
 or whatever else you may call yourself, you have taken a damned 
 unfair advantage of me in this matter, and deserve nothing better 
 at my hands than that I should call you to instant account for it — 
 and curse me, if I don't too." 
 
 "Luke Bradley!" interrupted Mrs. Mowbray — "are you that 
 individual?" 
 
 " I have been so called, madam," replied Luke. 
 
 "Father Ambrose, is this the person of whom you spoke?" 
 eagerly asked the lady. 
 
 " So I conclude," returned the priest, evasively. 
 
 "Did he not call you Luke Rookwood?" eagerly demanded 
 Eleanor. "Is that also your name?" 
 
 " Rookwood is my name, fair cousin," replied Luke, " if I may 
 venture to call you so." 
 
 " And Ranulph Rookwood is " 
 
 "My brother." 
 
 " I never heard he had a brother," rejoined Eleanor, with some 
 agitation. " How can that be?" 
 
 " I am his brother, nevertheless," replied Luke, moodily — " his 
 
 ELDER BROTHER !" 
 
 Eleanor turned to her mother and the priest with a look of 
 imploring anguish ; she saw a confirmation of the truth of this 
 statement in their glances. No contradiction was offered by either 
 to his statement ; both, indeed, appeared in some mysterious 
 
EOOKWOOD. 195 
 
 manner prepared for it. This, then, was the dreaded secret. This 
 was the cause of her brother's sudden departure. The truth flashed 
 with lightning swiftness across her brain. 
 
 Chagrined and mortified, Luke remarked that glance of inquiry, 
 His pride was hurt at the preference thus naturally shown towards 
 his brother. He had been struck, deeply struck, with her beauty. 
 He acknowledged the truth of Peter's words. Eleanor's loveli- 
 ness was without parallel. He had seen nought so fair, and the 
 instant he beheld her, he felt that for Iter alone could he cancel 
 his vows to Sybil. The spirit of rivalry and jealousy was instantly 
 aroused by Eleanor's exclamations. 
 
 "His elder brother!" echoed Eleanor, dwelling upon his words, 
 and addressing Luke — " then you must be — but no, you are not, 
 you cannot be — it is Ranulph's title — it is not yours — you are 
 not " 
 
 "I am Sir Luke Rookwood," replied Luke, proudly. 
 
 Ere the words were uttered Eleanor had fainted. 
 
 "Assistance is at hand, madam, if you will accept it, and follow 
 me," said Luke, raising the insensible girl in his arms, and bearing 
 her down the hill towards the encampment, whither he was fol- 
 lowed by Mrs. Mowbray and the priest, between whom, during 
 the hurried dialogue we have detailed, very significant glances had 
 been exchanged. Turpin, who, as it may be supposed, had not 
 been an incurious observer of the scene passing, burst into his 
 usual loud laugh on seeing Luke bear away his lovely burden. 
 
 "Cousin! Ha, ha!" said he. "So the wench is his cousin. 
 Damme, I half suspect he has fallen in love with his new-found 
 cousin; and if so, Miss Sybil, or I'm mistaken, will look as yellow 
 as a guinea. If that little Spanish devil gets it into her pretty 
 jealous pate that he is about to bring home a new mistress, we 
 shall have a tragedy-scene in the twinkling of a bed-post. How- 
 ever, I sha'n't lose sight of Sir Luke until I have settled my 
 accounts with him. Hark ye, boy," continued he, addressing the 
 postilion; "remain where you are; you won't be wanted yet 
 awhile, I imagine. There's a guinea for you, to drink Dick 
 Turpin's health." 
 
 Upon which he mounted his mare, and walked her easily down 
 the hill. 
 
 " And so that be Dick Turpin, folks talk so much about," soli- 
 loquised the lad, looking curiously after him; "well, he's as civil- 
 speaking a chap as need be, blow my boots if he ain't! and if I'd 
 had a notion it were he, I'd have pulled up at first call, without 
 more ado. Nothing like experience — I shall know better another 
 time," added lie, pocketing the douceur. 
 
 Rushing swiftly down the hill, Luke tarried at the river's brink, 
 to sprinkle some of the cool element upon the pale brow of Eleanor. 
 As he held her in his arms, thoughts which he fain would have 
 
 O 2 
 
106 EOOKWOOD. 
 
 stifled in their birth took possession of his heart. "Would she 
 were mine ! " murmured he. " Yet no ! the wish is unworthy." 
 But that wish returned unbidden. 
 
 Eleanor opened her eyes. She was still too weak to walk 
 without support, and Luke, raising her once more in his arms, 
 and motioning Mrs. Mowbray to follow, crossed the brook by 
 means of stepping-stones, and- conducted his charge along a by- 
 path towards the priory, so as to avoid meeting with the crew 
 assembled upon the green. 
 
 They had gained one of the roofless halls, when he encountered 
 Balthazar. Astonished at the sight of the party, the patrico was 
 about to address the priest as an acquaintance, when his more or- 
 thodox brother raised his finger to his lips, in token of caution. 
 The action passed unobserved. 
 
 " Hie thee to Sybil," said Luke to the patrico. " Bid her haste 
 hither. Say that this maiden — that Miss Mowbray is here, and 
 requires her aid. Fly ! 1 will bear her to the refectory." 
 
 As Balthazar passed the priest, he pointed with a significant 
 glance towards a chasm in the wall, which seemed to be an open- 
 ing to some subterraneous chamber. The father again made a 
 gesture of silence, and Balthazar hastened upon his mission. 
 
 Luke led them to the refectory. He brought a chair for Elea- 
 nor's support; but so far from reviving, after such attention as 
 could be afforded her, she appeared to become weaker. He was 
 about to issue forth in search of Sybil, when to his surprise 
 he found the door fastened. 
 
 " You cannot pass this way," said a voice, which Luke instantly 
 recognised as that of the knight of Malta. 
 
 "Not pass !" echoed Luke. " What does this mean?" 
 
 u Our orders are from the queen," returned the knight. 
 
 At this instant the low tone of a muffled bell was heard. 
 
 "Ha!" exclaimed Luke; "some danger is at hand." 
 
 His heart smote him as he thought of Sybil, and he looked 
 anxiously towards Eleanor. 
 
 Balthazar rushed into the room. 
 
 " Where is Sybil?" cried Luke. " Will she not come?" 
 
 " She will be here anon," answered the patrico. 
 
 "I will seek her myself, then," said Luke. "The door by 
 which you entered is free." 
 
 " It is not free," replied Balthazar. " Remain where you are." 
 
 "Who will prevent my going forth?" demanded Luke, sternly. 
 
 " I will," said Barbara Level, as she suddenly appeared in the 
 doorway. " You stir not, excepting at my pleasure. Where is 
 the maiden?" continued she, looking around with a grim smile 
 of satisfaction at the consternation produced by her appearance. 
 "Ha! I see; she faints. Here is a cordial that shall revive her. 
 Mrs. Mowbray, you are welcome to the gipsies' dwelling — you and 
 your daughter. And you. Sir Luke Rookwood, I congratulate 
 
ROOKWOOD. 197 
 
 you upon your accession of dignity." Turning to the priest, who 
 was evidently overwhelmed with confusion, she exclaimed, "And 
 you too, sir, think you I recognise you not? We have met ere 
 this, at Kookwood. Know you not Barbara Lovel? Ha, ha! It 
 is long since my poor dwelling has been so highly honoured. But 
 I must not delay the remedy. Let her drink of this," said she, 
 handing a phial to Mrs. Mowbray. " It will instantly restore her." 
 
 " It is poison," cried Luke. " She shall not drink it." 
 
 "Poison!" reiterated Barbara. "Behold!" and she drank of 
 the liquid. " I would not poison your bride," added she, turning 
 to Luke. 
 
 " My bride !" echoed Luke. 
 
 " Ay, your bride," repeated Barbara. 
 
 Luke recoiled in amazement. Mrs. Mowbray almost felt in- 
 clined to believe she was a dreamer, so visionary did the whole 
 scene appear. A dense crowd of witnesses stood at the entrance. 
 Foremost amongst them was the sexton. Suddenly a shriek was 
 heard, and the crowd opening to allow her passage, Sybil rushed 
 forward. 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 M R S. MOWBRAY. 
 
 Well, go thy ways, old Nick Machiavel, there will never be the peer of thee 
 for -wholesome policy and good counsel : thou took'st pains to chalk men out 
 the dark paths and hidden plots of murther and deceit, and no man has the 
 grace to follow thee. The age is unthankful, thy principles are quite forsaken, 
 and worn out of memory. Shakerley Maraiion's Atitiqiwy. 
 
 Sybil's sudden entrance filled the group that surrounded Miss 
 Mowbray with new dismay. But she saw them not. Her soul 
 seemed riveted by Eleanor, towards whom she rushed ; and while 
 her eye wandered over her beauty, she raised the braided hair 
 from her brow, revealing the clear, polished forehead. Wonder, 
 awe, devotion, pity, usurped the place of hatred. The fierce ex- 
 pression that had lit up her dark orbs was succeeded by tender 
 commiseration. She looked an imploring appeal at Barbara. 
 
 " Ay, ay," returned the old gipsy, extending at the same time 
 the phial; "I understand. Here is that will bring the blood once 
 more into her pallid cheeks, and kindle the fire within her eyes. 
 Give her of this." 
 
 The effect of the potion was almost instantaneous, amply attest- 
 ing Barbara's skill in its concoction. Stifled respiration first pro- 
 claimed Eleanor's recovery. She opened her large and languid 
 
198 ROOKWOOD. 
 
 eyes; her bosom heaved almost to bursting; her pulses throbbed 
 quickly and feverishly; and as the stimulant operated, the wild 
 lustre of excitement blazed in her eyes. 
 
 Sybil took her hand to chafe it. The eyes of the two maidens 
 met. They gazed upon each other steadfastly and in silence. 
 Eleanor knew not whom she regarded, but she could not mistake 
 that look of sympathy; she couid not mistake the tremulous pres- 
 sure of her hand; she felt the silent trickling tears. She returned 
 the sympathising glance, and gazed with equal wonder upon the 
 ministering fairy, for such she almost seemed, that knelt before 
 her. As her looks wandered from the kindly glance of Sybil to 
 the withered and inauspicious aspect of the gipsy queen, and 
 shifted thence 'to the dusky figures of her attendants, filled with 
 renewed apprehension, she exclaimed, " Who are these, and where 
 am I ?" 
 
 u You are in safety," replied Luke. " This is the ruined priory 
 of St. Francis; and those strange personages are a horde of gip- 
 sies. You need fear no injury from them." 
 
 " My deliverer!" murmured Eleanor; when all at once the re- 
 collection that he had avowed himself a Rookwood, and the elder 
 brother of Ranulph, flashed across her memory. " Gipsies ! did 
 you not say these people were gipsies? Your own attire is the 
 same as theirs. You are not, cannot be, the brother of Ranulph." 
 
 "I do not boast the same mother," returned Luke, proudly; 
 " but my father was Sir Piers Rookwood, and I am his elder 
 born." 
 
 He turned away. Dark thoughts swept across his brain. Mad- 
 dened by the beauty of Eleanor, stung by her slights, and insen- 
 sible to the silent agony of Sybil, who sought in vain to catch his 
 eye, he thought of nothing but of revenge, and the accomplish- 
 ment of his purposes. All within was a wild and fearful turmoil. 
 His better principles were stifled by the promptings of evil. " Me- 
 thinks," cried he, half aloud, " if the Tempter were near to offer 
 that maiden to me, even at the peril of my soul's welfare, I could 
 not resist it." 
 
 The Tempter was at hand. He is seldom absent on occasions 
 like the present. The sexton stood beside his grandson. Luke 
 started. He eyed Peter from head to foot, almost expecting to 
 find the cloven foot, supposed to be proper to the fiend. Peter 
 grinned in ghastly derision. 
 
 " Soh ! you would summon hell to your aid; and lo ! the devil 
 is at your elbow. Well, she is yours." 
 
 u Make good your words," cried Luke, impatiently. 
 
 " Softly — softly," returned Peter. " Moderate yourself, and 
 your wishes shall be accomplished. Your own desires chime with 
 these of others ; nay, with those of Barbara. She would wed you 
 to Miss Mowbray. You stare. But it is so. This is a cover for 
 some deeper plot; no matter. It shall go hard, despite her cun- 
 
ROOKWOOD. 199 
 
 ning, if I foil her not at her own weapons. There is more mischief 
 in that old woman's brain than was ever hatched within the croco- 
 dile's egg; yet she shall find her match. Do not thwart her; leave 
 all to me. She is about it now," added he, noticing Barbara and 
 Mrs. Mowbray in conference together. " Be patient — I will watch 
 her." And he quitted his grandson for the purpose of scanning 
 more closely the manoeuvres of the old gipsy. 
 
 Barbara, meanwhile, had not remained inactive. 
 
 "You need fear no relapse in your daughter; I will answer for 
 that," said the old gipsy to Mrs. Mowbray; " Sybil will tend her. 
 Quit not the maiden's side," continued she, addressing her grand- 
 child, adding, in a whisper, " Be cautious — alarm her not — mine 
 eye will be upon you — drop not a word." 
 
 So saying, she shuffled to a little distance with Mrs. Mowbray, 
 keeping Sybil in view, and watching every motion, as the panther 
 watches the gambols of a fawn. 
 
 " Know you who speaks to you?" said the old crone, in the pe- 
 culiar low and confidential tone assumed by her tribe to strangers. 
 " Have you forgotten the name of Barbara Lovel ?" 
 
 "I have no distinct remembrance of it," returned Mrs. Mow- 
 bray. 
 
 "Think again," said Barbara; "and though years are flown, 
 you may perchance recal the black gipsy woman, who, when you 
 were surrounded with gay gallants, with dancing plumes, perused 
 your palm, and whispered in your ear the favoured suitor's name. 
 Bide with me a moment, madam," said Barbara, seeing that Mrs. 
 Mowbray shrank from the recollection thus conjured up; "I am 
 old — very old; I have survived the shows of flattery, and being- 
 vested with a pow T er over my people, am apt, perchance, to take 
 too much upon myself with others." The old gipsy paused here, 
 and then, assuming a more familiar tone, exclaimed, " The estates 
 of Rookwood are ample " 
 
 " Woman, what mean you?" 
 
 " They should have been yours, lady, and would have been, but 
 for that marriage. You would have beseemed them bravely. Sir 
 Reginald was wilful, and erased the daughter's name to substitute 
 that of his son. Pity it is that so fair a creature as Miss Mowbray 
 should lack the dower her beauty and her birth entitle her to 
 expect. Pity that Ranulph Rookwood should lose his title, at the 
 moment when he deemed it was dropping into his possession. 
 Pity that those broad lands should pass away from you and your 
 children, as they will do, if Ranulph and Eleanor are united." 
 
 " They never shall 'be united," replied Mrs. Mowbray, hastily. 
 
 "'Twcrc indeed to wed your child to beggary," said Barbara. 
 
 Mrs. Mowbray sighed deeply. 
 
 " There is a way," continued the old crone, in a deep whisper, 
 " by which the estates might still be hers and yours", 
 
 "Indeed!" said Mrs. Mowbray, eagerly. 
 
200 ROOKWOOD. 
 
 " Sir Piers Rookwood had two sons." 
 "Ha!" 
 
 " The elder is here." 
 
 "Luke — Sir Luke. He brought us hither." 
 " He loves your daughter. I saw his gaze of passion just now. 
 I am old now, but I have some skill in lovers' glances. Why not 
 wed her to him? I read hands — read hearts, you know. They 
 were born for each other. Now, madam, do you understand me?" 
 " But," returned Mrs. Mowbray, with hesitation, " though I 
 might wish for — though I might sanction this, Eleanor is betrothed 
 to Ranulph — she loves him." 
 
 "Think not of her, if you are satisfied. She cannot judge so 
 well for herself as you can for her. She is a child, and knows not 
 what she loves. Her affection will soon be Luke's. He is a noble 
 youth — the image of his grandfather, your father, Sir Reginald ; 
 and if your daughter be betrothed to any one, 'twas to the heir of 
 Rookwood. That was an essential part of the contract. Why 
 should the marriage not take place at once, and here?" 
 "Here! How were that possible?" 
 
 " You are within sacred walls. I will take you where an altar 
 stands. There is no lack of holy priest to join their hands toge- 
 ther. Your companion, Father Ambrose, as you call him, will do 
 the office fittingly. He has essayed his clerkly skill already on 
 others of your house." 
 
 " To what do you allude, mysterious woman ?" asked Mrs. Mow- 
 bray, with anxiety. 
 
 "To Sir Piers and Susan Bradley," returned Barbara. "That 
 priest united them." 
 
 " Indeed ! He never told me this." 
 
 "He dared not do so; he had an oath which bound him to con- 
 cealment. The time is coming when greater mysteries will be 
 revealed." 
 
 " 'Tis strange I should not have heard of this before," said Mrs. 
 Mowbray, musingly; "and yet I might have guessed as much 
 from his obscure hints respecting Ranulph. I see it all now. I 
 see the gulf into which I might have been plunged; but I am 
 warned in time. Father Ambrose," continued she, to the priest, 
 who was pacing the chamber at some little distance from them, 
 "is it true that my brother was wedded by you to Susan Brad- 
 ley?" 
 
 Ere the priest could reply the sexton presented himself. 
 " Ha, the very father of the girl !" said Mrs. Mowbray, " whom 
 I met within our family vault, and who was so strangely moved 
 when I spoke to him of Alan Rookwood. Is he here likewise?" 
 
 " Alan Rookwood !" echoed Barbara, upon whom a light seemed 
 suddenly to break ; " ha ! what said he of him ?" 
 
 " Ill-boding raven," interposed Peter, fiercely, " be content with 
 
ROOKWOOD. 201 
 
 what thou knowest of the living, and trouble not the repose of the 
 dead. Let them rest in their infamy." 
 
 " The dead!" echoed Barbara, with a chuckling laugh: "ha! 
 ha ! he is dead, then ; and what became of his fair wife — his 
 brother's minion? 'Twas a foul deed, I grant, and yet there was 
 expiation. Blood flowed — blood " 
 
 " Silence, thou night hag," thundered Peter, " or I will have 
 thee burned at the stake for the sorcery thou practisest. Beware," 
 added he, in a deep tone — " I am thy friend." 
 
 Barbara's withered countenance exhibited for an instant the 
 deepest indignation at the sexton's threat. The malediction trem- 
 bled on her tongue; she raised her staff to smite him, but she 
 checked the action. In the same tone, and with a sharp, suspicious 
 look, she replied, " My friend, sayest thou? See that it prove so, 
 or beware of me" 
 
 And, with a malignant scowl, the gipsy queen slowly shuffled 
 towards her satellites, who were stationed at the door. 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 THE PARTING. 
 
 No marriage I esteem it, where the friends 
 
 Force love upon their children ; where the virgin 
 
 Is not so truly given as betrayed. 
 
 I would not have betrothed people (for 
 
 I can by no means call them lovers) make 
 
 Their rites no wedlock, but a sacrifice. 
 
 Combat of Love and Friend ship. 
 
 Eleanor Mowbray had witnessed her mother's withdrawal 
 from her side with much uneasiness, and was with difficulty pre- 
 vented by Sybil from breaking upon her conference with the 
 gipsy queen. Barbara's dark eye was fixed upon them during the 
 whole of the interview, and communicated an indefinite sense of 
 dread to Eleanor. 
 
 "Who — who is that old woman?" asked Eleanor, under her 
 breath. " Never, even in my wildest dreams, have I seen aught 
 so terrible. Why docs she look so at us? She terrifies me; and 
 yet she cannot mean me ill, or my mother — we have never injured 
 her?" 
 
 "Alas!" sighed Sybil. 
 
 "You sigh I" exclaimed Eleanor, in alarm. " Is there any real 
 danger, then? Help us to avoid it. Quick,- warn my mother; 
 she seems agitated. Oh, let me go to her." 
 
202 ROOKWOOD. 
 
 " Husli !" whispered Sybil, maintaining an unmoved demeanour 
 under the lynx-like gaze of Barbara. " Stir not, as you value your 
 life; you know not where you are, or what may befal you. Your 
 safety depends upon your composure. Your life is not in danger; 
 but what is dearer than life, your love, is threatened with a fatal 
 blow. There is a dark design to wed you to another." 
 "Heavens!" ejaculated Eleanor, "and to whom?" 
 "To Sir Luke Rookwood." 
 
 " I would die sooner ! Marry him ? They shall kill me ere 
 they force me to it !" 
 
 "Could you not love him?" 
 
 "Love him ! I have only seen him within this hour. I knew 
 not of his existence. He rescued me from peril. I would thank 
 him. I would love him, if I could, for Ranulph's sake; and yet 
 for Ranulph's sake I hate him." 
 
 " Speak not of him thus to me," said Sybil, angrily. " If you 
 love him not, /love him. Oh ! forgive me, lady; pardon my im- 
 patience — my heart is breaking, yet it has not ceased to beat for 
 him. You say you will die sooner than consent to this forced 
 union. Your faith shall not be so cruelly attested. If there must 
 be a victim, I will be the sacrifice. God grant I may be the only 
 one. Be happy ! as happy as I am wretched. You shall see what 
 the love of a gipsy can do." 
 
 As she spoke, Sybil burst into a flood of passionate tears. 
 Eleanor regarded her with the deepest commiseration; but the 
 feeling was transient; for Barbara, now advancing, exclaimed, 
 "Hence to your mother. The bridegroom is waiting: to your 
 mother, girl!" And she motioned Eleanor fiercely away. "What 
 means this?" continued the old gipsy. "What have you said to 
 that girl? Did I not caution you against speech with her? and 
 you have dared to disobey me. You, my grandchild — the daugh- 
 ter of my Agatha, with whom my slightest wish was law. I 
 abandon you ! I curse you !" 
 
 "Oh, curse me not!" cried Sybil. "Add not to my despair." 
 
 "Then follow my advice implicitly. Cast off this weakness; 
 all is in readiness. Luke shall descend into the vaulted chapel, 
 the ceremony shall there take place — there also shall Eleanor die 
 — and there again shall you be wedded. Take this phial, place it 
 within the folds of your girdle. When all is over, I will tell you 
 how to use it? Are you prepared? Shall we set out?" 
 
 "I am prepared," replied Sybil, in accents hollow as despair; 
 " but let me speak with Luke before we go." 
 
 " Be brief, then — each moment is precious. Keep a guard upon 
 your tongue. I will to Mrs. Mowbray. You have placed the 
 phial in safety. A drop will free you from your troubles." 
 
 " 'Tis in that hope I guard it," replied Sybil, as she departed in 
 the direction of Luke. Barbara watched her join him, and then 
 turned shortly towards Mrs. Mowbray and her daughter. 
 
ROOKWOOD. 203 
 
 " You are ill, clear Luke," said Sybil, who had silently approached 
 her faithless lover; "very ill." 
 
 "111!" echoed Luke, breaking into frantic laughter. "111! 
 Ha, ha ! — upon my wedding-day. No, I am well — well. Your 
 eyes are jaundiced by jealousy." 
 
 "Luke, dear Luke, laugh not thus. It terrifies me. I shall 
 think you insane. There, you are calmer — you are more like 
 yourself — more human. You looked just now — oh God! that I 
 should say it of you — as if you were possessed by demons." 
 
 "And if I were possessed, what then?" 
 
 "Horrible! hint not at it. You almost make me credit the 
 dreadful tales I have heard, that on their wedding-day the Hook- 
 woods are subject to the power of the c Evil One.'" 
 
 "Upon their wedding-day — and /look thus?" 
 
 " You do — you do. Oh ! cast this frenzy from you." 
 
 " She is mine — she is mine ! I care not though fiends possess me, 
 if it is my wedding-day, and Eleanor is my bride. And you say 
 I look like a Rookwood. Ha, ha!" 
 
 " That wild laughter again. Luke, I implore you, hear me one 
 word — my last " 
 
 " I will not bear reproaches." 
 
 " I mean not to reproach you. I come to bless you — to forgive 
 you — to bid you farewell. Will you not say farewell?" 
 
 " Farewell." 
 
 "Not so — not so. Mercy! my God! compassionate him and 
 me! My heart will break with agony. Luke, if you would not 
 kill me, recal that word. Let not the guilt of my death be yours. 
 'Tis to save you from that remorse that I die !" 
 
 " Sybil, you have said rightly, I am not myself. I know not 
 what demons have possession of my soul, that I can behold your 
 agonies without remorse ; that your matchless affection should 
 awaken no return. Yet so it is. Since the fatal moment when I 
 beheld yon maid, I have loved her." 
 
 " No more. Now I can part with you. Farewell!" 
 
 " Stay, stay ! wretch that I am. Stay, Sybil ! If we must part — 
 and that it must be so I feel — let me receive your pardon, if you can 
 bestow it. Let me clasp you once more within my arms. May 
 you live to happier days — may you " 
 
 "Oh, to die thus!" sobbed Sybil, disengaging herself from his 
 embrace. " Live to happier days, said you? When have /given 
 you reason to doubt, for an instant, the sincerity of my love, that 
 you should insult me thus?" 
 
 " Then live with me — live for me." 
 
 " If you can love me still, I will live as your slave, your minion, 
 your wife; aught you will have me be. You have raised me from 
 wretchedness. Oh!" continued she, in an altered tone, "have I 
 mistaken your meaning ! Did you utter those words in false com- 
 passion for my sufferings? — Speak, it is not yet too late — all may 
 
204 EOOKWOOD. 
 
 be well. My fate — my life is in your hands. If you love me yet 
 — if you can forsake Eleanor, speak — if not, be silent." 
 
 Luke averted his head. 
 
 "Enough!" continued Sybil, in a voice of agony; " I under- 
 stand. May God forgive you ! Fare you well ! We shall meet 
 no more." 
 
 "Do we part for ever?" asked Luke, without daring to regard 
 her. 
 
 "For ever!" answered Sybil. 
 
 Before her lover could reply, she shot from his side, and plung- 
 ing amidst the dark and dense assemblage near the door, disap- 
 peared from view. An instant after, she emerged into the open 
 air. She stood within the roofless hall. It was filled with sun- 
 shine — with the fresh breath of morn. The ivied ruins, the ' 
 grassy floor, the blue vault of heaven, seemed to greet her with a 
 benignant smile. All was riant and rejoicing — all, save her heart. 
 Amid such brightness, her sorrow seemed harsh and unnatural; 
 and as she felt the glad influence of day, she was scarcely able to 
 refrain from tears. It was terrible to leave this beautiful world, 
 that blue sky, that sunshine, and all she loved — so young, so soon. 
 
 Entering a low arch that yawned within the wall, she vanished 
 like a ghost at the approach of morn. 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 THE PHILTER. 
 
 Thou hast practised on her with foul charms- 
 Abused her delicate youth with drugs and minerals. 
 
 Shakspeare: Othello. 
 
 To return to Eleanor Mowbray. In a state of mind bordering 
 upon distraction, she rushed to her mother, and, flinging her 
 arms wildly round her neck, besought her to protect her. Mrs. 
 Mowbray gazed anxiously upon the altered countenance of her 
 daughter, but a few moments relieved her from much of her 
 uneasiness. The expression of pain gradually subsided, and the 
 look of vacuity was succeeded by one of frenzied excitement. A 
 film had, for an instant or two, dimmed her eyes; they now 
 gleamed with unnatural lustre. She smiled — the smile was sin- 
 gular; it was not the playful, pleasurable lighting up of the face 
 that it used to be; but it teas a smile, and the mother's heart was 
 satisfied. 
 
 Mrs. Mowbray knew not to what circumstance she could attri- 
 bute this wondrous change. She looked at the priest. He was 
 
ROOKWOOD. 205 
 
 more apt in divining the probable cause of the sudden alteration 
 in Eleanor's manner. 
 
 " What if she has swallowed a love-powder?" said he, approach- 
 ing Mrs. Mowbray, and speaking in a whisper. " I have heard of 
 such abominable mixtures; indeed, the holy St. Jerome himself 
 relates an instance of similar sorcery, in his life of Hilarius; and 
 these people are said to compound them." 
 
 "It may be so," replied Mrs. Mowbray, in the same tone. " I 
 think that the peculiar softness in the eye is more than natural." 
 
 " I will at least hazard an experiment, to attest the truth or 
 fallacy of my supposition," returned the father. " Do you see 
 your destined bridegroom yonder?" continued he, addressing 
 Eleanor. 
 
 She followed with her eyes in the direction which Father Am- 
 brose pointed. She beheld Luke. We know not how to describe 
 the sensations which now possessed her. She thought not of Ra- 
 nulph; or, if she did, it was with vague indifference. Wrapped 
 in a kind of mental trance, she yielded to the pleasurable impulse 
 that directed her unsettled fancies towards Luke. For some mo- 
 ments she did not take her eyes from him. The priest and Mrs. 
 Mowbray watched her in silence. 
 
 Nothing passed between the party till Luke joined them. 
 Eleanor continued gazing at him, and the seeming tenderness of 
 her glance emboldened Luke to advance towards her. The soft 
 fire that dwelt in those orbs was, however, cold as the shining 
 win^ of the luciola. 
 
 Luke approached her; he took her hand — she withdrew it not. 
 He kissed it. Still she withdrew it not, but gazed at him with 
 gently-glimmering eyes. 
 
 "My daughter is yours, Sir Luke Rookwood," exclaimed Mrs. 
 Mowbray. 
 
 "What says the maid herself?" asked Luke. 
 
 Eleanor answered not. Her eyes were still fixed on him. 
 
 " She will not refuse me her hand," said Luke. 
 
 The victim resisted not. 
 
 "To the subterranean shrine," cried Barbara. And she gave 
 the preconcerted signal to the band. 
 
 The signal was repeated by the gipsy crew. We may here 
 casually note, that the crew had been by no means uninterested or 
 silent spectators of passing events, but had, on the contrary, in- 
 dulged themselves in a variety of conjectures as to their probable 
 issue. Several bets were pending as to whether it would be a 
 match or not after all. Zoroaster took long odds that the match 
 was off — oilering a bean to half-a-quid (in other words, a guinea 
 to a half-guinea) that Sybil would, be the bride. His offer was 
 taken at once by Jerry Juniper, and backed by the knight of 
 Malta. 
 
206 KOOKWOOD. 
 
 "Ha! there's the signal," cried the knight; " I'll trouble you 
 for the bean." 
 
 "And I," added Jerry Juniper, "for another." 
 
 "See 'em fairly spliced first," replied the Magus; "that's vot 
 I betted." 
 
 " Veil, veil, a few minutes will settle that. Come, pals, to the 
 autem ken. Avay. Mind and obey orders." 
 
 " Ay, ay," answered the crew. 
 
 " Here's a torch for the altar of Hymen," said the knight, flash- 
 ing his torch in the eyes of the patrico as he passed him. 
 
 "For the halter of Haman, you might say," returned Balthazar, 
 sulkily. " It's well if some of us don't swing for it." 
 
 "You don't say," rejoined the perplexed Magus, " swing ! Egad, 
 I fear it's a ticklish business. But there's no righting shy, I fear, 
 with Barbara present; and then there's that infernal autem-bawler ; 
 it will be so cursedly regular. If you had done the job, Baity, it 
 would not have signified a brass farden. Luckily there will be no 
 vitnesses to snitch upon us. There will be no one in the vault be- 
 sides ourselves." 
 
 "There will be a silent and a solemn witness," returned Bal- 
 thazar, " and one whom you expect not." 
 
 " Eh ! Vot's that you say ? a spy ? " 
 
 But the patrico was gone. 
 
 " Make way there — make way, pals, for the bride and bride- 
 groom," cried the knight of Malta, drawing excalibur, and pre- 
 paring to lead the way to the vault. 
 
 The train began to move. Eleanor leaned upon the arm of her 
 mother. Beside them stalked Barbara, with an aspect of triumph. 
 Luke followed with the priest. One by one the assemblage quitted 
 the apartment. 
 
 The sexton alone lingered. " The moment is at hand," said he, 
 musingly, " when all shall be consummated." 
 
 A few steps brought him into the court. The crowd was there 
 still. A brief delay had taken place. The knight of Malta then 
 entered the mouth of the vault. He held his torch so as to reveal 
 a broken flight of steps, conducting, it would seem, to regions of 
 perpetual night. So thought Eleanor, as she shudderingly gazed 
 into the abyss. She hesitated; she trembled; she refused. But 
 her mother's entreaties, and Barbara's threatening looks, induced, 
 in the end, reluctant compliance. At length the place was empty. 
 Peter was about to follow, when the sound of a horse's hoofs broke 
 upon his ear. He tarried for an instant, and the mounted figure 
 of the highwayman burst within the limits of the court. 
 
 "Ha, ha! old earthworm," cried Dick, "my Nestor of the 
 churchyard, alone! Where the devil are all the folks gone? 
 Where's Sir Luke and his new T -found cousin, eh?" 
 Peter hastily explained. 
 
EOOKTVOOD. 207 
 
 " A wedding under ground? famous! the thing of all others I 
 should like to see. I'll hang Bess to this ivy tod, and grub my 
 way with you thither, old mole." 
 
 " You must stay here, and keep guard," returned Peter, 
 
 " May I be hanged if I do, when such fun is going on." 
 
 "Hanged, in all probability, you will be," returned Peter; 
 "but I should not, were I you, desire to anticipate my destiny 
 Stay here you must, and shall — that's peremptory. You will be 
 the gainer by it. Sir Luke will reward you nobly. I will answer 
 for him. You can serve him most effectually. Ranulph Hook- 
 wood and Major Mowbray are expected here." 
 
 " The devil they are. But how, or why " 
 
 " I have not time to explain. In case of a surprise, discharge a 
 pistol; they must not enter the vault. Have you a whistle? for 
 you must play a double part, and we may need your assistance 
 below." 
 
 " Sir Luke may command me. Here's a pipe as shrill as the 
 devil's own cat-call." 
 
 " If it will summon you to our assistance below, 'tis all I need. 
 May we rely on you?" 
 
 "When did Dick Turpin desert his friends? Anywhere on 
 this side the Styx the sound of that whistle will reach me. I'll 
 ride about the court, and stand sentry." 
 
 " Enough" replied the sexton, as he dived under ground. 
 
 " Take care of your shins," shouted Dick. " That's a cursed 
 ugly turn, but he's used to the dark. A surprise, eh! I'll just 
 give a look to my snappers — flints all safe. Nov/ I'm ready for 
 them, come when they like." And, having made the circuit of 
 the place, he halted near the mouth of the subterranean chapel, to 
 be within hearing of Peter's whistle, and, throwing his right leg 
 lazily over his saddle, proceeded coolly to light a short pipe (the 
 luxury of the cigar being then unknown), humming the while 
 snatches of a ballad, the theme of which was his own calling. 
 
 THE SCAMPSMAJS. 
 
 Quis vere rex. 
 
 Seneca. 
 
 Chere is not a king, should you search the world round, 
 So blithe as the king of the road to be found ; 
 pistol's his sceptre, his saddle's his throne, 
 V> her.ee ne levies supplies, or enforces a loan. 
 
 Deny duicn. 
 
 To this monarch the highway presents a wide field, 
 Where each passing subject a tribute must yield; 
 His palace (the tavern !) receives him at night, 
 T\ here sweet lips and sound liquor crown all with delight. 
 
 Deny down. 
 
208 ROOKWOOD. 
 
 The soldier and sailor, both robbers by trade, 
 Pull soon on the shelf, if disabled, are laid ; 
 The one gets a patch, and the other a peg, 
 But, while luck lasts, the highwayman shakes a loose leg ! 
 
 Derry down. 
 
 Most fowl rise at dawn, but the owl wakes at e'en, 
 And a jollier bird can there nowhere be seen ; 
 Like the owl, our snug scampsman his snooze takes by day, 
 And, when night draws her curtain, scuds after his prey ! 
 
 Derry down. 
 
 As the highwayman's life is the fullest of zest, 
 
 So the highwayman's death is the briefest and best ; 
 
 He dies not as other men die, by degrees ! 
 
 But at once ! without wincing, and quite at his ease ! 
 
 Derry down. 
 
 And thus, for the present, we leave him. O rare Dick Turpin ! 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 saint cyprian's cell. 
 
 Lasciate ogni speranza voi ch' entrate. 
 
 Dante. 
 
 Cyprian de Mulverton, fifth prior of the monastery of Saint 
 Francis, a prelate of singular sanctity, being afflicted, in his latter 
 days, with a despondency so deep that neither penance nor fasting 
 could remove it, vowed never again to behold, with earthly eyes, 
 the blessed light of heaven, nor to dwell longer with his fellow- 
 men ; but, relinquishing his spiritual dignity, u the world forget- 
 ting, by the world forgot," to immure himself, while living, within 
 the tomb. 
 
 He kept his vow. Out of the living rock that sustained the 
 saintly structure, beneath the chapel of the monastery, was another 
 chapel wrought, and thither, after bidding an eternal farewell to 
 the world, and bestowing his benediction upon his flock, whom he 
 committed to the care of his successor, the holy man retired. 
 
 Never, save at midnight, and then only during the performance 
 of masses for his soul's repose, did he ascend from his cpII: and as 
 the sole licrlit allowed within the dismal dungeon of his cnoioe vrs.f 
 that of a sepulchral lamp, as none spoke with him when in his re- 
 treat, save in muttered syllables, what eiFect must the lustre ema- 
 nating from a thousand tapers, the warm and pungent odours of 
 the incense-breathing shrine, contrasted with the earthy vapours of 
 his prison-house, and the solemn swell of the Sanctus, have had 
 
EOOKWOOD. 209 
 
 upon his excited senses? Surely they must have seemed like a 
 foretaste of the heaven lie sought to gain ! 
 
 Ascetic to the severest point to which nature's endurance could 
 be stretched, Cyprian even denied himself repose. He sought not 
 sleep, and knew it only when it stole on him unawares. His 
 couch was the flinty rock; and long afterwards, when the zealous 
 resorted to the sainted prior's cell, and were shown those sharp and 
 jagged stones, they marvelled how one like unto themselves could 
 rest, or even recline upon their points without anguish, until it 
 was explained to them that, doubtless, Pie who tempereth the 
 wind to the shorn lamb had made that flinty couch soft to the 
 holy sufferer as a bed of down. His limbs were clothed in a garb 
 of horsehair of the coarsest fabric; his drink was the dank drops 
 that oozed from the porous walls of his cell; and his sustenance, 
 such morsels as were bestowed upon him by the poor — the only 
 strangers permitted to approach him. No fire was suffered, where 
 perpetual winter reigned. None were admitted to his nightly 
 vigils; none witnessed any act of penance; nor were any groans 
 heard to issue from that dreary cave; but the knotted, blood-stained 
 thong, discovered near his couch, too plainly betrayed in what 
 manner those long lone nights were spent. Thus did a year roll 
 on. Traces of his sufferings were visible in his failing strength. 
 He could scarcely crawl; but he meekly declined assistance. He 
 appeared not, as had been his wont, at the midnight mass; the 
 door of his cell was thrown open at that hour; the light streamed 
 down like a glory upon his reverend head; he heard the distant 
 reverberations of the deep Miserere; and breathed odours as if 
 waited from Paradise. 
 
 One morn it chanced that they who sought his cell found him 
 with his head upon his bosom, kneeling before the image of the 
 virgin patroness of his shrine. Fearing to disturb his devotions, 
 they stood reverently looking on ; and thus silently did they tarry 
 for an hour ; but, as in that space he had shown no signs of mo- 
 tion, fearing the worst, they ventured to approach him. He was 
 cold as the marble before which he knelt. In the act of humblest in- 
 tercession — it may be, in the hope of grace — had Cyprian's spirit 
 fled. 
 
 " Blessed are they who die in the Lord," exclaimed his brethren, 
 regarding his remains with deepest awe. On being touched, the 
 body fell to the ground. It was little more than a skeleton. 
 
 Under the cloisters of the holy pile were his bones interred, 
 with a degree of pomp and ostentation that little accorded with 
 the lowliness and self-abasement of this man of many sorrows. 
 
 This chapel, at the time of which we treat, was pretty much in 
 the same condition as it existed in the days of its holy inmate. 
 Hewn out of the entrails of the rock, the roof, the vaults, the floor, 
 were of solid granite. Three huge cylindrical pillars, carved out 
 of the native rock, rough as the stems of gnarled oak-trees, lent 
 
 P 
 
210 ROOKWOOD. 
 
 support to the ceiling. Support, however, was unneeded; an 
 earthquake would scarce have shaken down those solid rafters. 
 Only in one corner, where the water welled through a crevice of 
 the rock, in drops that fell like tears, was decay manifest. Here 
 the stone, worn by the constant dripping, had, in some places, 
 given way. In shape, the vault was circular. The interval 
 between each massive pillar formed a pointed arch. Again, from 
 each pillar sprang other arches r which, crossed by diagonal, ogive 
 branches, weaving one into the other, and radiating from the 
 centre, formed those beautifully intricate combinations upon which 
 the eye of the architectural enthusiast loves to linger. Within the 
 ring formed by these triple columns, in which again the pillars had 
 their own web of arches, was placed an altar of stone, and beside 
 it a crucifix of the same rude material. Here also stood the 
 sainted image of her who had filled the prior with holy aspira- 
 tions, now a shapeless stone. The dim lamp, that, like a star 
 struggling with the thick gloom of tx wintry cell, had shed its 
 slender radiance over the brow of the Virgin Thecla, was gone. 
 But around the keystone of the central arches, whence a chain 
 had once depended, might be traced in ancient characters, half 
 effaced by time, the inscription : 
 
 One outlet only was there from the chapel — that which led by 
 winding steps to the monastery ; one only recess — the prior's cell. 
 The former faced the altar; the latter yawned like the mouth of a 
 tomb at its back. Altogether it was a dreary place. Dumb were 
 its walls as when they refused to return the murmured orisons of 
 the anchorite. One uniform sad colouring prevailed throughout. 
 The grey granite was grown hoar with age, and had a ghostly 
 look; the columns were ponderous, and projected heavy shadows. 
 Sorrow and superstition had their tale, and a moral gloom 
 deepened the darkness of the spot. Despair, which had inspired 
 its construction, seemed to brood therein. Hope shunned its in- 
 exorable recesses. 
 
 Alone, within this dismal sanctuary, with hands outstretched 
 towards the desecrated image of its tutelar saint, knelt Sybil. All 
 was darkness. Neither the heavy vapours that surrounded her, 
 nor the shrine before which she bent, were visible; but, familiar 
 with the dreary spot, she knew that she had placed herself aright. 
 Her touch had satisfied her that she bowed before the altar of 
 stone; that her benighted vision was turned towards the broken 
 image of the saint, though now involved in gloom the most pro- 
 found; and with clasped hands and streaming eyes, in low and 
 mournful tones, she addressed herself in the following hymn to the 
 tutelar saint of the spot : 
 
ROOKWOOD. 211 
 
 HYMN TO SAINT THECLA * 
 
 In my trouble, in my anguish, 
 
 In the depths of my despair, 
 As in grief and pain I languish, 
 
 Unto thee I raise my prayer. 
 Sainted virgin ! martyr'd maiden! 
 
 Let thy countenance incline 
 Upon one with woes o'erladen, 
 
 Kneeling lowly at thy shrine ; 
 That in agony, in terror, 
 
 In her blind perplexity, 
 Wandering weak in doubt and error, 
 
 Calleth feebly upon thee. 
 Sinful thoughts, sweet saint, oppress me, 
 
 Thoughts that will not be dismissed ; 
 Temptations dark possess me, 
 
 Which my strength may not resist. 
 1 am full of pain, and weary 
 
 Of my life ; I fain would" die : 
 Unto me the world is dreary ; 
 
 To the grave for rest I fly. 
 For rest ! — oh ! could I borrow 
 
 Thy bright wings, celestial Dove ! 
 They should waft me from my sorrow, 
 
 Where Peace dwells in bowers above. 
 Upon one with woes o'erladen, 
 
 Kneeling lowly at thy shrine; 
 Sainted virgin ! martyr'd maiden ! 
 Let thy countenance incline ! 
 Mei miserere Virgo, 
 
 Requiem cetemam dona I 
 
 By thy loveliness, thy purity, 
 
 Unpolluted, imdefiled, 
 That in serene security 
 
 Upon earth's temptations smiled; — 
 By the fetters that constrain' d thee, 
 
 By thy flame-attested faith, 
 By the fervour that sustain'd thee, 
 By thine angel-ushered death; — 
 By thy soul's divine elation, 
 
 'Mid thine agonies assuring 
 Of thy sanctified translation 
 To beatitude enduring ; — 
 By the mystic interfusion 
 
 Of thy spirit with the rays, 
 That in ever-bright profusion 
 
 Bound the Throne Eternal blaze ; — 
 Bj thy portion now partaken, 
 
 With the pain-perfected just ; 
 Look on one of hope forsaken, 
 Prom the gates of mercy thrust. 
 
 Upon one with woes o'erladen, 
 Kneeling lowly at thy shrine, 
 Sainted virgin ! martyr'd maiden ! 
 Let thv countenance incline ! 
 
 Ora pro me mortis hora ! 
 Sancta Virgo, cro te ! 
 
 Kyrie Eleison I 
 
 * Set to music by Mr. F. Bonier. 
 p2 
 
212 ROOKWOOD. 
 
 The sweet, sad voice of the singer died faintly away. The 
 sharpness of her sorrow was assuaged. Seldom, indeed, is it that 
 fervent supplication fails to call down solace to the afflicted. Sybil 
 became more composed. She still, however, trembled at the 
 thoughts of what remained to be done. 
 
 " They will be here ere my prayer is finished," murmured she 
 — " ere the end is accomplished for which I came hither alone. 
 Let me, oh ! let me make my peace with my Creator, ere I sur- 
 render my being to his hands, and then let them deal with me as 
 they will." And she bowed her head in lowly prayer. 
 
 Again raising her hands, and casting her eyes towards the black 
 ceiling, she implored, in song, the intercession of the saintly man 
 who had bequeathed his name to the cell. 
 
 HYMN TO SAINT CYPRIAN. 
 
 Hear ! oli ! hear me, sufferer holy, 
 
 Who didst make thine habitation 
 'Mid these rocks, devoting wholly 
 
 Life to one long expiation 
 Of thy guiltiness, and solely 
 
 By severe mortification 
 Didst deliver thee. Oh ! hear me ! 
 
 In my dying moments cheer me. 
 
 By thy penance, self-denial, 
 Aid me in the hour of trial. 
 
 May, through thee, my prayers prevailing 
 
 On the Majesty of Heaven, 
 O'er the hosts of hell, assailing 
 
 My soul, in this dark hour be driven ! 
 So my spirit, when exhaling, 
 
 May of sinfulness be shriven, 
 And His gift unto the Giver 
 
 May be rendered pure as ever ! 
 
 By thy own dark, dread possession, 
 Aid me with thine intercession ! 
 
 Scarcely had she concluded this hymn, when the torch of the 
 knight of Malta in part dissipated the gloom that hung around the 
 chapel. 
 
ROOKWOOD. 213 
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 THE BllIDAL. 
 
 Cart. I will not die ; I must not. I am contracted 
 
 To a young gentleman. 
 Executioner. Here's your wedding-ring. Duchess ofMalfy. 
 
 Slowly did the train descend; solemnly and in silence, as if 
 the rites at which they were about to assist had been those of 
 funereal, and not of nuptial, solemnisation. Indeed, to look upon 
 those wild and fierce faces by the ruddily-flashing torchlight, 
 which lent to each a stern and savage expression; to see those 
 scowling visages surrounding a bride from whose pallid cheeks 
 every vestige of colour, and almost of animation, had fled; and a 
 bridegroom, with a countenance yet more haggard, and demeanour 
 yet more distracted — the beholder must have imagined that the 
 soectacle was some horrible ceremonial, practised by demons rather 
 than human beings. The arched vault, the pillars, the torchlight, 
 the deep shadows, and the wild figures, formed a picture worthy 
 of Rembrandt or Salvator. 
 
 "Is Sybil within the chapel?" asked Barbara. 
 "I am here," returned a voice from the altar. 
 "Why do we tarry?" said the gipsy queen. "We are all as- 
 sembled. To the altar." 
 
 "To the altar!" shrieked Eleanor. "Oh! no — no " 
 
 " Remember my threat, and obey," muttered Barbara. " You 
 are in my power now." 
 
 A convulsive sob was all the answer Eleanor could make. 
 " Our number is not complete," said the priest, who had looked 
 in vain for the sexton. " Peter Bradley is not with us." 
 
 " Ha !" exclaimed Barbara. " Let him be sought for in- 
 stantly." 
 
 " Their search need not extend beyond this spot," said Peter, 
 stepping forward. 
 
 The knight of Malta advanced towards the altar. The torch- 
 light reddened upon the huge stone pillars. It fell upon the 
 shrine, and upon the ghastly countenance of Sybil, who stood be- 
 side it. Suddenly, as the light approached her, an object, hitherto 
 hidden from view, was revealed. Sybil uttered a prolonged and 
 fearful shriek; the knight recoiled likewise in horror; and a simul- 
 taneous cry of astonishment burst from the lips of the foremost of 
 the group. All crowded forwards, and universal consternation 
 prevailed amongst the assemblage. Each one gazed at his neigh- 
 bour, anxious to learn the' occasion of this tumult, and vague 
 
214 ROOKWOOD. 
 
 fears were communicated to those behind, from the terrified 
 glances, which were the only answers returned by their comrades 
 in front. 
 
 " Who has dared to bring that body here?" demanded Barbara, 
 in a tone in which anger struggled with apprehension, pointing at 
 the same time to the ghastly corpse of a female, with streaming 
 hair, at the altar's feet. " Who has dared to do this, I say? 
 Quick! remove it. What do you stare at? Cravens! is this the 
 first time you have looked upon a corpse, that you should shrink 
 aghast — that you tremble before it? It is a clod — ay, less than a 
 clod. Awav with it! away, I say." 
 
 " Touch it not," cried Luke, lifting a cloud of black hair from 
 off the features ; " it is my mother's body." 
 
 u My daughter I" exclaimed the sexton. 
 
 "What!" vociferated Barbara, "is that your daughter — is that 
 the first Lady Rookwood ? Are the dead arisen to do honour to 
 these nuptials? Speak! you can, perchance, explain how she 
 came hither." 
 
 " I know not," returned Peter, glancing fiercely at Barbara ; u I 
 may, anon, demand that question of you. How came this body 
 here?" 
 
 " Ask of Richard Checkley," said Barbara, turning to the priest. 
 " He can, perchance, inform you. Priest," added she, in a low 
 voice, " this is your handiwork." 
 
 " Checkley !" screamed Peter. " Is that Richard Checkley? is 
 that " 
 
 "Peace!" thundered Barbara; "will none remove the body? 
 Once more I ask you, do you fear the dead?" 
 
 A murmur arose. Balthazar alone ventured to approach the 
 corpse. 
 
 Luke started to his feet as he advanced, his eyes glaring with 
 tiger fury. 
 
 " Back, old man," cried he, " and dare not, any of you, to lay a 
 sacrilegious finger on her corse, or I will stretch him that advances 
 as lowly as lies my mother's head. When or how it came hither 
 matters not. Here, at the altar, has it been placed, and none shall 
 move it hence. The dead shall witness my nuptials. Fate has 
 ordained it — my fate! o'er which the dead preside. Her ring 
 shall link me to my bride. I knew not, when I snatched it from 
 her death-cold finger, to what end I preserved it. I learn it now. 
 It is here." And he held forth a ring. 
 
 " 'Tis a fatal boon, that twice-used ring," cried Sybil ; " such a 
 ring my mother, on her death-bed, said should be mine. Such a 
 
 ring she said should wed me " 
 
 "Unto whom?" fiercely demanded Luke. « 
 "Unto Death !" she solemnly rejoined. 
 
 Luke's countenance fell. lie turned aside, deeply abashed, un- 
 able further to brook her gaze; while, in accents of such wildly- 
 
ROOKWOOD. 215 
 
 touching pathos as sank into the hearts of eacli who heard her — 
 hearts, few of them framed of penetrable stuff — the despairing 
 maiden burst into the following strain : 
 
 THE TWICE-USED RING* 
 
 "Beware thy bridal day!" 
 
 On her death-bed sighed my mother; 
 "Beware, beware, I say, 
 
 Death shall wed thee, and no other. 
 Cold the hand shall grasp thee, 
 Cold the arms shall clasp thee, 
 Colder lips thy kiss shall smother ! 
 Beware thy bridal kiss ! 
 
 " Thy wedding-ring shall be 
 
 Erom a clay-cold linger taken; 
 Erom one that, like to thee, 
 Was by her love forsaken. 
 Eor a twice-used ring 
 Is a fatal thing ; 
 Her griefs who wore it are partaken — 
 Beware that fatal ring ! 
 
 " The altar and the grave 
 
 Many steps are not asunder; 
 Bright banners o'er thee wave, 
 Shrouded horror lieth under. 
 Blithe mav sound the bell, 
 Yet 'twill "toll thy knell; 
 Scathed thy chaplct by the thunder — 
 
 Beware that blighted wreath !" 
 
 Beware my bridal day ! 
 
 Dying lips my doom have spoken ; 
 Deep tones call me away ; 
 
 Erom the grave is sent a token. 
 Cold, cold fingers bring 
 That ill-omen'd ring ; 
 Soon will a second heart be broken ! 
 This is my bridal day 
 
 There was a deep, profound silence as the last melancholy 
 cadence died away, and many a rugged heart was melted, even to 
 tears.. Eleanor, meanwhile, remained in a state of passive stupe- 
 faction, vacantly gazing at Sybil, upon whom alone her eyes were 
 fixed, and appearing indistinctly to apprehend the meaning of her 
 song. 
 
 " This is my bridal day," murmured she, in a low tone, when 
 Sybil had finished. " Said not that sweet voice so? I know 'tis 
 my bridal day. What a church you have chosen, mother! A 
 tomb — a sepulchre — but 'tis meet for such nuptials as mine — and 
 what wedding guests ! Was that pale woman in her shroud-like 
 dress invited here by you? Tell me that, mother." 
 
 * Set to music by Mr. F. Homer. 
 
£16 HOOK.WOOD. 
 
 " My God, her senses are gone !" cried Mrs. Mowbray. " Why 
 did I venture into tins horrible place !" 
 
 " Ask not why now, madam," rejoined the priest. u The hour 
 for consideration is past. We must act. Let the marriage pro- 
 ceed, at all hazards; we will then take means to extricate ourselves 
 from this accursed place." 
 
 "Remove that horrible object," said Mrs. Mowbray; "it fasci- 
 nates the vision of my child." 
 
 "Lend me your hand, Richard Checkley," said Peter, sternly 
 regarding the priest. 
 
 "No, no," replied the priest, shuddering; "I will not, cannot 
 touch it. Do you alone remove it." 
 
 Peter approached Luke. The latter now offered no further 
 opposition, and the body was taken away. The eyes of Eleanor 
 followed it into the dark recesses of the vault ; and when she could 
 no longer distinguish the white flutter of the cereclothes, her 
 labouring bosom seemed, torn asunder with the profound sigh that 
 burst from it, and her head declined upon her shoulder. 
 
 " Let me see that ring," said the priest, addressing Luke, who 
 still held the wedding-ring between his fingers. 
 
 "I am not naturally superstitious," said Mrs. Mowbray; "whe- 
 ther my mind be affected with the horrors of this place, I know 
 not ; but I have a dread of that ring. She shall not use it." 
 
 " Where no other can be found," said the priest, with a signifi- 
 cant and peculiar look at Mrs. Mowbray, " I see no reason why 
 this should be rejected. I should not have suspected you, madam, 
 of such weakness. Grant there were evil spell, or charm, at- 
 tached to it, which, trust me, there is not — as how should there be, 
 to a harmless piece of gold ? — my benediction, and aspersion with 
 holy lymph, will have sufficient power to exorcise and expel it. 
 To remove your fears it shall be done at once." 
 
 A cup containing water was brought, together with a plate of 
 salt (which condiment the devil is said to abhor, and which is held 
 to be a symbol of immortality and of eternity; in that, being 
 itself incorruptible, it preserves all else from corruption), and, with 
 the customary Romish formula of prayer and exorcism, the priest 
 thrice mingled the crystal particles with the pure fluid ; after 
 which, taking the ring in his hand with much solemnity, he 
 sprinkled it with a few drops of the water which he had blessed; 
 made the sign of the cross upon the golden circlet ; uttered another 
 and more potent exorcism to eradicate and expel every device of 
 Satan, and delivered it back to Luke. 
 
 " She may wear it now in safety," said the sexton, with strong 
 contempt. " Were the snake himself coiled round that consecrated 
 bauble, the prayers of the devout Father Checkley would unclasp 
 his lithest folds. But wherefore do we tarry now? Nought lies 
 between us and the altar. The path is clear. The bridegroom 
 grows impatient." 
 
S^§c< 
 
 THE MARRIAGE. 
 
 P. 217. 
 
ROOKWOOD. 217 
 
 "And the bride?" asked Barbara. 
 
 " Is ready," replied the priest. " Madam, delay not longer. 
 Daughter, your hand." 
 
 Eleanor gave her hand. It was clammy and cold. Supported 
 by her mother, she moved slowly towards the altar, which was but 
 a few steps from where they stood. She offered no resistance, but 
 did not raise her head. Luke was by her side. Then for the first 
 time did the enormity of the cruel, dishonourable act he was about 
 to commit, strike him with its full force. He saw it in its darkest 
 colours. It was one of those terrible moments when the headlons: 
 wheel of passion stands suddenly still. 
 
 " There is yet time," groaned he. " Oh ! let me not damn 
 myself perpetually ! Let me save her; save Sybil; save myself." 
 
 They were at the altar — that wild wedding train. High over 
 head the torch was raised. The red li^ht flashed on bridegroom 
 and on bride, giving to the pale features of each an almost livid 
 look; it fell upon the gaunt aspect of the sexton, and lit up the 
 smile of triumphant malice that played upon his face; it fell upon 
 the fantastical habiliments of Barbara, and upon the haughty but 
 perturbed physiognomy of Mrs. Mowbray; it fell upon the salient 
 points of the Gothic arches; upon one moulded pillar; upon the 
 marble image of the virgin Thecla; and on the scarcely less marble 
 countenance of Sybil, who stood behind the altar, silent, statue- 
 like, immovable. The effect of light and shade on other parts of 
 the scene, upon the wild drapery, and harsh lineaments of many of 
 the group, was also eminently striking. 
 
 •Just as the priest was about to commence the marriage service, 
 a yelling chorus, which the gipsies were accustomed to sing at the 
 celebration of the nuptials of one of their own tribe, burst forth. 
 Nothing could be more horribly discordant than their song. 
 
 WEDDING CHORUS OF GIPSIES. 
 
 Scrape the catgut ! pass the liquor ! 
 Let your quick feet move the quicker. 
 
 Ta-ra-la ! 
 
 Dance and sing in jolly chorus, 
 Bride and bridegroom are before us, 
 And the patrico stands o'er us. 
 
 Ta-ra-la ! 
 
 To unite their hands he's ready ; 
 Eor a moment, pals, be steady ; 
 
 Cease your quaffing, 
 
 Dancing, laughing ; 
 
 Leave oif riot, 
 
 And be quiet, 
 
218 KOOKWOOD. 
 
 While 'tis doing. 
 
 "lis begun, 
 All is over ! 
 Two are one ! 
 The patrico has link'd 'era ; 
 Daddy Hymen's torch has blink'd 'em. 
 Amen ! 
 To 't again ! 
 Now for quaffing, 
 Now for laughing, 
 Stocking-throwing, 
 Liquor flowing ; 
 For our bridals are no bridles, and our altars never alter ; 
 Prom the flagon never flinch we, in the jig we never falter. 
 No ! that's not our way, for we 
 Are staunch lads of Romany. 
 For our wedding, then, hurrah ! 
 Hurrah ! hurrah ! hurrah ! 
 
 This uncouth chorus ended, the marriage proceeded. Sybil had 
 disappeared. Had she fled? No! she was by the bride. Eleanor 
 mechanically took her place. A faint voice syllabled the responses. 
 You could scarcely have seen Miss Mowbray's lips move. But the 
 answers were given, and the priest was satisfied. 
 
 He took the ring, and sprinkled it once again with the holy 
 water, in the form of the cross. He pronounced the prayer: 
 "Benedic, Dornine y annulum hunc, quern nos in tuo nomine benedi- 
 cimus, ut qua? eum gestaverit, jidelitatem integrant suo sponso lenens, 
 in pace et voluntate tud permaneat atque in mutud charitate semper 
 vivatP 
 
 He was about to return the ring to Luke, when the torch, held 
 by the knight of Malta, was dashed to the ground by some unseen 
 hand, and instantly extinguished. The wild pageant vanished as 
 suddenly as the figures cast by a magic-lantern upon a wall disap- 
 pear when the glass is removed. A wild hubbub succeeded. 
 Hoarsely above the clamour arose the voice of Barbara. 
 
 " To the door, quickly ! — to the door ! Let no one pass. I will 
 find out the author of this mishap anon. Away !" 
 
 She was obeyed. Several of the crew stationed themselves at 
 the door. 
 
 " Proceed now with the ceremony," continued Barbara. " By 
 darkness, or by light, the match shall be completed." 
 
 The ring was then placed upon the finger of the bride; and as 
 Luke touched it, he shuddered. It was cold as that of the corpse 
 which he had clasped but now. The prayer was said, the blessing 
 given, the marriage was complete. 
 
 Suddenly there issued from the darkness deep dirge-like tones, 
 and a voice solemnly chanted a strain, which all knew to be the 
 death-song of their race, hymned by wailing women over an ex- 
 piring sister. The music seemed to float in the air. 
 
Cc-ot-q^ Gtou-W ?Kan4jx. 
 
 
ROOKWOOD. 219 
 
 THE SOUL-BELL* 
 
 East the sand of life is failing, 
 East her latest sigh exhaling, 
 
 Fast, fast, is she dying. 
 
 With death's chills her linibs are Shivering, 
 With death's gasp the lips are quivering, 
 
 East her soul away is Hying. 
 
 O'er the mountain-top it fleeteth, 
 And the skyey wonders greeteth, 
 Singing loud as stars it meeteth 
 On its way. 
 
 Hark ! the sullen Soul-bell tolling, 
 Hollowly in echoes rolling, 
 
 Seems to say — 
 
 " She will ope her eyes — oh, never ! 
 Quenched their dark light — gone for ever ! 
 She is dead." 
 
 The marriage group yet lingered near the altar, awaiting, it 
 would seem, permission from the gipsy queen to quit the cell. 
 Luke stirred not. Clasped in his own, the cold hand of his bride 
 detained him; and when he would have moved, her tightened 
 grasp prevented his departure. 
 
 Mrs. Mowbray's patience was exhausted by the delay. She was 
 not altogether free from apprehension. u Why do we linger 
 here?" she whispered to the priest. "Do you, father, lead the 
 way." 
 
 "The crowd is dense," replied Checkley. "They resist my 
 effort." 
 
 " Are we prisoners here?" asked Mrs. Mowbray, in alarm. 
 
 " Let me make the attempt," cried Luke, with fiery impatience. 
 " I will force a passage out." 
 
 " Quit not your bride," whispered Peter, " as you value her 
 safety. Heed not aught else. She alone is in danger. Suffer her 
 not to be withdrawn from your hand, if you would not lose her. 
 Remain here. I will bring the matter to a speedy issue." 
 
 "Enough," replied Luke; "I stir not hence." And he drew 
 his bride closer towards him. He stooped to imprint a kiss upon 
 her lips. A cold shudder ran through her frame as he touched 
 them, but she resisted not his embrace. 
 
 Peter's attempt to effect an egress was as unsuccessful as that of 
 the priest. Presenting excalibur at his bosom, the knight of Malta 
 challenged him to stand. 
 
 " You cannot pass," exclaimed the knight ; " our orders are pe- 
 remptory." 
 
 " What am I to understand by this ?" said Peter, angrily. 
 " Why are we detained?" 
 
 * Set to music by Mr. E. Romer. 
 
220 ROOKWOOD. 
 
 " You will learn all anon," returned Barbara. " In tlie mean 
 time, you are my prisoners — or, if you like not the phrase, my 
 wedding guests." 
 
 "The wedding is complete," returned the sexton; "the bride 
 and bridegroom are impatient to depart, and we, the guests — 
 albeit some of us may be no foes to darkness — desire not to hold 
 our nuptial revels here." 
 
 "Sybil's wedding has not taken place," said Barbara; "you 
 must tarry for that." 
 
 " Ha ! now it comes," thought Peter. " And who, may I ask," 
 said he, aloud, " amongst this goodly company, is to be her bride- 
 groom?" 
 
 " The best amongst them," returned Barbara — " Sir Luke Rook- 
 w ? ood" 
 
 "He has a bride already," replied Peter. 
 
 " She may be removed" said Barbara, with bitter and peculiar 
 emphasis. "Dost understand my meaning now?" 
 
 " I will not understand it," said Peter. " You cannot mean to 
 destroy her who now stands at the altar?" 
 
 " She who now stands at the altar must make way for a suc- 
 cessor. She who grasps the bridegroom's hand shall die. I swear 
 it by the oath of my tribe." 
 
 " And think you, you will be allowed to execute your murderous 
 intention with impunity?" shrieked Mrs. Mowbray, in an agony 
 of terror. "Think you that I will stand by and see my child 
 slaughtered before my face; that my friends will suffer it? Think 
 you that even your own tribe will dare to execute your horrible 
 purpose? They will not. They will side with us. Even now 
 they murmur. What can you hope to gain by an act so wild and 
 dreadful? What object can you have?" 
 
 "The same as your own," reiterated Barbara — " the advance- 
 ment of my child. Sybil is as dear to me as Eleanor is to you. She 
 is my child's child, the daughter of my best beloved daughter. I 
 have sworn to marry her to Sir Luke Rookwood. The means are 
 in my power. I will keep my vow; I will wed her to him. You 
 did not hesitate to tear your daughter from the man she loved, to 
 give her to the man she hated; and for what? For gold — for 
 power — for rank. I have the same motive. I love my child, and 
 she loves Sir Luke — has loved him long and truly; therefore shall 
 she have him. What to me is your child, or your feelings, except 
 they are subservient to my wishes? She stands in my way. I 
 remove her." 
 
 "Who placed her in your path?" asked the sexton. "Did you 
 not lend a helping hand to create that obstacle yourself?" 
 
 "I did," replied Barbara. "Would you know wherefore? I 
 will tell you. I had a double motive for it. There is a curse upon 
 the house of Rookwood, that kills the first fair bride each genera- 
 tion leads to the altar. Have you never heard of it?" 
 
EOOKTTOOD. 221 
 
 "I have ! And did that idle legend sway you?" 
 
 "And do you call it idle? You! Well — I had another motive 
 — a prophecy." 
 
 "By yourself uttered," replied Peter. 
 
 "Even so," replied Barbara. "The prophecy is fulfilled. The 
 stray rook is found. The rook hath with rook mated. Lukehttth 
 wedded Eleanor. He will hold possession of his lands. The pro- 
 phecy is fulfilled." 
 
 "But how f" asked Peter; " will your art tell you how and why 
 he shall now hold possession? Can you tell me that?" 
 
 " My art goes not so far. I have predicted the event. It hns 
 come to pass. I am satisfied. He has wedded her. Be it mine 
 to free him from that yoke." And Barbara laughed exultingly. 
 
 The sexton approached the old crone, and laid his hand with 
 violence upon her shoulder. 
 
 "Hear me" cried he, "and I will tell you that which your jug- 
 gling art refuses to reveal. Eleanor Mowbrav is heir to the lands 
 of Kookwood ! The estates are hers ! They were bequeathed to 
 her by her grandsire, Sir Reginald." 
 
 " She was unborn when he died," cried Mrs. Mowbray. 
 
 "True," replied Peter; "but the lands were left to your issue 
 female, should such issue be born." 
 
 "And did Sir Piers, my brother, know of this? did he see this 
 will," asked Mrs. Mowbray, with trembling impatience. 
 
 "He did; and withheld the knowledge of it from you and 
 yours." 
 
 "Ah! why knew I not this before? Why did you not tell me 
 ere that was done which cannot be undone? I have sacrificed my 
 child." 
 
 " Because it did not chime with my purposes to tell you," re- 
 plied Peter, coldly. 
 
 "It is false — it is false," cried Mrs. Mowbray, her anger and 
 vexation getting the better of her fears. " I will not believe it. 
 Who are you, that pretend to know the secrets of our house?" 
 
 " One of that house," replied the sexton. 
 
 "Your name?" 
 
 " Would you know my name?" answered Peter, sternly. " The 
 time is come when I will no longer conceal it. I am Alan Rook- 
 wood." 
 
 " My father's brother!" exclaimed Mrs. Mowbray. 
 
 "Ay, Alan Rookwood. The sworn enemy of your father — of 
 you — of all of ye : your fate — your destiny — your curse. I am that 
 Alan Rookwood whose name you breathed in the vault. I am 
 he, the avenger — the avenged. I saw your father die. I heard 
 his groans — his groans! — ha, ha! I saw his sons die: one fell in 
 battle — I was with him there. The other expired in his bed. I 
 was with Sir Piers when he breathed his last, and listened to his 
 death agonies. 'Twas 1 who counselled him to keep the lands 
 
222 ROOKWOOD. 
 
 from you and from your child, and lie withheld them. One only 
 amongst the race, whose name I have cast ofi^ have I loved ; and 
 him — because," added he, with something like emotion — a because 
 he was my daughter's child — Luke Rookwood. And even he shall 
 minister to my vengeance. He will be your curse — your daugh- 
 ter's curse — for he loves her not. Yet he is her husband, and hath 
 her land; — ha, ha!" And he laughed till he became convulsed 
 with the paroxysm of fiendish exultation. 
 
 66 Mine ears are stunned," cried Mrs. Mowbray. 
 
 "The bride is mine; relinquish her to me," said Barbara. 
 u Advance and seize her, my children." 
 
 Alan Rookwood (for so we shall henceforth denominate the 
 sexton) suddenly grew calm : he raised the whistle to his lips, and 
 blew a call so loud and shrill, that those who were advancing hung 
 back irresolute. 
 
 There was a rush at the door of the vault. The sentinels were 
 struck down; and with pistols in each hand, and followed by two 
 assistants, Dick Turpin sprang into the thick of the crew. 
 
 " Here we are," cried he, " ready for action. Where is Sir Luke 
 Rookwood? where my churchyard pal, Peter?" 
 
 u Here," cried the sexton and Luke simultaneously. 
 
 " Then stand aside," cried Dick, pushing in the direction of the 
 sounds, and bearing down all opposition. " Have a care there — 
 these triggers are ticklish. Friend or foe, he who touches me 
 shall have a bullet in his gizzard. Here I am, pal Peter; and here 
 are my two chums, Rust and Wilder. Cut the whid." 
 
 "Have we license to pass scathless now?" asked the sexton; 
 " or shall we make good our way?" 
 
 " You shall not pass," cried Barbara, furiously. " Think you to 
 rob me of my prey? What, cowards ! do you hesitate? Ha !" 
 
 " Kindle the torches," cried several voices. " We fight not in 
 the dark." 
 
 A pistol was flashed. The torch again blazed. Its light fell 
 upon a tumultuous group. 
 
 " Seize the bride," cried Barbara. 
 
 "Hold!" exclaimed a voice from the altar. The voice was that 
 of Sybil. 
 
 Her hand was clasped in that of Luke. Eleanor had fainted in 
 the arms of the gipsy girl Handassah. 
 
 "Are you my bride?" ejaculated Luke, in dismay. 
 
 " Behold the ring upon my finger ! Your own hand placed it 
 there." 
 
 "Betrayed!" screamed Alan, in a voice of anguish. "My 
 schemes annihilated — myself undone — my enemies triumphant — 
 lost ! lost ! All is destroyed— all !" 
 
 "Joy! joy!" exclaimed Mrs. Mowbray: "my child is saved." 
 
 " And mine destroyed," groaned Barbara. " I have sworn by 
 the cross to slay the bride — and Sybil is that bride." 
 
EOOKWOOD 22.°, 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 ALAN ROOKWOOD. 
 
 The wolf shall find her grave, and scrape it up ; 
 
 Not to devour the corse, but to discover 
 
 The horrid murthcr. Webster. 
 
 u Bravo ! capital !" cried Turpin, laughing loud and long as an 
 Olympian deity ; " has this simple wench outwitted you all ; turned 
 the tables upon the whole gang of plotters, eh? Excellent! ha, 
 ha, ha ! The next time you wed, Sir Luke, let me advise you not 
 to choose a wife in the dark. A man should have all his senses 
 about him on these occasions. Make love when the liquor's in; 
 marry when it's out, and, above all, with your eyes open. This 
 beats cock-fighting — ha, ha, ha ! — you must excuse me; but, upon 
 my soul, I can't help it." And his laughter seemed inextinguish- 
 able. 
 
 " Take your men without," whispered Alan Rookwood ; " keep 
 watch as before, and let the discharge of a pistol bespeak the 
 approach of danger as agreed upon; much yet remains to be done 
 here." 
 
 "How so?" asked Dick: "it seems to me the job's entirely 
 settled — if not to your satisfaction. I'm always ready to oblige my 
 friend Sir Luke; but curse me if I'll lend my help to any under- 
 hand work. Steer clear of foul play, or Dick Turpin holds no 
 hand with you. As to that poor wench, if you mean her any 
 harm, curse me if I will " 
 
 " No harm is intended her," replied Alan. " I applaud your 
 magnanimity," added he, sarcastically; "such sentiments are, it 
 must be owned, in excellent keeping with your conduct." 
 
 " In keeping or not," replied Turpin, gravely, " cold-blooded 
 murder is altogether out of my line, and I wash my hands of it. A 
 shot or two in self-defence is another matter; and when " 
 
 " A truce to this," interrupted Alan ; " the girl is safe. Will 
 you mount guard again?" 
 
 " If that be the case, certainly," replied Dick : " I shall be glad 
 to 2jet back to Bess. I couldn't bring; her with me into this black 
 hole. A couple of shots will tell you 'tis Ranulph Rookwood. 
 But mind, no harm to the gipsy girl — to Lady Rookwood, I 
 should say. She's a jewel, take my word for it, which Sir Luke 
 must be mad to throw away." And calling his companions, he 
 departed. 
 
 Alan Rookwood bent his steps towards the gipsy queen. Dark 
 thoughts gathered thickly o'er his brow. He smiled as he drew 
 nigh to Barbara — a smile it was 
 
 That wrinkled up his skin even to the hair. 
 
224 eookwood. 
 
 Barbara looked at him at first with distrust; but as be developed 
 his secret purposes, that smile became reflected upon ber own fea- 
 tures. Their conference took place apart. We willingly leave 
 them to return to the altar. 
 
 Mrs. Mowbray and the priest were still there. Both were occu- 
 pied in ineffectual endeavours to restore. Eleanor to consciousness. 
 She recovered from ber swoon; but it was evident ber senses still 
 wandered; and vainly did Mrs. Mowbray lavish her tenderest 
 caresses upon her child. Eleanor returned them not. 
 
 Luke, meanwhile, had given vent to the wildest fury. He 
 shook away Sybil's grasp; he dashed her from him; he regarded 
 her with withering glances ; he loaded her with reproaches. 
 She bore his violence with meekest submission; she looked im- 
 ploringly — but she replied not to his taunts. Again she clung to 
 the hem of his garment when cast aside. Luke appeared un- 
 moved ; what passed within we pause not to examine. He grew 
 calmer; his calmness was more terrible to Sybil than his previous 
 wrath had been. 
 
 "You are my wife," said he; "what then? By fraud, by 
 stratagem, you have obtained that title, and, perforce, must keep 
 it. But the title only shall you retain. No rights of wife shall 
 ever be yours. It will be in your power to call yourself Lady 
 Rookwood — you w 7 ill be so in name — in nothing else." 
 
 "I shall not bear it long," murmured Sybil. 
 
 Luke laughed scornfully. "So you said before," replied he; 
 " and yet I see not why you are likely to abandon it. The event 
 will show. Thus far you have deceived me, and I place no further 
 faith in your assertions. My hand was yours; you refused it. 
 When I would give it to another, you grasp it clandestinely. Am 
 I to believe you now? The wind will change — the vane veer 
 with it." 
 
 " It will not veer from you," she meekly answered. 
 
 " Why did you step between me and my bride?" 
 
 "To save her life; to lay down mine for hers." 
 
 " An idle subterfuge. You know well that you run no risk of 
 being called upon to do so. Your life is in no danger. The 
 sacrifice was unnecessary. I could have dispensed with your as- 
 sistance : my own arm would have sufficed to protect Eleanor." 
 
 " Your single arm would not have prevailed against numbers : 
 they would have killed you likewise." 
 
 "Tush!" said Luke, fiercely. "Not only have you snatched 
 from me my bride, you have robbed me of my fair estates, of all, 
 save of my barren title, and that, even that, you have tarnished." 
 
 " True, true," sighed Sybil. " I knew not that the lands were 
 hers, else had I never done it." 
 
 " False, false," cried Luke ; " false as the rest. They will be 
 Ranulph's. She will be Kanulph's. I shall still be an outcast, 
 while Ranulph will riot in my halls — will press her to his bosom. 
 
ROOKWOOD. 225 
 
 Cling not to me. Hence ! or I will spurn you from me. I am 
 undone, undone by you, accursed one." 
 
 " Oh, curse me not ! your words cut deep enough." 
 
 " Would they could kill you," cried Luke, with savage bitter" 
 ness.. " You have placed a bar between me and my prospects, 
 which nothing can now remove — nothing but — ha!" and his 
 countenance assumed a deadly hue and fearful expression. u By 
 Heaven, you almost rouse the fell spirit which it is said dwells 
 within the breast of my devoted race. I feel as if I could stab 
 thee." 
 
 " No, no !" shrieked Sybil ; " for mercy's sake, for your own sake, 
 do not stab me. It is not too late. I will repair my wrong!" 
 
 u Ever deceiving ! you would again delude me. You cannot 
 repair it. One way alone remains, and that " 
 
 " I will pursue," responded Sybil, sadly, but firmly. 
 
 "Never," cried Luke; "you shall not. Ha!" exclaimed he, 
 as he found his arms suddenly pinioned behind him. " What new 
 treachery is this? By whose orders am I thus fettered." 
 
 a By mine," said Alan Rookwood, stepping forward. 
 
 "By yours?" echoed Luke. "And wherefore? Release me." 
 
 " Be patient," replied Alan. " You will hear all anon. In the 
 mean time you must be content to remain my prisoner. Quit not 
 your hold," added he, addressing the gipsies, who kept charge of 
 Luke. 
 
 "Their lives shall answer for their obedience," said Barbara. 
 
 Upon a further signal from Alan, Eleanor was torn from her 
 mother's arms, and a bandage passed so suddenly over Mrs. Mow- 
 bray's face, that, before she could raise a cry of alarm, all possi- 
 bility of utterance was effectually prevented. The priest alone 
 was left at liberty. 
 
 Barbara snatched the hand of Eleanor. She draped her to 
 Sybil. 
 
 "You are Lady Rookwood," whispered she; "but she has your 
 domains. I give her to you." 
 
 " She is the only bar between thy husband and his rights," whis- 
 pered Alan Rookwood, in a tone of horrible irony ; " it is not too 
 late to repair your wrong" 
 
 " Away, tempter !" cried Sybil, horror-stricken. " I know you 
 well. Yet," continued she, in an altered tone, " I will risk all for 
 him. I have done him wrong. One mode of atonement remains; 
 and, horrible though it be, I will embrace it. Let me not pause. 
 Give her to me." And she seized upon the unresisting hand of 
 Eleanor. 
 
 "Do you need my aid?" asked Barbara. 
 
 "No," replied Sybil; " let none approach us. A clapping of 
 hands will let you know when all is over." And she dragged her 
 passive victim deeper into the vault. 
 
 " Sybil, Sybil !" cried Luke, struggling with frantic violence to 
 
 Q 
 
226 ROOKWOOD. 
 
 liberate himself; "hurt her not. I was rash. I was mad. lam 
 calmer now. She hears me not — she will not turn. God of 
 heaven ! she will murder her. It will be done while I speak. I 
 am the cause of all. Release me, villains ! Would that I had 
 died ere I had seen this day." 
 
 At a signal from the sexton, Luke also was blindfolded. He 
 ceased to. struggle. But his labouring breast told of the strife 
 within. 
 
 a Miscreants !" exclaimed the priest, who had hitherto witnessed 
 the proceedings in horror. " W hy do not these rocks fall in, and 
 crush you and your iniquities? Save her! oh, save her! Have 
 you no pity for the innocent?" 
 
 " Such pity have we," replied Alan Rookwood, " as you showed 
 my daughter. She was as innocent as Eleanor Mowbray, and yet 
 you did not pity her ." 
 
 u Heaven is my witness," exclaimed the priest, u that I never 
 injured her." 
 
 " Take not Heaven's name in vain," cried Alan. " Who stood 
 by while it was doing? Whose firmer hand lent aid to the mur- 
 derer's trembling efforts? Whose pressure stifled her thrilling 
 screams, and choked her cries for mercy? Yours — yours; and 
 now you prate to me of pity — you, the slayer of the sleeping and 
 the innocent?" 
 
 " 'Tis false !" exclaimed the priest, in extremity of terror. 
 
 "False!" echoed Alan. "I had Sir Piers's own confession. 
 He told me all. You had designs upon Sir Piers, which his wife 
 opposed; you hated her; you were in the confidence of both — 
 how did you keep that confidence? He told me how y by awaken- 
 ing a spirit of jealousy and pride, that o'ermastered all his better 
 feelings. False ! He told me of your hellish machinations ; your 
 Jesuitical plots; your schemes. He was too weak, too feeble an 
 instrument to serve you. You left him, but not before she had 
 left him. False ! ha, I have that shall instantly convict you. The 
 corpse is here, within this cell. Who brought it hither?" 
 
 The priest was silent : he seemed confounded by Alan's violence. 
 
 "I will answer that question," said Barbara. " It was brought 
 hither by that false priest. His agent, Balthazar, lias betrayed 
 him. It was brought hither to prevent the discovery of Sir Luke 
 Rookwood's legitimacy. He meant to make his own terms about 
 it. It has come hither to proclaim his guilt — to be a fearful wit- 
 ness against him." Then, turning to Checkley, she added, u You 
 have called Heaven to witness your innocence : you shall attest it 
 by oath upon that body ; and should aught indicate your guilt, I 
 will hang you as "I would a dog, and clear off one long score with 
 justice. Do you shrink from this?" 
 
 " No," replied the priest, in a voice hollow and broken. " Bring 
 me to the body." 
 
 " Seize each an arm," said Barbara, addressing Zoroaster and 
 the knight of Malta, "and lead him to the corse." 
 
ROOKWOOD. 227 
 
 " I will administer the oath," said Alan Rookwood, sternly. 
 " No, not you," stammered the priest. 
 
 " And wherefore not?" asked Alan. " If you are innocent, you 
 need fear nothing from her." 
 
 " I fear nothing from the dead" replied Chcckley ; " lead 
 on. 
 
 We will now return to Sybil. She was alone with her victim. 
 They were near the mouth of the cell which had been Prior 
 Cyprian's flinty dormitory, and were almost involved in darkness. 
 A broken stream of light glanced through the pillars. Eleanor 
 had not spoken. She suffered herself to be dragged thither with- 
 out resistance, scarcely conscious, it would seem, of her danger. 
 Sybil gazed upon her for some minutes with sorrow and surprise. 
 " She comprehends not her perilous situation," murmured Sybil. 
 " She knows not that she stands upon the brink of the grave. 
 Oh ! would that she could pray. Shall I, her murderess, pray 
 for her ? My prayers would not be heard. And yet, to kill her 
 unshriven will be a twofold crime. Let me not look on her. 
 My hand trembles. I can scarce grasp the dagger. Let me think 
 on all he has said. I have wronged him. I am his bane, his 
 curse! I have robbed him of all: there is but one remedy — 'tis 
 this ! — Oh God ! she recovers. I cannot do it now." 
 
 It was a fearful moment for Eleanor's revival, when the bright 
 steel flashed before her eyes. Terror at once restored her. She 
 cast herself at Sybil's feet. 
 
 " Spare, spare me!" cried she. "Oh! what a dream I have 
 had. And to waken thus, with the dagger's point at my breast. 
 You will not kill me — you, gentle maid, who promised to preserve 
 me. Ah, no, I am sure you will not." 
 
 " Appeal no more to me," said Sybil, fiercely. " Make your 
 peace with Heaven. Your minutes are numbered." 
 
 " I cannot pray," said Eleanor, " while you are near me." 
 " Will you pray if I retire and leave you?" 
 " No, no. I dare not — cannot," shrieked Eleanor, in extremity 
 of terror. " Oh ! do not leave me, or let me go." 
 " If you stir," said Sybil, " I stab you to the heart." 
 " I will not stir. I will kneel here for ever. Stab me as I 
 kneel — as I pray to you. You cannot kill me while I cling to 
 you thus — while I kiss your hands — while I bedew them with my 
 tears. Those tears will not sully them like my blood." 
 
 " Maiden," said Sybil, endeavouring to withdraw her hand, 
 " let oo your hold — your sand is run." 
 " Mercy !" 
 
 " It is in vain. Close your eyes." 
 
 " No, I will fix them on you thus — you cannot strike then. I 
 will cling to you — embrace you. Your nature is not cruel — your 
 soul is full of pity. It melts — those tears — you will be merciful. 
 You cannot deliberately kill me." 
 
 Q2 
 
228 EOOKWOOD. 
 
 "' I cannot — I cannot !" said Sybil, with a passionate outburst 
 of grief. " Take your life on one condition." 
 
 " Name it." 
 
 a That you wed Sir Luke Rookwood." 
 
 "Ah!" exclaimed Eleanor, "all rushes back upon me at that 
 name ; the whole of that fearful scene passes in review before me." 
 
 " Do you reject my proposal?" 
 
 " I dare not." 
 
 " I must have your oath. Swear by every hope of eternity that 
 you will wed none other than him." 
 
 " By every hope, I swear it." 
 
 " Handassah, you will bear this maiden's oath in mind, and 
 witness its fulfilment." 
 
 " I will," replied the gipsy girl, stepping forward from a recess, 
 in which she had hitherto remained unnoticed. 
 
 " Enough. I am satisfied. Tarry with me. Stir not — scream 
 not, whatever you may see or hear. Your life depends upon your 
 firmness. When I am no more " 
 
 u No more?" echoed Eleanor, in horror. 
 
 " Be calm," said Sybil. " When I am dead, clap your hands 
 together. They will come to seek you — they will find me in your 
 stead. Then rush to him — to Sir Luke Rookwood. He will 
 protect you. Say to him hereafter that I died for the wrong I did 
 him — that I died, and blessed him." 
 
 " Can you not live, and save me?" sobbed Eleanor. 
 
 " Ask it not. While I live, your life is in danger. When I 
 am gone, none will seek to harm you. Fare you well ! Remember 
 } r our oath, and you, too, remember it, Handassah. Remember also 
 — ha! that groan !" 
 
 All started, as a deep groan knelled in their ears. 
 
 u Whence comes that sound?" cried Sybil. " Hist ! — a voice?" 
 
 u It is that of the priest," cried Eleanor. ci Llark ! he groans. 
 They have murdered him ! Kind Heaven, receive his soul !" 
 
 " Pray for me," cried Sybil: u pray fervently; avert your face; 
 down on your knees — down — down ! Farewell, Handassah !" 
 And breaking from them, she rushed into the darkest recesses of 
 the vault. 
 
 We must now quit this painful scene for another scarcely less 
 painful, and return to the unfortunate priest. 
 
 Checkley had been brought before the body of Susan Rook- 
 wood. Even in the gloom, the shimmer of the white cereclothes, 
 and the pallid features of the corpse, were ghastly enough. The 
 torchlight made them terrible. 
 
 " Kneel!" said Alan Rookwood. The priest complied. Alan 
 knelt beside him. 
 
 " Do you know these features?" demanded he. " Regard them 
 well. Fix your eyes full upon them. Do you know them?" 
 
 " I do." 
 
 " Place your hand upon her breast. Docs not the flesh creep 
 
ROOKWOOD. 229 
 
 and shrink beneath your touch? Now raise your hand — make the 
 cross of your faith upon her bosom. By that faith you swear you 
 are innocent?" 
 
 " I do," returned the priest; "are you now satisfied?" 
 
 " No," replied Alan. " Let the torch be removed. Your inno- 
 cence must be more deeply attested," continued he, as the light 
 was withdrawn. "This proof will not fail. Entwine your fingers 
 round her throat." 
 
 " Have I not done enouirh?" 
 
 " Your hesitation proves your guilt," said Alan. 
 
 " That proof is wanting, then?" returned the priest ; " my hand 
 is upon her throat — what more?" 
 
 " As you hope for mercy in your hour of need, swear that you 
 never conspired against her life, or refused her mercy." 
 
 " I swear it." 
 
 "May the dead convict you of perjury if you have forsworn 
 yourself," said Alan; "you are free. Take away your hand?" 
 
 "Ha! what is this?" exclaimed the priest. "You have put 
 some jugglery upon me. I cannot withdraw my hand. It sticks 
 to her throat, as though 'twere glued by blood. Tear me away. 
 I have not force enough to liberate myself. Why do you grin at 
 me? The corpse grins likewise. It is jugglery. I am innocent. 
 You would take away my life. Tear me away, I say: the veins 
 rise; they blacken; they are filling with new blood. I feel them 
 swell ; they coil like living things around my fingers. She is 
 alive." 
 
 " And you are innocent?" 
 
 " I am — I am. Let not my ravines convict me. For Jesu's 
 sake, release me." 
 
 " Blaspheme not, but arise. I hold you not." 
 
 " You do," groaned the priest. " Your grasp tightens round 
 my throat ; your hard and skinny fingers are there — I strangle — 
 help!" 
 
 " Your own fears strangle you. My hand is at my side," re- 
 turned Alan, calmly. 
 
 " Villain, you lie. Your grasp is like a vice. The strength of 
 a thousand devils is in your hand. Will none lend help. I never 
 pressed so hard. Your daughter never suffered this torture — 
 never — never. I choke — choke — oh !" And the priest rolled 
 heavily backwards. 
 
 There was a deep groan ; a convulsive rattle in the throat ; and 
 all was still. 
 
 " He is dead — strangled," cried several voices, holding down 
 the torch- The face of the priest was blackened and contorted; 
 his eyeballs protruded from their sockets; his tongue was nearly 
 bitten through in the desperate efforts he had made to release him- 
 self from Alan's gripe ; his hair was erect with horror. It was a 
 ghastly sight. 
 
230 ROOKWOOD. 
 
 A murmur arose amongst the gipsies. Barbara deemed it pru- 
 dent to appease them. 
 
 " He was guilty," cried she. " He was the murderer of Susan 
 Rookwood." 
 
 " And I, her father, have avenged her," said Alan, sternly. 
 
 The dreadful silence that followed this speech was broken by the 
 report of a pistol. The sound, though startling, was felt almost as 
 a relief. 
 
 " We are beset," cried Alan. " Some of you fly to recon- 
 noitre." 
 
 " To your posts," cried Barbara. 
 
 Several of the crew flocked to the entrance. 
 
 " Unbind the prisoners," shouted Alan. 
 
 Mrs. Mowbray and Luke were accordingly set free. 
 
 Two almost simultaneous reports of a pistol were now heard. 
 
 " 'Tis Ranulph Rookwood," said Alan ; u that was the precon- 
 certed signal." 
 
 " Ranulph Rookwood," echoed Eleanor, who caught the excla- 
 mation : " he comes to save me." 
 
 " Remember your oath," gasped a dying voice. " He is no 
 longer yours." 
 
 " Alas ! alas !" sobbed Eleanor, tremblingly. 
 
 A moment afterwards a faint clapping of hands reached the 
 ears of Barbara. 
 
 a All is over," muttered she. 
 
 " Ha!" exclaimed Alan Rookwood, with a frightful look. "Is 
 it done?" 
 
 Barbara motioned him towards the further end of the vault. 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 MR. COATES. 
 
 Grimm. Look, captain, here comes one of the bloodhounds of justice. 
 
 Schw. Down with him. Don't let him utter a word. 
 
 Moor. Silence, I will hear him. Schiller : The Robbers. 
 
 Gladly do we now exchange the dank atmosphere of Saint 
 Cyprian's cell, and the horrors which have detained us there so 
 long, for balmy air, genial sunshine, and the boon companionship 
 of Dick Turpin. Upon regaining the verdant ruins of the ancient 
 priory, all appeared pretty much as our highwayman had left it. 
 Dick wended towards his mare. Black Bess uttered an affectionate 
 whinnying sound as he approached her, and yielded her sleek 
 neck to his caresses. No Bedouin Arab ever loved his horse more 
 tenderly than Turpin. 
 
ROOKWOOD. 231 
 
 " 'Twill be a hard day when thou and I part!" murmured he, 
 affectionately patting- her soft and silky cheeks. Bess thrust her 
 nose into his hand, biting him playfully, as much as to say, " That 
 day will never arrive." Turpin, at least, understood the appeal 
 in that sense; he was skilled in the language of the Huoyhnymns. 
 " I would rather lose my right hand than that should happen," 
 sighed he; " but there's no saying: the best of friends must part; 
 and thou and I may be one day separated: thy destination is the 
 knacker — mine, perhaps, the gibbet. We are neither of us cut 
 out for old age, that's certain. Curse me if I can tell how it is: 
 since I've been in that vault, I've got some queer crotchet into my 
 head. I can't help likening thee to that poor gipsy wench, Sybil; 
 but may I be scragged if I'd use thee as her lover has used her. 
 Ha !" exclaimed he, drawing a pistol with a suddenness that made 
 his companions, Rust and Wilder, start, a we are watched. See 
 you not how yon shadow falls from behind the w r all?" 
 
 " I do," replied Rust. 
 
 u The varmint shall be speedily unearthed," said Wilder, rush- 
 ing to the spot. 
 
 In another instant the shadow manifested itself in a substantial 
 little personage, booted, spurred, and mud-bespattered. He was 
 brought before our highwayman, who had, meanwhile, vaulted 
 into his saddle. 
 
 " Mr. Coates !" cried Dick, bursting into a loud laugh at the 
 ridiculous figure presented to his view, " or the mud deceives me." 
 
 " It does not deceive you, Captain Turpin," replied the attorney; 
 u you do, indeed, behold that twice unfortunate person." 
 
 " What brings you here?" asked Dick. " Ah ! I see. You are 
 come to pay me my wager." 
 
 u I thought you gave me a discharge for that," rejoined Coates, 
 unable, even in his distress, to resist the too-tempting quibble. 
 
 a True, but it was in blank" replied Turpin, readily; " and that 
 don't hold good in law, you know. You have thrown away a 
 second chance. Play or pay, all the world over. I shan't let you 
 off so easily this time, depend upon it. Come, post the pony, or 
 take your measure on that sod. No more replications or rejoinders, 
 sir. Down with the dust. Fake his dies, pals. Let us see what 
 he has about him." 
 
 "In the twinkling of a bed-post," replied Rust. a We'll turn 
 him inside out. What's here?" cried he, searching the attorney's 
 pockets. "A brace of barkers," handing a pair of pistols to 
 Turpin ; " a haddock, stuffed with nothing, I'm thinking ; one 
 quid, two coach-wheels, half a bull, three hogs, and a kick; a d — d 
 dicky concern, captain." 
 
 " Three hogs and a kick," muttered Coates ; " the knave says 
 true enough." 
 
 " Is there nothing else ?" demanded Dick. 
 
 ■iily an old snuffy fogle and a pewter sneezer." 
 
 4. ( ), 
 
232 KOOKWOOD. 
 
 " No reader?* Try liis hoxter."f 
 
 " Here's a pit-man,! captain." 
 
 " Give it me. Ah ! this will do," cried Dick, examining the 
 contents of the pocket-book. " This is a glorious windfall indeed ; 
 a bill of exchange for 500/., payable on demand, eh, Mr. Coates? 
 Quick ! indorse it, sir. Here's pen and ink. Rascal ! if you at- 
 tempt to tear the bill, I'll blow your brains out. Steady, sir, sign. 
 Good ! " added he, as Coates most reluctantly indorsed the bill. 
 " Good ! good ! I'll be off with this bill to London to-night, be- 
 fore you can stop it. No courier can beat Bess — ha, ha ! Eh ! 
 what's this?" continued Dick, as, unfolding another leaf of the 
 pocket-book, he chanced upon a letter; "my Lady Rookwood's 
 superscription ! Excuse me, Mr. Coates, I must have a peep at 
 her ladyship's billet-doux. All's safe with me — man of honour. 
 I must detain your reader a moment longer." 
 
 " You should take charge of yourself, then," replied Coates, 
 sulkily. "You appear to be my reader." 
 
 " Bravo !" cried Turpin. " You may jest now with impunity, 
 Mr. Coates. You have paid dear enough for your jokes; and 
 when should a man be allowed to be pleasant, if not at his own 
 expense? — ha, ha! What's this?" exclaimed he, opening the 
 letter. " A ring, as I'm awake ! and from her ladyship's own fair 
 finger, I'll be sworn, for it bears her cipher, ineffaceabiy impressed 
 as your image upon her heart — eh, Coates? Egad! you are a 
 lucky dog, after all, to receive suck a favour from such a lady — 
 ha, ha ! Meantime, I'll take care of it for you," continued Dick, 
 slipping the ring on his little finger. 
 
 Turpin, we have before remarked, had a turn for mimicry; 
 and it was with an irresistible feeling of deferential awe creeping 
 over him that Coates heard the contents of Lady Rookwood's 
 epistle delivered with an enunciation as peremptory and imperious 
 as that of her ladyship's self. The letter was nastily indited, in a 
 clear, firm hand, and partook of its writer's decision of character. 
 Dick found no difficulty in deciphering it. Thus ran the missive : 
 
 u Assured of your devotion and secrecy, I commit my own 
 honour, and that of my son, to your charge. Time will not per- 
 mit me to see you, or I would not write. But I place myself en- 
 tirely in your hands. You will not dare to betray my confidence. 
 To the point: — A Major Mowbray has just arrived here with in- 
 telligence that the body of Susan Bradley (you will know to whom 
 I allude) has been removed from our family vault by a Romish 
 priest and his assistants. How it came there, or why it has been 
 removed, I know not ; it is not my present purpose to inquire. 
 Suffice it, that it now lies in a vault beneath the ruins of Daven- 
 ham Priory. My son, Sir Ranulph, who has lent a credulous ear 
 
 Pocket-book. f Inside coat-pocket. % A small pocket-book. 
 
EOOKWOOD. 233 
 
 to the artful talcs of the impostor who calls this woman mother, is 
 at present engaged in arming certain of the household, and of the 
 tenantry, to seize upon and bring away this body, as resistance is 
 apprehended from a horde of gipsies who infest the ruins. Now, 
 mark me. That body must not be found! Be it your 
 business to prevent its discovery. Take the fleetest horse you can 
 procure; spare neither whip nor spur. Haste to the priory; pro- 
 cure by any means, and at any expense, the assistance of the 
 gipsies. Find out the body ; conceal it, destroy it — do what you 
 will, so my son find it not. Fear not his resentment; I will bear 
 you harmless of the consequences with him. You will act upon 
 my responsibility. I pledge my honour for your safety. Use all 
 despatch, and calculate upon due requital from 
 
 " Maud Hookwood. 
 " Haste, and God speed you ! " 
 
 " God speed you !" echoed Dick, in his own voice, contemptu- 
 ously. " The devil drive you ! would have been a fitter post- 
 script. And it was upon this precious errand you came, Mr. 
 Coates?" 
 
 " Precisely," replied the attorney; "but I find the premises pre- 
 occupied. Fast as I have ridden, you were here before me." 
 
 " And what do you now propose to do?" asked Turpin. 
 
 " Bargain with you for the body," replied Coates, in an in- 
 sinuating tone. 
 
 "With me!" said Dick; "do you take me for a resurrection 
 cove; for a dealer in dead stock, eh ! sirrah?" 
 
 " I take you for one sufficiently alive, in a general way, to his 
 own interests," returned Coates. " These gentlemen may not, 
 perhaps, be quite so scrupulous, when they hear my proposals." 
 
 " Be silent, sir," interrupted Turpin. " Hist ! I hear the tramp 
 of horses' hoofs without. Hark ! that shout." 
 
 " Make your own terms before they come," said Coates. 
 " Leave all to me. I'll put 'em on a wrong scent." 
 
 "To the devil with your terms," cried Turpin; "the signal!" 
 And he pulled the trigger of one of Coates's pistols, the shot of 
 which rang in the ears of the astounded attorney as it whizzed 
 past him. " Drag him into the mouth of the vault," thundered 
 Turpin: " he will be a capital cover in case of attack. Look to 
 your sticks, and be on the alert; — away!" 
 
 Vainly did the unfortunate attorney kick and struggle, swear 
 and scream; his hat was pushed over his eyes; his bob-wig thrust 
 into his mouth ; and his legs tripped from under him. Thus 
 blind, dumb, and half-suffocated, he was hurried into the entrance 
 of the cell. 
 
 Dick, meanwhile, dashed to the arched outlet of the ruin. He 
 there drew in the rein, and Black Bess stood motionless as a 
 statue. 
 
234 EOOKWOOD. 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 DICK TUKPIN. 
 
 Many a fine fellow with a genius extensive enough to have effected universal 
 reformation has been doomed to perish by the halter. But does not such a 
 man's renown extend through centuries and tens of centuries, while many a 
 prince would be overlooked in history were it not the historian's interest to in- 
 crease the number of his pages ? Nay, when the traveller sees a gibbet, does 
 he not exclaim, " That fellow was no fool !" and lament the hardship of the 
 times ? — Schiller : The Robbers. 
 
 Tuepin's quick eye ranged over the spreading sward in front 
 of the ancient priory, and his brow became contracted. The feel- 
 ing, however, was transient. The next instant saw him the same 
 easy, reckless being he had been before. There was a little more 
 paleness in his cheek than usual; but his look was keener, and his 
 knees involuntarily clasped the saddle more firmly. No other 
 symptom of anxiety was perceptible. It would be no impeach- 
 ment to Dick's valour were it necessary to admit that a slight 
 tremor crossed him as he scanned the formidable array of his oppo- 
 nents. The admission is needless. Dick himself would have 
 been the last man to own it; nor shall we do the memory of our 
 undaunted highwayman any such injustice. Turpin was intrepid 
 to a fault. He was rash ; apt to run into risks for the mere plea- 
 sure of getting out of them: danger was his delight, and the 
 degree of excitement was always in proportion to the peril in- 
 curred. After the first glance, he became, to use his own expres- 
 sive phrase, u as cool as a cucumber ;" and continued, as long as 
 they permitted him, like a skilful commander, calmly to calculate 
 the numerical strength of his adversaries, and to arrange his own 
 plan of resistance. 
 
 This troop of horsemen, for such it was, might probably amount 
 in the aggregate to twenty men, and presented an appearance like 
 that of a strong muster at a rustic fox-chase, due allowance being 
 made for the various weapons of offence; to wit, naked sabres, 
 firelocks, and a world of huge horse-pistols, which the present 
 field carried along with them. This resemblance was heightened 
 by the presence of an old huntsman and a gamekeeper or two, in 
 scarlet and green jackets, and a few yelping hounds that had fol- 
 lowed after them. The majority of the crew consisted of sturdy 
 yeomen; some of whom, mounted upon wild, unbroken colts, had 
 pretty lives of it to maintain their seats, and curvetted about in 
 a most admired disorder;" others were seated upon more docile, 
 but quite as provoking specimens of the cart-horse breed, whose 
 sluggish sides, reckless alike of hobnailed heel or ash sapling, re- 
 fused to obey their riders' intimations to move ; while others, 
 again, brought stiff, wrong-headed ponies to the charge — obstinate, 
 
KOOKWOOD. 235 
 
 impracticable little brutes, who seemed to prefer revolving on 
 their own axes, and describing absurd rotatory motions, to pro- 
 ceeding in the direct and proper course pointed out to them. 
 Dick could scarcely forbear laughing at these ridiculous manoeuvres; 
 but his attention was chiefly attracted towards three individuals, 
 who were evidently the leaders of this warlike expedition. In the 
 thin, tall figure of the first of these he recognised Ranulph Rock- 
 wood. With the features and person of the second of the group 
 he was not entirely unacquainted, and fancied (nor incorrectly 
 fancied) that his military bearing, or, as he would have expressed 
 it, " the soldier-like cut of his jib," could belong to no other than 
 Major Mowbray, whom he had once eased of a purse on Finchley 
 Common. In the round, rosy countenance and robustious person 
 of the last of the trio he discovered his ancient ally, Titus Tyr- 
 connel. 
 
 "Ah, Titus, my jewel, are you there?" exclaimed Dick, as he 
 distinguished the Irishman. "Come, I have one friend among 
 them whom I may welcome. So, they see me now. Off they 
 come, pell-mell. Back, Bess, back — slowly, wench, slowly — there 
 — stand !" And Bess again remained motionless. 
 
 The report of Turpin's pistol reached the ears of the troop; 
 and as all were upon the alert, he had scarcely presented himself 
 at the gateway, when a loud shout was raised, and the whole ca- 
 valcade galloped towards him, creating, as may be imagined, the 
 wildest disorder ; each horseman yelling, as he neared the arch, 
 and got involved in the press occasioned by the unexpected con- 
 centration of forces at that point, while oaths and blows, kicks 
 and cuffs, were reciprocated with such hearty good-wdll, that, had 
 Turpin ever read Ariosto or Cervantes, or heard of the discord of 
 King Agramante's camp, this melee must have struck him as its 
 realisation. As it was, entertaining little apprehension of the 
 result, he shouted encouragement to them. Scarcely, however, 
 had the foremost horseman disentangled himself from the crowd, 
 and, struggling to the door, was in the act of levelling his pistol 
 at Turpin's head, when a well-directed ball pierced the brain of 
 his charger, and horse and man rolled to the ground. Vowing 
 vengeance, a second succeeded, and was in like manner compelled 
 to bite the dust. 
 
 " That will let old Peter know that Ranulph Rookwood is at 
 hand," exclaimed Dick. " I shan't throw away another shot." 
 
 The scene at the archway was now one of complete confusion. 
 Terrified by the shots, some of the boors would have drawn back, 
 while others, in mid career, advanced, and propelled them for- 
 wards. It was like the meeting of two tides. Here and there, 
 regardless of the bit, and scared by the firing, a wild colt broke 
 all bounds, and, hurling his rider in the air, darted off into the 
 green; or, in another case, rushed forward, and encountering the 
 prostrate cattle cumbering the entrance to the priory hall, stumbled, 
 
236 ROOKWOOD. 
 
 and precipitated his master neck-over-heels at the very feet of his 
 enemy. During all this tumult, a few shots were fired at the 
 highwayman, which, without doing him a jot of mischief, tended 
 materially to increase their own confusion. 
 
 The voice of Turpin was now heard above the din and turmoil 
 to sound a parley ; and as he appeared disposed to offer no opposi- 
 tion, some of his antagonists ventured to raise themselves from the 
 ground, and to approach him. 
 
 " I demand to be led to Sir Ranulph Rookwood," said Turpin. 
 
 " He is here," said Ranulph, riding up. " Villain, you are my 
 prisoner." 
 
 " As you list, Sir Ranulph," returned Dick, coolly ; " but let me 
 have a word in private with you ere you do aught you may repent 
 hereafter." 
 
 " No words, sir — deliver up your arms, or " 
 
 " My pistols are at your service," replied Dick. "I have just 
 discharged them." 
 
 " You may have others. We must search you." 
 
 " Hold !" cried Dick ; " if you will not listen to me, read that 
 paper." And he handed Ranulph his mother's letter to Mr. 
 Coates. It was without the superscription, which he had thrown 
 aside. 
 
 "My mother's hand I" exclaimed Ranulph, reddening with 
 anger, as he hastily perused its contents. " And she sent this to 
 you? You lie, villain — 'tis a forgery." 
 
 " Let this speak for me," returned Dick, holding out the finger 
 upon which Lady Rookwood's ring was placed. " Know you that 
 cipher? 
 
 " You have stolen it," retorted Ranulph. " My mother," added 
 he, in a deep, stern whisper, articulated only for Turpin' s hearing, 
 "would never have entrusted her honour to a highwayman's 
 keeping." 
 
 " She has entrusted more — her life," replied Dick, in a careless 
 tone. " She would have bribed me to do murder." 
 
 " Murder!" echoed Ranulph, aghast. 
 
 " Ay, to murder your brother," returned Dick; "but let that 
 pass. You have read that note. I have acted solely upon your 
 mother's responsibility. Lady Rookwood's honour is pledged for 
 my safety. Of course her son will set me free." 
 
 " Never !" 
 
 " Well, as you please. Your mother is in my power. Betray 
 me, and you betray her." 
 
 "No more!" returned Ranulph, sternly. "Go your ways* 
 You are free." 
 
 " Pledge me your word of honour I am safe." 
 
 Ranulph had scarcely given his pledge, when Major Mowbray 
 rode furiously up. A deep flush of anger burnt upon his cheeks; 
 
ROOK WOOD. 237 
 
 his sword was drawn in his hand. He glanced at Turpin, as if he 
 would have felled him from the saddle. 
 
 "This is the ruffian," cried the major, fiercely, "by whom I 
 was attacked some months ago, and for whose apprehension the 
 reward of three hundred pounds is offered by his majesty's procla- 
 mation, with a free pardon to his accomplices. This is Richard 
 Turpin. He has just added another crime to his many offences. 
 He has robbed my mother and sister. The postboy knew him the 
 moment he came up. Where are they, villain? Whither are they 
 gone? — answer!" 
 
 " I know not," replied Turpin, calmly. u Did not the lad tell 
 you they were rescued?" 
 
 "Rescued! — by whom?" asked Ranulph, with great emotion. 
 
 " By one who calls himself Sir Luke Rookwood," answered 
 Turpin, with a meaning smile. 
 
 "By him!" ejaculated Ranulph. "Where arc they now?" 
 
 " I have already answered that question," said Dick. " I repeat, 
 I know not." 
 
 "You are my prisoner," cried the major, seizing Turpin's bridle. 
 
 " I have Sir Ranulph's word for my safety," rejoined Turpin. 
 " Let go my rein." 
 
 "How is this?" asked Major Mowbray, incredulously. 
 
 "Ask me not. Release him," replied Ranulph. 
 
 "Ranulph," said the major, "you ask an impossibility. My 
 honour — my duty — is implicated in this man's capture." 
 
 " The honour of all of us is involved in his deliverance," re- 
 turned Ranulph, in a whisper. " Let him go. I will explain all 
 hereafter. Let us search for them — for Eleanor. Surely, after 
 this, you will help us to find them," added he, addressing Turpin. 
 
 " I wish, with all my soul, I could do so," replied the highway- 
 man. 
 
 " I see'd the ladies cross the brook, and enter these old ruins," 
 interposed the postboy, who had now joined the party. " I see'd 
 'em from where I stood on the hill-side ; and as I kept a pretty 
 sharp look-out, and have a tolerably bright eye of my own, I don't 
 think as how they ever corned out again." 
 
 " Some one is hidden within yon fissure in the wall," exclaimed 
 Ranulph ; " I see a figure move." 
 
 And he flung himself from his horse, rushing towards the mouth 
 of the cell. Imitating his example, Major Mowbray followed his 
 friend, sword in hand. 
 
 " The game begins now in right earnest," said Dick to himself; 
 " the old fox will be soon unearthed. I must look to my snap- 
 pers." And he thrust his hand quietly into his pocket in search of 
 a pistol. 
 
 Just as Ranulph and the major reached the recess they were 
 startled by the sudden apparition of the ill-fated attorney. 
 
238 ROOKWOOD. 
 
 "Mr. Coates!" exclaimed Ranulph, in surprise. "What do 
 you here, sir?" 
 
 " I — I — that is — Sir Ranulph — you must excuse me, sir — par- 
 ticular business — can't say," returned the trembling attorney; for 
 at this instant his eye caught that of Turpin, and the ominous re- 
 flexion of a polished-steel barrel, held carelessly towards him. 
 He was aware, also, that on the other hand he was, in like 
 manner, the mark of Rust and Wilder; those polite gentlemen 
 having threatened him with a brace of slugs in his brain if he 
 dared to betray their hiding-place. " It is necessary that I should 
 be guarded in my answers," murmured he. 
 
 "Is there any one within that place beside yourself?" said the 
 major, making a movement thither. 
 
 " No, sir, nobody at all," answered Coates, hastily, fancying at 
 the same time that he heard the click of the pistol that was to be 
 his death-warrant. 
 
 "How came you here, sir?" demanded Ranulph. 
 
 " Do you mean in this identical spot ?" replied Coates, evasively. 
 
 " You can have no difficulty in answering that question," said 
 the major, sternly. 
 
 " Pardon me, sir. I find considerable difficulty in answering 
 any question, situated as I am." 
 
 "Have you seen Miss Mowbray?" asked Ranulph, eagerly. 
 
 " Or my mother?" said the major, in the same breath. 
 
 " Neither," replied Coates, rather relieved by these questions. 
 
 " I suspect you are deceiving us, sir," said the major. " Your 
 manner is confused. I am convinced you know more of this 
 matter than you choose to explain ; and if you do not satisfy me 
 
 at once, fully and explicitly, I vow to Heaven " and the major's 
 
 sword described a glittering circle round his head. 
 
 " Are you privy to their concealment?" asked Ranulph. u Have 
 you seen aught of them, or of Luke Bradley?" 
 
 " Speak, or this moment is your last," said the major. 
 
 " If it is my last, I cannot speak," returned Coates. " I can 
 make neither head nor tail of your questions, gentlemen." 
 
 " And you positively assure me you have not seen Mrs. Mow- 
 bray and her daughter?" said Ranulph. 
 
 Turpin here winked at Coates. The attorney understood him. 
 
 " I don't positively assert that," faltered he. 
 
 "How! — you have seen them?" shouted Ranulph. 
 
 " Where are they? — in safety — speak !" added the major. 
 
 Another expressive gesture from the highwayman communicated 
 to the attorney the nature of his reply. 
 
 " Without, sir — without — yonder," he replied. " I will show 
 you myself. Follow, gentlemen, follow." And away scampered 
 Coates, without once venturing to look behind him. 
 
 In an instant the ruined hall was deserted, and Turpin alone left 
 behind. In the excitement of the moment his presence had been 
 
ROOKWOOD. 239 
 
 forgotten. In an instant afterwards the arena was again occupied 
 by a company equally numerous. Rust and Wilder issued from 
 their hiding-places, followed by a throng of the gipsy crew. 
 
 " Where is Sir Luke Rookwood?" asked Turpin. 
 
 " He remains below," was the answer returned. 
 
 "And Peter Bradley?" 
 
 " Stays there likewise." 
 
 " No matter. Now make ready, pals. Give 'em one shout — 
 Hurrah !" 
 
 " Hurrah !" replied the crowd, at the top of their voices. 
 
 Ranulph Rook wood and his companions heard this shout. Mr. 
 Coates had already explained the stratagem practised upon them 
 by the wily highwayman, as well as the perilous situation in which 
 he himself had been placed; and they were in the act of returning 
 to make good his capture, when the loud shouts of the crew ar- 
 rested them. From the clamour, it was evident that considerable 
 reinforcement must have arrived from some unlooked-for quarter; 
 and, although burning to be avenged upon the audacious highway- 
 man, the major felt it would be a task of difficulty, and that ex- 
 treme caution could alone ensure success. With difficulty restrain- 
 ing the impatience of Ranulph, who could scarcely brook these 
 few minutes of needful delay, Major Mowbray gave particular in- 
 structions to each of the men in detail, and caused several of them 
 to dismount. By this arrangement Mr. Coates found himself 
 accommodated with a steed and a pair of pistols, with which latter 
 he vowed to wreak his vengeance upon some of his recent tor- 
 mentors. After a short space of time occupied in this manner, the 
 troop slowly advanced towards the postern, in much better order 
 than upon the previous occasion ; but the stoutest of them quailed 
 as they caught sight of the numerous gipsy-gang drawn out in 
 battle array within the abbey walls. Each party scanned the 
 other's movements in silence and wonder, anxiously awaiting, yet 
 in a measure dreading, their leader's signal to beinn. That signal 
 was not long delayed. A shot from the ranks of Rookwood did 
 instant and bitter execution. Rob Rust was stretched lifeless 
 upon the ground. Nothing more was needed. The action now 
 became general. Fire-arms were discharged on both sides, without 
 much damage to either party. But a rush being made by a de- 
 tachment of horse, headed by Major Mowbray, the conflict soon 
 became more serious. The gipsies, after the first fire, threw aside 
 their pistols, and fought with long knives, with which they in- 
 flicted desperate gashes, both on men and horses. Major Mow- 
 bray was slightly wounded in the thigh, and his steed receiving 
 the blow intended for himself, stumbled, and threw his rider. 
 Luckily for the major, Ranulph Rookwood was at hand, and with 
 the butt-end of a heavy-handled pistol felled the ruffian to the 
 earth, just as he was upon the point of repeating the thrust. 
 
 Turpin, meanwhile, had taken comparatively a small share in 
 
240 EOOKWOOD. 
 
 the conflict. He seemed to content himself with acting upon the 
 defensive, and except in the case of Titus Tyrconnel, whom, espy- 
 ing amidst the crowd, he had considerably alarmed by sending a 
 bullet through his wig, he did not fire a single shot. He also 
 succeeded in unhorsing Coates, by hurling, with great dexterity, 
 the empty pistol at his head. Though apparently unconcerned in 
 the skirmish, he did not flinch from it, but kept his ground un- 
 yieldingly. "A charmed life" he seemed to bear; for amid the 
 shower of bullets, many of which were especially aimed at himself, 
 he came off unhurt. 
 
 " He that's born to be hanged will never be drowned, that's 
 certain," said Titus. " It's no use trying to bring him down. 
 But by Jasus ! he's spoiled my best hat and wig, any how. There's 
 a hole in my beaver as big as a crown piece." 
 
 " Your own crown's safe, and that's some satisfaction," said 
 Coates; "whereas mine has a bump on it as large as a swan's egg. 
 Ah ! if we could only get behind him." 
 
 The strife continued to rage without intermission: and though 
 there were now several ghastly evidences of its fury, in the shape 
 of wounded men and slaughtered or disabled horses, whose gaping 
 wounds fxooded the turf with gore, it was still difficult to see upon 
 which side victory would eventually declare herself. The gipsies, 
 though by far the greater sufferers of the two, firmly maintained 
 their ground. Drenched in the blood of the horses they had 
 wounded, and brandishing their long knives, they presented a for- 
 midable and terrific appearance, the effect of which was not at all 
 diminished by their wild yells and savage gesticulations. On the 
 other hand, headed by Major Mowbray and Ranulph, the troop of 
 yeomen pressed on undauntedly; and where the sturdy farmers 
 could get a firm gripe of their lithe antagonists, or deliver a blow 
 with their ox-like fists, they seldom failed to make good the advan- 
 tages which superior weight and strength gave them. It will thus 
 be seen that as yet they were pretty well matched. Numbers were 
 in favour of the gipsies, but courage was equally distributed, and, 
 perhaps, what is emphatically called " bottom," was in favour of 
 the rustics. Be this as it may, from what had already occurred, 
 there was every prospect of a very serious termination to the fray. 
 
 From time to time Turpin glanced to the entrance of the cell, 
 in the expectation of seeing Sir Luke Rookwood make his appear- 
 ance; and, as he was constantly disappointed in his expectation, 
 he could not conceal his chagrin. At length he resolved to de- 
 spatch a messenger to him, and one of the crew accordingly 
 departed upon this errand. He returned presently with a look of 
 blank dismay. 
 
 In our hasty narrative of the fight we have not paused to par- 
 ticularise, neither have we enumerated, the list of the combatants. 
 Amongst them, however, were Jerry Juniper, the knight of Malta, 
 and Zoroaster. Excalibur, as may be conceived, had not been 
 
ROOKWOOD. 241 
 
 idle; but that trenchant blade had been shivered by Ranulph 
 Rookwood in the early stage of the business, and the knight left 
 weaponless. Zoroaster, who was not merely a worshipper of fire, 
 but a thorough milling-cove, had engaged to some purpose in a 
 pugilistic encounter with the rustics; and, having fought several 
 rounds, now "bore his blushing honours thick upon him." Jerry, 
 like Turpin, had remained tolerably quiescent. " The proper 
 moment," he said, "had not arrived." A fatality seemed to 
 attend Turpin's immediate companions. Rust was the first who 
 fell ; Wilder also was now among the slain. Things were pre- 
 cisely in this condition when the messenger returned. A marked 
 change was instantly perceptible in Turpin's manner. He no 
 longer looked on with indifference. He seemed angry and dis- 
 trustful. He gnawed his lip, ever a sign with him of vexation. 
 Addressing a few words to those about him, he then spoke more 
 loudly to the rest of the crew. Being in the jargon of the tawny 
 tribe, his w T ords were not intelligible to the opposite party; but 
 their import was soon made known by the almost instant and total 
 relinquishment of the field by the gipsies. They took to their heels 
 at once, to a man, leaving only a few desperately wounded behind 
 them ; and, flying along the intricate ruins of the priory, baffled 
 all pursuit, wherever it was attempted. Jerry Juniper was the last 
 in the retreat; but, upon receiving a hint from Dick, he vaulted 
 like a roe over the heads of his adversaries, and made good his 
 escape. Turpin alone remained. He stood like a lion at bay, 
 quietly regarding the huntsmen hurtling around him. Ranulph 
 Rookwood rode up and bade him surrender. 
 
 " Detain me not," cried he, in a voice of thunder. u If you 
 would save her who is dear to you, descend into that vault. Ofi^ 
 I say." 
 
 And Turpin shook away, with ease, the grasp that Ranulph had 
 laid upon him. 
 
 " Villain, you do not escape me this time," said Major Mowbray ? 
 interposing himself between Turpin and the outlet. 
 
 u Major Mowbray, I would not have your blood upon my head," 
 said Dick. " Let me pass." And he levelled a pistol. 
 
 "Fire, if you dare!" said the major, raising his sword. "You 
 pass not. I will die rather than allow you to escape. Barricade 
 the door. Strike him down if he attempts to pass. Richard 
 Turpin, I arrest you in the king's name. You hear, my lads, in 
 his majesty's name. I command you to assist me in this highway- 
 man's capture. Two hundred pounds for his head." 
 
 " Two hundred devils !" exclaimed Dick, with a laugh of dis- 
 dain. " Go, seek your mother and sister within yon vault, Major 
 Mowbray; you will find employment enough there." 
 
 Saying which, he suddenly forced Bess to back a few yards; 
 then, striking his heels sharply into her sides, ere his purpose could 
 be divined by the spectators, charged, and cleared the lower part 
 
 R 
 
242 ROOKWOOD. 
 
 of the mouldering priory walls. This feat was apparently accom- 
 plished with no great effort by his admirable and unequalled 
 mare. 
 
 i{ By the powers !" cried Titus, " and he's given us the slip after 
 all. And just when we thought to make sure of him, too. Why, 
 Mr. Coates, that wall must be higher than a five-barred gate, or 
 any stone wall in my own country. It's just the most extraordinary 
 lepp I ever set eyes on !" 
 
 " The devil's in the fellow, certainly, or in his mare," returned 
 Coates; " but if he escapes me, I'll forgive him. I know whither 
 he's bound. He's off to London with my bill of exchange. I'll be 
 up with him. I'll track him like a bloodhound, slowly and surely, 
 as my father the thief-taker used to follow up a scent. Recollect 
 the hare and the tortoise. The race is not always to the swift. 
 What say you? 'Tis a match for five hundred pounds; nay, for 
 five thousand : for there is a certain marriage certificate in the way 
 — a glorious golden venture ! You shall go halves, if we win. 
 We'll have him, dead or alive. What say you for London, Mr. 
 Tyrconnel? Shall we start at once?" 
 
 " With all my sowl," replied Titus. " I'm with you." And 
 away this par yobile scoured. 
 
 Ranulph, meantime, plunged into the vault. The floor was 
 slippery, and he had nigh stumbled. Loud and deep lamentations, 
 and a wailing sound, like that of a lament for the dead, resounded 
 in his ears. A light at the further extremity of the vault attracted 
 his attention. He was filled with terrible forebodings; but the 
 worst reality was not so terrible as suspense. He rushed towards 
 the light. He passed the massive pillars, and there, by the ruddy 
 torch flame, discovered two female figures. One was an old 
 woman, fantastically attired, wringing her hands, and moaning, or 
 gibbering wild strains in broken, discordant, yet pathetic tones. 
 The other was Mrs. Mowbray. Both were images of despair. 
 Before them lay some motionless object. He noticed not that old 
 woman; he scarcely saw Mrs. Mowbray; he beheld only that 
 object of horror. It was the lifeless body of a female. The light 
 fell imperfectly upon the face; he could not discern the features, 
 but the veil in which it was swathed : that veil was Eleanor's ! 
 He asked no more. 
 
 With a wild cry he rushed forward. u Eleanor, my beloved I" 
 shrieked he. 
 
 Mrs. Mowbray started at his voice, but appeared stunned and 
 helpless. 
 
 " She is dead," said Ranulph, stooping towards the body. 
 « Dead— dead !" 
 
 " Ay," echoed the old woman, in accents of equal anguish — 
 « dead— dead!" 
 
 " But this is not Eleanor," exclaimed he, as he viewed the fea- 
 
ROOKWOOD. 243 
 
 turcs more closely. "This face, though beautiful, is not hers. 
 This dishevelled hair is black. The long lashes that shade her 
 cheek are of the same hue. She is scarce dead. The hand I clasp 
 is yet warm — the fingers are pliant." 
 
 " Yet she is dead," said the old woman, in a broken voice. " She 
 is slam. 
 
 " Who hath slain her?" asked Ranulph. 
 
 " I — I — her mother, slew her." 
 
 " You !" exclaimed Ranulph, horror-stricken. " And where is 
 Eleanor?" asked he. " Was she not here?" 
 
 " Better she were here now, even though she were as that poor 
 maid," groaned Mrs. Mowbray, " than where she is." 
 
 " Where is she, then ?" asked Ranulph, with frantic eagerness. 
 
 " Fled. Whither I know not." 
 
 "With whom?" 
 
 " With Sir Luke Rookwood — with Alan Rookwood. They 
 have borne her hence. Ranulph, you are too late." 
 
 "Gone!" cried Ranulph, fiercely springing to his feet. "How 
 escaped they? There appears to be but one entrance to this vault. 
 I will search each nook and cranny." 
 
 "'Tis vain," replied Mrs. Mowbray. "There is another outlet 
 through yon cell. Ry that passage they escaped." 
 
 " Too true, too true," shouted Ranulph, who flew to examine 
 the cell. " And wherefore followed you not?" 
 
 " The stone rolled to its mouth, and resisted my efforts. I could 
 not follow." 
 
 "Torture and death! She is lost to me for ever!" cried Ra- 
 nulph, bitterly. 
 
 " No !" exclaimed Barbara, clutching his arm. " Place your 
 trust in me, and I will find her for you." 
 
 " You!" ejaculated Ranulph. 
 
 " Even I," replied Barbara. " Your wrongs shall be righted — 
 my Sybil be avenged." 
 
244 ROOKWOOD. 
 
 BOOK IV. 
 
 THE RIDE TO YORK. 
 
 Then one halloo, boys ! one loud cheering halloo ! 
 To the swiftest of coursers, the gallant, the true ! 
 For the sportsman unborn shall the memory bless 
 Of the horse of the highwayman, bonny Black Bess 
 "• Richard Turpin". 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 THE RENDEZVOUS AT KILBURN. 
 
 Hind. Drink deep, my brave boys, of the bastinado ; 
 Of stramazons, tinctures, and slie passatas ; 
 Of the carricado, and rare embrocado ; 
 Of blades, and rapier-hilts of surest guard ; 
 Of the Vincentio and Burgundian ward. 
 Have we not bravely tossed this bombast foil-button ? 
 Win gold and wear gold, boys, 'tis we that merit it. 
 
 Prince of Prigs' Bevels. 
 An excellent Comedy, replete with various conceits and Tarltonian mirth. 
 
 The present straggling suburb at the north-west of the metro- 
 polis, known as Kilburn, had scarcely been called into existence a 
 century ago, and an ancient hostel, with a few detached farm- 
 houses, were the sole habitations to be found in the present populous 
 vicinage. The place of refreshment for the ruralising cockney of 
 1737 was a substantial-looking tenement of the good old stamp, 
 with great bay-windows, and a balcony in front, bearing as its 
 ensign the jovial visage of the lusty knight, Jack FalstafF. Shaded 
 by a spreading elm, a circular bench embraced the aged trunk of 
 the tree, sufficiently tempting, no doubt, to incline the wanderer 
 on those dusty ways to " rest and be thankful," and to cry encore 
 to a frothing tankard of the best ale to be obtained within the 
 chimes of Bow bells. 
 
 Upon a table, green as the privet and holly that formed the walls 
 of the bower in which it was placed, stood a great china bowl, one 
 of those leviathan memorials of bygone wassailry which we may 
 sometimes espy (reversed, in token of its desuetude) perched on the 
 top of an old japanned closet, but seldom, if ever, encounter in its 
 proper position at the genial board. All the appliances of festivity 
 were at hand. Pipes and rummers strewed the board. Perfume, 
 subtle yet mellow, as of pine and lime, exhaled from out the bowl, 
 and, mingling with the scent of a neighbouring bed of mignionette, 
 
ROOKWOOD. 245 
 
 and tlie subdued odour of the Indian weed, formed altogether as 
 delectable an atmosphere of sweets as one could wish to inhale on 
 a meltinir August afternoon. So, at least, thought the inmates of 
 the arbour; nor did they by any means confine themselves to the 
 gratification of a single sense. The ambrosial contents of the china 
 bowl proved as delicious to the taste as its bouquet was grateful to 
 the smell; while the eyesight was soothed by reposing on the 
 smooth sward of a bowling-green spread out immediately before 
 it, or in dwelling upon gently undulating meads, terminating, at 
 about a mile's distance, in the woody, spire-crowned heights of 
 Hampstead. 
 
 At the left of the table was seated, or rather lounged, a slender, 
 elegant-looking young man, with dark languid eyes, sallow com- 
 plexion, and features wearing that peculiarly pensive expression 
 often communicated by dissipation; an expression which, we regret 
 to say, is sometimes found more pleasing than it ought to be in the 
 eyes of the gentle sex. Habited in a light summer riding-dress, 
 fashioned according to the taste of the time, of plain and unpre- 
 tending material, and rather under than over dressed, he had, per- 
 haps, on that very account, perfectly the air of a gentleman. 
 There was, altogether, an absence of pretension about him, which, 
 combined with great apparent self-possession, contrasted very for- 
 cibly with the vulgar assurance of his showy companions. The 
 figure of the youth was slight, even to fragility, giving little out- 
 ward manifestation of the vigour of frame he in reality possessed. 
 This spark was a no less distinguished personage than Tom King, 
 a noted high-tobygloak of his time, who obtained, from his appear- 
 ance and address, the sobriquet of the " Gentleman Highwayman." 
 
 Tom was indeed a pleasant fellow in his day. His career was 
 brief, but brilliant: your meteors are ever momentary. He was a 
 younger son of a good family ; had good blood in his veins, though 
 not a groat in his pockets. According to the old song — 
 
 "When he arrived at man's estate, 
 It was all the estate he had ; 
 
 and all the estate he was ever likely to have. Nevertheless, if he 
 had no income, he contrived, as he said, to live as if he had the 
 mines of Peru at his control — a miracle not solely confined to him- 
 self. For a moneyless man, he had rather expensive habits. He 
 kept his three nags; and, if fame does not belie him, a like num- 
 ber of mistresses ; nay, if we are to place any faith in certain scan- 
 dalous chronicles to which we have had access, he w r as for some 
 time the favoured lover of a celebrated actress, who, for the time, 
 supplied him with the means of keeping up his showy establish- 
 ment. But things could not long hold thus. Tom was a model 
 of infidelity, and that was the only failing his mistress could not 
 overlook. She dismissed him at a moment's notice. Unluckily, 
 too, he had other propensities which contributed to involve him. 
 
246 ROOKWOOD. 
 
 He had a taste for the turf — a taste for play — was well known in 
 the hundreds of Drury, and cut no mean figure at Howell's, and 
 the faro tables thereanent. He was the glory of the Smyrna, 
 D'Osyndar's, and other chocolate houses of the day; and it was 
 at this time he fell into the hands of certain dexterous sharpers, by 
 whom he was first plucked, and subsequently patronised. Under 
 their tuition he improved wonderfully. He turned his wit and 
 talent to some account. He began to open his eyes. His nine 
 days' blindness was over. The dog saw. But, in spite of his 
 quickness, he was at length discovered, and ejected from Howell's 
 in a manner that left him no alternative. He must either have 
 called out his adversary, or go out himself. He preferred the 
 latter, and took to the road; and in his new line he was eminently 
 successful. Fortunately, he had no scruples to get over. Tom 
 had what Sir Walter Scott happily denominates " an indistinct 
 notion of menm and tuum" and became confirmed in the opinion 
 that everything he could lay hands upon constituted lawful spoil. 
 And then, even those he robbed admitted that he was the most 
 gentlemanlike highwayman they had ever the fortune to meet 
 with, and trusted they might always be so lucky. So popular did 
 he become upon the road, that it was accounted a distinction to 
 be stopped by him ; he made a point of robbing none but gentle- 
 men, and — Tom's shade would quarrel with us were we to omit 
 them — ladies. His acquaintance with Turpin was singular, and 
 originated in a rencontre. Struck with his appearance, Dick pre- 
 sented a pistol, and bade King deliver. The latter burst into a 
 laugh, and an explanation immediately ensued. Thenceforward 
 they became sworn brothers — the Py lades and Orestes of the road ; 
 and though seldom seen together in public, had many a merry 
 moonlight ride in company. 
 
 Tom still maintained three mistresses, his valet, his groom (tiger, 
 we should have called him), "and many a change of clothes besides," 
 says his biographer, " with which he appeared more like a lord 
 than a highwayman." And what more, we should like to know^ 
 would a lord wish to have? Few younger sons, we believe, can 
 boast so much ; and it is chiefly on their account, with some 
 remote view to the benefit of the unemployed youth of all profes- 
 sions, that we have enlarged so much upon Tom King's history. 
 The road, we must beg to repeat, is still open; the chances are 
 greater than they ever were; we fully believe it is their only road 
 to preferment, and we are sadly in want of highwaymen ! 
 
 Fancy Tom lounging at D'Osyndar's, carelessly tapping his boots 
 on the steps; there he stands! Is he not a devilish good-looking, 
 gentlemanlike sort of fellow? You could never have taken him 
 for a highwayman but for our information. A waiter appears — 
 supper is ordered at twelve — a broiled chicken and a bottle of 
 Burgundy — his groom brings his nags to the door — he mounts. 
 It is his custom to ride out on an evening — he is less liable to in- 
 
KOOKWOOD. 247 
 
 terruption.* At Marylebone Fields (now the Regent's Park) Ins 
 groom leaves him. He has a mistress in the neighbourhood. He 
 is absent for a couple of hours, and returns gay or dispirited, as 
 his luck may have turned out. At twelve he is at supper, and 
 has the night before him. How very easy all this seems. Can it 
 be possible we have no Tom Kings? 
 
 To return to Tom as he was in the arbour. Judging from his 
 manner, he appeared to be almost insensible to the presence of his 
 companions, and to be scarcely a partaker in their revelry. His 
 back was towards his immediate neighbour; his glass sparkled un- 
 touched at his elbow; and one hand, beautifully white and small, 
 a mark of his birth and breeding (crede Byron), rested upon the 
 edge of the table, while his thin, delicate digits, palpably demon- 
 strative of his faculty of adaptation (crede James Hardy Vaux), 
 were employed with a silver toothpick. In other respects, he 
 seemed to be lost in reverie, and was, in all probability, meditating 
 new exploits. 
 
 Next to King sat our old friend Jerry Juniper; not, however, 
 the Jerry of the gipsies, but a much more showy-looking person- 
 age. Jerry was no longer a gentleman of " three outs" — the diffi- 
 culty would now have been to say what he was " without." 
 Snakelike he had cast his slough, and rejoiced in new and brilliant 
 investiture. His were "speaking garments, speaking pockets 
 too." His linen was of the finest, his hose of the smartest. Gay 
 rings glittered on his fingers ; a crystal snuff-box underwent 
 graceful manipulation; a handsome gold repeater was sometimes 
 drawn from its location with a monstrous bunch of onions (anglice, 
 seals) depending from its massive chain. Lace adorned his wrists, 
 and shoes (of which they had been long unconscious), with buckles 
 nearly as large as themselves, confined his feet. A rich-powdered 
 peruke and silver-hilted sword completed the gear of the trans- 
 mogrified Jerry, or, as he now chose to be designated, Count 
 Albert Conyers. The fact was, that Jerry, after the fracas, ap- 
 prehensive that the country would be too hot for him, had, in 
 company with Zoroaster, quitted the ranks of the Canting Crew, 
 and made the best of his way to town. A lucky spice on the road 
 set them up; and having some acquaintance with Tom King, the 
 party, on their arrival, sought him out at his customary haunt, 
 D'Osyndar's, and enlisted under his banners. 
 
 Tom received them with open arms, gave them unlimited use 
 of his wardrobe, and only required a little trifling assistance in 
 return. He had a grand scheme in petto, in the execution of 
 which they could mainly assist him. Jerry was a Greek by 
 
 * We have heard of a certain gentleman tobyman, we forget his name, 
 taking the horses from his curricle for a similar purpose, but we own we think 
 King's the simpler plan, and quite practicable still. A cabriolet would be 
 quite out of the question, but particularly easy to stop. 
 
-248 ROOKWOOD. 
 
 nature, and could land a flat as well as the best of them. Zo- 
 roaster was just the man to lose a fight; or, in the language of the 
 Fancy, to play a cross. No two legs could serve Tom's purposes 
 better. He welcomed them with fraternal affection. 
 
 We will now proceed to reconnoitre Jerry's opposite neighbour, 
 who was, however, no other than that Upright Man, 
 
 The Magus Zoroaster, that great name. 
 
 Changed as was Juniper, the Magus was yet more whimsically 
 metamorphosed. Some traces of Jerry still remained, but not a 
 vestige was left of the original Dimber Damber. His tawny 
 mother had not known her son. This alteration, how T ever, was 
 not owing to change of dress; it was the result of the punishment 
 he had received at the u set-to" at the priory. Not a feature was 
 in its place; his swollen lip trespassed upon the precincts of his 
 nose; his nose trod hard upon his cheek; while his cheek again, 
 not to be behind the rest, rose up like an apple-dumpling under 
 his single eye, — single, we say — for, alas ! there was no speculation 
 in the other. His dexter daylight was utterly darkened, and, 
 indeed, the orb that remained was as sanguinary a luminary as 
 ever struggled through a London fog at noonday. To borrow a 
 couplet or so from the laureate of the Fancy : 
 
 One of his peepers was put 
 
 On the bankruptcy list, with his shop-windows shut, 
 
 While the other made nearly as tag-rag a show, 
 
 All rimmed round with black like the Courier in woe. 
 
 One black patch decorated his rainbow-coloured cheek; another 
 adorned his chin; a grinder having been dislodged, his pipe took 
 possession of the aperture. His toggery was that of a member of 
 the prize-ring; what we now call a " belcher" bound his throat; 
 a spotted fogle bandaged his jobbernowl, and shaded his right 
 peeper, while a white beaver crowned the occiput of the Magus. 
 And though, at first sight, there would appear to be some incon- 
 gruity in the association of such a battered character as the Up- 
 right Man with his smart companions, the reader's wonder will 
 rapidly diminish, when he reflects that any distinguished P. C. 
 man can ever find a ready passport to the most exclusive society. 
 View T ed in this light, Zoroaster's familiarity with his swell ac- 
 quaintance occasioned no surprise to old Simon Carr, the bottle- 
 nosed landlord of the FalstafT, who was a man of discernment in 
 his way, and knew a thing or two. Despite such striking evi- 
 dences to the contrary, the Magus was perfectly at his ease, and 
 sacrificing as usual to the god of flame. His mithra, or pipe, the 
 symbol of his faith, was zealously placed between his lips, and 
 never did his Chaldean, Bactrian, Persian, Pamphilian, Procon- 
 nesian, or Babylonian namesake, whichever of the six was the true 
 .Zoroaster [vide Bayle), respire more fervently at the altar of fire, 
 
ROOKWOOD. 249 
 
 than our Ma^us at the end of his enkindled tube. In his creed 
 we believe Zoroaster was a dualist, and believed in the co-exist- 
 ence and mystical relation of the principles of good and ill; his 
 pipe being his Yezdan, or benign influence; his empty pouch his 
 Ahreman, or the devil. We shall not pause to examine his tenets; 
 we meddle with no man's religious opinions, and shall leave the 
 Magus to the enjoyment of his own sentiments, be they what they 
 may. 
 
 One guest alone remains, and him w r c shall briefly dismiss. The 
 reader, we imagine, will scarcely need to be told who was the 
 owner of those keen grey eyes; those exuberant red whiskers; 
 that airy azure frock. It was 
 
 Our brave co-partner of the roads, 
 Skilful surveyor of highways and hedges ; 
 
 in a word — Dick Turpin ! 
 
 Dick had been called upon to act as president of the board, and 
 an excellent president he made, sedulously devoting himself to the 
 due administration of the punch-bowl. Not a rummer was allowed 
 to stand empty for an instant. Toast, sentiment, and anacreontic 
 song, succeeded each other at speedy intervals; but there was no 
 speechifying — no politics. He left church and state to take care 
 of themselves. Whatever his politics might be, Dick never 
 allowed them to interfere with his pleasures. His maxim was to 
 make the most of the passing moment; the dum vivimus vivamus 
 was never out of his mind ; a precautionary measure which we 
 recommend to the adoption of all gentlemen of the like, or any 
 other precarious profession. 
 
 Notwithstanding all Dick's efforts to promote conviviality, 
 seconded by the excellence of the beverage itself, conversation, 
 somehow or other, began to flag ; from being general it became 
 particular. Tom King, who was no punch-bibber, especially at 
 that time of day, fell into a deep reverie ; your gamesters often do 
 so; while the Magus, who had smoked himself drowsy, was com- 
 posing himself to a doze. Turpin seized this opportunity of ad- 
 dressing a few words on matters of business to Jerry Juniper, or, 
 as he now chose to be called, Count Conyers. 
 
 "My dear count," said Dick, in a low and confidential tone, 
 u you are aware that my errand to town is accomplished. I have 
 smashed Lawyer Coates's screen, pocketed the dimmock (here 'tis," 
 continued he, parenthetically, slapping his pockets), " and done 
 t'other trick in prime twig for Tom Kin£. With a cool thousand 
 in hand, I might, if I choose, rest awhile on my oars. But a quiet 
 life don't suit me. I must be moving. So I shall start to York- 
 shire to-nioht." 
 
 " Indeed I" said the soi-disant count, in a languid tone^" so 
 
 o» ' ° 
 
 soon : 
 
 " I have nothing to detain me/' replied Dick. " And, to tell 
 
250 ROOKWOOD. 
 
 you the truth, I want to see how matters stand with Sir Luke 
 Rookwood. I should be sorry if he went to the wall for want of 
 any assistance I can render him." 
 
 " True," returned the count ; " one would regret such an occur- 
 rence, certainly. But I fear your assistance may arrive a little 
 too late. He is pretty well done up, I should imagine, by this 
 time." 
 
 " That remains to be seen," said Turpin. " His case is a bad 
 one, to be sure, but I trust not utterly hopeless. With all his 
 impetuosity and pride, I like the fellow, and will help him, if I 
 can. It will be a difficult game to set him on his legs, but I 
 think it may be done. That underground marriage was sheer 
 madness, and turned out as ill as such a scheme might have been 
 expected to do. Poor Sybil ! if I could pipe an eye for anything, 
 it should be for her. I can't get her out of my head. Give me a 
 pinch of snuff. Such thoughts unman one. As to the priest, 
 that's a totally different affair. If he strangled his daughter, old 
 Alan did right to take the law into his own hands, and throttle 
 him in return. I'd have done the same thing myself; and, being 
 a proscribed Jesuit, returned, as I understand, without the king's 
 license for so doing, why Father Checkley's murder (if it must be 
 so called, I can't abide hard terms) won't lie very heavy at Alan's 
 door. That, however, has nothing to do with Sir Luke. He was 
 neither accessary nor principal. Still he will be in danger, at least 
 from Lady Rookwood. The whole county of York, I make no 
 doubt, is up in arms by this time." 
 
 " Then why go thither?" asked the count, somewhat ironically; 
 " for my part, I've a strange fancy for keeping out of harm's way 
 as long as possible." 
 
 " Every man to his taste," returned Turpin ; " I love to confront 
 danger. Run away ! pshaw ! always meet your foe." 
 
 " True," replied the count, " half-way ! but you go the whole 
 distance. What prudent man would beard the lion in his den?" 
 
 "I never was a prudent man," rejoined Dick, smiling; "I have 
 no superfluous caution about me. Come what will, I shall try to 
 find out this Luke Rookwood, and offer him my purse, such as it 
 is, and it is now better lined than usual; a hand free to act as he 
 lists ; and a head which, imprudent though it be, can often think 
 better for others than for its own master." 
 
 "Vastly fine!" exclaimed the count, with an ill-disguised 
 sneer. " I hope you don't forget that the marriage certificate 
 which you hold is perfectly valueless now. The estates, you are 
 aware 
 
 " Are no longer Sir Luke's. I see what you are driving at, 
 count," returned Dick, coldly. "But he will need it to establish 
 his claim to the title, and he shall have it. While he was Sir 
 Luke with ten thousand a year, I drove a hard bargain, and would 
 
ROOKWOOD. 251 
 
 have stood out for the last stiver. Now that he is one of c us? a 
 mere Knight of the Road, he shall have it and welcome/' 
 
 " Perhaps Lady Rook wood, or Mrs. Mowbray, might he in- 
 clined to treat," maliciously insinuated the count; "the title may 
 be worth something to Ranulph." 
 
 " It is worth more to Luke; and if it were not, he gets it. Are 
 you satisfied?" 
 
 "Perfectly," replied the count, with affected bonhomie; "and 
 I will now let you into a secret respecting Miss Mowbray, from 
 which you may gather something for your guidance in this matter; 
 and if the word of a woman is at all to be trusted, though indivi- 
 dually I cannot say I have much faith in it, Sir Luke's planetary 
 hour is not yet completely overcast." 
 
 u That's exactly what I wish to know, my dear fellow," said 
 Turpin, eager]}-. " You have already told me you were witness to 
 a singular interview between Miss Mowbray and Sir Luke after 
 my departure from the priory. If I mistook you not, the whole 
 business will hinge upon that. What occurred? Let me have 
 every particular. The whole history and mystery." 
 
 u You shall have it with pleasure," said the count; "and I hope 
 it may tend to your benefit. After I had quitted the scene of 
 action at the priory, and at your desire left the Rookwood party 
 masters of the field, I fled with the rest of the crew towards the 
 rocks. There we held a council of war for a short time. Some 
 were for returning to the fight: but this was negatived entirelv, 
 and in the end it was agreed that those who had wives, daughters, 
 and sisters, should join them as speedily as possible at their retreat 
 in the Grange. As I happened to have none of these attractive 
 ties, and had only a troublesome mistress, who I thought could 
 take care of herself, I did not care to follow them, but struck 
 deeper into the wood, and made my way, guided by destiny, I 
 suppose, towards the cave." 
 
 "The cave!" cried Dick, rubbing his hands; "I delight in a 
 cave. Tom King and I once had a cave of our own at Epping, 
 and I'll have another one of these fine days. A cave is as proper 
 to a high-tobyman as a castle to a baron. Pray go on." 
 
 " The cave I speak of," continued the count, " was seldom used, 
 except upon great emergencies, by any of the Stop Hole Abbey 
 crew. It was a sort of retiring den of our old lioness Barbara, and, 
 like all belonging to her, respected by her dupes. However, the 
 cave is a good cave for all that; is well concealed by brushwood, 
 and comfortably lighted from a crevice in the rock above; it lies 
 near the brink of the stream, amongst the woods, just above the 
 waterfall, and is somewhat difficult of approach." 
 
 " I know something of the situation," said Turpin. 
 
 " Well," returned the count, " not to lose time, into this den I 
 crept, and, expecting to find it vacant, you may imagine my sur- 
 
252 ROOKWOOD. 
 
 prise on discovering that it was already occupied, and that Sir 
 Luke Rook wood, his granddad, old Alan, Miss Mowbray, and, 
 worst of all, the very person I wished most to avoid, my old flame 
 Handassah, constituted the party. Fortunately, they did not per- 
 ceive my entrance, and I took especial care not to introduce 
 myself. Retreat, however, was for the moment impracticable, 
 and I was compelled to be a listener. I cannot tell what had 
 passed between the parties before my arrival, but I heard Miss 
 Mowbray implore Sir Luke to conduct her to her mother. He 
 seemed half inclined to comply with her entreaties; but old Alan 
 shook his head. It was then Handassah put in a word; the minx 
 was ever ready at that. ' Fear not,' said she, ' that she will wed 
 Sir Ranulph. Deliver her to her friends, I beseech you, Sir 
 Luke, and woo her honourably. She will accept you.' Sir Luke 
 stared incredulously, and grim old Alan smiled. ' She has sworn 
 to be yours,' continued Handassah; ' sworn it by every hope of 
 heaven, and the oath has been sealed by blood — by Sybil's 
 blood.' — 'Does she speak the truth?' asked Sir Luke, trembling 
 with agitation. Miss Mowbray answered not. c You will not 
 deny it, lady,' said Handassah. ' I heard that oath proposed. I 
 ?aw it registered. You cannot deny it.' — ' I do not,' replied Miss 
 Mowbray, with much anguish of manner ; ' if he claim me, I 
 am his.' — 'And he will claim you,' said Alan Rookwood, tri- 
 umphantly. ' He has your oath, no matter how extorted — you 
 must fulfil your vow.' — * I am prepared to do so,' said Eleanor. 
 ' But if you would not utterly destroy me, let this maid conduct 
 me to my mother, to my friends.' — 'To Ranulph?' asked Sir 
 Luke, bitterly. — 'No, no,' returned Miss Mowbray, in accents of 
 deepest despair, ' to my mother — I wish not to behold him again.' 
 — 'Be it so,' cried Sir Luke; 'but remember, in love or hate, you 
 are mine; I shall claim the fulfilment of your oath. Farewell. 
 Handassah will lead you to your mother.' Miss Mowbray bowed 
 her head, but returned no answer, while, followed by old Alan, 
 Sir Luke departed from the cavern." 
 
 " Whither went they?" demanded Turpin. 
 "That I know not," replied Jerry. "I was about to follow, 
 when I was prevented by the abrupt entrance of another party. 
 Scarcely, I think, could the two Rookwoods have made good their 
 retreat, when shouts were heard without, and young Ranulph and 
 Major Mowbray forced their way, sword in hand, into the cave. 
 Here w r as a situation — for me, I mean — to the young lady, I make 
 no doubt, it was pleasant enough. But my neck was in jeopardy. 
 However, you know I am not deficient in strength, and, upon the 
 present occasion, I made the best use of the agility with which 
 nature has endowed me. Amidst the joyous confusion — the sob- 
 bings, and cmbracings, and congratulations that ensued — I con- 
 trived, like a wild cat, to climb the rocky sides of the cave, and 
 concealed myself behind a jutting fragment of stone. It was well 
 
ROOKWOOD. 253 
 
 I did so, for scarcely was I hidden, when in came old Barbara, 
 followed by Mrs. Mowbray, and a dozen others." 
 
 " Barbara !" ejaculated Dick. " Was she a prisoner?" 
 
 " No," replied Jerry ; " the old hell-cat is too deep for that. She 
 had betrayed Sir Luke, and hoped they would seize him and his 
 granddad. But the birds were flown." 
 
 " I'm glad she was baulked," said Dick. " Was any search 
 made after them?" 
 
 " Can't say," replied Jerry. " I could only indistinctly catch 
 the sounds of their voices from my lofty retreat. Before they left 
 the cavern, I made out that Mrs. Mowbray resolved to go to Rook- 
 wood, and to take her daughter thither — a proceeding to which 
 the latter demurred." 
 
 " To Rookwood," said Dick, musingly. " Will she keep her 
 oath, I wonder?" 
 
 " That's more than I can say," said Jerry, sipping his punch. 
 
 u 'Tis a deceitful sex, indeed," echoed Dick, tossing off a 
 tumbler. " For one Sybil we meet with twenty Handassahs, ch> 
 count?" 
 
 " Twenty ! — say rather a hundred," replied Jerry. "'Tis a vile 
 sex!" 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 TCni KING. 
 
 Grimm. How gloriously the sun sets to-night. 
 
 Moor. When I was a boy, my favourite thought was, that I should live and 
 die like yonder glorious orb. It was a boyish thought. 
 
 Grimm. True, captain. The Robbers. 
 
 "Peace, base calumniators," exclaimed Tom King, aroused 
 from his toothpick reverie by these aspersions of the best part of 
 creation. a Peace, I say. None shall dare abuse that dear 
 devoted sex in the hearing of their champion, without pricking a 
 lance with him in their behalf. What do you, either of you, who 
 abuse woman in that wholesale style, know of her? Nothing — 
 less than nothing; and yet you venture, upon your paltry expe- 
 rience, to lift up your voices and decry the sex. Now I do know 
 her; and upon my own experience avouch, that, as a sex, woman, 
 compared with man, is as an angel to a devil. As a sex, woman 
 is faithful, loving, self-sacrificing. We 'tis that make her other- 
 wise; ice, selfish, exacting, neglectful men; we teach her indif- 
 ference, and then blame her apt scholarship. We spoil our own 
 hand, and then blame the cards. No abuse of women in my hear- 
 
254 ROOKWOOD. 
 
 ing. Give me a glass of grog, Dick. 6 The sex ! — three times 
 three!' — and here's a song for you into the bargain." Saying 
 which, in a mellow, plaintive tone, Tom gave the following : 
 
 PLEDGE OE THE HIGHWAYMAN. 
 
 Come, fill up a bumper to Eve's fairest daughters, 
 
 Who have lavished their smiles on the brave and the free ; 
 Toast the sweethearts of Dudley, Hind, Wilmot, and Waters,* 
 
 Whate'er the attraction, whate'er their degree. 
 Pledge ! pledge in a bumper, each kind-hearted maiden, 
 
 Whose bright eyes were dimmed at the highwayman's fall ; 
 Who stood !by the gallows with sorrow o'erladen, 
 
 Bemoaning the fate of the gallant Dtj-Val ! 
 
 Here's to each lovely lass chance of war bringeth near one, 
 
 Whom, with manner impassioned, we tenderly stop ; 
 And to whom, like the lover addressing his dear one, 
 
 In terms of entreaty the question we pop. 
 How oft, in such case, rosy lips have proved sweeter 
 
 Than the rosiest book, bright eyes saved a bright ring ; 
 While that one other kiss has brought off a repeater, 
 
 And a bead as a favour — the favourite string. 
 
 With our hearts ready rifled, each pocket we rifle, 
 
 With the pure flame of chivalry stirring our breasts ; 
 Life's risk for our mistress's praise is a trifle; 
 
 And each purse as a trophy our homage attests. 
 Then toss off your glasses to all girls of spirit, 
 
 Ne'er with names, or with number, your memories vex ; 
 Our toast, boys, embraces each woman of merit, 
 
 And, for fear of omission, we'll drink the whole sex. 
 
 " Well," replied Dick, replenishing King's rummer, while he 
 laughed heartily at his ditty, " I shan't refuse your toast, though 
 my heart don't respond to your sentiments. Ah, Tom ! the sex 
 you praise so much will, I fear, prove your undoing. Do as you 
 please, but curse me if ever I pin my life to a petticoat. I'd as soon 
 think of neo-lectins; the four cautions." 
 
 "The four cautions," said King; " what are they?" 
 "Did you never hear them?" replied Dick. "Attend, then, 
 and be edified." 
 
 THE POUR CAUTIONS. 
 
 Pay attention to these cautions four, 
 And through life you will need little more, 
 Should you dole out your days to threescore : 
 Beware of a pistol before ! 
 
 Before ! before ! 
 Beware of a pistol before ! 
 
 * Pour celebrated highwaymen, all rejoicing in the honourable distinction of 
 captain. 
 
ecrtjo S"^ C.-rULl£.^Kafl*lC-<-^ 
 
 qJ^ ^JZbwwt/ ^"j^^^^ 
 
EOOKTVOOD. 255 
 
 And when backwards His ears are inclined, 
 And his tail with his ham is combined, 
 Caution two you will bear in your mind : 
 Beware of a prancer behind ! 
 
 Behind ! behind ! 
 Beware of a prancer behind ! 
 
 Thirdly, when in the park you may ride, 
 On your best bit of blood, sir, astride, 
 Chatting gay to your old friend's young bride : 
 Beware of a coach at the side ! 
 
 At the side ! at the side ! 
 Beware of a coach at the side ! 
 
 Lastly, whether in purple or grey, 
 Canter, ranter, grave, solemn, or gay, 
 Whate'er he may do or may say, 
 Beware of a priest every way ! 
 
 Every way ! every way ! 
 Beware of a priest every way ! 
 
 " Well," said Tom King, " all you can sing or say don't alter 
 my good opinion of the women. Not a secret have I from the girl 
 of my heart. She could have sold me over and over again if she 
 had chosen, but my sweet Sue is not the wench to do that." 
 
 " It is not too late," said Dick. " Your Dalilah may yet hand 
 you over to the Philistines." 
 
 " Then I shall die in a good cause," said King: " but 
 
 The Tyburn Tree 
 Has no terrors for me, 
 Let better men swing — I'm at liberty. 
 
 I shall never come to the scragging-post, unless you turn topsman, 
 Dick Turpin. My nativity has been cast, and the stars have de- 
 clared I am to die by the hand of my best friend — and that's you 
 —eh, Dick?" 
 
 " It sounds like it," replied Turpin; a but I advise you not to 
 become too intimate with Jack Ketch. He may prove your best 
 friend after all." 
 
 " Why, faith, that's true," replied King, laughing; "and if I 
 must ride backwards up Holborn Hill, I'll do the thing in style, 
 and honest Jack Ketch shall never want his dues. A man should 
 always die game. We none of us know how soon our turn may 
 come; but come when it will, /shall never flinch from it. 
 
 As the highwayman's life is the fullest of zest, 
 
 So the lnghwayman's death is the briefest and best; 
 
 He dies not as other men die, by degrees, 
 
 But at once ! without flinching— and quite at his ease ! 
 
 as the song you are so fond of says. When I die, it will not be of 
 consumption. And if the surgeon's knife must come near me, it 
 
250 ROOKWOOD. 
 
 will be after death. There's some comfort in that reflection, at all 
 events." 
 
 " True," replied Turpin, u and, with a little alteration, my song 
 would suit you capitally : 
 
 There is not a king, should you search the world round, 
 So blithe as the king's king, Tom King, to be found : 
 Dear woman's his empire, each girl is his own, 
 And he'd have a long reign if he'd let 'em alone ! 
 
 Ha, ha !" 
 
 61 Ha, ha!" laughed Tom. "And now, Dick, to change the 
 subject. You are off, I understand, to Yorkshire to-night. 'Pon 
 my soul, you are a wonderful fellow — an alibi personified ! — here 
 and everywhere at the same time — no wonder you are called the 
 flying highwayman. To-day in town — to-morrow at York — the 
 day after at Chester. The devil only knows where you will pitch 
 your quarters a week hence. There are rumours of you in all 
 counties at the same moment. This man swears you robbed him 
 at Hounslow ; that, on Salisbury Plain ; while another avers you 
 monopolise Cheshire and Yorkshire, and that it isn't safe even to 
 hunt without pops in your pocket. I heard some devilish good 
 stories of you at D'Osyndar's t'other day; the fellow who told them 
 to me little thought I was a brother blade." 
 
 " You flatter me," said Dick, smiling complacently; " but it's 
 no merit of mine. Black Bess alone enables me to do it, and hers 
 be the credit. Talking of being everywhere at the same time, 
 you shall hear what she once did for me in Cheshire. Meantime, 
 a glass to the best mare in England. You won't refuse that toast, 
 Tom. Ah ! if your mistress is only as true to you as my nag to 
 me, you might set at nought the tightest hempen cravat that was 
 ever twisted, and defy your best friend to hurt you. Black Bess I 
 and God bless her ! And now for the song." Saying which, with 
 m*ch emotion, Turpin chanted the following rhymes : 
 
 BLACK BESS* 
 
 Let the lover his mistress's beauty rehearse, 
 And laud her attractions in lancruishins: verse ; 
 Be it mine in rude strains, but with truth to express, 
 The love that I bear to my bonny Black Bess. 
 
 Prom the West was her dam, from the East was her sire, 
 Erom the one came her swiftness, the other her fire ; 
 No peer of the realm better blood can possess 
 Than flows in the veins of my bonny Black Bess. 
 
 Look ! look ! how that eyeball glows bright as a brand ! 
 That neck proudly arches, those nostrils expand ! 
 Mark ! that wide-flowing mane ! of which each silky tress 
 Might adorn prouder beauties — though none like Black Bess. 
 
 * Set to music by Mr. F. Homer. 
 
ROOKWOOD. 257 
 
 Mark ! that skin sleek as velvet, and dusky as night, 
 With its jet undisfigured by one lock of white ; 
 That throat branched with veins, prompt to charge or caress 
 Now is she not beautiful ? — bonny Black Bess ! 
 
 Over highway and by-way, in rough and smooth weather, 
 Some thousands of miles have we journeyed together ; 
 Our couch the same straw, and our meal i he same mess 
 No couple more constant than I and Black Bess. 
 
 By moonlight, in darkness, by night, or by day, 
 Her headlong career there is nothing can stay ; 
 She cares not for distance, she knows not distress : 
 Can you show me a courser to match with Black Bess ? 
 
 " Egad ! I should think not," exclaimed King.; u you are as 
 sentimental on the subject of your mare, as I am when I think of 
 my darling Susan. But pardon my interruption. Pray proceed." 
 
 "Let me first clear my throat," returned Dick; "and now to 
 resume:" 
 
 Once it happened in Cheshire, near Dunham, I popped 
 On a horseman alone, whom I speedily stopped ; 
 That I lightened his pockets you'll readily guess — 
 Quick work makes Dick Turpin when mounted on Bess. 
 
 Now it seems the man knew me ; "Dick Turpin," said he, 
 " You shall swing for this job, as you live, d'ye see;" 
 I laughed at his threats and his vows of redress ; 
 1 was sure of an alibi then with Black Bess. 
 
 The road was a hollow, a sunken ravine,* 
 Overshadowed completely by wood like a screen; 
 I clambered the bank, and I needs must confess, 
 That one touch of the spur grazed the side of Black Bess. 
 
 Brake, brook, meadow, and plough'd field, Bess fleetly bestrode, 
 As the crow wings her flight we selected our road ; 
 We arrived at Hough Green in five minutes, or less — 
 My neck it was saved by the speed of Black Bess. 
 
 Stepping carelessly forward, I lounge on the green, 
 Taking excellent care that by all I am seen ; 
 Some remarks on time's flight to the squires I address, 
 But I say not a word of the flight of Black Bess. 
 
 I mention the hour — it was just about four — 
 Play a rubber at bowls — think the danger is o'er ; 
 When athwart my next game, like a checkmate at chess, 
 Comes the horseman in search of the rider of Bess. 
 
 * The exact spot where Turpin committed this robbery, which has often 
 been pointed out to us, lies in what is now a woody hollow, though Once the 
 old road from Altringham to Knutsford, skirting the rich and sylvan domains 
 of Dunham, and descending the hill that brings you to the bridge crossing the 
 little river Bollin. With some difficulty we penetrated this ravine. It is just 
 the place for an adventure of the kind. A small brook wells through it ; and 
 the steep banks are overhung with timber, and were, when we last visited the 
 place, in April, 1S34, a per.fect nest of primroses and wild flowers. Hough 
 (pronounced Hoo) Green lies about three miles across the country — the way 
 Turpin rode. The old Bowling-green is one of the pleasantest inns in Cheshire. 
 
 S 
 
258 ROOKWOOD. 
 
 i 
 
 What matter details ? Off with triumph 1 came ; 
 He swears to the hour, and the squires swear the same ; 
 I had robbed him at four ! — while at four they profess 
 I was quietly bowling — all thanks to Black Bess ! 
 
 Then one halloo, boys, one loud cheering halloo ! 
 To the swiftest of coursers, the gallant, the true ! 
 For the sportsman unborn shall the memory bless 
 Of the horse of the highwayman, bonny Black Bess ! 
 
 Loud acclamations rewarded Dick's performance. Awakened 
 from his doze, Zoroaster beat time to the melody, the only thing, 
 Jerry said, he was capable of heating in his present shattered con- 
 dition. After some little persuasion, the Magus was prevailed 
 upon to enliven the company with a strain, which he trolled forth 
 after a maudlin manner : 
 
 THE DOUBLE CROSS. 
 
 Though all of us have heard of crost rights, 
 And certain gains, by certain lost fights ■ 
 I rather fancies that it's news, 
 How in a mill, both men should lose ; 
 For vere the odds are thus made even, 
 It plays the dickens with the steven ;* 
 Besides, against all rule they're shining, 
 Vere neither has no chance of vinning. 
 
 Ri, tol, lot, 8fc. 
 
 Two milling coves, each vide avake, 
 
 Vere backed to fight for heavy stake : 
 
 But in the mean time, so it vos, 
 
 Both kids agreed to play a cross ; 
 
 Bold came each buffer-\ to the scratch, 
 
 To make it look a lightish match ; 
 
 They peeled% in style, and bets were making, 
 
 5 Tvos six to four, but few were taking. 
 
 Ri, tol, lol, Src. 
 
 Quite cautiously the mill began, 
 For neither knew the other's plan ; 
 Each cull\ completely in the dark, 
 Of vot might be his neighbour's mark; 
 Resolved his fbbing\\ not to mind, 
 Nor yet to pay him back in kind ; 
 So on each other kept they tout^\ 
 And sparred a bit, and dodged about. 
 
 Ri, tol, lol, 8fc. 
 
 Vith mawleys** raised, Tom bent his back, 
 
 As if to plant a heavy thwack : 
 
 Vile Jem, with neat left-handed stopper, 
 
 Straight threatened Tommy with a topper; 
 
 5 Tis all my eye ! no claret flows, 
 
 No facers sound — no smashing blows — 
 
 Five minutes pass, yet not a hit, 
 
 How can it end, pals ? — vait a bit. 
 
 Ri, tol, lol, Src 
 
 * Money. f Man. % Stripped. § Fellow. 
 
 || A particular kind of pugilistic punishment, 
 •jf Kept each an eye upon the other. ** Hands. 
 
EOOKWOOD . 259 
 
 Each cove vos teazed with double duty, 
 
 To please his backers, yet play booty ;* 
 
 Ven, luckily for .Jem, a teller 
 
 Vos planted right upon his smeller; 
 
 Down dropped he, stunned; ven time was called, 
 
 Seconds in vain the seconds bawled; 
 
 The mill is o'er, the crosser crost, 
 
 The loser's von, the vinner's lost ! 
 
 Hi, tol, lot, SfC. 
 
 The party assumed once more a lively air, and the glass was cir- 
 culated so freely, that at last a final charge drained the ample bowl 
 of its contents. 
 
 "The best of friends must part/' said Dick; "and I would 
 willingly order another whiff of punch, but I think we have all 
 had enough to satisfy us, as you milling coves have it, Zory ! 
 Your one eye has got a drop in it already, old fellow; and, to 
 speak the truth, I must be getting into the saddle without more 
 delay, for I have a long ride before me. And now, friend Jerry, 
 before I start, suppose you tip us one of your merry staves; we 
 haven't heard your pipe to-day, and never a cross cove of us all can 
 throw off so prime a chant as yourself. A song! a song!" 
 
 " Ay, a song !" reiterated King and the Magus. 
 
 "You dome too much honour, gemmen," said Jerry, modestly, 
 taking a pinch of snuff; " I am sure I shall be most happy. My 
 chants are all of a sort. You must make all due allowances — 
 hem !" And, clearing his throat, he forthwith warbled 
 
 THE MODERN GREEK. 
 
 {Not translated from the Romaic.) 
 
 Come, gemmen, name, and make your game, 
 
 See, round the ball is spinning. 
 Black, red, or blue, the colours view, 
 due, deux, cinque, 'lis beginning, 
 Then make your game, 
 The colour name, 
 "While round the ball is spinning. 
 
 This sleight of hand my flat shall land 
 
 While covered by my bonnet,^ 
 I plant my ball, and boldly call, 
 Come make vour game upon it ! 
 Thus rat-a-tat ! 
 I land my flat ! 
 'Tis black — not red — is winning. 
 
 At gay roulette was never met 
 
 A lance like mine for bleeding ! 
 I'm ne'er at fault, at nothing halt, 
 All other legs preceding. 
 To all awake, 
 I never shake 
 A mag\ unless I nip it. 
 
 * Deceive them. f Accomplice. % A farthing. 
 
260 EOOKWOOD. • 
 
 Blind-hookey sees how well I squeeze 
 The well-packed cards in shuffling. 
 Ecarte, whist, I never missed, 
 A nick the broads* while ruffling. 
 Mogul or loo, 
 The same I do, 
 I am down to trumps as trippet ! 
 
 ' French hazard ta'en, / nick the main, 
 Was ne'er so prime a caster. 
 No crabs for me, I'm fly, d'ye see ; 
 The bank shall change its master. 
 Seven quatre, trois, 
 The stakes are high ! 
 Ten mains ! ten mains are mine, pals ! 
 
 At Rouge et Noir, yon hellite^ choir 
 
 I'll make no bones of stripping ; 
 One glorious coup for me shall do, 
 While they may deal each pip in. 
 Trente-un-apres 
 Ne'er clogs my way ; 
 The game — the game's divine, pals. 
 
 At billiards set, I make my bet, 
 
 I'll score and win the rub, pals ; 
 1 miss my cue, my hazard, too, 
 But yet my foe I'll drub, pals. 
 That cannon-twist, 
 I ne'er had missed, 
 Unless to suit my views, pals. <i 
 
 To make all right, the match look tight, 
 
 This trick, you know, is done, pals ; 
 But now be gay, I'll show my play — 
 Hurrah ! the game is won, pals. 
 No hand so fine, 
 No wrist like mine, 
 No odds I e'er refuse, pals. 
 
 Then choose your game ; whate'er you name, 
 
 To me alike all offers ; 
 Chick-hazard, whist, whate'er you list, 
 Replenish quick your coffers. 
 Thus, rat-a-tat ! 
 I land my flat ! 
 To every purse I speak, pals. 
 
 Cramped boxes 'ware, all's right and fair, 
 
 Barred balls I bar when goaded ; 
 The deuce an ace is out of place ! 
 The deuce a die is loaded ! 
 
 Then make your game, 
 Your colour name ; 
 Success attend the Greek, pals. 
 
 Bravo, Jerry — bravissimo!" chorused the party. 
 "And now, pals, farewell! — a long farewell!" said Dick, in a 
 
 * Cards. f Qy. elite. — Pkinter's Devil. 
 
ROOKWOOD 261 
 
 tone of theatrical valediction. " As I said before, the best friends 
 must separate. We may soon meet again, or we now may part} 
 for ever. We cannot command our luck; but we can make the 
 best of the span allotted to us. You have your game to play. I 
 have mine. May each of us meet with the success he deserves." 
 
 " Egad ! I hope not," said King. " I'm afraid, in that case, the 
 chances would be against us." 
 
 " Well, then, the success we anticipate, if you prefer it," re- 
 joined Dick. " I have only to observe one thing more, namely, 
 that I must insist upon standing Sam upon the present occasion. 
 Not a word. I won't hear a syllable. Landlord, I say — what 
 oh!" continued Dick, stepping out 'of the arbour. "Here, my 
 old Admiral of the White, what's the reckoning? — what's to pay, 
 I say?" 
 
 u Let ye know directly, sir," replied mine host of the Falstaff. 
 
 " Order my horse — the black mare," added Dick. 
 
 " And mine," said King, " the sorrel colt. I'll ride with you a 
 mile or two on the road, Dick; perhaps we may stumble upon 
 something." 
 
 " Very likely." 
 
 " We meet at twelve, at D'Osyndar's, Jerry," said King, " if 
 nothing happens." 
 
 " Agreed," responded Juniper. 
 
 " What say you to a rubber at bowls, in the mean time?" said 
 the Magus, taking his everlasting pipe from his lips. 
 
 Jerry nodded acquiescence. And while they went in search of 
 the implements of the game, Turpin and King sauntered gently on 
 the green. 
 
 It was a delicious evening. The sun was slowly declining, and 
 glowed like a ball of fire amid the thick foliage of a neighbouring 
 eim. Whether, like the robber Moor, Tom King was touched by 
 this glorious sunset, we pretend not to determine. Certain it was 
 that a shade of inexpressible melancholy passed across his hand- 
 some countenance, as he gazed in the direction of Harrow-on- 
 the-Hill, which, lying to the west of the green upon which they 
 walked, stood out with its pointed spire and lofty college against 
 the ruddy sky. He spoke not. But Dick noticed the passing 
 emotion. 
 
 " What ails you, Tom ?" said he, with much kindness of manner 
 — "are you not well, lad?" 
 
 " Yes, I am well enough," said King; " I know not what came 
 over me, but looking at Harrow, I thought of my school-days, and 
 what I was then, and that bright prospect reminded me of my 
 boyish hopes." 
 
 " Tut — tut," said Dick, u this is idle — you are a man now." 
 
 " I know I am," replied Tom, " but I have been a boy. Had I 
 any faith in presentiments, I should say this is the last sunset I 
 shall ever see:" 
 
262 ROOKWOOD. 
 
 " Here comes our host," said Dick, smiling. " I've no presen- 
 timent that this is the last bill I shall ever pay." 
 
 The bill was brought and settled. As Turpin paid it, the man's 
 conduct was singular, and awakened his suspicions. 
 
 "Are our horses ready?" asked Dick, quickly. 
 
 " They are, sir," said the landlord. 
 
 " Let us be gone," whispered Dick to King; " I don't like this 
 fellow's manner. I thought I heard a carriage draw up at the inn 
 door just now — there may be danger. Be fly !" added he to Jerry 
 and the Magus. " Now, sir," said he to the landlord, " lead the 
 way. Keep on the alert, Tom." 
 
 Dick's hint was not lost upon the two bowlers. They watched 
 their comrades ; and listened intently for any manifestation of 
 alarm. 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 A SURPRISE. 
 
 Was this well done, Jenny ? — Captain MacJieath. 
 
 While Turpin and King are walking across the bowling- 
 green, we will see what has taken place outside the inn. Tom's 
 presentiments of danger were not, it appeared, without founda- 
 tion. Scarcely had the ostler brought forth our two highway- 
 men's steeds, when a post-chaise, escorted by two or three horse- 
 men, drove furiously up to the door. The sole occupant of the 
 carriage was a lady, whose slight and pretty figure was all that 
 could be distinguished, her face being closely veiled. The land- 
 lord, who was busied in casting up Turpin's account, rushed forth 
 at the summons. A word or two passed between him and the 
 horsemen, upon which the former's countenance fell. He posted 
 in the direction of the garden; and the horsemen instantly dis- 
 mounted. 
 
 " We have him now, sure enough," said one of them, a very 
 small man, who looked, in his boots, like Buckle equipped for the 
 Oaks. 
 
 u By the powers J I begin to think so," replied the other horse- 
 man. " But don't spoil all, Mr. Coates, by being too preci- 
 pitate." 
 
 u Never fear that, Mr. Tyrconnel," said Coates; for it was the 
 gallant attorney : " he's sure to come for his mare. That's a trap 
 certain to catch him, eh, Mr. Paterson ? With the chief constable 
 of Westminster to back us, the devil's in it if we are not a match 
 for him." 
 
ROOKWOOD. 263 
 
 " And for Tom King too," replied the chief constable; "since 
 his blowen's peached, the game's up with him, too. We've long 
 had an eye upon him, and now we'll have a finger. He's one of 
 your-dashing trouts to whom we always give a long line, but we'll 
 land him this time, anyhow. If you'll look after Dick Turpin, 
 gemmen, I'll make sure of Tom." 
 
 " I'd rather you would help us, Mr. Paterson," said Coates; 
 "never mind Tom King; another time will do for him." 
 
 "No such thing," said Paterson; "one weighs just as much for 
 that matter as t'other. I'll take Tom to myself, and surely you 
 two, with the landlord and ostler, can manage Turpin amongst 
 you." 
 
 " I don't know that," said Coates, doubtfully ; " he's a devil of a 
 fellow to deal with." 
 
 " Take him quietly," said Paterson. " Draw the chaise out of 
 the way, lad. Take our tits to one side, and place their nags near 
 the door, ostler. Shall you be able to see him, ma'am, where you 
 are?" asked the chief constable, walking to the carriage, and 
 touching his hat to the lady within. Having received a satisfac- 
 tory nod from the bonnet and veil, he returned to his companions. 
 " And now, gemmen," added he, " let's step aside a little. Don't 
 use your fire-arms too soon." 
 
 As if conscious what was passing around her, and of the danger 
 that awaited her master, Black Bess exhibited so much impatience, 
 and plunged so violently, that it was with diiliculty the ostler 
 could hold her. "The devil's in the marc," said he; " what's the 
 matter with her? She was quiet enough a few minutes since. 
 Soho ! lass, stand." 
 
 Turpin and King, meanwhile, walked quickly through the 
 house, preceded by the host, who conducted them, and without 
 some inward trepidation, towards the door. Arrived there, each 
 man rushed swiftly to his horse. Dick was in the saddle in an 
 instant, and stamping her foot upon the ostler's leg, Black Bess 
 compelled the man, yelling with pain, to quit his hold of the 
 bridle. Tom King was not equally fortunate. Before he could 
 mount his horse, a loud shout was raised, winch startled the 
 animal, and caused him to swerve, so that Tom lost his footing in 
 the stirrup, and fell to the ground. He was instantly seized by 
 Paterson, and a struggle commenced, King endeavouring, but in 
 vain, to draw a pistol. 
 
 "Flip him,* Dick; fire, or I'm taken," cried King. "Fire! 
 damn you, why don't you fire?" shouted he, in desperation, still 
 struggling vehemently with Paterson, who was a strong man, and 
 more than a match for a light weio-ht like King. 
 
 "I can't," cried Dick; "I shall hit you, if f fire." 
 
 "Take your chance," shouted Kino-. "Is this vour friend- 
 ship?" 
 
 * Shoot him. 
 
264 EOOKWOOD. 
 
 Thus urged, Turpin fired. The ball ripped up the sleeve of 
 Paterson's coat, but did not wound him. 
 
 "Again!" cried King. "Shoot him, I say. Don't you hear 
 me? Fire a2:ain!" 
 
 Pressed as he was by foes on every side, himself their mark, for 
 both Coates and Tyrconnel had fired upon him, and were now 
 mounting their steeds to give chase, it was impossible that Turpin 
 could take sure aim; added to which, in the struggle, Paterson 
 and King were each moment changing their relative positions. 
 He, however, would no longer hesitate, but again, at his friend's 
 request, fired. The ball lodged itself in King's breast ! He fell 
 at once. At this instant a shriek was heard from the chaise : the 
 window was thrown open, and her thick veil being drawn aside, 
 the features of a very pretty female, now impressed with terror 
 and contrition, were suddenly exhibited. 
 
 King fixed his glazing eyes upon her. 
 
 " Susan !" sighed he, " is it you that I behold?" 
 
 " Yes, yes, 'tis she, sure enough," said Paterson. " You see, 
 ma'am, what you and such like have brought him to. However, 
 you'll lose your reward; he's going fast enough." 
 
 " Reward !" gasped King; " reward ! Did she betray me?" 
 
 " Ay, ay, sir," said Paterson, " she blowed the gaff) if it's any 
 consolation to you to know it." 
 
 " Consolation !" repeated the dying man; " perfidious ! — oh ! — 
 the prophecy — my best friend — Turpin — I die by his hand." 
 
 And vainly striving to raise himself, he fell backwards and ex- 
 pired. Alas, poor Tom ! 
 
 "Mr. Paterson! Mr. Paterson!" cried Coates; "leave the land- 
 lord to look after the body of that dying ruffian, and mount with 
 us in pursuit of the living rascal. Come, sir; quick! mount! de- 
 spatch! You see he is yonder; he seems to hesitate; we shall 
 have him now." 
 
 " Well, gemmen, I'm ready," said Paterson ; " but how the 
 devil came you to let him escape?" 
 
 " Saint Patrick only knows!" said Titus; "he's as slippery as 
 an eel — and, like a cat, turn him which way you will, he is always 
 sure to alight upon his legs. I wouldn't wonder but we lose him 
 now, after all, though he has such a small start. That mare flies 
 like the wind." 
 
 " He shall have a tight run for it, at all events," said Paterson, 
 putting spurs into his horse. " I've got a good nag under me, 
 and you are neither 'of you badly mounted. He's only three hun- 
 dred yards before us, and the devil's in it if we can't run him 
 down. It's a three hundred pound job, Mr. Coates, and well 
 worth a race." 
 
 " You shall have another hundred from me, sir, if you take 
 him," said Coates, urging his steed forward. 
 
 " Thank you, sir, thank you. Follow my directions, and we'll 
 
ROOKWOOD. 265 
 
 make sure of him," said the constable. " Gently, gently, not so 
 fast up the hill — you see he's breathing his horse. All in good 
 time, Mr. Coates — all in good time, sir." 
 
 And maintaining an equal distance, both parties cantered lei- 
 surely up the ascent now called Windmill Hill. We shall now 
 return to Turpin. 
 
 Aghast at the deed he had accidentally committed, Dick re- 
 mained for a few moments irresolute; he perceived that King was 
 mortally wounded, and that all attempts at rescue would be fruit- 
 less; he perceived, likewise, that Jerry and the Magus had effected 
 their escape from the bowling-green, as he could detect their figures 
 stealing alon# the hed^e-side. He hesitated no longer. Turning 
 his horse, he galloped slowly off, little heeding the pursuit with 
 which he was threatened. 
 
 " Every bullet has its billet," said Dick; " but little did I think 
 that I really should turn poor Tom's executioner. To the devil 
 with this rascally snapper," cried he, throwing the pistol over the 
 hedge. " I could never have used it again. 'Tis strange, too, 
 that he should have foretold his own fate — devilish strange ! And 
 then that he should have been betrayed by the very blowen he 
 trusted ! that's a lesson, if I wanted any. But trust a woman ! — 
 not I, the length of my little finger." 
 
 CHAPTER IY. 
 
 THE nUE AND CEY. 
 
 Six. gentlemen upon the road 
 
 Thus seeing Gilpin fly, 
 With postboy scampering in the rear, 
 
 They raised the hue and cry : 
 
 Stop thief! stop thief! a highwayman! 
 
 Not one of them was mute ; 
 And all and each that pass'd that way 
 
 Did join in the pursuit. Jonn Gilpin. 
 
 Arrived at the brow of the hill, whence such a beautiful view 
 of the country surrounding the metropolis is obtained,* Turpin. 
 turned for an instant to reconnoitre his pursuers. Coates and 
 Titus he utterly disregarded; but Paterson was a more formidable 
 foe, and he well knew that he had to deal with a man of expe- 
 
 * Since the earlier editions of this Romance were published, we regret to 
 state (for to us, at least, it is matter of regret, though probably not to the 
 travellers along the Edgeware-road) that this gentle ascent has been cut 
 through, and the fair prospect from its brow utterly destroyed. 
 
266 EOOKWOOD. 
 
 rience and resolution. It was then, for the first time, that the 
 thoughts of executing his extraordinary ride to York first flashed 
 across him; his bosom throbbed high with rapture, and he invo- 
 luntarily exclaimed aloud, as he raised himself in the saddle, " By 
 God ! I will do it !" 
 
 He took one last look at the great Babel that lay buried in a 
 world of trees beneath him; and as his quick eye ranged over the 
 magnificent prospect, lit up by that gorgeous sunset, he could not 
 help thinking of Tom King's last words. " Poor fellow !" thought 
 Dick, " he said truly. He will never see another sunset." Aroused 
 by the approaching clatter of his pursuers, Dick struck into a lane 
 which lies on the right of the road, now called Shoot-up-hill Lane, 
 and set off at a good pace in the direction of Hampstead. 
 
 " Now," cried Paterson, " put your tits to it, my boys. We 
 must not lose si^ht of him for a second in these lanes." 
 
 Accordingly, as Turpin was by no means desirous of inconve- 
 niencing his mare in this early stage of the business, and as the 
 ground was still upon an ascent, the parties preserved their relative 
 distances. 
 
 At length, after various twistings and turnings in that deep and 
 devious lane; after scaring one or two farmers, and riding over a 
 brood or two of ducks; dipping into the verdant valley of West 
 End, and ascending another hill, Turpin burst upon the gorsy, 
 sandy, and beautiful heath of Hampstead. Shaping his course to 
 the left, Dick then made for the lower part of the heath, and 
 skirted a path that leads towards North End, passing the furze- 
 crowned summit which is now crested by a clump of lofty pines. 
 
 It was here that the chase first assumed a character of interest. 
 Being open ground, the pursued and pursuers were in full view of 
 each other; and as Dick rode swiftly across the heath, with the 
 shouting trio hard at his heels, the scene had a verv animated 
 appearance. He crossed the hill — the Hendon Road — passed 
 Crackskull Common — and dashed alon£ the cross road to Hio-hirate. 
 
 Hitherto no advantage had been gained by the pursuers; they 
 had not lost ground, but still they had not gained an inch, and 
 much spurring was required to maintain their position. As they 
 approached Highgate, Dick slackened his pace, and the other party 
 redoubled their efforts. To avoid the town, Dick struck into a 
 narrow path at the right, and rode easily down the hill. 
 
 His pursuers were now within a hundred yards, and shouted to 
 him to stand. Pointing to a gate which seemed to bar their fur- 
 ther progress, Dick unhesitatingly charged it, clearing it in beau- 
 tiful style. Not so with Coates's party ; and the time they lost in 
 unfastening the gate, which none of them chose to leap, enabled 
 Dick to put additional space betwixt them. It did not, however, 
 appear to be his intention altogether to outstrip his pursuers: the 
 chase seemed to give him excitement, which he was willing to 
 prolong as much as was consistent with his safety. Scudding 
 
^yV^nJ^Y 'oya ■ 
 
8 
 
ROOKWOOD. 267 
 
 rapidly past Highgate, like a swift-sailing schooner, with three 
 lumbering Indiamen in her wake, Dick now took the lead along 
 a narrow lane that threads the fields in the direction of Hornsey. 
 The shouts of his followers had brought others to join them, and 
 as he neared Crouch End, traversing the lane which takes its 
 name from Du-Val, and in which a house frequented by that 
 gayest of robbers stands, or stood, " A highwayman! a highway- 
 man !" rang in his ears, in a discordant chorus of many voices. 
 
 The whole neighbourhood Avas alarmed by the cries, and by the 
 tramp of horses : the men of Hornsey rushed into the road to seize 
 the fugitive, and women held up their babes to catch a glimpse of 
 the flying cavalcade, which seemed to gain number and animation 
 as it advanced. Suddenly three horsemen appear in the road — 
 they hear the uproar and the din. " A highwayman ! a highway- 
 man !" cry the voices: " stop him, stop him !" But it is no such 
 easy matter. With a pistol in each hand, and his bridle in his 
 teeth, Turpin passed boldly on. His fierce looks — his furious 
 steed — the impetus with which he pressed forward, bore down all 
 before him. The horsemen gave way, and only served to swell 
 the list of his pursuers. 
 
 ""We have him now — we have him now!" cried Paterson, 
 exultingly. " Shout for your lives. The turnpike-man will hear 
 us. Shout again — again ! The fellow has heard it. The irate is 
 shut. We have him. Ha, ha!" 
 
 The old Hornsey toll-bar was a high gate, with chevaux-de- 
 frise in the upper rail. It may be so still. The gate was swung 
 into its lock, and, like a tiger in his lair, the prompt custodian of 
 the turnpike trusts, ensconced within his doorway, held himself in 
 readiness to spring upon the runaway. But Dick kept steadily 
 on. He coolly calculated the height of the gate; he looked to 
 the right and to the left — nothing better offered; he spoke a few 
 words of encouragement to Bess, gently patted her neck, then 
 struck spurs into her sides, and cleared the spikes by an inch. 
 Out rushed the amazed turnpike-man, thus unmercifully bilked, 
 and was nearly trampled to death under the feet of Paterson's 
 horse. 
 
 " Open the gate, fellow, and be expeditious," shouted the chief 
 constable. 
 
 " Not I," said the man, sturdily, " unless I gets my dues. I've 
 been done once already. But strike me stupid if I'm done a 
 second time." 
 
 "Don't you perceive that's a highwayman? Don't you know 
 that I'm chief constable of Westminster?" said Paterson, showing 
 his staff. u How dare you oppose me in the discharge of my 
 duty?" . 
 
 " That may be, or it may not be," said the man, doggedly. 
 " But you don't pass, unless I gets the blunt, and that's the long 
 and short on it." 
 
268 ROOKWOOD. 
 
 Amidst a storm of oaths Coates flung down a crown piece, and 
 the gate was thrown open. 
 
 Turpin took advantage of this delay to breathe his mare; and, 
 striking into a by-lane at Duckett's Green, cantered easily along 
 in the direction of Tottenham. Little repose was allowed him. 
 Yelling like a pack of hounds in full cry, his pursuers were again 
 at his heels. He had now to run the gauntlet of the long straggling 
 town of Tottenham, and various were the devices of the populace 
 to entrap him. The whole place was up in arms, shouting, scream- 
 ing, running, dancing, and hurling every possible description of 
 missile at the horse and her rider. Dick merrily responded to 
 their clamour as he flew past, and laughed at the brickbats that 
 were showered thick as hail, and quite as harmlessly, around him. 
 
 A few more miles' hard riding tired the volunteers, and before 
 the chase reached Edmonton most of them were " nowhere." 
 Here fresh relays were gathered, and a strong field was again 
 mustered. John Gilpin himself could not have excited more 
 astonishment amongst the good folks of Edmonton, than did our 
 highwayman as he galloped through their town. Unlike the men 
 of Tottenham, the mob received him with acclamations, thinking, 
 no doubt, that, like " the citizens of famous London town," he rode 
 for a wager. Presently, however, borne on the wings of the blast, 
 came the cries of " Turpin ! Dick Turpin !" and the hurrahs were 
 changed to hootings; but such was the rate at which our high- 
 wayman rode, that no serious opposition could be offered to him. 
 
 A man in a donkey-cart, unable to get out of the way, drew 
 himself up in the middle of the road. Turpin treated him as he 
 had done the dub at the knapping jigger, and cleared the driver 
 and his little wain with ease. This was a capital stroke, and well 
 adapted to please the multitude, who are ever taken with a 
 brilliant action. " Hark away, Dick ! " resounded on all hands ? 
 while hisses were as liberally bestowed upon his pursuers. 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 THE SHORT PIPE. 
 
 The Peons are capital horsemen, and several times we saw them, at a gallop, 
 throw the rein on the horse's neck, take from one pocket a bag of loose to- 
 bacco, and, with a piece of paper, or a leaf of Indian com, make a cigar, and 
 then take ont a flint and steel and light it. Head's Rough Notes. 
 
 Away they fly past scattered cottages, swiftly and skimmingly, 
 like eagles on the wing, along the Enfield highway. All w T ere 
 well mounted, and the horses, now thoroughly wanned, had got 
 
TURPIN LEAPING THE CART. 
 
 P. 268. 
 
Cto-rjt GrUiK.4H*n|L. 
 
 4- 
 
 'J f^^{7^U^U^, 
 
EOOKWOOD. 269 
 
 into their paces, and did their work beautifully. None of Coates's 
 party lost ground, but they maintained it at the expense of their 
 steeds, which were streaming like water-carts, while Black Bess 
 had scarcely turned a hair. 
 
 Turpin, the reader already knows, was a crack rider; he was 
 the crack rider of England of his time, and, perhaps, of any time. 
 The craft and mystery of jockeyship was not so well under- 
 stood in the eighteenth as it is in the nineteenth century; men 
 treated their horses differently, and few rode them as well as many 
 ride now, when every youngster takes to the field as naturally as 
 if he had been bred a Guacho. Dick Turpin was a glorious ex- 
 ception to the rule, and anticipated a later age. He rode wonder- 
 fully lightly, yet sat his saddle to perfection, distributing the 
 weight so exquisitely that his horse scarcely felt his pressure; he 
 yielded to every movement made by the animal, and became, as it 
 were, part and parcel of itself ; he took care Bess should be neither 
 strained nor wrung. Freely, and as lightly as *a feather, was she 
 borne along; beautiful was it to see her action — to watch her 
 style and temper of covering the ground; and many a first-rate 
 Meltonian might have got a wrinkle from Turpin's seat and 
 conduct. 
 
 We have before stated that it was not Dick's object to rick away 
 from his pursuers — he could have done that at any moment. He 
 liked the fun of the chase, and would have been sorry to put a 
 period to his own excitement. Confident in his mare, he just kept 
 her at such speed as should put his pursuers completely to it, with- 
 out in the slightest decree inconveniencing himself. Some iudg- 
 ment of the speed at which they went may be formed, when we 
 state that little better than an hour had elapsed and nearly twenty 
 miles had been ridden over. " Not bad travelling that," methinks 
 we hear the reader exclaim. 
 
 " By the mother that bore me," said Titus, as they went along 
 in this slapping style — Titus, by-the-by, rode a big, Roman-nosed, 
 powerful horse, well adapted to his weight, but which required a 
 plentiful exercise both of leg and arm to call forth all his action, 
 and keep his rider alongside his companions — u by the mother that 
 bore me," said^he, almost thumping the wind out of his flea-bitten 
 Bucephalus with his calves, after the Irish fashion, " if the fellow 
 isn't lighting his pipe ! I saw the sparks fly on each side of him, 
 and there he goes like a smoky chimney on a frosty morning ! 
 See, he turns his impudent phiz, with the pipe in his mouth ! 
 Are we to stand that, Mr. Coates?" 
 
 "Wait awhile, sir — wait awhile," said Coates; " we'll smoke 
 him by-and-by." 
 
 Pagans have been sung in honour of the Peons of the Pampas 
 by the Headlong Sir Francis; but what the gallant major extols 
 so loudly in the South American horsemen, viz., the lighting of a 
 cigar when in mid career, was accomplished with equal ease by 
 
270 ROOKWOOD. 
 
 our English highwayman a hundred years ago, nor was it esteemed 
 "by him any extravagant feat either. Flint, steel, and tinder, were 
 bestowed within Dick's ample pouch, the short pipe was at hand, 
 and within a few seconds there was a stream of vapour exhaling 
 from his lips, like the smoke from a steam-boat shooting down the 
 river, and tracking his still rapid course through the air. 
 
 " I'll let 'em see what I think of 'em!" said Dick, coolly, as he 
 turned his head. 
 
 It was now grey twilight. The mists of coming night were 
 weaving a thin curtain over the rich surrounding landscape. All 
 the sounds and hum of that delicious hour were heard, broken only 
 by the regular clatter of the horses' hoofs. Tired of shouting, the 
 chasers now kept on their way in deep silence ; each man held his 
 breath, and plunged his spurs, rowel deep, into his horse ; but the 
 animals were already at the top of their speed, and incapable of 
 greater exertion. Paterson, who was a hard rider, and perhaps a 
 thought better mounted, kept the lead. The rest followed as they 
 might. 
 
 Had it been undisturbed by the rush of the cavalcade, the scene 
 would have been still and soothing. Overhead a cloud of rooks 
 were winging their garrulous flight to the ancestral avenue of an 
 ancient mansion to the right; the bat was on the wing; the dis- 
 tant lowing of a herd of kine saluted the ear at intervals; the 
 blithe whistle of the rustic herdsman, and the merry chime of 
 waggon bells, rang pleasantly from afar. But these cheerful 
 sounds, which make the still twilight hour delightful, were lost in 
 the tramp of the horsemen, now three abreast. The hind fled to 
 the hedge for shelter, and the waggoner pricked up his ears, and 
 fancied he heard the distant rumbling of an earthquake. 
 
 On rush the pack, whipping, spurring, tugging for very life. 
 Again they gave voice, in hopes the waggoner might succeed in 
 stopping the fugitive. But Dick was already by his side. " Harkee, 
 my tulip," cried he, taking the pipe from his mouth as he passed, 
 " tell my friends behind they will hear of me at York." 
 
 " What did he say?" asked Paterson, coming up the next mo- 
 ment. 
 
 " That you'll find him at York," replied the waggoner. 
 
 "At York !" echoed Coates, in amaze. 
 
 Turpin was now out of sight, and although our trio flogged 
 with might and main, they could never catch a glimpse of him 
 until, within a short distance of Ware, they beheld him at the 
 door of a little public-house, standing with his bridle in his hand, 
 coolly quaffing a tankard of ale. No sooner were they in sight, 
 than Dick vaulted into the saddle, and rode off. 
 
 " Devil seize you, sir! why didn't you stop him?" exclaimed 
 Paterson, as he rode up. " My horse is dead lame. I cannot go 
 any further. Do you know what a prize you have missed? Do 
 you know who that was?" 
 
C wvi ^ ■o>u4t jk.a*ih. 
 
 ' s/ms ^tYs /K''''?// ,, 
 
 t V?s. 
 
ROOKWOOD. 271 
 
 " No, sir, I don't," said the publican. " But I know lie gave 
 his mare more ale than he took himself, and he has given me a 
 guinea instead of a shilling. He's a regular good 'un." 
 
 "Agood'un!" said Paterson; "it was Turpin, the notorious 
 highwayman. We are in pursuit of him. Have you any horses? 
 our cattle are all blown." 
 
 " You'll find the post-house in the town, gentlemen. I'm sorry 
 I can't accommodate you. But I keeps no stabling. I wish you 
 a very good evening, sir." Saying which, the publican retreated 
 to his domicile. 
 
 "That's a flash crib, I'll be bound," said Paterson. " I'll chalk 
 you down, my friend, you may rely upon it. Thus far we're done, 
 Mr. Coates. But curse me if I give it in. I'll follow him to the 
 world's end first." 
 
 " Right, sir — right," said the attorney. " A very proper spirit, 
 Mr. Constable. You would be guilty of neglecting your duty 
 were you to act otherwise. You must recollect my father, Mr. 
 Paterson — Christopher, or Kit Coates; a name as well known at 
 the Old Bailey as Jonathan Wild's. You recollect him — eh?" 
 
 " Perfectly well, sir," replied the chief constable. 
 
 " The greatest thief-taker, though I say it," continued Coates, 
 "on record. I inherit all his zeal — all his ardour. Come along, 
 sir. We shall have a fine moon in an hour — bright as day. To 
 the post-house! to the post-house!" 
 
 Accordingly to the post-house they went; and, with as little 
 delay as circumstances admitted, fresh hacks being procured, ac- 
 companied by a postilion, the party again pursued their onward 
 course, encouraged to believe thev were still in the right scent. 
 
 Night had now spread her mantle over the earth : still it was 
 not wholly dark. A few stars were twinkling in the deep, 
 cloudless heavens, and a pearly radiance in the eastern horizon 
 heralded the rising of the orb of night. A gentle breeze was 
 stirring; the dews of evening had already fallen; and the air felt 
 bland and dry. It was just the night one would have chosen for 
 a ride, if one ever rode by choice at such an hour; and to Turpin, 
 whose chief excursions were conducted by night, it appeared little 
 less than heavenly. 
 
 Full of ardour and excitement, determined to execute what he 
 had mentally undertaken, Turpin held on his solitary course. 
 Everything was favourable to his project ; the roads were in 
 admirable condition, his mare was in like order; she was inured, 
 to hard work, had rested sufficiently in town to recover from the 
 fatigue of her recent journey, and had never been in more perfect 
 training " She has now got her wind in her," said Dick; " I'll 
 see what she can do — hark away, lass — hark away ! I wish they 
 could see her now," added he, as he felt her almost fly away with 
 him. 
 
 Encouraged by her master's voice and hand, Black Bess started 
 
272 hookwood. 
 
 forward at a pace which few horses could have equalled, and 
 scarcely any have sustained so long. Even Dick, accustomed as 
 he was to her magnificent action, felt electrified at the speed with 
 which he was borne along. " Bravo ! bravo ! " shouted he, " hark 
 away, Bess!" 
 
 The deep and solemn woods through which they were rushing 
 rang with his shouts, and the sharp rattle of Bess's hoofs ; and thus 
 he held his .way, while, in the words of the ballad, 
 
 Fled past, on right and left, how fast, 
 
 Each forest, grove, and bower ; 
 On right and left, fled past, how fast, 
 
 Each city, town, and tower. 
 
 CHAPTER YE. 
 
 BLACK BESS. 
 
 Dauphin. I will not change my horse witli any that treads but on four pas- 
 terns. Ca, ha ! He bounds from the earth as if his entrails were hairs ; le 
 cheval volant, the Pegasus qui a les narines de feu ! When I bestride him, I 
 soar, I am a hawk : he trots the air ; the earth sings when he touches it ; the 
 basest horn of his hoof is more musical than the pipe of Hermes. 
 
 Shakspeare : Henry V., Act III. 
 
 Black Bess being undoubtedly the heroine of the Fourth 
 Book of this Romance, we may, perhaps, be pardoned for here 
 expatiating a little in this place upon her birth, parentage, breed- 
 ing, appearance, and attractions. And first as to her pedigree; 
 for in the horse, unlike the human species, nature has strongly im- 
 pressed the noble or ignoble caste. He is the real aristocrat, and 
 the pure blood that flows in the veins of the gallant steed will in- 
 fallibly be transmitted, if his mate be suitable, throughout all his 
 line. Bess was no cock-tail. She was thorough-bred: she boasted 
 blood in every bright and branching vein : 
 
 If blood can give nobility, 
 
 A noble steed was she ; 
 Her sire was blood, and blood her dam, 
 
 And all her pedigree. 
 
 As to her pedigree. Her sire was a desert Arab, renowned in 
 his day, and brought to this country by a wealthy traveller; her 
 dam was an English racer, coal-black as her child. Bess united 
 all the fire and gentleness, the strength and hardihood, the absti- 
 nence and endurance of fatigue of the one, with the spirit and ex- 
 traordinary fleetness of the other. How Turpin became possessed 
 3f her is of little consequence. We never heard that he paid a 
 
EOOKWOOD. 273 
 
 heavy price for her; though we doubt if any sum would have 
 induced him to part with her. In colour, she was perfectly black, 
 with a skin smooth on the surface as polished jet ; not a single 
 white hair could be detected in her satin coat. In make she was 
 magnificent. Every point was perfect, beautiful, compact; mo- 
 delled, in little, for strength and speed. Arched was her neck, as 
 that of the swan; clean and fine were her lower limbs, as those of 
 the gazelle ; round and sound as a drum was her carcase, and as 
 broad as a cloth-yard shaft her width of chest. Hers were the 
 " pulchrce dunes, breve caput, arduaque cervix" of the Roman 
 bard. There was no redundancy of flesh, 'tis true; her flanks 
 might, to please some tastes, have been rounder, and her shoulder 
 fuller; but look at the nerve and sinew, palpable through the 
 veined limbs ! She was built more for strength than beauty, and 
 yet she ivas beautiful. Look at that elegant little head ; those thin 
 tapering ears, closely placed together; that broad snorting nostril, 
 which seems to snuff the gale with disdain ; that eye, glowing 
 and large as the diamond of Giamschid! Is she not beautiful? 
 Behold her paces! how gracefully she moves! She is off! — no 
 eagle on the wing could skim the air more swiftly. Is she not 
 superb? As to her temper, the lamb is not more gentle. A chilu 
 might guide her. 
 
 But hark back to Dick Turpin. We left him rattling along in 
 superb style, and in the highest possible glee. He could not, in 
 fact, be otherwise than exhilarated; nothing being so wildly in- 
 toxicating as a mad gallop. We seem to start out of ourselves — 
 to be endued, for the time, with new energies. Our thoughts 
 take wings rapid as our steed. We feel as if his fleetness and 
 boundless impulses were for the moment our own. We laugh; 
 we exult ; we shout for very joy. We cry out with Mephistopheles, 
 but in anything but a sardonic mood, " What I enjoy with spirit, 
 is it the less my own on that account? If I can pay for six horses, 
 are not their powers mine ! I drive along, and am a proper man, 
 as if I had four-and-twenty legs!" These were Turpin' s senti- 
 ments precisely. Give him four legs and a wide plain, and he 
 needed no Mephistopheles to bid him ride to perdition as fast as 
 his nag could carry him. Away, away ! — the road is level, the 
 path is clear. Press on, thou gallant steed, no obstacle is in thy 
 way ! — and, lo ! the moon breaks forth ! Her silvery light is 
 thrown over the woody landscape. Dark shadows are cast 
 athwart the road, and the flying figures of thy rider and thyself 
 are traced, like giant phantoms, in the dust ! 
 
 Away, away ! our breath is gone in keeping up with this tre- 
 mendous run. Yet Dick Turpin has not lost his wind, for we hear 
 his cheering cry — hark ! he sings. The reader will bear in mind 
 that Oliver means the moon — to " whiddlc" is to blab. 
 
 T 
 
274 ROOKWOOD. 
 
 OLIVER WHIDDLES ! 
 
 Oliver whiddles — the tattler old ! 
 Telling what best had been left untold. 
 Oliver ne'er was a friend of mine ; 
 All glims I hate that so brightly shine. 
 Give me a night black as hell, and then 
 See what I'll show to you, my merry men. 
 
 Oliver whiddles ! — who cares — who cares, 
 If down upon us he peers and stares ? 
 Mind him who will, with his great white face, 
 Boldly I'll ride by his glim to the chase ; 
 Give him a Rowland, and loudly as ever 
 Shout, as I show myself, " Stand and deliver !" 
 
 " Egad," soliloquised Dick, as he concluded his song, looking 
 up at the moon. a Old Noll's no bad fellow either. I wouldn't 
 be without his white face to-night for a trifle. He's as good as a 
 lamp to guide one, and let Bess only hold on as she goes now, and 
 I'll do it with ease. Softly, wench, softly — dost not see it's a hill 
 we're rising. The devil's in the mare, she cares for nothing." And 
 as they ascended the hill, Dick's voice once more awoke the echoes 
 of night. 
 
 WILL DAVIES AND DICK TURPIN. 
 
 Hodie mihi, eras tibi. — Saint Augtjstin. 
 
 One night, when mounted on my mare, 
 To Bagshot Heath I did repair, 
 And saw Will Davies hanging there, 
 Upon the gibbet bleak and bare, 
 
 With a rustified, fustified, mustified air / 
 
 Within his chains bold Will looked blue, 
 Gone were his sword and snappers too, 
 Which served their master well and true ; 
 Says I, " Will Davies, how are you? 
 
 With your rustified, fustified, mustified air /" 
 
 Says he, " Dick Turpin, here I be, 
 
 Upon the gibbet, as you see ; 
 
 I take the matter easily ; 
 
 You'll have your turn as well as me, 
 
 With your lohistle-me, pistol-me, cut-my -throat air /" 
 
 Says I, " That's very true, my lad ; 
 Meantime, with pistol and with prad, 
 I'm quite contented as I am, 
 And heed the gibbet not a d — n ! 
 
 With its rustified, fustified, mustified air !" 
 
 " Poor Will Davies !" sighed Dick ; " Bagshot ought never to 
 forget him." * 
 
 * This, we regret to say, is not the case. The memory of bold Will Davies, 
 the '■'■Golden Farmer" (so named from the circumstance of his always paying 
 
ROOKWOOD. 275 
 
 For never more shall Bagshot see 
 A highwayman of such degree, 
 Appearance, and gentility, 
 As Will, who hangs upon the tree, 
 
 With his rustified, fustified, mustified air ! 
 
 u Well," mused Turpin, u I suppose one clay it will be with me 
 like all the rest of 'em, and that 1 shall dance a long lavolta to the 
 music of the four whistling winds, as my betters have done before 
 me; but I trust, whenever the chanter-culls and last-speech scrib- 
 blers get hold of me, they'll at least put no cursed nonsense into 
 my mouth, but make me speak, as I have ever felt, like a man 
 who never either feared death, or turned his back upon his friend. 
 In the mean time I'll give them something to talk about. This 
 ride of mine shall ring in their ears long after I'm done for — put 
 to bed with a mattock, and tucked up with a spade. 
 
 And when I am gone, boys, each huntsman shall say, 
 None rode like Dick Turpin so far in a day. 
 
 And thou, too, brave Bess! — thy name shall be linked with mine, 
 and we'll go down to posterity together; and what," added he, 
 
 despondingly, " if it should be too much for thee? what if but 
 
 no matter ! Better die now, while I am with thee, than fall into 
 the knacker's hands. Better die with all thy honours upon thy 
 head, than drag out thy old age at the sand-cart. Hark forward, 
 lass — hark forward ! " 
 
 By what peculiar instinct is it that this noble animal, the horse, 
 will at once perceive the slightest change in his rider's physical 
 temperament, and allow himself so to be influenced by it, that, 
 according as his master's spirits fluctuate, will his own energies 
 rise and fall, wavering 
 
 From walk to trot, from canter to full speed ? 
 
 How is it, we ask of those more intimately acquainted with the 
 metaphysics of the Huoyhnymn than we pretend to be ? Do the 
 saddle or the rein convey, like metallic tractors, vibrations of the 
 spirit betwixt the two ? We know not ; but this much is certain, 
 that no servant partakes so much of the character of his master as 
 the horse. The steed we are wont to ride becomes a portion of 
 
 his rent in gold), is fast declining upon his peculiar domain, Bagshot. The 
 inn, which once bore his name, still remains to point out to the traveller the 
 dangers his forefathers had to encounter in crossing this extensive heath. Just 
 beyond this house the common spreads out for miles on all sides in a most 
 gallop-inviting style; and the passenger, as he gazes from the box of some 
 Jiving coach, as wc have done, upon the gorse-covered waste, may, without 
 much stretch of fancy, imagine lie beholds Will Davics careering like the wind 
 over its wild and undulating expanse. We are sorry to add that the H Golden 
 Farmer" has altered its designation to the "JoUy Farmer." This should be 
 amended; and when next we pass that way, we hope to see the original sign 
 restored. "We caimot afford to lose our golden farmers. 
 
 T 2 
 
276 EOOKWOOD. 
 
 ourselves. He thinks and feels with us. As we are lively, he is 
 sprightly ; as we are depressed, his courage droops. In proof of 
 this, let the reader see what horses some men make — make, we say, 
 because in such hands their character is wholly altered. Partaking, 
 in a measure, of the courage and the firmness of the hand that 
 guides them, and of the resolution of the frame that sways them 
 — what their rider wills they do, or strive to do. When that 
 governing power is relaxed, their energies are relaxed likewise; 
 and their fine sensibilities supply them with an instant knowledge 
 of the disposition and capacity of the rider. A gift of the gods 
 is the gallant steed, which, like any other faculty we possess, to 
 use or to abuse — to command or to neglect — rests with ourselves: 
 he is the best general test of our own self-government. 
 
 Black Bess's action amply verified what we have just asserted ; 
 for during Turpin's momentary despondency, her pace was per- 
 ceptibly diminished and her force retarded ; but as he revived, 
 she rallied instantly, and, seized apparently with a kindred enthu- 
 siasm, snorted joyously, as she recovered her speed. Now was it 
 that the child of the desert showed herself the undoubted offspring 
 of the hardy loins from whence she sprung. Full fifty miles had 
 she sped, yet she showed no symptom of distress. If possible, 
 she appeared fresher than when she started. She had breathed; 
 her limbs were suppler; her action was freer, easier, lighter. Her 
 sire, who, upon his trackless wilds, could have outstripped the 
 pestilent simoom ; and with throat unslaked, and hunger unap- 
 peasecl, could thrice have seen the scorching sun go down, had 
 not greater powers of endurance. His vigour was her heritage. 
 Her dam, who upon the velvet sod was of almost unapproachable 
 swiftness, and who had often brought her owner golden assurances 
 of her worth, could scarce have kept pace with her, and would 
 have sunk under a third of her fatigue. But Bess was a paragon. 
 We ne'er shall look upon her like again, unless we can prevail 
 upon some Bedouin chief to present us with a brood mare, and 
 then the racing world shall see what a breed we will introduce 
 into this country. Eclipse, Childers, or Hambletonian, shall be 
 nothing to our colts, and even the railroad slow travelling, com- 
 pared with the speed of our new nags ! 
 
 But to return to Bess, or rather to go along with her, for there 
 is no halting now: w r e are going at the rate of tw r enty knots an 
 hour — sailing before the wind ; and the reader must either keep 
 pace with us, or drop astern. Bess is now in her speed, and Dick 
 happy. Happy ! he is enraptured — maddened — furious — intoxi- 
 cated as with wine. Pshaw ! wine could never throw him into 
 such a burning delirium. Its choicest juices have no inspiration 
 like this. Its fumes are slow and heady. This is ethereal, trans- 
 porting. His blood spins through his veins ; winds round his 
 heart ; mounts to his brain. Away! away ! He is wild with joy. 
 Hall, cot, tree, tower, glade, mead, waste, or woodland, are seen, 
 
nooxwooD. 277 
 
 passed, left behind, and vanish as in a dream. Motion is scarcely 
 perceptible — it is impetus! volition! The horse and her rider 
 are driven forward, as it were, by self-accelerated speed. A 
 hamlet is visible in the moonlight. It is scarcely discovered ere 
 the flints sparkle beneath the mare's hoofs. A moment's clatter 
 upon the stones, and it is left behind. Again, it is the silent, 
 smiling country. Now they are buried in the darkness of woods; 
 now sweeping along on the wide plain; now clearing the unopened 
 toll-bar; now trampling over the hollow-sounding bridge, their 
 shadows momently reflected in the placid mirror of the stream ; 
 now scaling the hill-side a thought more slowly; now plunging, 
 as the horses of Phoebus into the ocean, down its precipitous sides. 
 
 The limits of two shires are already past. They are within the 
 confines of a third. They have entered the merry county of 
 Huntingdon; they have surmounted the gentle hill that slips into 
 Godmanchester. They are by the banks of the rapid Ouse. The 
 bridge is past; and as Turpin rode through the deserted streets of 
 Huntingdon, he heard the eleventh hour given from the iron 
 tongue of St. Mary's spire. In four hours (it was about seven 
 when he started) Dick had accomplished full sixty miles ! 
 
 A few reeling topers in the streets saw the horseman flit past, 
 and one or two windows were thrown open; but Peeping Tom of 
 Coventry would have had small chance of beholding the unveiled 
 beauties of Queen Godiva had she ridden at the rate of Dick 
 Turpin. He was gone, like a meteor, almost as soon as he ap- 
 peared. 
 
 Huntingdon is left behind, and he is once more surrounded by 
 dew-gemmed hedges and silent slumbering trees. Broad meadows, 
 or pasture land, with drowsy cattle, or low bleating sheep, lie on 
 either side. But what to Turpin, at that moment, is nature, 
 animate or inanimate ? He thinks only of his mare — his future 
 fame. None are by to see him ride; no stimulating plaudits ring 
 in his ears ; no thousand hands are clapping ; no thousand voices 
 huzzaing ; no handkerchiefs are waved ; no necks strained ; no 
 bright eyes rain influence upon him ; no eagle orbs watch his 
 motions; no bells are rung; no cup awaits his achievement; no 
 sweepstakes — no plate. But his will be renown — everlasting re- 
 nown ; his will be fame which will not die with him — which will 
 keep his reputation, albeit a tarnished one, still in the mouths of 
 men. He wants all these adventitious excitements, but he has 
 that within which is a greater excitement than all these. He is 
 conscious that he is doing a deed to live by. If not riding for 
 life, he is riding for immortality ; and as the hero may perchance 
 feel (for even a highwayman may feel like a hero), when he wil- 
 lingly throws away his existence in the hope of earning a glorious 
 name, Turpin cared not what might befal himself, so he could 
 proudly signalise himself as the first of his land, 
 
 And witch the world with noble horsemanship ! 
 
278 ROOKWOOD. 
 
 What need had he of spectators ? The eye of posterity was upon 
 him ; he felt the influence of that Argus glance which has made 
 many a poor wight spur on his Pegasus with not half so good a 
 chance of reaching the goal as Dick Turpin. Multitudes, yet un- 
 born, he knew would hear and laud his deeds. He trembled with 
 excitement, and Bess trembled under him. But the emotion was 
 transient. On, on they fly ! The torrent leaping from the crag — 
 the bolt from the bow — the air-cleaving eagle — thoughts them- 
 selves are scarce more winged in their flight ! 
 
 CHAPTER "VII. 
 
 THE YOUK STAGE. 
 
 York, Pour, Days ! — Stage Coach begins on Friday, the \Wi of April, 1706. 
 All that are desirous to pass from London to York, or from York to London, 
 or any other place on that road, let them repair to the Black Swan, in Holborn, 
 in London, or to the Black Swan, in Coney-street, in York. At both winch 
 places they may be received in a Stage Coach, every Monday, Wednesday, and 
 [Friday, which performs the whole journey in four days (if God permits !), and 
 sets forth at five in the morning. And returns from York to Stamford in two 
 days, and from Stamford, by Huntingdon, in two days more. And the like 
 stages in their return. Allowing each passenger fourteen pounds' weight, and 
 all above, threepence per pound. Performed by Benjamin Kingman, Henry 
 Harrison, and Walter Baynes. — Placard, preserved in the coffee-room of the 
 Black Swan Inn at York. 
 
 The night had hitherto been balmy and beautiful, with a bright 
 array of stars, and a golden harvest moon, which seemed to diffuse 
 even warmth with its radiance ; but now Turpin was approaching 
 the region of fog and fen, and he began to feel the influence of 
 that dank atmosphere. The intersecting dykes, yawners, gullies, 
 or whatever they are called, began to send forth their steaming 
 vapours, and chilled the soft and wholesome air, obscuring the 
 void, and in some instances, as it were, choking up the road itself 
 ■with vapour. But fog or fen was the same to Bess ; her hoofs 
 rattled merrily along the road, and she burst from a cloud, like 
 Eous at the break of dawn. 
 
 It chanced, as he issued from a fog of this kind, that Turpin 
 burst upon the York stage coach. It was no uncommon thing 
 for the coach to be stopped ; and so furious was the career of our 
 highwayman, that the man involuntarily drew up his horses. 
 Turpin had also to draw in the rein, a task of no little difficulty, 
 as charging a huge lumbering coach, with its full complement of 
 passengers, was more than even Bess could accomplish. The 
 moon shone brightly on Turpin and his marc. He was un- 
 
ROOKWOOD. 279 
 
 masked, and his features were distinctly visible. An exclamation 
 was uttered by a gentleman on the box, who, it appeared, in- 
 stantly recognised him. • 
 
 " Pull up — draw your horses across the road !" cried the gentle- 
 man; "that's Dick Turpin, the highwayman. His capture would 
 be worth three hundred pounds to you," added he, addressing the 
 coachman, "and is of equal importance to me. Stand!" shouted 
 he, presenting a cocked pistol. 
 
 This resolution of the gentleman was not apparently agreeable, 
 either to the coachman or the majority of the passengers — the 
 name of Turpin acting like magic upon them. One man jumped 
 off behind, and was with difficulty afterwards recovered, having 
 tumbled into a deep ditch at the road-side. An old gentleman 
 with a cotton nightcap, who had popped out his head to swear at 
 the coachman, drew it suddenly back. A faint scream in a female 
 key issued from within, and there was a considerable hubbub on 
 the roof. Amongst other ominous sounds, the guard was heard 
 to click his long horse-pistols. " Stop the York four-day stage!" 
 said he, forcing his smoky voice through a world of throat-em- 
 bracing shawl ; " the fastest coach in the kingdom : vos ever sich 
 atrocity heard of? I say, Joe, keep them ere leaders steady; we 
 shall all be in the ditch. Don't you see where the hind wheels 
 are? Who — whoop, I say." 
 
 The gentleman on the box now discharged his pistol, and the 
 confusion within was redoubled. The white nightcap was popped 
 out like a rabbit's head, and as quickly popped back on hearing the 
 highwayman's voice. Owing to the plunging of the horses, the 
 gentleman had missed his aim. 
 
 Prepared for such emergencies as the present, and seldom at any 
 time taken aback, Dick received the fire without flinching. He 
 then lashed the horses out of his course, and rode up, pistol in hand, 
 to the frentleman who had fired. 
 
 "Major Mowbray," said he, in a stern tone, "I know you. I 
 meant not either to assault you or these gentlemen. Yet you have 
 attempted my life, sir, a second time. But you are now in my 
 power, and by hell ! if you do not answer the questions I put to 
 you, nothing earthly shall save you." 
 
 " If you ask aught I may not answer, fire !" said the major; " I 
 will never ask life from such as you." 
 
 " Have you seen aught of Sir Luke Rookwood?" asked Dick. 
 
 "The villain you mean is not yet secured," replied the major, 
 "but we have traces of him. 'lis with the view of procuring 
 more efficient assistance that I ride to town." 
 
 " They have not met then, since ? " said Dick, carelessly. 
 
 " Met ! whom do you mean ? " 
 
 " Your sister and Sir Luke," said Dick. 
 
 "My sister meet him!" cried the major, angrily — "think you 
 he dares show himself at Rookwood?" 
 
'280 ROOKWOOD. 
 
 "Ho! ho!" laughed Dick — "she is at Rookwood, then? A 
 thousand thanks, major. Good night to you, gentlemen." 
 
 "Take -that with you, and remember the guard," cried the 
 fellow, who, unable to take aim from where he sat, had crept 
 along the coach roof, and discharged thence one of his large horse- 
 pistols at what he took to be the highwayman's head, but which, 
 luckily for Dick, was his hat, which he had raised to salute the 
 passengers.. 
 
 " Remember you," said Dick, coolly replacing his perforated 
 beaver on his brow; "you may rely upon it, my fine fellow, I'll 
 not forget you the next time we meet." 
 
 And off he went like the breath of the whirlwind. 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 ROAD-SIDE INN. 
 
 Moor. Take my horse, and clash a bottle of wine over him. 'Twas hot work ! 
 
 Schiller : The Robbers. 
 
 We will now make inquiries after Mr. Coates and his party, of 
 whom both we and Dick Turpi n have for some time lost sight. 
 With unabated ardour the vindictive man of law and his myrmi- 
 dons pressed forward. A tacit compact seemed to have been en- 
 tered into between the highwayman and his pursuers, that he 
 was to fly while they were to follow. Like bloodhounds, they kept 
 steadily upon his trail; nor were they so far behind as Dick ima- 
 gined. At each post-house they passed they obtained fresh horses, 
 and, while these were saddling, a postboy was despatched en courier 
 to order relays at the next station. In this manner they proceeded 
 after the first stoppage without interruption. Horses were in 
 waiting for them, as they, "bloody with spurring, fiery hot with 
 .haste," and their jaded hacks arrived. Turpin had been heard or 
 seen in all quarters. Turnpike-men, waggoners, carters, trampers, 
 all had seen him. Besides, strange as it may sound, they placed 
 some faith in his word. York they believed would be his destina- 
 tion. 
 
 At length the coach which Dick had encountered hove in sight. 
 There was another stoppage and another hubbub. The old gen- 
 tleman's nightcap was again manifested, and suffered a sudden oc- 
 cultation, as upon the former occasion. The postboy, who was in 
 advance, had halted, and given up his horse to Major Mowbray, 
 who exchanged his seat on the box for one on the saddle, deeming 
 it more expedient, after his interview with Turpin, to return to 
 Rookwood, rather than to proceed to town. The postboy was 
 
ROOK WOOD. 281 
 
 placed behind Coates, as being the lightest weight; and, thus re- 
 inforced, the party pushed forward as rapidly as heretofore. 
 
 Eighty and odd miles had now been traversed — the boundary 
 of another county, Northampton, passed; yet no rest nor respite 
 had Dick Turpin or his unflinching mare enjoyed. But here he 
 deemed it fitting to make a brief halt. 
 
 Bordering the beautiful domains of Burleigh House stood a 
 little retired hostelrie of some antiquity, which bore the great 
 Lord Treasurer's arms. With this house Dick was not altogether 
 unacquainted. The lad who acted as ostler was known to him. 
 It was now midnight, but a bright and beaming night. To the 
 door of the stable then did he ride, and knocked in a peculiar 
 manner. Reconnoitring Dick through a broken pane of glass in 
 the lintel, and apparently satisfied with his scrutiny, the lad thrust 
 forth a head of hair as full of straw as Mad Tom's is represented 
 to be upon the stage. A chuckle of welcome followed his sleepy 
 salutation. " Glad to see you, Captain Turpin," said he; "can I 
 do anything for you?" 
 
 " Get me a couple of bottles of brandy and a beefsteak," said 
 Dick. 
 
 "As to the brandy, you can have that in a jiffy — but the steak, 
 Lord love ye, the old ooman won't stand it at this time; but there's 
 a cold round, mayhap a slice of that might do — or a knuckle of 
 ham ?" 
 
 "A pest on your knuckles, Ralph," cried Dick; "have you any 
 raw meat in the house?" 
 
 " Raw meat 1" echoed Ralph, in surprise. " Oh, yes, there's a 
 rare rump of beef. You can have a cut off that, if you like." 
 
 "That's the tiling I want," said Dick, umiirthino; his mare. 
 " Give me the scraper. There, I can get a wisp of straw from 
 your head. Now run and get the brandy. Better bring three 
 bottles. Uncork 'em, and let me have half a pail of water to mix 
 with the spirit." 
 
 " A pail full of brandy and water to wash down a raw steak ! 
 My eyes!" exclaimed Ralph, opening wide his sleepy peepers; 
 adding, as he went about the execution of his task, " I always 
 thought them Rum-padders, as they call themselves, rum fellows, 
 but now I'm sartin sure on it." 
 
 The most sedulous groom could not have bestowed more atten- 
 tion upon the horse of his heart than Dick Turpin now paid to 
 his mare. He scraped, chafed, and dried her, sounded each 
 muscle, traced each sinew, pulled her ears, examined the state of 
 her feet, and, ascertaining that her " withers were unwrung," 
 finally washed her from head to foot in the diluted spirit, not, 
 however, before lie had conveyed a thimbleful of the liquid to his 
 own parched throat, and replenished what Falstaff calls a " pocket 
 pistol," which he had about him. While Ralph was engaged in 
 rubbing her down after her bath, Dick occupied himself, not in 
 
282 EOOKWOCD. 
 
 dressing the raw steak in the manner the stable-boy had an- 
 ticipated, but in rolling it round the bit of his bridle. 
 
 " She will now go as long as there's breath in her body," said 
 he, putting the flesh-covered iron within her mouth. 
 
 The saddle being once more replaced, after champing a moment 
 or two at the bit, Bess began to snort and paw the earth, as if im- 
 patient of delay ; and, acquainted as he was with her indomitable 
 spirit and power, her condition was a surprise even to Dick him- 
 self. Her vigour seemed inexhaustible, her vivacity was not a 
 whit diminished, but, as she was led into the open space, her step 
 became as light and free as when she started on her ride, and her 
 sense of sound as quick as ever. Suddenly she pricked her ears, 
 and uttered a low neigh. A dull tramp was audible. 
 
 " Ha !" exclaimed Dick, springing into his saddle ; " they 
 come." 
 
 " Who come, captain ? " asked Ralph. 
 
 " The road takes a turn here, don't it?" asked Dick — " sweeps 
 round to the right by the plantations in the hollow?" 
 
 " Ay, ay, captain," answered Ralph ; " it's plain you knows the 
 ground." 
 
 " What lies behind yon shed?" 
 
 " A stiff fence, captain — a reg'lar rasper. Beyond that a hill- 
 side steep as a house ; no oss as was ever shoed can go down it." 
 
 " Indeed !" laughed Dick. 
 
 A loud halloo from Major Mowbray, who seemed advancing 
 upon the wings of the wind, told Dick that he was discovered. 
 The major was a superb horseman, and took the lead of his party. 
 Striking his spurs deeply into his horse, and giving him bridle 
 enough, the major seemed to shoot forward like a shell through 
 the air. The Burleigh Arms retired some hundred yards from the 
 road, the space in front being occupied by a neat garden, with 
 low, clipped edges. No tall timber intervened between Dick and 
 his pursuers, so that the motions of both parties were visible to 
 each other. Dick saw in an instant that if he now started he 
 should come into collision with the major exactly at the angle of 
 the road, and he was by no means desirous of hazarding such a 
 rencontre. He looked wistfully back at the double fence. 
 
 "Come into the stable. Quick, captain, quick!" exclaimed 
 Ralph. 
 
 "The stable?" echoed Dick, hesitating. 
 
 " Ay, the stable ; it's your only chance. Don't you see he's 
 turning the corner, and they are all coming? Quick, sir, quick!" 
 
 Dick, lowering his head, rode into the tenement, the door 
 of which was unceremoniously slapped in the major's face, and 
 bolted on the other side. 
 
 "Villain!" cried Major Mowbray, thundering at the door, 
 "come forth. You are now fairly trapped at last — caught like 
 the woodcock in vour own springe. We have you. Open the 
 
IIOOKWOOD. 283 
 
 door, I say, and save us the trouble of forcing it. You cannot 
 escape us. We will burn the building down but we will have 
 
 you." \ 
 
 "What dun you want, measter?" cried Ralph, from the lintel, 
 whence he rcconnoitered the major, and kept the door fast. 
 " You're clean mista'en. There be no one here." 
 
 " We'll soon see that," said Paterson, who had now arrived ; 
 and, leaping from his horse, the chief constable took a short run, 
 to give himself impetus, and with his foot burst open the door. 
 This being accomplished, in dashed the major and Paterson, but 
 the stable was vacant. A door was open at the back ; they rushed 
 to it. The sharply sloping sides of a hill slipped abruptly down- 
 wards, within a yard of the door. It was a perilous descent to the 
 horseman, yet the print of a horse's heels was visible in the dis- 
 lodged turf and scattered soil. 
 
 a Confusion !" cried the major, " he has escaped us." 
 
 "He is yonder," said Paterson, pointing out Turpin moving 
 swiftly through the steaming meadow. " See, he makes again for 
 the road — he clears the fence. A regular throw he has given us, 
 by the Lord!" 
 
 "Nobly done, by Heaven!" cried the major. "With all his 
 faults, I honour the fellow's courage, and admire his prowess. He's 
 already ridden to-night as I believe never man rode before. I 
 would not have ventured to slide down that wall, for it's nothing 
 clsCj with the enemy at my heels. What say you, gentlemen, 
 have you had enough? Shall we let him go, or ?" 
 
 " As far as chase coes, I don't care if we bring the matter 
 to a conclusion," said Titus. "I don't think, as it is, that I shall 
 have a sate to sit on this week to come. I've lost leather most 
 confoundedly." 
 
 "What says Mr. Coatcs ?" asked Paterson. " I look to him." 
 
 " Then mount, and oflj" cried Coates. " Public duty requires 
 that we should take him." 
 
 "And private pique," returned the major. " Xo matter! The 
 end is the same. Justice shall be satisfied. To your steeds, my 
 merry men all. Hark, and away." 
 
 Once more upon the move, Titus forgot his distress, and 
 addressed himself to the attorney, by whose side he rode. 
 
 "What place is that we're coming to?" asked he, pointing to a 
 cluster of moonlit spires belonging to a town they were rapidly 
 approaching. 
 
 " Stamford," replied Coates. 
 
 "Stamford!" exclaimed Titus; "by the powers! then, we've 
 ridden a matter of ninety miles. Why, the great deeds of Red- 
 mond O'Hanlon were nothing to this! I'll remember it to my 
 dying day, and with reason," added he, uneasily shifting his posi- 
 tion on the saddle. 
 
284 EOOKWOOD. 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 EXCITEMENT. 
 
 How fled what moonshine faintly showed ! 
 
 How lied what darkness hid ! 
 How fled the earth beneath their feet. 
 
 The heaven above their head. 
 
 William and Helen. 
 
 Dick Tuepin, meanwhile, held bravely on his course. Bess was 
 neither strained by her gliding passage down the slippery hill-side, 
 nor shaken by larking the fence in the meadow. As Dick said, 
 "It took a devilish deal to take it out of her." On regaining the high 
 road she resumed her old pace, and once more they were distancing 
 Time's swift chariot in its whirling passage o'er the earth. Stam- 
 ford, and the tongue of Lincoln's fenny shire, upon which it is 
 situated, are passed almost in a breath. Rutland is won and 
 passed, and Lincolnshire once more entered. The road now verged 
 within a bowshot of that sporting Athens (Corinth, perhaps, we 
 should say), Melton Mowbray. Melton was then unknown to 
 fame, but, as if inspired by \haX furor venaticus which now inspires 
 all who come within twenty miles of this Chary bdis of the chase, 
 Bess here let out in a style with which it would have puzzled the 
 best Leicestershire squire's best prad to have kept pace. The 
 spirit she imbibed through the pores of her skin, and the juices of 
 the meat she had champed, seemed to have communicated pre- 
 ternatural excitement to her. Her pace was absolutely terrific. 
 Her eyeballs were dilated, and glowed like flaming carbuncles; 
 while her widely-distended nostril seemed, in the cold moonshine, 
 to snort forth smoke, as from a hidden fire. Fain would Turpin 
 have controlled her; but, without bringing into play all his 
 tremendous nerve, no check could be given her headlong course, 
 and for once, and the only time in her submissive career, Bess 
 resolved to have her own way — and she had it. Like a sensible 
 fellow, Dick conceded the point. There was something even of 
 conjugal philosophy in his self-communion upon the occasion. 
 "E'en let her take her own way and he hanged to her, for 
 an obstinate, self-willed jade as she is," said he: " now her back is 
 up there'll be no stopping her, I'm sure: she rattles away Jike a 
 woman's tongue, and when that once begins, we all know what 
 chance the curb has. Best to let her have it out, or rather to lend 
 her a lift. 'Twill be over the sooner. Tantivy, lassj tantivy! I 
 know which of us will tire first." 
 
 We have before said that the vehement excitement of continued 
 swift riding produces a paroxysm in the sensorium amounting to 
 delirium. Dick's blood was again on fire. He was first giddy, as 
 
ROOKWOOD. 285 
 
 after a deep draught of kindling spirit; this passed off, but tlie 
 spirit was still in his veins — the estro was working in his brain. 
 All his ardour, his eagerness, his fury, returned. He rode like one 
 insane, and his courser partook of his frenzy. She bounded; she 
 leaped; she tore up the ground beneath her; while Dick gave 
 vent to his exultation in one wild prolonged halloo. More than 
 half his race is run. He has triumphed over every difficulty. He 
 will have no further occasion to halt. Bess carries her forage 
 alon^ with her. The course is straightforward — success seems cer- 
 tain — the goal already reached — the path of glory won. Another 
 wild halloo, to which the echoing woods reply, and away ! 
 
 Away ! away ! thou matchless steed ! yet brace fast thy sinews- 
 — hold, hold thy breadth, for, alas, the goal is not yet attained 1 
 
 But forward ! forward, on they go, 
 
 High snorts the straining steed, 
 Thick pants the rider's labouring breath, 
 
 As headlong on they speed ! 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 THE GIBBET. 
 
 See there, see there, what yonder swings 
 
 And creaks 'mid whistling rain, 
 Gibbet and steel — the accursed wheel — 
 
 A murderer in his chain. 
 
 William and Helen. 
 
 As the eddying currents sweep over its plains in howling bleak 
 December, the horse and her rider passed over what remained of 
 Lincolnshire. Grantham is gone, and they are now more slowly 
 looking up the ascent of Gonerby Hill, a path well known to 
 Turpin ; where often, in bygone nights, many a purse had 
 changed its owner. With that feeling of independence and ex- 
 hilaration which every one feels, we believe, on having climbed 
 the hill-side, Turpin turned to gaze around. There was triumph 
 in his eye. But the triumph was checked as his glance fell upon 
 a gibbet near him to the right, on the round point of hill which 
 is a landmark to the wide vale of Belvoir. Pressed as he was for 
 time, Dick immediately struck out of the road, and approached 
 the spot where it stood. Two scarecrow objects, covered with 
 rags and rusty links of chains, depended from the tree. A night- 
 crow screaming around the carcases added to the hideous effect of 
 the scene. Nothing but the living highwayman and his skeleton 
 brethren were visible upon the solitary spot. Around him was 
 the lonesome "waste of hill, o'erlooking the moonlit valley: be- 
 
286 ROOKWOOD. 
 
 neath his feet, a patch of bare and lightning-blasted sod : above, 
 the wan declining moon and skies, flaked with ghostly clouds: 
 before him, the bleached bodies of the murderers, for such they 
 were. 
 
 " Will this be my lot, I marvel?" said Dick, looking upwards, 
 with an involuntary shudder. 
 
 " Ay, marry will it," rejoined a crouching figure, suddenly 
 springing from beside a tuft of briars that skirted the blasted 
 ground. 
 
 Dick started in his saddle, while Bess reared and plunged at the 
 sight of this unexpected apparition. 
 
 " What, ho ! thou devil's dam, Barbara, is it thou?" exclaimed 
 Dick, reassured upon discovering it was the gipsy queen, and no 
 spectre whom he beheld. " Stand still, Bess — stand, lass. What 
 dost thou here, mother of darkness ? Art gathering mandrakes 
 for thy poisonous messes, or pilfering flesh from the dead ? Meddle 
 not with their bones, or I will drive thee hence. What dost thou 
 here, I say, old dam of the gibbet ?" 
 
 "I came to die here," replied Barbara, in a feeble tone; and, 
 throwing back her hood, she displayed features well-nigh as ghastly 
 as those of the skeletons above her. 
 
 " Indeed," replied Dick. " You've made choice of a pleasant 
 spot, it must be owned. But you'll not die yet?" 
 
 " Do you know whose bodies these are ?" asked Barbara, point- 
 ing upwards. 
 
 "Two of your race," replied Dick; "right brethren of the 
 blade." 
 
 " Two of my sons," returned Barbara; " my twin children. I 
 am come to lay my bones beneath their bones — my sepulchre shall 
 be their sepulchre; my body shall feed the fowls of the air as 
 theirs have fed them. And if ghosts can walk, we'll scour this 
 heath together. I tell you what, Dick Turpin," said the hag, 
 drawing as near to the highwayman as Bess would permit her; 
 a dead men walk and ride — ay, ride I — there's a comfort for you. 
 I've seen these do it. I have seen them fling off their chains, and 
 dance — ay, dance with me — with their mother. No revels like 
 dead men's revels, Dick. I shall soon join 'em." 
 
 " You will not lay violent hands upon yourself, mother?" said 
 Dick, with difficulty mastering his terror. 
 
 u No," replied Barbara, in an altered tone. a But I will let 
 nature do her task. Would she could do it more quickly. Such 
 a life as mine won't go out without a long struggle. What have 
 I to live for now ? All are gone — she and her child ! But what 
 is this to you? You have no child; and if you had, you could 
 not feel like a father. No matter — I rave. Listen to me. I have 
 crawled hither to die. 'Tis five days since I beheld you, and 
 during that time food has not passed these lips, nor aught of 
 moisture, save Heaven's dew, cooled this parched throat, nor shall 
 
THE GIBBET. 
 
 P. 286. 
 
ROOKWOOD. 2S7 
 
 they to the last. That time cannot be far off; and now can you 
 not guess how I mean to die? Begone, and leave me; your pre- 
 sence troubles me. I would breathe my last breath alone, with 
 none to witness the parting pang." 
 
 " I will not trouble you longer, mother," said Dick, turning his 
 mare; "nor will I ask your blessing." 
 
 "My blessing!" scornfully ejaculated Barbara. "You shall 
 have it if you will, but you will find it a curse. Stay ! a thought 
 strikes me. Whither are you going?" 
 
 "To seek Sir Luke Rookwood," replied Dick; "know you 
 au^ht of him?" 
 
 " Sir Luke Rookwood! You seek him, and would find him?" 
 screamed Barbara. 
 
 " I would," said Dick. 
 
 " And you will find him," said Barbara ; " and that ere long. I 
 shall ne'er again behold him. Would I could. I have a message 
 for him — one of life and death. Will you convey it to him?" 
 
 " I will," said the highwayman. 
 
 " Swear by those bones to do so," cried Barbara, pointing with 
 her skinny lingers to the gibbet ; " that you will do my bidding." 
 
 " I swear," cried Dick. 
 
 " Fail not, or ice will haunt thee to thy life's end," cried Bar- 
 bara; adding, as she handed a sealed package to the highway- 
 man, " Give this to Sir Luke — to him alone. I would have sent 
 it to him by other hands ere this, but my people have deserted 
 me — have pillaged my stores — have rifled me of all save this. 
 Give this, I say, to Sir Luke, with your own hands. You have 
 sworn it, and will obey. Give it to him, and bid him think of 
 Sybil as he opens it. But this must not be till Eleanor is in his 
 power; and she must be present when the seal is broken. It re- 
 lates to both. Dare not to tamper with it, or my curse shall pursue 
 you. That packet is guarded with a triple spell, which to you were 
 fatal. Obey me, and my dying breath shall bless thee." 
 
 " Never fear," said Dick, taking the packet; " I'll not disappoint 
 you, mother, depend upon it." 
 
 "Hence!" cried the crone; and as she watched Dick's figure 
 lessening upon the Waste, and at length beheld him finally disap- 
 pear down the hill-side, she sank to the ground, her frail strength 
 being entirely exhausted. "Body and soul may now part in 
 peace," gasped she. " All I live for is accomplished." And ere 
 one hour had elapsed, the night crow was perched upon her still 
 breathing frame. 
 
 Long pondering upon this singular interview, Dick pursued his 
 way. At length he thought fit to examine the packet with which 
 the old gipsy had entrusted him. 
 
 " It feels like a casket," thought he. "It can't be gold. But 
 then it may be jewels, though they don't rattle, and it ain't quite 
 heavy enough. What can it be? I should like to know. There 
 
288 ROOKWOOD. 
 
 is some mystery, that's certain, about it; but I will not break the 
 seal, not I. As to her spell, that I don't value a rush; but I've 
 sworn to give it to Sir Luke, and deliver her message, and I'll 
 keep my word if I can. He shall have it." So saying, he re- 
 placed it in his pocket. 
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 THE PHANTOM STEED. 
 
 I'll speak to thee, though hell itself should gape, 
 
 And bid me hold my peace. Hamlet. 
 
 Time presses. We may not linger in our course. We must 
 fly on before our flying highwayman. Full forty miles shall we 
 pass over in a breath. Two more hours have elapsed, and he still 
 urges his headlong career, with heart resolute as ever, and pur- 
 pose yet unchanged. Fair Newark, and the dashing Trent, 
 a most loved of England's streams," are gathered to his laurels. 
 Broad Notts, and its heavy paths and sweeping glades; its waste 
 (forest no more) of Sherwood past; bold Robin Hood and his 
 merry men, his Marian and his moonlight rides, recalled, for- 
 gotten, left behind. Hurrah ! hurrah ! That wild halloo, that 
 waving arm, that enlivening shout — what means it? He is once 
 more upon Yorkshire ground ; his horse's hoof beats once more 
 the soil of that noble shire. So transported was Dick, that he 
 could almost have flung himself from the saddle to kiss the dust 
 beneath his feet. Thrice fifty miles has he run, nor has the morn 
 yet dawned upon his labours. Hurrah ! the end draws nigh ; the 
 goal is in view. Halloo ! halloo ! on ! 
 
 Bawtrey is past. He takes the lower road by Thorne and Selby. 
 He is skirting the waters of the deep-channelled Don. 
 
 Bess now began to manifest some slight symptoms of distress. 
 There was a strain in the carriage of her throat, a dulness in her 
 eye, a laxity in her ear, and a slight stagger in her gait, which 
 Turpin noticed with apprehension. Still she went on, though not 
 at the same gallant pace as heretofore. But, as the tired bird still 
 battles with the blast upon the ocean, as the swimmer still stems 
 the stream, though spent, on went she: nor did Turpin dare to 
 check her, fearing that, if she stopped, she might lose her force, or, 
 if she fell, she would rise no more. 
 
 It was now that grey and grimly hour ere one flicker of orange 
 or rose has gemmed the east, and when unwearying Nature herself 
 seems to snatch brief repose. In the roar of restless cities, this is 
 the only time when their strife is hushed. Midnight is awake — 
 
ROOKWOOD. 289 
 
 alive; the streets ring with laughter and with rattling wheels. At 
 the third hour, a dead, deep silence prevails ; the loud-voiced 
 streets grow dumb. They are deserted of all, save the few guar- 
 dians of the night and the skulking robber. But even far removed 
 from the haunts of men and hum of towns it is the same. u Na- 
 ture's best nurse" seems to weigh nature down, and stillness reigns 
 throughout. Our feelings are, in a great measure, influenced by 
 the hour. Exposed to the raw, crude atmosphere, which has 
 neither the nipping, wholesome shrewdness 01 morn, nor the 
 profound dullness of night, the frame vainly struggles against the 
 dull, miserable sensations engendered by the damps, and at once 
 communicates them to the spirits. Hope forsakes us. We are 
 weary, exhausted. Our energy is dispirited. Sleep does " not 
 weigh our eyelids down." We stare upon the vacancy. We 
 conjure up a thousand restless, disheartening images. We abandon 
 projects we have formed, and which, viewed through this medium, 
 appear fantastical, chimerical, absurd. We want rest, refreshment, 
 energy. 
 
 We will not say that Turpin had all these misgivings. But he 
 had to struggle hard with himself to set sleep and exhaustion at 
 defiance. 
 
 The moon had set. The stars, 
 
 Pinnacled deep in the intense main, 
 
 had all — save one, the herald of the dawn — withdrawn their luster. 
 A dull mist lay on the stream, and the air became piercing cold. 
 Turpin's chilled fingers could scarcely grasp the slackening rein, 
 while his eyes, irritated by the keen atmosphere, hardly enabled 
 him to distinguish surrounding objects, or even to guide his steed. 
 It was owing, probably, to this latter circumstance, that Bess sud- 
 denly floundered and fell, throwing her master over her head. 
 
 Turpin instantly recovered himself. His first thought was for 
 his horse. But Bess was instantly upon her legs — covered with 
 dust and foam, sides and cheeks — and with her large eyes glaring 
 wildly, almost piteously, upon her master. 
 
 "Art hurt, lass?" asked Dick, as she shook herself, and slightly 
 shivered. And he proceeded to the horseman's scrutiny. " Nothing 
 
 but a shake; though that dull eye — those quivering flanks " 
 
 added he, looking earnestly at her. " She won't go much further, 
 and I must give it up — what ! give up the race just when it's won? 
 No, that can't be. Ha ! well thought on. I've a bottle of liquid, 
 given me by an old fellow, who was a knowing cove and famous 
 jockey in his day, which he swore would make a horse go as long 
 as he'd a leg to carry him, and bade me keep it for some great 
 occasion. I've never used it; but I'll try it now. It should be in 
 this pocket. Ah ! Bess, wench, I fear I'm using thee, after all, as 
 Sir Luke did his mistress, that I thought so like" thee. No matter! 
 It will be a glorious end." 
 
 u 
 
290 itooKvrooD. 
 
 Raising her head upon his shoulder, Dick poured the contents 
 of the bottle down the throat of his mare. Nor had he to wait 
 long before its invigorating effects were instantaneous. The fire 
 was kindled in the glassy orb; her crest was once more erected; 
 her flank ceased to quiver; and she neighed loud and joyously. 
 
 " Egad, the old fellow was right," cried Dick. " The drink has 
 worked wonders. What the devil could it have been ? It smells 
 like spirit," added he, examining the bottle. " I wish I'd left a 
 taste for myself. But here's that will do as well." And he drained 
 his flask of the last drop of brandy. 
 
 Dick's limbs were now become so excessively stiff, that it was 
 with difficulty he could remount his horse. But this necessary pre- 
 liminary being achieved by the help of a stile, he found no diffi- 
 culty in resuming his accustomed position upon the saddle. We 
 know not whether there was any likeness between our Turpin and 
 that modern Hercules of the SDortino- world, Mr. Osbaldeston. Far 
 be it from us to institute any comparison, though we cannot help 
 thinking that, in one particular, he resembled that famous "copper- 
 bottomed" squire. This we will leave to our reader's discrimina- 
 tion. Dick bore his fatigues wonderfully. He suffered somewhat 
 of that martyrdom which, according to Tom Moore, occurs " to 
 weavers and M.P.s, from sitting too long;" but again on his 
 courser's back, he cared not for anything. 
 
 Once more, at a gallant pace, he traversed the banks of the Don, 
 skirting the fields of flax that bound its sides, and hurried far more 
 swiftly than its current to its confluence with the Aire. 
 
 Snaith was past. He was on the road to Selby when dawn first 
 began to break. Here and there a twitter was heard in the hedge; 
 a hare ran across his path, grey looking as the morning self; and 
 the mists began to rise from the earth. A bar of gold was drawn 
 against the east, like the roof of a gorgeous palace. But the mists 
 were heavy in this world of rivers and their tributary streams. 
 The Ouse was before him, the Trent and Aire behind ; the Don 
 and Derwent on either hand, all in their way to commingle their 
 currents ere they formed the giant Humber. Amid a region so 
 prodigal of water, no wonder the dews fell thick as rain. Here 
 and there the ground was clear; but then again came a volley of 
 vapour, dim and palpable as smoke. 
 
 While involved in one of these fogs, Turpin became aware of 
 another horseman by his side. It was impossible to discern the 
 features of the rider, but his figure in the mist seemed gigantic; 
 neither was the colour of his steed distinguishable. Nothing was 
 visible except the meagre-looking, phantom-like outline of a horse 
 and his rider, and, as the unknown rode upon the turf that edged 
 the way, even the sound of the horse's hoofs were scarcely audible. 
 Turpin gazed, not without superstitious awe. Once or twice he 
 essayed to address the strange horseman, but his tongue clove to 
 the roof of his mouth. He fancied he discovered in the mist- 
 
ROOKV.'OOD. £91 
 
 exaggerated lineaments of the stranger a wild and fantastic re- 
 semblance to his friend Tom King. " It must be Tom/' thought 
 Turpin ; " he is come to warn me of my approaching end. I will 
 speak to him." 
 
 But terror o'ermastered his speech. He could not force out a 
 word, and thus side by side they rode in silence. Quaking with 
 fears he would scarcely acknowledge to himself, Dick watched 
 every motion of his companion. He was still, stern, spectre-like, 
 erect; and looked for all the world like a demon on his phantom 
 steed. His courser seemed, in the indistinct outline, to be huge 
 and bony, and, as he snorted furiously in the fog, Dick's heated 
 imagination supplied his breath with a due proportion of flame. 
 Not a word was spoken — not a sound heard, save the sullen dead 
 beat of his hoof upon the grass. It was intolerable to ride thus 
 cheek by jowl with a goblin. Dick could stand it no longer. He 
 put spurs to his horse, and endeavoured to escape. But it might 
 not be. The stranger, apparently without effort, was still by his 
 side, and Bess's feet, in her master's apprehensions, were nailed to 
 the ground. By-and-by, however, the atmosphere became clearer. 
 Bright quivering beams burst through the vaporous shroud, and 
 then it was that Dick discovered that the apparition of Tom King 
 was no other than Luke Rookwood. He was mounted on his old 
 horse, Rook, and looked grim and haggard as a ghost vanishing at 
 the crowing of the cock. 
 
 " Sir Luke Rookwood, by this light!" exclaimed Dick, in asto- 
 nishment. " Why, I took you for " 
 
 "The devil, no doubt?" returned Luke, smiling sternly, "and 
 were sorry to find yourself so hard pressed. Don't disquiet your- 
 self; I am still flesh and blood." 
 
 "Had I taken you for one of mortal mould," said Dick, "you 
 should have soon seen where I'd have put you in the race. That 
 confounded fon; deceived me, and Bess acted the fool as well as 
 myself. However, now I know you, Sir Luke, you must spur 
 alongside, for the hawks are on the wino-- and though I've much 
 to say, I've not a second to lose." And Dick briefly detailed the 
 particulars of his ride, concluding with his rencontre with Barbara. 
 " Here's the packet," said he, "just as I got it. You must keep 
 it till the proper moment. And here," added he, fumbling in his 
 pocket for another paper, " is the marriage document. You are 
 now your father's lawful son, let who will say you nay. Take it 
 and welcome. If you are ever master of Miss Mowbray's hand, 
 you will not forget Dick Turpin." 
 
 " I will not," said Luke, eagerly grasping the certificate; " but 
 she never may be mine." 
 " You have her oath?" 
 " I have." 
 
 " What more is needed?" 
 " Her hand." 
 
 U2 
 
292 ROOKWOOD. 
 
 " That will follow." 
 
 " It shall follow," replied Sir Luke, wildly. " You are right. 
 She is my affianced bride — affianced before hell, if not before 
 heaven. I have sealed the contract with blood — with Sybil's blood 
 — and it shall be fulfilled. I have her oath — her oath — ha, ha ! 
 Though I perish in the attempt, I will wrest her from Ranulph' s 
 grasp. She shall never be his. I would stab her first. Twice 
 have I failed in my endeavours to bear her off. I am from Rook- 
 wood even now. To-morrow night I shall renew the attack. Will 
 vou assist me?" 
 
 " To-morrow night I" interrupted Dick. 
 
 a Nay, I should say to-night. A new day has already dawned," 
 replied Luke. 
 
 " I will: she is at Rookwood?" 
 
 " She languishes there at present, attended by her mother and 
 her lover. The hall is watched and guarded. Ranulph is ever on 
 the alert. But we will storm their garrison. I have a spy within 
 its walls — a gipsy girl, faithful to my interests. From her I have 
 learnt that there is a plot to wed Eleanor to Ranulph, and that the 
 marriage is to take place privately to-morrow. This must be pre- 
 vented." 
 
 " It must. But why not boldly appear in person at the hall, 
 and claim her ?" 
 
 " Why not? I am a proscribed felon. A price is set upon my 
 head. I am hunted through the country — driven to concealment, 
 and dare not show myself for fear of capture. What could I do 
 now? They would load me with fetters, bury me in a dungeon, 
 and wed Eleanor to Ranulph. What would my rights avail? 
 What would her oath signify to them? No; she must be mine 
 by force. His she shall never be. Again, I ask you, will you 
 aid me?" 
 
 " I have said — I will. Where is Alan Rookwood ?" 
 
 " Concealed within the hut on Thorne Waste. You know it — 
 it was one of your haunts." 
 
 "I know it well," said Dick, "and Conkey Jem, its keeper, 
 into the bargain: he is a knowing file. I'll join you at the hut 
 at midnight, if all goes well. We'll bring off the wench, in 
 spite of them all — just the thing I like. But in case of a break- 
 down on my part, suppose you take charge of my purse in the 
 mean time." 
 
 Luke would have declined this offer. 
 
 "Pshaw!" said Dick. " Who knows what may happen? and 
 it's not ill lined either. You'll find an odd hundred or so in that 
 silken bag — it's not often your highwayman gives away a purse. 
 Take it, man — we'll settle all to-night; and if I don't come, keep 
 it — it will help you to your bride. And now off with you to the 
 hut, for you are only hindering me. Adieu ! My love to old 
 Alan. We'll do the trick to-night. Away with you to the hut. 
 
ROOKTVOOD. 293 
 
 Keep yourself snug there till midnight, and we'll ride over to 
 Rookwood." 
 
 " At midnight," replied Sir Luke, wheeling off, " I shall expect 
 you." 
 
 " 'Ware hawks !" hallooed Dick. 
 
 But Luke had vanished. In another instant Dick was scouring 
 the plain as rapidly as ever. In the mean time, as Dick has casu- 
 ally alluded to the hawks, it may not he amiss to inquire how 
 they had flown throughout the night, and whether they were still 
 in chase of their quarry. 
 
 With the exception of Titus, who was completely done up at 
 Grantham, " having got," as he said, " a complete hellyful of it," 
 they were still on the wing, and resolved sooner or later to pounce 
 upon their prey, pursuing the same system as heretofore in regard 
 to the post-horses. Major Mowbray and Paterson took the lead, 
 but the irascible and invincible attorney was not far in their rear, 
 his wrath having been by no means allayed by the fatigue he had 
 undergone. At Bawtrey they held a council of war for a few 
 minutes, beinc; doubtful which course he had taken. Their incer- 
 titude was relieved bv a foot traveller, who had heard Dick's loud 
 halloo on passing the boundary of Nottinghamshire, and had seen 
 him take the lower road. They struck, therefore, into the path to 
 Thorne at a hazard, and were soon satisfied they were right. 
 Furiously did they now spur on. They reached Selby, changed 
 horses at the inn in front of the venerable cathedral church, and 
 learnt from the postboy that a toilworn horseman, on a jaded steed, 
 had ridden through the town about five minutes before them, and 
 could not be more than a quarter of a mile in advance. "His 
 horse was so dead beat," said the lad, " that I'm sure he cannot 
 have got far; and, if you look sharp, I'll be bound you'll overtake 
 him before he reaches Cawood Ferry." 
 
 Mr. Coates was transported. " We'll lodge him snug in York 
 Castle before an hour, Paterson," cried he, rubbing his hands. 
 
 " I hope so, sir," said the chief constable, " but I begin to have 
 some qualms." 
 
 "Now, gentlemen," shouted the postboy, "come along. I'll 
 soon bring you to him." 
 
294 EOOKWOOD. 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 C A W D FEEBY. 
 
 The sight renewed my courser's feet, 
 A moment, staggering feebly fleet, 
 A moment, with a faint low neigh, 
 
 He answered, and then fell. 
 "With gasps and glazing eyes he lay, 
 And reeking limbs immovable, — 
 His first, and last career was done. Mazeppa. 
 
 The sun had just o'ertopped the "high eastern hill," as Turpin 
 reached the Ferry of Cawood, and his beams were reflected upon 
 the deep and sluggish waters of the Ouse. Wearily had he dragged 
 his course thither — wearily and slow. The powers of his gallant 
 steed were spent, and he could scarcely keep her from sinking. It 
 was now midway 'twixt the hours of five and six. Nine miles only 
 lay before him, and that thought again revived him. He reached 
 the water's edge, and hailed the ferry-boat, which was then on the 
 other side of the river. At that instant a loud shout smote his 
 ear; it was the halloo of his pursuers. Despair w r as in his look. 
 He shouted to the boatman, and bade him pull fast. The man 
 obeyed ; but he had to breast a strong stream, and had a lazy bark 
 and heavy sculls to contend with. He had scarcely left the shore, 
 when another shout was raised from the pursuers. The tramp of 
 their steeds grew louder and louder. 
 
 The boat had scarcely reached the middle of the stream. His 
 captors w T ere at hand. Quietly did he walk down the bank, and 
 as cautiously enter the water. There was a plunge, and steed and 
 rider were swimming down the river. 
 
 Major Mowbray was at the brink of the stream. He hesitated 
 an instant, and stemmed the tide. Seized, as it were, by a mania 
 for equestrian distinction, Mr. Coates braved the torrent. Not so 
 Paterson. He very coolly took out his bull-dogs, and, watching 
 Turpin, cast up in his own mind the pros and cons of shooting him 
 as he was crossing. " I could certainly hit him," thought, or said, 
 the constable; "but what of that? A dead highwayman is worth 
 nothing — alive, he weighs 300/. I won't shoot him, but I'll make 
 a pretence." And he fired accordingly. 
 
 The shot skimmed over the water, but did not, as it was in- 
 tended, do much mischief. It, however, occasioned a mishap, 
 which had nearly proved fatal to our aquatic attorney. Alarmed 
 at the report of the pistol, in the nervous agitation of the moment 
 Coates drew in his rein so tightly that his steed instantly sank. A 
 moment or two afterwards he rose, shaking his ears, and flounder- 
 ing heavily towards the shore; and such was the chilling effect of 
 
ROOKWOOD. 295 
 
 this sudden immersion, that Mr. Coates now thought much more 
 of saving himself than of capturing Turpin. Dick, meanwhile, 
 had reached the opposite bank, and, refreshed by her bath, Bess 
 scrambled up the sides of the stream, and speedily regained the 
 road. " I shall do it yet," shouted Dick; " that stream has saved 
 her. Hark away, lass ! Hark away!" 
 
 Bess heard the cheering cry, and she answered to the call. She 
 roused all her energies; strained every sinew; and put forth all 
 her remaining strength. Once more, on wings of swiftness, she 
 bore him away from his pursuers, and Major Mowbray, who had 
 now gained the shore, and made certain of securing him, beheld 
 him spring, like a wounded hare, from beneath his very hand. 
 
 "It cannot hold out," said the major; "it is but an expiring 
 flash; that gallant steed must soon drop." 
 
 " She be regularly booked, that's certain," said the postboy. 
 u We shall find her on the road." 
 
 Contrary to all expectation, however, Bess held on, and set 
 pursuit at defiance. Her pace was swift as when she started. But 
 it was unconscious and mechanical action. It wanted the ease, the 
 lightness, the life of her former riding. She seemed screwed up 
 to a task which she must execute. There was no Hogging, no 
 gory heel; but the heart was throbbing, tugging at the sides 
 within. Her spirit spurred her onwards. Her eye was glazing; 
 her chest heaving; her flank quivering; her crc.-t again fallen. 
 
 Yet she held on. "She is dying!" said Dick. "I feel it " 
 
 No, she held on. 
 
 Fulford is past. The towers and pinnacles of York burst upon 
 him in all the freshness, the beauty, and the glory of a bright, 
 clear, autumnal morn. The ancient city seemed to smile a wel- 
 come — a greeting. The noble Minster and its serene and massive 
 pinnacles, docketed, lantern-like, and beautiful ; Saint Mary's 
 lofty spire, All-Hallows Tower, the massive mouldering walls of 
 the adjacent postern, the grim castle, and Clifford's neighbouring 
 keep — all beamed upon him, " like a bright-eyed face, that laughs 
 out openly." 
 
 " It is done — it is won," cried Dick. " Hurrah, hurrah !" And 
 the sunny air was cleft with his shouts. 
 
 Bess Was not insensible to her master's exultation. She neighed 
 feebly in answer to his call, and reeled forwards. It was a piteous 
 sight to see her, — to mark her staring, protruding eyeball, — her 
 shaking Hanks; but, while life and limb held together, she held on. 
 
 Another mile is past. York is near. 
 
 "Hurrah!" shouted Dick; but his voice was hushed. Bess 
 tottered — fell. There was a dreadful gasp — a parting moan — a 
 snort; her eye gazed, for an instant, upon her master, with a 
 dying glare ; then grew glassy, rayless, iixed. A shiver ran 
 through her frame. Her heart had burst. 
 
296 ROOKWOOD. 
 
 Dick's eyes were blinded, as with rain. His triumph, though 
 achieved, was forgotten — his own safety was disregarded. He 
 stood weeping and swearing, like one beside himself. 
 
 " And art thou gone, Bess?" cried he, in a voice of agony, lift- 
 ing up his courser's head, and kissing her lips, covered with blood- 
 flecked foam. " Gone, gone ! and I have killed the best steed that 
 was ever crossed ! And for what?" added Dick, beating his brow 
 with his clenched hand — "for what? for what?" 
 
 At this moment the deep bell of the Minster clock tolled out 
 the hour of six. 
 
 "I am answered," gasped Dick; "it was to hear those strokes!" 
 
 Turpin was roused from the state of stupefaction into which he 
 had fallen by a smart slap on the shoulder. Recalled to himself 
 by the blow, he started at once to his feet, while his hands sought 
 his pistols ; but he was spared the necessity of using them, by dis- 
 covering in the intruder the bearded visage of the gipsy Balthazar, 
 The patrico was habited in mendicant weeds, and sustained a large 
 wallet upon his shoulders. 
 
 " So it's all over with the best mare in England, I see," said 
 Balthazar; " I can guess how it has happened — you are pursued?" 
 
 " I am," said Dick, roughly. 
 
 "Your pursuers are at hand?" 
 
 u Within a few hundred yards." 
 
 "Then why stay here? Fly while you can." 
 
 "Never — never," cried Turpin; "I'll fight it out here by 
 Bess's side. Poor lass ! I've killed her — but she has done it 
 — ha, ha! — we have won — what?" And his utterance was again 
 choked. 
 
 " Hark ! I hear the tramp of horse, and shouts," cried the pa- 
 trico. " Take this wallet. You will find a change of dress within 
 it. Dart into that thick copse — save yourself." 
 
 " But Bess — I cannot leave her," exclaimed Dick, with an ago- 
 nising look at his horse. 
 
 "And what did Bess die for, but to save you?" rejoined the 
 patrico. 
 
 "'True, true," said Dick; "but take care of her. Don't let 
 those dogs of hell meddle with her carcase." 
 
 " Away," cried the patrico ; " leave Bess to me." 
 
 Possessing himself of the wallet, Dick disappeared in the ad- 
 joining copse. 
 
 He had not been gone many seconds when Major Mowbray 
 rode up. 
 
 "Who is this?" exclaimed the major, flinging himself from his 
 horse, and seizing the patrico: "this is not Turpin." 
 
 "Certainly not," replied Balthazar, coolly. "I am not exactly 
 the figure for a highwayman." 
 
 "Where is he? what has become of him?" asked Coates, in 
 despair, as he and Paterson joined the major. 
 
H'-^rjo C-rudts ko/hK- 
 
 K :3%aM< ^zwiOi 
 
EEATH OF BLACK BE33 
 
 P. 296. 
 
ROOKWOOD. 297 
 
 "Escnpc.], I fear," replied the major. "Have you seen any 
 one, fellow?" added he, addressing the patrico. 
 
 " 1 have seen no one," replied Balthazar. " I am only this in- 
 stant arrived. This dead horse lying in the road attracted my at- 
 tention." 
 
 " Ha !" exclaimed Paterson, leaping from his steed, " this may 
 be Turpin after all. He has as many disguises as the devil him- 
 self, and may have carried that goat's hair in his pocket." Saying 
 which, he seized the patrico by the beard, and shook it with as 
 little reverence as the Gaul handled the hirsute chin of the Roman 
 senator. 
 
 "The devil! hands off," roared Balthazar. "By Salamon, I 
 won't stand such usage. Do you think a beard like mine is the 
 growth of a few minutes? Hands off, I say." 
 
 " Regularly done !" said Paterson, removing his hold of the 
 patrico's chin, and looking as blank as a cartridge. 
 
 "Ay," exclaimed Coates; " all owing to this worthless piece of 
 carrion. If it were not that I hope to see him dangling from those 
 walls" (pointing towards the Castle), " I should wish her master 
 were by her side now. To the dogs with her." .And he was about 
 to spurn the breathless carcase of poor Bess, when a sudden blow, 
 dealt by the patrico's staff, felled him to the ground. 
 
 " I'll teach you to molest me," said Balthazar, about to attack 
 Paterson. 
 
 " Come, come," said the discomfited chief constable, " no more 
 of this. It's plain we're in the wrong box. Every bone in my 
 body aches sufficiently without the aid of your cudgel, old fellow. 
 Come, Mr. Coates, take my arm, and let's be moving. We've 
 had an infernal lon^ ride for nothing." 
 
 "Not so," replied Coates; "I've paid pretty dearly for it. 
 However, let us see if we can get any breakfast at the Bowling- 
 green, yonder; though I've already had my morning draught,"' 
 added the facetious man of law, looking at his dripping apparel. 
 
 "Poor Black Bess!" said Major Mowbray, wistfully regarding 
 the body of the mare, as it lay stretched at his feet. " Thou de- 
 scrvedst a better fate, and a better master. In thee, Dick Turpin 
 has lost his best friend. His exploits will, henceforth, want the 
 colouring of romance, which thy unfailing energies threw over 
 them. Light lie the ground over thee, thou matchless mare !" 
 
 To the Bowling-green the party proceeded, leaving the patrico 
 in undisturbed possession of the lifeless body of Black Bess. 
 Major Mowbray ordered a substantial repast to be prepared with 
 all possible expedition. 
 
 A countryman in a smock-frock was busily engaged at his 
 
 morning s 
 
 " meal. 
 
 " To see that fellow bolt down his breakfast, one would think 
 lie had fasted for a month," said Coates; "see the wholesome 
 effects of an honest industrious life, Paterson. I envy him his 
 
298 EOOKWOOD. 
 
 appetite— I should fall to with more zest were Dick Turpin in his 
 place." 
 
 The countryman looked up. He was an odd-looking fellow, 
 with a terrible squint, and a strange contorted countenance. 
 
 " An ugly dog !" exclaimed Paterson : " what a devil of a twist 
 ne has got!" 
 
 " What's that you says about Dick Taarpin, measter?" asked 
 the countryman, with his mouth half full of bread. 
 
 " Have you seen aught of him ?" asked Coates. 
 
 "Not I," mumbled the rustic; " but I hears aw the folks here- 
 abouts talk on him. They say as how he sets all the lawyers and 
 constables at defiance, and laughs in his sleeve at their efforts to 
 cotch him — ha, ha ! He gets over more ground in a day than 
 they do in a week — ho, ho !" 
 
 "That's all over now," said Coates, peevishly. "He has cut 
 his own throat — ridden his famous mare to death." 
 
 The countryman almost choked himself, in the attempt to bolt 
 a huge mouthful. "Ay — indeed, measter! How happened that?" 
 asked he, so soon as he recovered speech. 
 
 " The fool rode her from London to York last night," returned 
 Coates : " such a feat was never performed before. What horse 
 could be expected to live through such work as that?" 
 
 " All, he were a foo' to attempt that," observed the country- 
 man: " but you followed belike?" 
 
 " We did." 
 
 " And took him arter all, I reckon?" asked the rustic, squinting 
 more horribly than ever. 
 
 " No," returned Coates, " I can't say we did ; but we'll have 
 him yet. I'm pretty sure he can't be far off. We may be nearer 
 him than we imagine." 
 
 " May be so, measter," returned the countryman ; " but might I 
 be so bold as to ax how many horses you used i' the chase — some 
 half-dozen, maybe?" 
 
 " Half a dozen ! " growled Paterson ; " we had twenty at the 
 least." 
 
 " And I one !" mentally ejaculated Turpin, for he was the 
 countryman. 
 
EOOKWOOD. 290 
 
 BOOK V. 
 
 THE OATH. 
 
 It was an ill oath better broke than kept — 
 The laws of nature, and of nations, do 
 Dispense with matters of divinity 
 In such a case. Tateham. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 THE HUT ON THORNE WASTE. 
 
 Hind. Are all our horses and our arms in safety ? 
 
 Furbo. They feed, like Pluto's palfreys, under ground. 
 Our pistols, swords, and other furniture, 
 Are safely locked up at our rendezvous. 
 
 Prince of Prigs' Bevels. 
 
 The hut on Thorne Waste, to which we have before incident- 
 ally alluded, and whither we are now about to repair, was a low, 
 lone hovel, situate on the banks of the deep and oozy Don, at the 
 eastern extremity of that extensive moor. Ostensibly its owner 
 fulfilled the duties of ferryman to that part of the river; but as 
 the road, which skirted his tenement, was little frequented, his 
 craft was, for the most part, allowed to sleep undisturbed in her 
 moorings. 
 
 In reality, however, he was the inland agent of a horde of 
 smugglers who infested the neighbouring coast ; his cabin was 
 their rendezvous; and not unfrequently, it was said, the depository 
 of their contraband goods. Conkey Jem (so was he called by his 
 associates, on account of the Slawkenbergian promontory which 
 decorated his countenance) had been an old hand at the same 
 trade; but having returned from a seven vears' leave of absence 
 from his own country, procured by his lawless life, now managed 
 matters with more circumspection and prudence, and had never 
 since been detected in his former illicit traffic ; nor, though so 
 marvellously gifted in that particular himself, was he ever known 
 to nose upon any of his accomplices; or, in other words, to betray 
 them. On the contrary, his hut was a sort of asylum for all 
 fugitives from justice; and although the sanctity of his walls 
 would, in all probability, have been little regarded, had any one 
 been detected within them, yet, strange to say, even if a robber 
 had been tracked (as it often chanced) to Jem's immediate neigh- 
 bourhood, all traces of him were sure to be lost at the ferryman's 
 hut; and further search was useless. 
 
 Within, the hut presented such an appearance as might be 
 expected, from its owner's pursuits and its own unpromisin 
 
 a 
 
300 ROOKWOOD. 
 
 exterior. Consisting of little more than a couple of rooms, the 
 rude whitewashed mud walls exhibited, in lieu of prints of more 
 pretension, a gallery of choicely-illustrated ballads, celebrating the 
 exploits of various highwaymen, renowned in song, amongst which 
 our friend Dick Turpin figured conspicuously upon his sable steed, 
 Bess being represented by a huge rampant black patch, and Dick, 
 with a pistol considerably longer than the arm that sustained it. 
 Next to this curious collection was a drum-net, a fishing-rod, a 
 landing-net, an eel-spear, and other piscatorial apparatus, with a 
 couple of sculls and a boat-hook, indicative of Jem's ferryman's 
 office, suspended by various hooks; the whole blackened and be- 
 grimed by peat-smoke, there being no legitimate means of exit 
 permitted to the vapour generated by the turf-covered hearthstone. 
 The only window, indeed, in the hut, was to the front; the back 
 apartment, which served Jem for dormitory, had no aperture what- 
 ever for the admission of light, except such as was afforded through 
 the door of communication between the rooms. A few broken 
 rush-bottomed chairs, with a couple of dirty tables, formed the 
 sum total of the ferryman's furniture.' 
 
 Notwithstanding the grotesque effect of his exaggerated nasal 
 organ, Jem's aspect was at once savage and repulsive; his lank 
 black hair hung about his inflamed visage in wild elf locks, the 
 animal predominating throughout; his eyes were small, red, and 
 wolfish, and glared suspiciously from beneath his scarred and tufted 
 eyebrows; while certain of his teeth projected, like the tusks of a 
 boar, from out his coarse-lipped, sensual mouth. Dwarfish in 
 stature, and deformed in person, Jem was built for strength; and 
 what with his width of shoulder and shortness of neck, his figure 
 looked as square and as solid as a cube. His throat and hirsute 
 chest, constantly exposed to the weather, had acquired a glowing- 
 tan, while his arms, uncovered to the shoulders, and clothed with 
 fur like a bear's hide, down, almost, to the tips of his fingers, pre- 
 sented a knot of folded muscles, the concentrated force of which 
 few would have desired to encounter in action. 
 
 It was now on the stroke of midnight; and Jem, who had been 
 lying extended upon the floor of his hovel, suddenly aroused by that 
 warning impulse which never fails to awaken one of his calling at 
 the exact moment when they require to be upon the alert, now set 
 about fanning into flame the expiring fuel upon his hearth. Having 
 succeeded in igniting further portions of turf, Jem proceeded to 
 examine the security of his door and window, and satisfied that lock 
 and bolt were shot, and that the shutter was carefully closed, he 
 kindled a light at his fire, and walked towards his bedroom. But 
 it was not to retire for the night that the ferryman entered his 
 dormitory. Beside his crazy couch stood a litter of empty bottlcs- 
 and a beer cask, crowding the chamber. The latter he rolled aside, 
 and pressing his foot upon the plank beneath it, the board gave 
 way, and a trap-door opening, discovered a ladder, conducting, ap- 
 
UOOKWOOD. 301 
 
 parently, into the bowels of the earth. Jem leaned over the abyss, 
 and called in hoarse accents to some one below. 
 
 An answer was immediately returned, and a light became soon 
 afterwards visible at the foot of the ladder. Two figures next 
 ascended; the first who set foot within the ferryman's chamber 
 was Alan Rookwood; the other, as the reader may perhaps con- 
 jecture, was his grandson. 
 
 "Is it the hour?" asked Luke, as he sprang from out the trap- 
 door. 
 
 "Ay," replied Jem, with a coarse laugh; "or I had not dis- 
 turbed myself to call you. But, maybe," added he, softening 
 his manner a little, " you'll like some refreshment before you 
 start? A stoup of Nantz will put you in cue for the job, 
 ha, ha!" 
 
 " Not I," replied Luke, who could ill tolerate his companion's 
 familiarity. 
 
 " Give me to drink," said Alan, walking feebly towards the 
 fire, and extending his skinny fingers before it. " I am chilled 
 by the damps of that swampy cave — the natural heat within me 
 is nigh extinguished." 
 
 " Here is that shall put fresh marrow into your old bones/' re- 
 turned Jem, handing him a tumbler of brandy; "never stint it. 
 I'll be sworn you'll be the better on't, for you look desperate queer, 
 man, about the mazzard." 
 
 Alan was, in sooth, a ghastly spectacle. The events of the last 
 few days had wrought a fearful change. His countenance was 
 almost exanimate ; and when, with shaking hand and trembling 
 lips, he had drained the fiery potion to the dregs, a terrible grimace 
 was excited upon his features, such as is produced upon the corpse 
 by the action of the galvanic machine. Even Jem regarded him 
 with a sort of apprehension. After he had taken breath for a 
 moment, Alan broke out into a fit of wild and immoderate 
 laughter. 
 
 " Why, ay," said he, " this is indeed to grow young again, and 
 to feel fresh fire within one's veins. Who would have thouirht 
 so much of life and energy could reside in this little vessel? I 
 am myself once more, and not the same soulless, pulseless lump 
 of clay I was a moment or two back. The damps of that den 
 had destroyed me — and the solitude — the leaking dreams I've 
 had — the visions ! horrible ! I will not think of them. I am 
 better now — ready to execute my plans — your plans I should 
 say, grandson Luke. Are our horses in readiness? Why do 
 we tarry? The hour is arrived, and I would not that my new- 
 blown courage should evaporate ere the great work for which I 
 live be accomplished. That done, I ask no further stimulant. 
 Let us away." 
 
 " We tarry but for Turpin," said Luke; " I am as impatient as 
 yourself. I fear some mischance must have befallen him, or he 
 
302 EOOKWOOD. 
 
 would have been true to his appointment. Do you not think 
 so?" he added, addressing the ferryman. 
 
 " Why," replied Jem, reluctantly, u since you put it home to 
 me, and I can't conceal it no longer, I'll tell you what I didn't 
 tell afore, for fear you should be down in the mouth about it. 
 Dick Turpin can do nothing for you — he's grabb'd." 
 
 "Turpin apprehended!" ejaculated Luke. 
 
 " Ay," returned Jem. " I learnt from a farmer, who crossed 
 the ferry at nightfall, that he were grabb'd this morning at York, 
 after having ridden his famous cherry-coloured prad to death — 
 that's what hurts me more nor all the rest; though I fear Dick 
 will scarce cheat the nubbing cheat this go. His time's up, I cal- 
 culate." 
 
 " Will you supply his place and accompany us?" asked Luke 
 of the ferrvman. 
 
 "No, no," replied Jem, shaking his head; " there's too much 
 risk, and too little profit, in the business for me — it won't pay." 
 
 "And what might tempt you to undertake the enterprise?" 
 asked Alan. 
 
 " More than you have to offer, Master Peter," replied Jem, 
 who had not been enlightened upon the subject of Alan's real 
 name or condition. 
 
 " How know you that?" demanded Alan. "Name your de- 
 mand." 
 
 " Well, then, I'll not say but a hundred pounds, if you had it, 
 might bribe me " 
 
 " To part with your soul to the devil, I doubt not," said Luke, 
 fiercely stamping the ground. " Let us be gone. We need not 
 his mercenary aid. We will do without him." 
 
 " Stay," said Alan, "you shall have the hundred, provided you 
 will assure us of your services." 
 
 " Cut no more blarneyfied winds, Master Sexton," replied Jem, 
 in a gruff tone. " If I'm to go, I must have the chink down, and 
 that's more nor either of you can do, I'm thinking." 
 
 "Give me your purse," whispered Alan to his grandson. 
 "Pshaw," continued he, "do you hesitate? This man can do 
 much for us. Think upon Eleanor, and be prudent. You cannot 
 accomplish your task unaided." Taking the amount from the 
 purse, he gave it to the ferryman, adding, " If we succeed, the sum 
 shall be doubled; and now let us set out." 
 
 During Alan's speech, Jem's sharp eyes had been fastened upon 
 the purse, while he mechanically clutched the bank-notes which 
 were given to him. He could not remove his gaze, but continued 
 staring at the treasure before him, as if he would willingly, by 
 force, have made it all his own. 
 
 Alan saw the error he had committed in exposing the contents 
 of the purse to the avaricious ferryman and was about to restore 
 it to Luke, when the bag was suddenly snatched from his grasp, 
 and himself levelled by a blow upon the floor. Conkcy Jem found 
 
EOOXWOOD. 303 
 
 the temptation irresistible. Knowing himself to be a match for 
 both his companions, and imagining he was secure from interrup- 
 tion, he conceived the idea of making away with them, and pos- 
 sessing himself of their wealth. No sooner had he disposed of 
 Alan, than he assailed Luke, who met his charge halfway. With 
 the vigour and alacrity of the latter the reader is already acquainted, 
 but he was no match for the herculean strength of the double- 
 jointed ferryman, who, with the ferocity of the boar he so much 
 resembled, thus furiously attacked him. Nevertheless, as may be 
 imagined, he was not disposed to yield up his life tamely. He 
 saw at once the villain's murderous intentions, and, well aware of 
 his prodigious power, would not have risked a close struggle could 
 he have avoided it. Snatching the eel-spear from the wall, he had 
 hurled it at the head of his adversary, but without effect. In the 
 next instant he was locked in a clasp terrible as that of a Polar 
 bear. In spite of all his struggles, Luke was speedily hurled to 
 the ground; and Jem, who had thrown himself upon him, was 
 apparently searching about for some weapon to put a bloody 
 termination to the conflict, when the trampling of a horse was 
 heard at the door, three taps were repeated slowly, one after the 
 other, and a call resounded from a whistle. 
 
 "Damnation!" ejaculated Jem, gruffly, "interrupted!" And 
 he seemed irresolute, slightly altering his position on Luke's body. 
 
 The moment was fortunate for Luke, and, in all probability, 
 saved his life. He extricated himself from the ferryman's grasp, 
 regained his feet, and, what was of more importance, the weapon 
 he had thrown away. 
 
 "Villain!" cried he, about to plunge the spear with all his 
 force into his enemy's side, " you shall " 
 
 The whistle was again heard without. 
 
 " Don't you hear that?" 4cried Jem: "'tis Turpin's call." 
 
 " Turpin !" echoed Luke, dropping the point of his weapon. 
 " Unbar the door, you treacherous rascal, and admit him." 
 
 " Well, say no more about it, Sir Luke," said Jem, fawningly ; 
 " I knows I owes you my life, and I thank you for it. Take 
 back the lowrc. He should not have shown it me — it was that as 
 did all the mischief." 
 
 " Unbar the door, and parley not," said Luke, contemptuously. 
 
 Jem complied with pretended alacrity, but real reluctance, cast- 
 ing suspicious glances at Luke as he withdrew the bolts. The 
 door at length being opened, haggard, exhausted, and covered 
 with dust, Dick Turpin staggered into the hut. 
 
 " Well, I am here," said he, with a hollow laugh. " I've kept 
 my word — ha, ha! I've been damnably put to it; but here I am, 
 ha, ha !" And he sank upon one of the stools. 
 
 " We heard you were apprehended," said Luke. " I am glad 
 to find the information was ialse," added he, glancing angrily at 
 the ferryman. 
 
 " Whoever told you that, told you a lie, Sir Luke," replied 
 
304 ROOKWOOD. 
 
 Dick; "but what are you scowling at, old Charon? — and you, Sir 
 Luke? Why do you glower at each other? Make fast the door 
 — bolt it, Cerberus — right ! Now give me a glass of brandy, and 
 then I'll talk — a bumper — so — another. What's that I see — a 
 dead man? Old Peter — Alan I mean — has anything happened to 
 him, that he has taken his measure there so quietly?" 
 
 " Nothing, I trust," said Luke, stooping to raise up his grand- 
 sire. u The blow has stunned him." 
 
 "The blow?" repeated Turpin. "What! there has been a 
 quarrel then? I thought as much from your amiable looks at each 
 other. Come, come, w r e must have no differences. Give the old 
 earthworm a taste of this — I'll engage it will bring him to fast 
 enough. Ay, rub his temples with it if you'd rather ; but it's a 
 better remedy down the gullet — the natural course ; and hark ye, 
 Jem, search your crib quickly, and see if you have any grub within 
 it, and any more bub in the cellar: I'm as hungry as a hunter, and 
 as thirsty as a camel." 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 MA JOE, MOWBRAY. 
 
 Mephistopheles. Out with your toasting-iron ! Thrust away ! 
 
 Hayward's Translation of Faust. 
 
 Conkey Jem went in search of such provisions as his hovel 
 afforded. Turpin, meantime, lent his assistance towards the re- 
 vival of Alan Rookwood; and it was not long before his efforts, 
 united with those of Luke, were successful, and Alan restored to 
 consciousness. He was greatly surprised to find the highwayman 
 had joined them, and expressed an earnest desire to quit the hut 
 as speedily as possible. 
 
 " That shall be done forthwith, my dear fellow," said Dick. 
 " But if you had fasted as long as I have done, and gone through 
 a few of my fatigues into the bargain, you would perceive, with- 
 out difficulty, the propriety of supping before you started. Here 
 comes Old Nosey, with a flitch of bacon and a loaf. Egad, I can 
 scarce wait for the toasting. In my present mood, I could almost 
 devour a grunter in the sty." Whereupon he applied himself to 
 the loaf, and to a bottle of stout March ale, which Jem placed 
 upon the table, quaffing copious draughts of the latter, while the 
 ferryman employed himself in toasting certain rashers of the flitch 
 upon the hissing embers. 
 
 Luke, meanwhile, stalked impatiently about the room. He had 
 laid aside his tridental spear, having first, however, placed a pistol 
 
ROOKWOOD. 30 
 
 e 
 
 within his breast to be ready for instant service, should occasion 
 demand it, as he could now put little reliance upon the ferryman's 
 fidelity. He glanced with impatience at Turpin, who pursued his 
 meal with steady voracity, worthy of a half-famished soldier ; but 
 the highwayman returned no answer to his looks, except such as 
 was conveyed by the incessant clatter of his masticating jaws, 
 during the progress of his, apparently, interminable repast. 
 
 " Ready for you in a second, Sir Luke," said Dick ; u all right 
 now — capital ale, Charon — strong as Styx — ha, ha ! — one other 
 rasher, and I've done. Sorry to keep you — can't conceive how 
 cleverly I put the winkers upon 'em at York, in the dress of a 
 countryman; all owing to old Baity, the patrico, an old pal — ha, 
 ha ! My old pals never nose upon me — eh, Nosey — always help 
 one out of the water — always staunch. Here's health to you, old 
 crony." 
 
 Jem returned a sulky response, as he placed the last rasher on 
 the table, which was speedily discussed. 
 
 " Poor Bess !" muttered Dick, as he quaffed off the final glass 
 of ale. " Poor lass ! we buried her by the roadside, beneath the 
 trees — deep — deep. Her remains shall never be disturbed. Alas ! 
 alas ! my bonny Black Bess ! But no matter, her name is yet alive 
 — her deeds will survive her — the trial is over. And now," con- 
 tinued he, rising from his seat, "I'm with you. Where are the 
 tits ?" 
 
 " In the stable, under ground," growled Jem. 
 
 Alan Rook wood, in the mean time, had joined his grandson, 
 and they conversed an instant or two apart. 
 
 " My strength will not bear me through the night," said he. 
 a That fellow has thoroughly disabled me. You must go without 
 me to the hall. Here is the key of the secret passage. You 
 know the entrance. I will await you in the tomb." 
 
 u The tomb !" echoed Luke. 
 
 " Ay, our family vault," returned Alan, with a ghastly griii 
 — " it is the only place of security for me now. Let me see her 
 there. Let me know that my vengeance is complete, that I 
 triumph in my death over him, the accursed brother, through you, 
 my grandson. You have a rival brother — a successful one ; you 
 know now what hatred is." 
 
 " I do," returned Luke, fiercely. 
 
 u But not such hate as mine, which, through a life, a long life, 
 hath endured, intense as when 'twas first engendered in my bosom ; 
 which from one hath spread o'er all my race — o'er all save you — 
 and which even now, when death stares me in the face — when the 
 spirit pants to lly from its prison-house, burns fiercely as ever. 
 You cannot know what hate like that may be. You must have 
 wrongs — such wrongs as mine first." 
 
 " My hate to Ranulph is bitter as your own to Sir Reginald.'* 
 
 "Name him not," shrieked Alan. "But, oh! to think upon 
 
 X 
 
306 KOOKWOOD. 
 
 the bride he robbed me of — the young — the beautiful ! — whom I 
 loved to madness; whose memory is a barbed shaft, yet rankling 
 keen as ever at my heart. God of Justice ! how is it that I have 
 thus long survived ? But some men die by inches. My dying 
 lips shall name him once again, and then 'twill be but to blend his 
 name with curses." 
 
 " I speak of him no more," said Luke. " I will meet you in 
 the vault." 
 
 " Remember, to-morrow is her wedding-day with Ranulph." 
 
 " Think you I forget it?" 
 
 u Bear it constantly in mind. To-morrow's dawn must see her 
 yours or his. You have her oath. To you or to death she is 
 affianced. If she should hesitate in her election, do not you hesi- 
 tate. Woman's will is fickle; her scruples of conscience will be 
 readily overcome; she will not heed her vows — but let her not 
 escape you. Cast off' all your weakness. You are young, and not 
 as I am, age-enfeebled. Be firm, and," added he, with a look of 
 terrible meaning, "if all else should fail — if you are surrounded — 
 if you cannot bear her off — use this," and he placed a dagger in 
 Luke's hands. " It has avenged me, ere now, on a perjured wife, 
 it will avenge you of a forsworn mistress, and remove all obstacle 
 to Rookwood." 
 
 Luke took the weapon. 
 
 " Would you have me kill her ?" demanded he. 
 
 " Sooner than she should be Ranulph's." 
 
 "Ay, aught sooner than that. But I would not murder both." 
 
 " Both !" echoed Alan. " I understand you not." 
 
 " Sybil and Eleanor," replied Luke; " for, as surely as I live, 
 Sybil's death will lie at my door." 
 
 " How so?" asked Alan; " the poison was self-ministered." 
 
 " True," replied Luke, with terrible emphasis, u but I spoke 
 daggers. Hearken to me," said he, hollowly whispering in his 
 grandsire's ears. iC Methinks I am not long for this world. I 
 have seen her since her death ! " 
 
 " Tut, tut," replied Alan. " 'Tis not for you (a man) to talk 
 thus. A truce to these womanish fancies." 
 
 " Womanish or not," returned Luke ; " either my fancy has 
 deceived me, or I beheld her, distinctly as I now behold yon, 
 within yon cave, while you were sleeping by my side." 
 
 " It is disordered fancy," said Alan Rookwood. " You will 
 live — live to inherit Rookwood — live to see them fall crushed be- 
 neath your feet. For myself, if I but see you master of Eleanor's 
 hand, or know that she no longer lives to bless your rival, or 
 to mar your prospects, I care not how soon I brave my threatened 
 doom." 
 
 " Of one or other you shall be resolved to-night," said Luke, 
 placing the dasher within his vest. 
 
 At this moment a trampling of a horse was heard before the 
 
ROOKWOOD. 307 
 
 hovel, and in another instant a loud knocking resounded from the 
 door. The ferryman instantly extinguished the light, motioning 
 his companions to remain silent. 
 
 u What ho !" shouted a voice. " Ferry wanted." 
 
 " Gad zooks !" exclaimed Dick. " As I live, 'tis Major Mow- 
 bray !" 
 
 " Major Mowbray !" echoed Alan, in amazement. " What doth 
 he here?" 
 
 "He must be on his way from York to Rookwood, I con- 
 clude," said Dick. "If he's here, I'll engage the others are 
 not far off." 
 
 Scarcely were the words out of Dick's mouth, when further 
 clatter was heard at the door, and the tones of Coates were heard, 
 in altissimo key, demanding admittance. 
 
 " Let us retire into the next room," whispered Turpin, "and 
 then admit them, by all means, Conkey. And, hark ye, manage 
 to detain them a few seconds." 
 
 " I'll do it," said Jem. " There's a bit of a hole you can peep 
 through." 
 
 Another loud rat-tat was heard at the door, threatening to 
 burst it from its hinges. 
 
 " Well, I be coming," said Jem, seeing the coast was clear, in 
 a drowsy, yawning tone, as if just awakened from sleep. " You'll 
 cross the river none the faster for making so much noise." 
 
 With these words he unbarred the door, and Coates and Pater- 
 son, who, it appeared, were proceeding to Rookwood, entered 
 the hovel. Major Mowbray remained on horseback at the door. 
 
 "Can you find us a glass of brandy to keep out the fog?" said 
 Coates, who knew something of our ferryman's vocations. "I 
 know you are a lad of amazing spirit^ 
 
 " May be I can, master, if I choose. But won't the other gem- 
 man walk in-doors likewise?" 
 
 " No, no," said Coates ; " Major Mowbray don't choose to dis- 
 mount." 
 
 " Well, as you please," said Jem. " It'll take me a minute or 
 two to get the punt in order for all them prads." 
 
 " The brandy in the first place," said Coates. " What's here ?" 
 added the loquacious attorney, noticing the remnants of Turpin's 
 repast. " But that we're hurried, I should like a little frizzled 
 bacon myself." 
 
 Jem opened the door of his dormitory with the greatest caution, 
 though apparent indifference, and almost instantly returned with 
 the brandy. Coates filled a glass for Paterson, and then another 
 for himself. The ferryman left the house apparently to prepare his 
 boat, half closing the door after him. 
 
 " By my faith ! this is the right thing, Paterson," said the 
 attorney. " We may be sure the strength of this was never 
 tested by a gauger's proof. Take another thimbleful. We've 
 
 x ^ 
 
308 ROOKWOOD. 
 
 twelve miles and a heavy pull to go through ere we reach Rook- 
 woocl. After all, we made but a poor night's work of it, Master 
 Constable. Cursed stupid in us to let him escape. I only wish we 
 had such another chance. Ah, if we had him within reach now, 
 how we would spring upon him — secure him in an instant. I 
 should glory in the encounter. I tell you what, Paterson, if ever 
 he is taken, I shall make a point of attending his execution, and 
 see whether he dies game. Ha, ha ! You think he's sure to swing, 
 Paterson, eh?" 
 
 " Why, yes," replied the chief constable. " I wish I was as cer- 
 tain of my reward as that Turpin will eventually figure at the 
 scragging-post." 
 
 "Your reward!" replied Coates. "Make yourself easy on 
 that score, my boy ; you shall have your dues, depend upon it. 
 Nay, for the matter of that, I'll give you the money now, if you 
 think proper." 
 
 " Nothing like time present," said Paterson. " We'll make all 
 square at once." 
 
 " Well, then," said Coates, taking out a pocket-book, u you 
 shall have the hundred I promised. You won't get Turpin's re- 
 ward, the three hundred pounds ; but that can't be helped. You 
 shall have mine — always a man of my word, Paterson," continued 
 the attorney, counting out the money. " My father, the thief- 
 taker, was a man of his word before me." 
 
 " No doubt," said the chief constable ; " I shall always be happy 
 to serve you." 
 
 " And then there's that other affair," said the attorney, mys- 
 teriously, still occupied in doling out his bank-notes, " that Luke 
 Bradley's case ; the fellow, I mean, who calls himself Sir Luke 
 Rookwood — ha, ha ! A rank impostor ! Two fives, that makes 
 fifty: you want another fifty, Paterson. As I was saying, we 
 may make a good job of that — we must ferret him out. I know 
 who will come down properly for that ; and if we could only tuck 
 him up with his brother blade, why it would be w r orth double. 
 He's all along been a thorn in my Lady Rookwood's side ; he's 
 an artful scoundrel." 
 
 " Leave him to me," said Paterson ; " I'll have him in less than 
 a week. What's your charge against him?" 
 
 " Felony, burglary, murder, every description of crime under 
 the heavens," said Coates. u He's a very devil incarnate. Dick 
 Turpin is as mild as milk compared with him. By-the-by, now 
 I think of it, this Jem, Conkey Jem, as folks call him, may 
 know something about him ; he's a keen file, I'll sound him. 
 Thirty, forty, fifty — there's the exact amount. So much for Dick 
 JLurpin. 
 
 " Dick Turpin thanks you for it in person," said Dick, suddenly 
 snatching the whole sum from Paterson's hands, and felling the 
 chief constable with a blow of one of his pistols. " I wish I was 
 
KOOKWOOD. 309 
 
 as sure of escaping the gallows as I am certain that Paterson has 
 
 got hi? reward. You stare, sir. You are once more in the hands 
 of the Philistines. See who is at your elbow." 
 
 Coates, who was terrified almost out of his senses at the siirht of 
 Turpin, scarcely ventured to turn his head; but when he did so, 
 he was perfectly horror-stricken at the threatening aspect of Luke, 
 who held a cutlass in his hand, which he had picked up in the 
 ferryman's bedroom. 
 
 " So you would condemn me for crimes I have never committed," 
 said Luke. " I am tempted, I own, to add the destruction of your 
 worthless existence to their number." 
 
 " Mercy, for God's sake, mercy !" cried Coates, throwing himself 
 at Luke's feet. " I meant not what I said." 
 
 " Hence, reptile," said Luke, pushing him aside; u I leave you 
 to be dealt upon by others." 
 
 At this juncture, the door of the hut was flung open, and in 
 rushed Major Mowbray, sword in hand, followed byConkey Jem. 
 
 " There he stands, sir," cried the latter; " upon him !" 
 
 "What! Conkey Jem turned snitch upon his pals?" cried 
 Dick ; " I scarce believe my own ears." 
 
 " Make yourself scarce, Dick," growled Jem; "the jigger's 
 open, and the boat loose. Leave Luke to his fate. lie's sold." 
 
 " Never, vile traitor," shouted Dick ; u 'tis thou art sold, not 
 he;" and, almost ere the words were spoken, a ball was lodged in 
 the brain of the treacherous ferryman. 
 
 Major Mowbray, meanwhile, had rushed furiously upon Luke, 
 who met his assault with determined calmness. The strife was 
 sharp, and threatened a speedy and fatal issue. On the Major's 
 side it was a desperate attack of cut and thrust which Luke had 
 some difficulty in parrying; but as yet no wounds were inflicted. 
 Soldier as was the Major, Luke was not a whit inferior to him in 
 his knowledge of the science of defence, and in the exercise of the 
 broadsword he was perhaps the more skilful of the two: upon the 
 present occasion his coolness stood him in admirable stead. Seeing 
 him hard pressed, Turpin would have come to his assistance; but 
 Luke shouted to him to stand aside, and all that Dick could do, 
 amid the terrific clash of steel, was to kick the tables out of the 
 way of the combatants. Luke's arm was now slightly grazed by a 
 cut made by the major, which he had parried. The smart of the 
 wound roused his ire. He attacked his adversary in his turn, 
 with so much vigour and good will, that, driven backwards by 
 the irresistible assault, Major Mowbray stumbled over the ferry- 
 man's body, which happened to lie in his way; and his sword 
 being struck from his grasp, his life became at once at his assail- 
 ant's disposal. 
 
 Luke sheathed his sword. "Major Mowbray," said he, sternly, 
 " your life is in my power. I spare it for the blood that is between 
 
310 ROOKWOOD. 
 
 us — for your sister's sake. I would not raise my hand against her 
 brother." 
 
 "I disclaim your kindred with me, villain!" wrathfully ex- 
 claimed the major. " I hold you no otherwise than as a wretched 
 impostor, who has set up claims he cannot justify; and as to my 
 
 sister, if you dare to couple her name " and the major made 
 
 an ineffectual attempt to raise himself, and to regain his sword, 
 which Turpin, however, removed. 
 
 " Dare!" echoed Luke, scornfully; " hereafter, you may learn 
 to fear my threats, and acknowledge the extent of my daring; and 
 in that confidence I give you life. Listen to me, sir. I am bound 
 for Rookwood. I have private access to the house — to your 
 sister's chamber — her chamber — marked you that? I shall go 
 armed — attended. This night she shall be mine. From you — 
 from Ranulph — from Lady Rookwood, from all will I bear her 
 off. She shall be mine, and you, before the dawn, my brother, 
 
 or " And Luke paused. 
 
 "What further villany remains untold?" inquired the major, 
 fiercely. 
 
 " You shall bewail your sister's memory," replied Luke, 
 gloomily. 
 
 " I embrace the latter alternative with rapture," replied the 
 major — " God grant her firmness to resist you. But I tremble for 
 her." And the stern soldier groaned aloud in his agony. 
 
 " Here is a cord to bind him," said Turpin; "he must remain 
 a prisoner here." 
 
 " Right," said Alan Rookwood, " unless — but enough blood 
 has been shed already." 
 
 " Ay, marry has there," said Dick, " and I had rather not have 
 given Conkey Jem a taste of blue plumb, had there been any 
 other mode of silencing the snitching scoundrel, which there was 
 not. As to the major, he's a gallant enemy, and shall have fair 
 play as long as Dick Turpin stands by. Come, sir," added he, to 
 the major, as he bound him hand and foot with the rope, " I'll do 
 it as gently as I can. You had better submit with a good grace. 
 There's no help for it. And now for my friend Paterson, who 
 was so anxious to furnish me with a hempen cravat, before my 
 neck was in order, he shall have an extra twist of the rope 
 himself, to teach him the inconvenience of a tight neckcloth when 
 he recovers." Saying which, he bound Paterson in such a 
 manner, that any attempt at liberation on the chief constable's 
 part would infallibly strangle him. "As to you, Mr. Coates," 
 said he, addressing the trembling man of law, " you shall proceed 
 to Rookwood with us. You may yet be useful, and I'll accom- 
 modate you with a seat behind my own saddle — a distinction I 
 never yet conferred upon any of your tribe. Recollect the coun- 
 tryman at the Bowling-green at York — ha, ha ! Come along, sir." 
 And having kicked out the turf fire, Dick prepared to depart. 
 
ROOKWOOD. 311 
 
 It would be vain to describe the feelings of rage and despair 
 which agitated the major's bosom, as he saw the party quit the 
 hovel, accompanied by Coates. Aware as he was of their desti- 
 nation, after one or two desperate but ineffectual attempts to libe- 
 rate himself, by which he only increased the painful constriction 
 of his bonds without in the slightest decree ameliorating his con- 
 dition, he resigned himself, with bitterest forebodings, to his fate. 
 There was no one even to sympathise with his sufferings. Beside 
 him lay the gory corpse of the ferryman, and, at a little distance, 
 the scarcely more animate frame of the chief constable. And here 
 we must leave him, to follow, for a short space, the course of Luke 
 and his companions. 
 
 Concerning themselves little about their own steeds, the party 
 took those which first offered, and embarking man and horse in 
 the boat, soon pushed across the waters of the lutulent Don. 
 Arrived at the opposite banks of the river, they mounted, and, 
 guided by Luke, after half an hour's sharp riding, arrived at the 
 skirts of Rookwood Park. Entering this beautiful sylvan do- 
 main, they rode for some time silently among the trees, till they 
 reached the knoll whence Luke beheld the hall on the eventful 
 night of his discovery of his mother's wedding-ring. A few days 
 only had elapsed, but during that brief space what storms had 
 swept over his bosom — what ravages had they not made ! He was 
 then all ardour — all impetuosity — all independence. The future 
 presented a bright unclouded prospect. Wealth, honours, and 
 happiness apparently awaited him. It was still the same exquisite 
 scene, hushed, holy, tranquil — even solemn, as upon that glorious 
 night. The moon was out, silvering wood and water, and shining 
 on the white walls of the tranquil mansion. Nature was calm, 
 serene, peaceful as ever. Beneath the trees, he saw the bounding 
 deer — upon the water, the misty wreaths of vapour — all, all was 
 dreamy, delightful, soothing, all save his heart — there was the con- 
 flict — there the change. Was it a troubled dream, with the dark 
 oppression of which he was struggling, or was it stern, waking, 
 actual life? That moment's review of his wild career was terrible. 
 He saw to what extremes his ungovernable passions had hurried 
 him; he saw their inevitable consequences; he saw also his own 
 fate; but he rushed madly on. 
 
 He swept round the park, keeping under the covert of the wood, 
 till he arrived at the avenue leading to the mansion. The stems of 
 the aged limes gleamed silvery white in the moonshine. Luke 
 drew in the rein beneath one of the largest of the trees. 
 
 " A branch has fallen," said he, as his grandsire joined him. 
 
 "Ha!" exclaimed Alan, "a branch from that tree?" 
 
 " It bodes ill to Ranulph," whispered Luke, " does it not?" 
 
 " Perchance," muttered Alan. "'Tis a vast bough !" 
 
 " We meet within an hour," said Luke, abruptly. 
 
■312 EOOKWOOD. 
 
 "Within the tomb of our ancestry," replied Alan; "I will 
 await you there." 
 
 And as lie rode away, Alan murmured to himself the following 
 verse from one of his own ballads : 
 
 But whether gale or calm prevail, or threatening cloud hath fled, 
 By hand of Fate, predestinate, a limb that tree will shed — 
 A verdant bough, untouched, I trow, by axe or tempest's breath — 
 To Rookwood's head an omen dread of fast-approaching death. 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 HANDASSAH. 
 
 I have heard it rumoured for these many years, 
 
 None of our family dies but there is seen 
 
 The shape of an old woman, -which is given 
 
 By tradition to us to have been murthered 
 
 By her nephews for her riches. Such a figure 
 
 One night, as the prince sat up late at 's book, 
 
 Appeared to him ; when, crying out for help, 
 
 The gentleman of his chamber found his Grace 
 
 All in a cold sweat, altered much in face 
 
 And language ; since which apparition 
 
 He hath grown worse and worse, and much I fear 
 
 He cannot live. Duchess ofMalfy. 
 
 In one of those large antique rooms, belonging to the suite of 
 apartments constituting the eastern wing of Rookwood Place — 
 upon the same night as that in which the events just detailed took 
 place, and it might be about the same time, sat Eleanor, and her 
 now attendant, the gipsy Handassah. The eyes of the former 
 were fixed, with a mixture of tenderness and pity, upon the 
 lineaments of another lovely female countenance, bearing a 
 striking resemblance to her own, though evidently, from its 
 attire, and bygone costume, not intended for her, depicted upon 
 a tablet, and placed upon a raised frame. It was nigh the witch- 
 ing hour of night. .The room was sombre and dusky, partially 
 dismantled of its once flowing arras, and the lights set upon the 
 table feebly illumined its dreary extent. Tradition marked it out 
 as the chamber in which many of the hapless dames of Rookwood 
 had expired; and hence Superstition claimed it as her peculiar 
 domain. The room was reputed to be haunted, and had for a 
 long space shared the fate of haunted rooms — complete desertion. 
 It was now tenanted by one too young, too pure, to fear aught 
 unearthly. Eleanor seemed, nevertheless, affected by the profound 
 melancholy of the picture upon which she gazed. At length, 
 Handassah observed her start, and avert her eye shudderingly 
 from the picture. 
 
EOOKVrOOD. 313 
 
 " Take it hence," exclaimed Eleanor; "I have looked at that 
 image of my ancestress, till it has seemed endowed with life — till 
 its eyes have appeared to return my gaze, and weep. Remove it, 
 Handassah." 
 
 Handassah silently withdrew the tablet, placing it against the 
 wall of the chamber. 
 
 "Not there — not there," cried Eleanor; "turn it with its face 
 to the wall. I cannot bear those eyes. And now come hither, 
 ijirl — draw nearer — for I know not what of sudden dread has 
 crossed me. This was her room, Handassah — the chamber of my 
 
 ancestress — of all the Ladies Rookwood — where they say Ha ! 
 
 did you not hear a noise? — a rustle in the tapestry — a footstep 
 near the wall? Why, you look as startled as I look, wench ; stay 
 by me — I will not have you stir from my side — 'twas mere 
 fancy." 
 
 " No doubt, lady," said Handassah, with her eyes fixed upon the 
 arras. 
 
 " Hist !" exclaimed Eleanor, " there 'tis again." 
 
 " 'Tis nothing," replied Handassah. But her looks belied her 
 words. 
 
 a Well, I will command myself," said Eleanor, endeavouring to 
 regain her calmness; "but the thoughts of the Lady Eleanor — 
 for she was an Eleanor like to me, Handassah — and ah ! even more 
 ill-fated and unhappy — have brought a whole train of melancholy 
 fancies into my mind. I cannot banish them : nay, though painful 
 to me, I recur to these images of dread with a species of fascina- 
 tion, as if in their fate I contemplated mine own. Not one, who 
 hath wedded a Rookwood, but hath rued it." 
 
 "Yet you will wed one," said Handassah. 
 
 " He is not like the rest," said Eleanor. 
 
 "How know you that, lady?" asked Handassah. "His time 
 may not yet be come. See what to-morrow will bring forth." 
 
 " You are averse to my marriage with Ranulph, Handassah." 
 
 " I was Sybil's handmaid ere I was yours, lady. I bear in 
 mind a solemn compact with the dead, which this marriage will 
 violate. You are plighted by oath to another, if he should demand 
 your hand." 
 
 " But he has not demanded it." 
 
 " Would you accept him were he to do so ?" asked Handassah, 
 suddenly. 
 
 " I meant not that," replied Eleanor. " My oath is annulled." 
 
 " Say not so, lady," cried Handassah — " 'twas not for this that 
 Sybil spared your life. I love you, but I loved Sybil, and I would 
 see her dying behests complied with." 
 
 " It may not be, Handassah," replied Eleanor. " Why, from a 
 phantom sense of honour, am I to sacrifice my whole existence to 
 one, who neither can love me, nor whom I myself could love? 
 
314 EOOKWOOD. 
 
 Am I to wed this man because, in her blind idolatry of him, Sybil 
 enforced an oath upon me which I had no power to resist, and 
 which was mentally cancelled while taken ? Recal not the horrors 
 of that dreadful cell — urge not the subject more. 'Tis in the hope 
 that I may be freed for ever from this persecution, that I have con- 
 sented thus early to wed with Ranulph. This will set Luke's 
 fancied claims at rest for ever." 
 
 Handassah answered not, but bent her head, as if in acqui- 
 escence. 
 
 Steps were now heard near the door, and a servant ushered in 
 Dr. Small and Mrs. Mowbray. 
 
 " I am come to take feave of you for the night, my dear young 
 lady," said the doctor; "but before I start for the Vicarage, I 
 have a word or two to say, in addition to the advice you were so 
 obliging as to receive from me this morning. Suppose you allow 
 your attendant to retire for a few minutes. What I have got to 
 say concerns yourself solely. Your mother will bear us company. 
 There," continued the doctor, as Handassah was dismissed — " I 
 am glad that dark-faced gipsy has taken her departure. I can't 
 say I like her sharp suspicious manner, and the first exercise I 
 should make of my powers, were I to be your husband, should be 
 to discharge the handmaiden. To the point of my visit. We are 
 alone, I think. This is a queer old house, Miss Mowbray; and 
 this is the queerest part of it. Walls have ears, they say ; and 
 there are so many holes and corners in this mansion, that one 
 ought never to talk secrets above one's breath." 
 
 " I am yet to learn, sir," said Eleanor, " that there is any secret 
 to be communicated." 
 
 "Why, not much, I own," replied the doctor; "at least what 
 has occurred is not a secret in the house by this time. What do 
 you think has happened?" 
 
 "It is impossible for me to conjecture. Nothing to Ranulph, 
 I hope." 
 
 "Nothing of consequence, I trust, — though he is part con- 
 cerned with it." 
 
 " What is it?" asked Eleanor. 
 
 " Pray satisfy her curiosity, doctor," interposed Mrs. Mowbray. 
 
 "Well, then," said Small, rather more gravely, "the fact of the 
 matter stands thus: — Lady Rookwood, who, as you know, was not 
 the meekest wife in the world, now turns out by no means the 
 gentlest mother, and lias within this hour found out that she has 
 some objection to your union with her son." 
 
 " You alarm me, doctor." 
 
 " Don't alarm yourself at all. It will be got over without diffi- 
 culty, and only requires a little management. Ranulph is with her 
 now, and I doubt not will arrange all to her satisfaction." 
 
 " What was her objection?" asked Eleanor; "was it any one 
 founded upon my obligation to Luke — my oath?" 
 
ROOKWOOD. 315 
 
 a Tut — tut! dismiss that subject from your mind entirely," said 
 the doctor. " That oath is no more binding on your conscience 
 than would have been the ties of marriage had you been wedded 
 by yon recusant Romish priest, Father Checkley, upon whose 
 guilty head the Lord be merciful ! Bestow not a thought upon it. 
 My anxiety, together with that of your mother, is to see you now, 
 as speedily as may be, wedded to Ranulph, and then that idle 
 question is set at rest for ever; and therefore, even if such a thing 
 were to occur as that Lady Rookwood should not yield her consent 
 to your marriage, as that consent is totally unnecessary, we must 
 go through the ceremonial without it." 
 
 "The grounds of Lady Rookwood's objections," said Mrs. Mow- 
 bray 
 
 " Ay, the grounds of her ladyship's objections," interposed Small, 
 who, when he had once got the lead, liked nobody to talk but 
 himself, " are simply these, and exactly the sort of objections one 
 would expect her to raise. She cannot bear the idea of abandon- 
 ing the control of the house and estates to other hands. She 
 cannot, and will not relinquish her station, as head of the esta- 
 blishment, which Ranulph has insisted upon as your right. I 
 thought, when I conversed with her on this subject, that she was 
 changed, but 
 
 Naturam expcllas furca, tamen usque recurret. 
 
 I beg your pardon. She is, and always will be, the same." 
 
 " Why did not Ranulph concede the point to her? I wish not 
 to dwell here. I care not for these domains — for this mansion. 
 They have no charms for me. I could be happy with Ranulph 
 anywhere — happier anywhere than here." 
 
 The kind-hearted doctor squeezed her hand in reply, brushing a 
 tear from his eyes. 
 
 "Why did he not concede it?" said Mrs. Mowbray, proudly. 
 "Because the choice remained not with him. It was not his to 
 concede. This house — these lands — all — all are yours; and it 
 were poor requital, indeed, if, after they have so long been wrong- 
 fully withheld from us, you should be a dependant on Lady Rook- 
 wood." 
 
 " Without going quite so far as that, madam," said the doctor, 
 " it is but justice to your daughter that she should be put in full 
 possession of her rights; nor should I for one instant advise, or 
 even allow her to inhabit the same house with Lady Rookwood. 
 Her ladyship's peculiarities of temper are such as to preclude all 
 possibility of happiness. At the same time, I trust by manage- 
 ment — always by management, madam — that her ladyship's quiet 
 departure may be ensured. I understand, that all such legal 
 arrangements in the way of settlements as could be entered into 
 between your daughter and her future husband are completed. 
 I have only to regret the absence of my friend, Mr. Coates, at this 
 
316 ROOKWOOD. 
 
 momentous conjuncture. It will be a loss to him. But he inherits 
 from his father a taste for thief- taking, which he is at present in- 
 dulging, to the manifest injury of his legitimate practice. Hark! 
 I hear Ranulph's step in the gallery. He will tell us the result of 
 his final interview. I came to give you advice, my dear," added 
 the doctor in a low tone to Eleanor; "but I find you need it not. 
 c Whoso humbleth himself, shall be exalted.' I am glad you do 
 not split upon the rock which has stranded half your generation ." 
 
 At this moment Ranulph Rookwood entered the room, followed 
 by Handassah, who took her station at the back of the room, 
 unperceived by the rest of the party, whose attention was attracted 
 by Ranulph's agitated manner. 
 
 " What has happened?" asked Doctor Small and Mrs. Mowbray 
 in the same breath. 
 
 Ranulph hesitated for a moment in his answer, during which 
 space he regarded Eleanor with the deepest anxiety, and seemed 
 revolving within himself how he could frame his reply in such way 
 as should be least painful to her feelings; while, with instinctive 
 apprehension of coming misfortune, Miss Mowbray eagerly se- 
 conded the inquiries of her friends. 
 
 " It is with great pain," said he, at length, in a tone of despond- 
 ency, not unmingled with displeasure, " that I am obliged to 
 descant upon the infirmities of a parent, and to censure her con- 
 duct as severely as I may do now. I feel the impropriety of such 
 a step, and I would willingly avoid it, could I do so in justice to 
 my own feelings — and especially at a moment like the present — 
 when every hope of my life is fixed upon uniting myself to you, 
 dear Eleanor, by ties as near as my own to that parent. But the 
 interview which I have just had with Lady Rookwood — bitter 
 and heart-breaking as it has been — compels me to reprobate her 
 conduct in the strongest terms, as harsh, unjust, and dishonourable; 
 and if I could wholly throw off the son, as she avows she has 
 thrown off the mother, I should unhesitatingly pronounce it as 
 little short of " 
 
 " Dear Ranulph," said Eleanor, palpitating with apprehension, 
 "I never saw you so much moved." 
 
 " Nor with so much reason," rejoined Ranulph. " For myself, 
 I could endure anything — but for you " 
 
 " And does your dispute relate to meV asked Eleanor. " Is it 
 for my sake you have braved your mother's displeasure? Is it 
 because Lady Rookwood is unwilling to resign the control of this 
 house and these lands to me, that you have parted in anger with 
 her? Was this the cause of your quarrel?" 
 
 " It was the origin of it," replied Ranulph. 
 
 " Mother," said Eleanor, (irmly, to Mrs. Mowbray, "go with me 
 to Lady Rookwood's chamber." 
 
 "Wherefore?" demanded Mrs. Mowbray. 
 
 " Question me not, dear mother, or let me go alone." 
 
ROOKWOOD. 317 
 
 u Daughter, I guess your meaning," said Mrs. Mowbray, sternly. 
 " You would relinquish your claims in favour of Lady Rookwood. 
 Is it not so?" 
 
 " Since you oblige me to answer you, mother," said Eleanor, 
 crimsoning, "I must admit that you have guessed my meaning. 
 To Lady Rookwood, as to yourself, I would be a daughter as far 
 as is consistent with my duty," added she, blushing still more 
 deeply, " but my first consideration shall be my husband. And if 
 
 Lady Rookwood can be content But pray question me not 
 
 further — accompany me to her chamber." 
 
 "Eleanor," interposed Ranulph, " dearest Eleanor, the sacrifice 
 you would make is unnecessary — uncalled for. You do not know 
 my mother. She would not, I grieve to say, appreciate the gene- 
 rosity of your motives. She would not give you credit for your 
 feelings. She would only resent your visit as an intrusion." 
 
 " My daughter comprehends you, sir," said Mrs. Mowbray, 
 haughtily. " I will take care that, in her own house, Miss Mow- 
 bray shall remain free from insult." 
 
 " Mother, dear mother," said Eleanor, " do not wilfully misun- 
 derstand him." 
 
 " You can be little aware, madam," said Ranulph, calmly, yet 
 sadly, " how much I have recently endured — how much of 
 parental anger — how much of parental malediction I have in- 
 curred, to save you and your daughter from the indignity you 
 apprehend. As I before said, you do not know my mother; nor 
 could it enter into any well-regulated imagination to conceive the 
 extremities to which the violence of her passion will, when her 
 schemes arc thwarted, hurry her. The terms upon which you met 
 together will not escape your recollection; nor shall I need to 
 recal to your mind her haughtiness, her coldness. That coldness 
 has since ripened into distrust; and the match which she was at 
 first all anxiety to promote, she would now utterly set aside, were 
 it in her power to do so. Whence this alteration in her views has 
 arisen, I have no means of ascertaining; it is not my mother's 
 custom to give a reason for her actions, or her wishes: it is all- 
 sufficient to express them. I have perceived, as the time has 
 drawn nigh for the fulfilment of my dearest hopes, that her 
 unwillingness has increased; until to-day what had hitherto been 
 confined to hints has been openly expressed, and absolute objec- 
 tions raised. Such, however, is the peculiarity of her temper, 
 that I trusted, even at the eleventh hour, I should be able to work 
 a change. Alas ! our last meeting was decisive. She commanded 
 me to break off the match. At once, and peremptorily, I refused. 
 Pardon me, madam, pardon me, dearest Eleanor, if I thus enter 
 into particulars; it is absolutely necessary T should be explicit. 
 Enraged at my opposition to her wishes, her fury became ungo- 
 vernable. With appalling imprecations upon the memory of my 
 poor father, and upon your father, madam, whose chief offence in 
 
318 ROOKWOOD. 
 
 her eyes was, it seems, the disposition of his property to Eleanor, 
 she bade me be gone, and take her curses as my wedding portion. 
 Beneath this roof — beneath her roof, she added — no marriage of 
 mine should e'er take place. I might go hence, or might stay, as 
 I thought fitting; but you and your daughter, whom she charac- 
 terised as intruders, should not remain another hour within her 
 house. To this wild raving I answered, with as much com- 
 posure as I could command, that she entirely mistook her own 
 position, and that, so far from the odium of intrusion resting with 
 you, if applicable to any one, the term must necessarily affix itself 
 on those who, through ignorance, had for years unjustly deprived 
 the rightful owners of this place of their inheritance. Upon this 
 her wrath was boundless. She disowned me as her son; dis- 
 claimed all maternal regard, and heaped upon my head a frightful 
 malediction, at the recollection of which I still tremble. I will 
 spare you further details of this dreadful scene. To me it is most 
 distressing; for, however firmly resolved I may be to pursue a 
 line of conduct, which every sound principle within me dictates 
 as the correct one, yet I cannot be insensible to the awful respon- 
 sibility I shall incur in bringing down a mother's curse upon my 
 head, nor to the jeopardy in which her own excessive violence may 
 place her." 
 
 Mrs. Mowbray listened to Ranulph's explanation in haughty dis- 
 pleasure; Eleanor with throbbing, tearful interest; Doctor Small, 
 with mixed feelings of an^er and astonishment. 
 
 DO 
 
 "Lady Rookwood's conduct," said the doctor, "is — you must 
 forgive me, my dear Sir Ranulph, for using strong expressions — 
 outrageous beyond all precedent, and only excusable on the ground 
 of insanity, to which I wish it were possible we could attribute it. 
 There is, however, too much method in her madness to allow us to 
 indulge any such notion; she is shrewd, dangerous, and designing; 
 and, since she has resolved to oppose this match, she will leave no 
 means untried to do so. I scarcely know how to advise you under 
 the circumstances — that is, if my advice were asked." 
 
 " Which I scarcely think it likely to be, sir," said Mrs. Mow- 
 bray, coldly. " After what has occurred, / shall think it my 
 duty to break off this alliance, which I have never considered to 
 be so desirable that its rupture will occasion me an instant's un- 
 easiness." 
 
 " A plague on all these Rookwoods I" muttered Small. u One 
 would think all the pride of the Prince of Darkness were centred 
 in their bosoms. But, madam," continued the benevolent doctor, 
 a have you no consideration for the feelings of your daughter, or 
 for those of one who is no distant relation to you — your nephew? 
 Your son, Major Mowbray, is, if I mistake not, most eager for 
 this union to take place between his sister and his friend." 
 
 " My children have been accustomed to yield implicit obedience 
 to my wishes," said Mrs. Mowbray; " and Major Mowbray, I am 
 
RCOKWOOD 319 
 
 sure, will see the propriety of the step I am about to take. I am 
 content, at least, to abide by his opinion." 
 
 " Snubbed again !" mentally ejaculated the doctor, with a shrug 
 of despair. " It is useless attempting to work upon such imprac- 
 ticable material." 
 
 Ranulph remained mute, in an attitude of profound melancholy. 
 An eloquent interchange of glances had passed between him and 
 Eleanor, communicating to each the anxious state of the other's 
 feelings. 
 
 At this crisis the door was suddenly opened, and old Agnes, 
 Lady Rookwood's aged attendant, rushed into the room, and sank 
 upon her knees on the floor, her limbs shaking, her teeth chatter- 
 ing, and every feature expressive of intense terror. Ranulph went 
 instantly towards her to demand the cause of her alarm. 
 
 u No, let me pray," cried Agnes, as he took her hand in the 
 attempt to raise her; " let me pray while there is yet time — let 
 the worthy doctor pray beside mc. Pray for an overladen soul, 
 sir; pray heartily, as you would hope for mercy yourself. Ah! 
 little know the righteous of the terrors of those that are beyond 
 the pale of mercy. The Lord pardon me my iniquities, and ab- 
 solve her." 
 
 "Whom do you mean?" asked Ranulph, in agitation. u You 
 do not allude to my mother?" 
 
 " You have no longer a mother, young man," said Agnes, 
 lemnly. 
 
 "What!" exclaimed Ranulph, terror-stricken; "is she dead?" 
 
 " She is gone." 
 
 "Gone! How? Whither?" exclaimed all, their amazement 
 increasing each instant at the terror of the old woman, and the 
 apparently terrible occasion of it. 
 
 "Speak!" exclaimed Ranulph; "but why do I loiter? my 
 mother, perchance, is dying — let me go." 
 
 The old woman maintained her clutching grasp, which was 
 strong and convulsive as that of one struggling betwixt life and 
 death. " It's of no use, I tell you ; it's all over," said she — " the 
 dead are come — the dead are come — and she is gone." 
 
 "Whither?— whither?" 
 
 " To the grave — to the tomb," said Agnes, in a deep and hollow 
 tone, and with a look that froze Ranulph's soul. " Listen to me, 
 Ranulph Rookwood, my child, my nursling — listen while I can 
 speak. We were alone, your mother and I, after that scene be- 
 tween you ; after the dark denunciations she had heaped upon the 
 dead, when I heard a low and gasping kind of sob, and there I saw 
 your mother staring wildly upon the vacancy, as if she saw that of 
 which I dare not think." 
 
 " What think you she beheld?" asked Ranulph, quaking with 
 apprehension. 
 
 " That which had been your father," returned Agnes, in a 
 
320 ROOKWOOD. 
 
 hollow tone. " Don't doubt me, sir — you'll find the truth of what 
 I say anon. I am sure he was there. There was a thrilling, 
 speechless horror in the very sight of her countenance that froze 
 my old blood to ice — to the ice in which 'tis now — ough ! ough ! 
 Well, at length she arose, with her eyes still fixed, and passed 
 through the paneled door without a word. She is gone !" 
 
 " What madness is this?" cried Ranulph. " Let me go, woman 
 — 'tis that ruffian in disguise — she may be murdered." 
 
 u No, no," shrieked Agnes; " it was no disguise. She is gone, 
 I tell you — the room was empty, all the rooms were empty — the 
 passage was void — through the door they went together — silently, 
 silently — ghostlike, slow. Ha ! that tomb — they are there together 
 now — he has her in his arms — see, they are here — they glide 
 through the door — do 3^011 not see them now? Did I not speak 
 the truth? She is dead — ha, ha !" And with a frantic and bewil- 
 dering laugh the old woman fell upon her face. 
 
 Ranulph raised her from the floor; but the shock of what she 
 had beheld had been too much for her. She was dead ! 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 THE DOWER OF SYBIL. 
 
 Card. Now art thou come ? Thou look'st ghastly ; 
 
 There sits in thy face some great determination, 
 
 Mixed with some fear. 
 Bos. Thus it lightens into action : 
 
 I am come to kill thee. Duchess ofMalfy. 
 
 Ranulph Rookwood was for some moments so much stunned 
 by the ghastly fate of Agnes, connected, as it appeared to be, with, 
 a supernatural summons similar to that which he imagined he had 
 himself received, that he was incapable of stirring from the spot, 
 or removing his gaze from the rigid features of the corpse, which, 
 even in death, wore the strong impress of horror and despair. 
 Through life he knew that Agnes, his own nurse, had been his 
 mother's constant and faithful attendant; the unhesitating agent 
 of her schemes, and it was to be feared, from the remorse she had 
 exhibited, the participator of her crimes; and Ranulph felt, he 
 knew not why, that in having witnessed her terrible end, he beheld 
 the ultimate condition of his own parent. Conquering, not with- 
 out great effort, the horror which had riveted him to the spot, he 
 turned to look towards Eleanor. She had sunk upon a chair, a 
 silent witness of the scene, Mrs. Mowbray and Doctor Small 
 having, upon the first alarm given by Agnes respecting Lady 
 
ROOKWOOD. 321 
 
 Rookwood's departure from the house, quitted the room to ascer- 
 tain the truth of her statement. Ranulph immediately flew to 
 Eleanor. 
 
 " Ranulph," said she, though almost overcome by her alarm, 
 " stay not an instant here with me. I am sure, from that poor 
 woman's dreadful death, that something terrible has occurred, per- 
 haps to Lady Rookwood. Go to her chamber. Tarry not, I 
 entreat of you." 
 
 "But will you, can you remain here alone with that body?" 
 asked Ranulph. 
 
 " I shall not be alone. Handassah is within call — nay, she is 
 here. Oh, what an eve of our espousals has this been, dear 
 Ranulph. Our whole life is a troubled volume, of which each suc- 
 cessive leaf grows darker. Fate is opposed to us. It is useless to 
 contend with our destinv. I fear we shall never be united." 
 
 " Dismiss me not with words like those, dear Eleanor," returned 
 Ranulph. "Fate cannot have greater woes in store lor us than 
 those by which we are now oppressed. Let us hope that we are 
 now at that point whence all must brighten. Once possessed of 
 you, assured of thus much happiness, I would set even fate at 
 defiance. And you will be mine to-morrow." 
 
 " Ranulph, dear Ranulph, your suit at this moment is desperate. 
 I dare not, cannot pledge myself. You yourself heard, even now, 
 my mother's sentiments, and I cannot marry without her consent." 
 
 " Your mother, like my own, regards not the feelings of her 
 children. Forgive my boldness, Eleanor; forgive me if I linger 
 now, when duty calls me hence; but I cannot tear myself away. 
 Your mother may return — my hopes be crushed; for even your 
 love for me seems annihilated in her presence." 
 
 " Ranulph, your vehemence terrifies me," rejoined Eleanor. 
 " I implore you, by the tender affection which you know I bear 
 you, not to urge me further at this moment. Recal your firmer 
 feelings, and obtain some mastery over yourself. I repeat, I am 
 yours only, if I am bride of any one. But when our union can 
 take place rests not with myself. And now, I entreat of you, 
 leave me." 
 
 "You are mine," said Ranulph, with fervour; " mine only." 
 
 " Yours only," replied Eleanor. 
 
 " Be this the earnest of my happiness !" exclaimed Ranulph, im 
 printing a long and impassioned kiss upon her lips. 
 
 The lovers were startled from their embrace by a profound sigh ; 
 it proceeded from Handassah, who, unbidden, had replaced the 
 picture of the Lady Eleanor upon its frame. The augury seemed 
 sinister. Every one who has gazed steadfastly upon a portrait 
 must have noticed the peculiar and lifelike character which, under 
 certain aspects, the eyes will assume. Seen by the imperfect light 
 upon the table, the whole character of the countenance of the Lady 
 Eleanor seemed changed; the features appeared to be stamped 
 
 Y 
 
322 ROOKWOOD. 
 
 with melancholy, and the eyes to be fixed with pitying tenderness 
 upon her descendants. Both gazed at each other and at the pic- 
 ture, struck with the same sentiment of undefined awe. Beside 
 them stood the dark figure of the gipsy girl, watching, with ill- 
 concealed satisfaction, the effect of her handiwork. Ranulph was 
 aroused from his abstraction by hearing a loud outcry in Mrs. 
 Mowbray's voice. Hastily committing Eleanor to the care of her 
 attendant,' he left the room. Handassah followed him to the door, 
 closed it after him, and then locked it within side. This done, she 
 walked back hastily towards Eleanor, exclaiming, in a tone of 
 exultation, " You have parted with him for ever." 
 
 " What mean you, girl?" cried Eleanor, alarmed at her manner. 
 u Why have you fastened the door? Open it, I command you." 
 
 "Command me!" laughed Handassah, scornfully. " What if 
 I refuse your mandate? What if, in my turn, I bid you obey me? 
 I never owned but one mistress. If I have bowed my neck to you 
 for a time, 'twas to fulfil her dying wishes. If I have submitted to 
 your control, it was to accomplish what I have now accomplished. 
 Your oath ! Remember your oath. The hour is come for its ful- 
 filment." 
 
 With these words Handassah clapped her hands. A panel in the 
 wall opened, and Luke stood suddenly before them. Silently and 
 with stern deliberation he strode towards Eleanor, and seizing one 
 of her hands, drew her forcibly towards him. Eleanor resisted not ; 
 she had not the power; neither did she scream, for so paralysing 
 was her terror, that for the moment it took away all power of utter- 
 ance. Luke neither stirred nor spoke, but, still maintaining his 
 hold, gazed searchingly upon her features, while Eleanor, as if 
 spell-bound, could not withdraw her eyes from him. Nothing more 
 terribly impressive could be conceived than Luke's whole appear- 
 ance. Harassed and exhausted by the life he had recently led ; 
 deprived almost* of natural rest; goaded by remorse, his frame was 
 almost worn to the bone, while his countenance, once dark and 
 swarthy, was now blanched and colourless as marble. This pallid 
 and deathlike hue was, in all probability, owing to the loss of blood 
 lie had sustained from the wound inflicted by Major Mowbray, with 
 the stains of which his apparel was dyed; for, though stanched, the 
 effusion had been sufficient to cause great faintness. His dark eyes 
 blazed with their wonted fire — nay, they looked darker and larger 
 from his exceeding paleness, and such intense mental and bodily 
 suffering was imprinted upon his countenance, that, despite its 
 fierceness and desperation, few could have regarded him without 
 sympathy. Real desperation has so much of agony in its character, 
 that no one can witness it unmoved. His garb was not that in 
 which the reader first beheld him, but a rich, dark, simple suit of 
 velvet, corresponding more with his real rank in life than his former 
 peasant's attire; but it was disordered by his recent conflict, and 
 stained with bloody testimonials of the fray; while his long sable 
 
BOOKWOOD. 323 
 
 curls, once his pride and ornament, now hung in intertangled elf- 
 locks, like a coil of wreathed water-snakes. Even in her terror, at 
 
 she dwelt upon his noble features, Eleanor could not help admit- 
 ting that she beheld the undoubted descendant, and the living: 
 likeness of the handsomest and most distinguished of her house — 
 the profligate and criminal Sir Reginald. As her eye, mechani- 
 cally following this train of thought, wandered for an instant to the 
 haughty portraiture of Sir Reginald, which formed part of the 
 family pictures, and thence to those of his unfortunate lady, she 
 was struck with the fancy that, by some terrible fatality, the tragic 
 horrors of bygone days were to be again enacted in their persons, 
 and that they were in some way strangely identified with their 
 unfortunate progenitors. So forcibly was this idea impressed upon 
 her features, that Luke, who had followed the direction of her 
 glances, became instantly aware of it. Drawing her nearer to the 
 portrait of the Lady Eleanor, he traced the resemblance in mutt- 
 wonder; thence, turning towards that of Sir Reginald, he proudly 
 exclaimed: "You doubted once my lineage, maiden — can you 
 gaze on those features, which would almost seem to be a rellexion 
 of mine own, and longer hesitate whose descendant I am? I glory 
 in my likeness. There is a wild delight in setting human emo- 
 tions at nought, which he was said to feel — which I feel now. 
 Within these halls I seem to breathe an atmosphere congenial to 
 me. I visit what I oft have visited in my dreams; or as in a state 
 of pre-existence. Methinks, as I gaze on you, I could almost deem 
 myself Sir Reginald, and you his bride, the Lady Eleanor. Our 
 fates were parallel: she was united to her lord by ties of hatred — 
 by a void — a bridal vow ! So arc you to me. And she could 
 ne'er escape him — could ne'er throw off her bondage — nor shall 
 you. I claim the fulfilment of your oath; you are mine."' 
 
 "Never, never!" shrieked Eleanor, stru^odimj to disen^aixe her- 
 self. But Luke laughed at her feeble efforts. Handassah stood 
 by, a passive spectatress of the scene, with her arms folded upon 
 her bosom. 
 
 " You refuse compliance !" said Luke, scornfully. " Have you 
 no hopes of heaven, no fears of perdition, that you dare to violate 
 your vow? Bethink you of the awful nature of that obligation; 
 of the life which was laid down to purchase it; of the blood which 
 will cry out for vengeance 'gainst the murderess, should you hesi- 
 tate. By that blood-cemented sacrament, I claim you as my own. 
 You are mine." And he dragged her towards the opening. 
 
 Eleanor uttered a long and terrific scream. 
 
 " Be silent, on your life," added he, searching for the dagger 
 given to him by Alan Rookwood, when, as his hand sought the 
 weapon, Eleanor escaped from his grasp, and fled towards the 
 door. But Handassah had anticipated her intention. The key 
 was withdrawn from the lock, and the wretched maiden vainly 
 tried to open it. 
 
 t2 
 
324 ROOKWOOD. 
 
 At this instant Turpin appeared at the sliding panel. 
 "Quick, quick!" cried he, impatiently — "despatch, in the 
 devil's name. The house is alarmed. I hear young Ranulph's 
 voice in the gallery." 
 
 u Ranulph !" shrieked Eleanor — " then I am saved." And she 
 redoubled her outcries for assistance. 
 
 Luke again seized his victim. Her hands clutched so convul- 
 sively fast in her despairing energy against the handle of the door 
 that he could not tear her thence. By this time Ranulph Rook- 
 wood, who had caught her reiterated screams for help, was at the 
 entrance. He heard her struggles; he heard Luke's threats — his 
 mockery — his derisive laughter — but vainly, vainly did he attempt 
 to force it open. It was of the strongest oak, and the bolts re- 
 sisted all his efforts. A board alone divided him from his mistress. 
 He could hear her sobs and gasps. He saw, from the action of 
 the handle, with what tenacity she clung to it; and, stung to 
 frenzy by the sight, he hurled himself against the sturdy plank, 
 but all in vain. At length the handle was still. There was a 
 heavy fall upon the floor — a stifled scream — and a sound as of a 
 body being dragged along. The thought was madness. 
 
 " To the panel ! to the panel !'" cried a voice (it was that of 
 Turpin) from within. 
 
 " The panel! — ha!" echoed Ranulph, with a sudden gleam of 
 hope. " I may yet save her." And he darted along the corridor 
 with the swiftness of thought. 
 
 Luke, meanwhile, had for some minutes fruitlessly exhausted 
 all his force to drag Eleanor from the door. Despair gave her 
 strength; she clutched at the door; but she felt her strength 
 failing her — her grasp was relaxing. And then the maddening 
 thought that she would be shortly his — that he would slay her — 
 while the idea that Ranulph was so near, and yet unable to pro- 
 tect her, added gall even to her bitterness. With savage delight 
 Luke exulted in the lovers' tortures. He heard Ranulph's ineffec- 
 tual attempts; he heard his groans; he heard their mutual cries. 
 Inflamed by jealousy, he triumphed in his power of vengeance, 
 and even prolonged the torture which accident had given him the 
 means of inflicting. He stood like the inquisitor who marks his 
 victim's anguish on the rack, and calculates his powers of further 
 endurance. But he could no longer dally, even with this horrible 
 gratification. His companion grew impatient. Eleanor's fair long 
 tresses had escaped from their confinement in the struggle, and fell 
 down her neck in disorder. Twining his fingers amidst its folds, 
 Luke dragged her backwards from her hold, and, incapable of 
 further resistance, her strength completely exhausted, the wretched 
 girl fell to the ground. 
 
 Luke now raised her almost inanimate form in his arms, and 
 had nigh reached the aperture, when a crash was heard in the 
 panel opposite to that by which he was about to escape, and com- 
 
ROOKWOOD. 325 
 
 municating with a further apartment. It was thrown open, and 
 Ranulph Rookwood presented himself at the narrow partition. 
 An exclamation of joy, that he was yet in time, escaped his lips; 
 and he was about to clear the partition at a bound, and to preci- 
 pitate himself upon Luke, when, as suddenly as his own action, 
 was the person of the unfortunate Mr. Coates wedged into the 
 aperture. 
 
 " Traitor !" cried Ranulph, regarding Coates with concentrated 
 fury, " dare you to oppose me? — hence ! or, by Heaven, I will cut 
 you down !" 
 
 "'Tis impossible," ejaculated the attorney. "For your own 
 sake, Sir Ranulph — for my sake — I entreat — implore of you — not 
 to attempt to pass this way. Try the other door." 
 
 Ranulph said no more. He passed his sword through the body 
 of the miserable attorney, who, with a deep groan, fell. The only 
 obstacle to his passage being thus removed, he at once leaped into 
 the room. 
 
 The brothers were now confronted together, but little of bro- 
 therly love mingled with the glances which they threw upon each 
 other. Ranulph's gentle, but withal enthusiastic temperament, 
 had kindled, under his present excitement, like flax at the sudden 
 approach of flame. He was wild with frenzy. Luke was calmer, 
 but his fury was deadly and inextinguishable. The meeting was 
 terrible on both sides. 
 
 With one arm Luke enfolded Eleanor, with the other he uplifted 
 the dagger. Its point was towards her bosom. Scowling grim 
 defiance at Ranulph, he exclaimed, in a determined tone, "Advance 
 a footstep, and my dagger descends into her heart." 
 
 Ranulph hesitated, uncertain how to act; foaming with rage, 
 yet trembling with apprehension. 
 
 " Ranulph," gasped Eleanor, " life without you were valueless. 
 Advance — avenge me !" 
 
 Ranulph still hesitated. He could not, by any act of his own, 
 compromise Eleanor's safety. 
 
 Luke saw his advantage, and was not slow to profit by it. 
 " You seal her destruction if you stir," said he. 
 
 " Villain," returned Ranulph, between his ground teeth, and 
 with difficulty commanding sufficient coolness to speak with deli- 
 beration, " you perceive your power. Injure her, and nothing 
 earthly shall protect you. Free her, and take your life and liberty ; 
 nay, reward if you will. You cannot otherwise escape me." 
 
 " Escape you !" laughed Luke, disdainfully. " Stand aside, and 
 let me pass. Beware," added he, sternly, " how you oppose me. I 
 would not have a brother's blood upon my soul." 
 
 " Nor I," cried Ranulph; " but you pass not." And he placed 
 himself full in Luke's path. 
 
 Luke, however, steadily moved forward, holding Eleanor be- 
 tween himself and Ranulph, so as to shield his own person; but, 
 
326 ROOKWOOD. 
 
 fancying lie saw an opportunity of dealing a blow without injury 
 to his mistress, the latter was about to hazard the thrust, when his 
 arms were seized behind, and he was rendered powerless. 
 
 u Lost, lost," groaned he; "she is lost to me for ever !" 
 
 " I fear that's but too true," said Turpin, for it was the high- 
 wayman whose grasp confined Ranulph. 
 
 " Must I see her borne away before my eyes?" cried Ranulph. 
 " Release me — set me free." 
 
 " Quite impossible at present," returned Dick. " Mount and 
 away, Sir Luke," continued he; u never mind me. Leave me to 
 shift for myself." 
 
 u Eleanor ! M cried Ranulph, as she passed close by his side. 
 
 u Ranulph ! " shrieked Eleanor, with a loud scream, recalled to 
 consciousness by his voice, " farewell for ever." 
 
 " Ay, for ever," responded Luke, triumphantly. " You meet no 
 more on earth." 
 
 He was about to pass through the panel, when Eleanor exerted 
 all her remaining strength in a last futile attempt at liberation. In 
 the struggle, a packet fell from Luke's bosom. 
 
 Handassah stooped to pick it up. 
 
 " From Sybil ! " exclaimed she, glancing at the superscription. 
 
 " Remember my promise to old Barbara," roared Dick, who had 
 some curiosity, as the reader knows, to learn what the package 
 contained. " The time is arrived. Eleanor is in your power — in 
 your presence." 
 
 " Give me the packet," said Luke, resigning Eleanor for the 
 instant to Handassah's custody — " take the steel, and grasp her 
 firmly." 
 
 Handassah, who, though slight of figure, was of singular per- 
 sonal strength, twined her arms about Miss Mowbray in such a 
 manner as to preclude all possibility of motion. 
 
 Luke tore open the package. It was a box carefully enclosed 
 in several folds of linen, and lastly within a sheet of paper, on 
 which were inscribed these words : 
 
 The Dower of Sybil. 
 
 Hastily, and with much curiosity, Luke raised the lid of the 
 box. It contained one long silken tress of blackest hair curiously 
 braided. It was Sybil's. His first impulse was to cast it from him ; 
 his next, reproachfully to raise it to his lips. He started as if a 
 snake had stung him. 
 
 At this moment a loud clamour was heard in the gallery. In 
 the next, the door was assailed by violent strokes, evidently pro- 
 ceeding from some weighty instrument, impelled by the united 
 strength of several assailants. 
 
 The voice of Turpin rose above the deafening din. " A bullet 
 for the first who enters," shouted he. " Quick, Sir Luke, and the 
 prize is safe — away, and " 
 
ROOKWOOD. 327 
 
 But as he seconded his exhortation with a glance at Luke, he 
 broke off the half-uttered sentence, and started with horror and 
 amazement. Ere the cause of his alarm could be expressed, the 
 door was burst open, and a crowd of domestics, headed by Major 
 Mowbray and Titus Tyrconncl, rushed into the room. 
 
 "Nay, then, the game's up!" exclaimed Dick; " I have done 
 with Rookwood." And, springing through the panel, he was seen 
 no more. 
 
 When the new comers first looked round, they could perceive 
 only two figures besides themselves — those of the two lovers — 
 Eleanor having sunk pale, exhausted, and almost senseless, into 
 the arms of Ranulph. Presently, however, a ghastly object 
 attracted their attention. All rushed towards it — all recoiled, as 
 soon as they discovered that it was the lifeless body of Luk<- 
 Rookwood. His limbs were stiff, like those of a corpse which lias 
 for hours been such; his eyes protruded from their sockets; his 
 face was livid and blotched. All bespoke, with terrible certainty, 
 the efficacy of the poison, and the full accomplishment of Bar- 
 bara's revenge. 
 
 Handassah was gone. Probably she had escaped ere Turpi n 
 fled. At all events, she was heard of no more at Rookwood. 
 
 It required little to recal the senses of Eleanor. Shortly she 
 revived, and as she gazed around, and became conscious of her 
 escape, she uttered exclamations of thanksgiving, and sank into the 
 embraces of her brother. 
 
 Meanwhile, Mrs. Mowbray and Doctor Small had joined the 
 assemblage. 
 
 The worthy doctor had been full of alarm ; but his meditated 
 condolences were now changed to congratulations, as he heard the 
 particulars of the terrible scene that had occurred, and of Eleanor's 
 singular and almost providential deliverance. 
 
 "After what has befallen, madam," said the doctor to Mrs. 
 Mowbray, slightly coughing, "you can no longer raise any objec- 
 tion to a certain union, eh?" 
 
 "I will answer for my mother in that particular," said Major 
 Mowbray, stepping forward. 
 
 " She will "answer for herself, my son," said Mrs. Mowbray. 
 " The match has her full and entire consent. But to what am I 
 to attribute the unexpected happiness of your return?" 
 
 "To a chain of singular circumstances," replied the major, 
 " which I will hereafter'detail to you. Suffice it to say, that but 
 for this gentleman's fortunate arrival," added he, looking at Titus 
 Tyrconnel, " at the hut on Thorne Waste, I might have been de- 
 tained a prisoner, without parole, and, what is worse, without pro- 
 vision perhaps for days; and to add to my distress, fully acquainted 
 with the meditated abduction of my sister. It was excessively 
 lucky for me, Mr. Tyrconnel, that you happened to pass that way, 
 and for poor Paterson likewise." 
 
328 ROOKWOOD. 
 
 » 
 
 u Arrah, by my sowl, major, and you may say that with safety; 
 and it was particularly fortunate that we stumbled upon the tits in 
 the cellar, or we'd never have been here just in the nick of it. I 
 begin to think we've lost all chance of taking Dick Turpin this 
 time. He's got clean away." 
 
 " I am not sorry for his escape," said the major. " He's a brave 
 fellow; and I respect courage wherever I find it, even in a high- 
 wayman. I should be sorry to appear as a witness against him ; 
 and I trust it will never be my fate to do so." 
 
 We shall not pause to describe the affectionate meeting which 
 now ensued between the brother and sister — the congratulations 
 upon Eleanor's escape from peril, intermingled with the tenderest 
 embraces, and the warmest thanks offered to Ranulph for his gal- 
 lant service. " She is yours, my dear boy," said the major; "and 
 though you are a Rookwood, and she bears the ill-fated name of 
 Eleanor, I predict that, contrary to the usual custom of our families 
 in such cases, all your misfortunes will have occurred before mar- 
 riage." 
 
 " There is only one thing," said Small, with a very peculiar 
 expression, which might almost be construed into serio-comic, 
 could we suspect the benevolent doctor of any such waggery, " that 
 can possibly throw a shade over our present felicity. Lady Rook- 
 wood is not to be found." 
 
 " My poor mother," said Ranulph, starting. 
 
 u Make yourself easy," said the doctor ; " I doubt not we shall 
 hear of her to-morrow. My only apprehension," added he, half 
 aside, " is, that she may be heard of before." 
 
 "One other circumstance afflicts me," said Ranulph. "Poor 
 Mr.Coates!" 
 
 " What's that you say of Mr. Coates, Sir Ranulph?" exclaimed 
 Titus. 
 
 " I fear he was killed in the recent affray," said Ranulph. " Let 
 some one search for the body." 
 
 "Kilt!" echoed Titus. "Is it kilt that Mr. Coates is? Ah! 
 nllagone, and is it over with him entirely? Is he gone to rejoin 
 his father, the thief-taker? Bring me to his remains." 
 
 " He will bring them to you himself," said the attorney, stepping 
 forward. " Luckily, Sir Ranulph," said the incurable punster, " it 
 was merely the outer coats that your sword passed through ; the 
 inner remains uninjured, so that you did not act as my convey- 
 ancer to eternity. Body o' me ! I've as many lives as a cat — 
 ha, ha !" 
 
 Ranulph welcomed the facetious man of law with no little satis- 
 faction. 
 
 We think it unnecessary to enter into further detail. Another 
 chamber was prepared for Eleanor's reception, to which she was 
 almost immediately transported. The remains of the once fierce 
 and haughty Luke, now stiff and stark, but still wearing, even 
 
KOOKWOOD. 329 
 
 in death, their proud character, were placed upon the self-same 
 bier, and covered with the self-same pall which, but a week ago, 
 had furnished forth his father's funeral. And as the domestics 
 crowded round the corpse, there was not one of them but com- 
 mented upon his startling resemblance to his grandsire, Sir Regi- 
 nald; nor, amongst the superstitious, was the falling of the fatal 
 bough forgotten. 
 
 Tranquillity was at length restored at the hall. Throughout 
 the night, and during the next day, Ranulph made every search 
 for his mother, but no tidings could be learned of her. Seriously 
 alarmed, he then caused more strict and general inquiry to be in- 
 stituted, but with like unsuccessful effect. It was not, indeed, till 
 some years afterwards that her fate was ascertained. 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 THE SARCOPHAGUS. 
 
 So now 'tis ended, like an old wife's story. — Webster. 
 
 Notwithstanding the obscurity which hung over the fate of 
 Lady Rookwood, the celebration of the nuptials of Sir Ranulph 
 and Eleanor was not long delayed; the ceremony took place at the 
 parish church, and the worthy vicar officiated upon the occasion. 
 It was a joyous sight to all who witnessed it, and not few were 
 they who did so, for the whole neighbourhood was bidden to the 
 festival. The old avenue was thronged with bright and beaming 
 faces, rustic maidens decked out in ribands of many-coloured splen- 
 dour, and stout youths in their best holiday trim; nor was the 
 lusty yeoman and his buxom spouse — nor yet the patriarch of the 
 village, nor prattling child, wanting. Even the ancestral rooks 
 seemed to participate in the universal merriment, and returned, 
 from their eyries, a hoarse greeting, like a lusty chorus of laughter, 
 to the frolic train. The churchyard path was strewn with flowers 
 — the church itself a complete garland. Never was there seen a 
 blither wedding : the sun smiled upon the bride — accounted a 
 fortunate omen, as dark lowering skies and stormy weather had, 
 within the memory of the oldest of the tenantry, inauspiciously 
 ushered in all former espousals. The bride had recovered her 
 bloom and beauty, while the melancholy which had seemingly 
 settled for ever upon the open brow of the bridegroom, had now 
 given place to a pensive shade, that only added interest to his ex- 
 pressive features; and, as in simple state, after the completion of 
 the sacred rites, the youthful pair walked, arm in arm, amongst 
 
330 ROOKWOOD. 
 
 their thronging and admiring tenants towards the Hall, many a 
 fervent prayer was breathed that the curse of the house of Rook- 
 wood might be averted from their heads; and, not to leave a doubt 
 upon the subject, we can acid that these aspirations were not in 
 vain, but that the day, which dawned so brightly, was one of 
 serene and unclouded happiness to its close. 
 
 After the ceremonial, the day was devoted to festivity. Crowded 
 with company, from the ample hall to the kitchen ingle, the old 
 mansion could scarce contain its numerous guests, while the walls 
 resounded with hearty peals of laughter, to which they had been 
 long unaccustomed. The tables groaned beneath the lordly baron 
 of beef, the weighty chine, the castled pasty flanked on the one 
 hand with neat's tongue, and on the other defended by a moun- 
 tainous ham, an excellent piece de resistance^ and every other sub- 
 stantial appliance of ancient hospitality. Barrels of mighty ale 
 were broached, and their nut-brown contents widely distributed, 
 and the health of the bride and bridegroom was enthusiastically 
 drunk in a brimming wassail-cup of spicy wine with floating toast. 
 Titus Tyrconnel acted as master of the ceremonies, and was, Mr. 
 Coates declared, u quite in his element?' So much was he elated, 
 that he ventured to cut some of his old jokes upon the vicar, and, 
 strange to say, without incurring the resentment of Small. 
 
 To retrace the darker course of our narrative, we must state that 
 some weeks before this happy event the remains of the unfortunate 
 Sir Luke Rookwood had been gathered to those of his fathers. 
 The document that attested his legitimacy being found upon his 
 person, the claims denied to him in life were conceded in death ; 
 and he was interred, with all the pomp and peculiar solemnity 
 proper to one of the house, within the tomb of his ancestry. 
 
 It was then that a discovery was made respecting Alan Rook- 
 wood, in order to explain which we must again revert to the night 
 of the meditated enlevement of Eleanor. 
 
 After quitting his grandson in the avenue, Alan shaped his 
 course amons; the fields in the direction to the church. He sought 
 his own humble, but now deserted dwelling. The door had been 
 forced ; some of its meagre furniture was removed ; and the dog, 
 his sole companion, had lied. " Poor Mole !" said he, " thou hast 
 found, I trust, a better master." And having possessed himself of 
 what he came in search — namely, a bunch of keys and his lantern, 
 deposited in an out-of-the-way cupboard, that had escaped notice, 
 he quickly departed. 
 
 He was once more within the churchyard; once more upon that 
 awful stage whereon he had chosen to enact, for a long season, his 
 late fantastical character; and he gazed upon the church tower, 
 glistening in the moonshine, the green and undulating hillocks, the 
 " chequered cross-sticks," the clustered head-stones, and the black 
 and portentous yew-trees, as upon " old familiar faces." He 
 mused, for a few moments, upon the scene, apparently with deep 
 
ROOKWOOD. 331 
 
 interest. He then walked beneath the shadow of one of the yews, 
 chanting an odd stanza or so of one of his wild staves, wrapped the 
 while, it would seem, in affectionate contemplation of the subject- 
 matter of his song : 
 
 THE CHURCHYARD YEW. 
 
 Metuendaque succo 
 
 Taxus. 
 
 A noxious tree is the churchyard yew, 
 As if from the dead its sap it drew ; 
 Dark are its branches, and dismal to sec. 
 Like plumes at Death's latest solemnity. 
 Spectral and jagged, and black as the ui 
 Which some spnit of ill o'er a sepulchre flings : 
 Oh ! a terrible tree is the churchyard yew ; 
 Like it is nothing so grimly to view. 
 
 Yet this baleful tree hath a core so sound, 
 Can nought so tough in the grove be found ; 
 .From it were fashioned brave English bows, 
 The boast of our isle, and the dread of its foes. 
 For our sturdy sires cut their stoutesl staves 
 From the branch that hung o'er their fathers' graves ; 
 And though it be dreary and dismal to view, 
 Staunch at the heart is the churchyard yew. 
 
 His ditty concluded, Alan entered the churchyard, taking care 
 to leave the door slightly ajar, in order to facilitate his grandson's 
 entrance. For an instant he lingered in the chancel. The yellow 
 moonlight fell upon the monuments of his race ; and, directed by 
 the instinct of hate, Alan's eye rested upon the gilded entablature 
 of his perfidious brother, Reginald, and muttering curses, "not 
 loud but deep," he passed on. Having lighted his lantern in no 
 tranquil mood, he descended into the vault, observing a similar 
 caution with respect to the portal of the cemetery, which he left 
 partially unclosed, with the key in the lock. Here he resolved to 
 abide Luke's coming. The reader knows what probability there 
 was of his expectations being realised. 
 
 For a while he paced the tomb, wrapped in gloomy meditation, 
 and pondering, it might be, upon the result of Luke's expedition, 
 and the fulfilment of his own dark schemes, scowling from time to 
 time beneath his bent eyebrows, counting the grim array of coffins, 
 and noticing, with something like satisfaction, that the shell which 
 contained the remains of his daughter had been restored to its 
 former position. He then bethought him of Father Chcckley's 
 midnight intrusion upon his conference with Luke, and their ap- 
 prehension of a supernatural visitation, and his curiosity was sti- 
 mulated to ascertain by what means the priest had gained admission 
 to the spot unperceived and unheard. He resolved to sound the 
 floor, and see whether any secret entrance existed; and hollowly 
 
332 ROOKWOOD. 
 
 and dully did the hard flagging return the stroke of his heel as he 
 pursued his scrutiny. At length the metallic ringing of an iron 
 plate, immediately behind the marble effigy of Sir Ranulph, re- 
 solved the point. There it was that the priest had found access to 
 the vault; but Alan's disappointment was excessive, when he dis- 
 covered that this plate was fastened on the underside, and all com- 
 munication thence with the churchyard, or to wherever else it 
 might conduct him, cut off: but the present was not the season for 
 further investigation, and tolerably pleased with the discovery he 
 had already made, he returned to his silent march round the se- 
 pulchre. 
 
 At length a sound, like the sudden shutting of the church door, 
 broke upon the profound stillness of the holy edifice. In the 
 hush that succeeded, a footstep was distinctly heard threading the 
 aisle. 
 
 "He comes — he comes!" exclaimed Alan, joyfully; adding, an 
 instant after, in an altered voice, " but he comes alone." 
 
 The footstep drew near to the mouth of the vault — it was upon 
 the stairs. Alan stepped forward to greet, as he supposed, his grand- 
 son, but started back in astonishment and dismay as he encoun- 
 tered in his stead Lady Rookwood. Alan retreated, while the 
 lady advanced, swinging the iron door after her, which closed with 
 a tremendous clang. Approaching the statue of the first Sir 
 Ranulph, she paused, and Alan then remarked the singular and 
 terrible expression of her eyes, which appeared to be fixed upon the 
 statue, or upon some invisible object near it. There was some- 
 thing in her whole attitude and manner calculated to impress the 
 deepest terror on the beholder. And Alan gazed upon her with 
 an awe which momently increased. Lady Rookwood' s bearing was 
 as proud and erect as we have formerly described it to have been 
 — her brow was as haughtily bent — her chiselled lip as disdainfully 
 curled; but the staring, changeless eye, and the deep-heaved sob 
 which occasionally escaped her, betrayed how much she was under 
 the influence of mortal terror. Alan watched her in amazement. 
 He knew not how the scene was likely to terminate, nor what 
 could have induced her to visit this ghostly spot at such an hour, 
 and alone ; but he resolved to abide the issue in silence — profound 
 as her own. After a time, however, his impatience got the better 
 of his fears and scruples, and he spoke. 
 
 " What doth Lady Rookwood in the abode of the dead?" asked 
 he, at length. 
 
 She started at the sound of his voice, but still kept her eye 
 fixed upon the vacancy. 
 
 "Hast thou not beckoned me hither, and am I not come?" re- 
 turned she, in a hollow tone. " And now thou askest wherefore I 
 am here. I am here because, as in thy life I feared thee not, 
 neither in death do I fear thee. I am here because " 
 
ROOKWOOD. 333 
 
 "What seest thou?" interrupted Peter, with ill-suppressed 
 terror. 
 
 " What see I — ha — lia!" shouted Lady Rook wood, amidst dis- 
 cordant laughter; "that which might appal a heart less stout than 
 mine — a figure anguish-writhen, with veins that glow as with a 
 subtle and consuming flame. A substance yet a shadow, in thy 
 living likeness. Ha — frown if thou wilt ; I can return thy 
 glances." 
 
 " Where dost thou see this vision?" demanded Alan. 
 
 u Where !" echoed Lady Rookwood, becoming for the first time 
 sensible of the presence of a stranger. " Ha — who are you that 
 question me? — what are you? — speak!" 
 
 "No matter who or what I am," returned Alan, "I ask you 
 what you behold." 
 
 "Can you see nothing?" 
 
 " Nothing," replied Alan. 
 
 " You knew Sir Piers Rookwood?" 
 
 "Is it he?" asked Alan, drawing near her. 
 
 " It is," replied Lady Rookwood; " I have followed him hither, 
 and I will follow him whithersoever he leads me, were it to " 
 
 " What doth he now?" asked Alan; " do you see him still?" 
 
 " The figure points to that sarcophagus," returned Lady Rook- 
 wood — " can you raise up the lid ?" 
 
 " No," replied Alan; "my strength will not avail to lift it." 
 
 " Yet let the trial be made," said Lady Rookwood ; " the figure 
 points there still — my own arm shall aid you." 
 
 Alan watched her in dumb wonder. She advanced towards the 
 marble monument, and beckoned him to follow. He reluctantly 
 complied. Without any expectation of being able to move the 
 ponderous lid of the sarcophagus, at Lady Rookwood's renewed 
 request he applied himself to the task. What was his surprise, 
 when, beneath their united efforts, he found the ponderous slab 
 slowly revolve upon its vast hinges, and, with little further diffi- 
 culty, it was completely elevated; though it still required the ex- 
 ertion of all Alan's strength to prop it open, and prevent its tailing 
 back. 
 
 " What does it contain?" asked Lady Rookwood. 
 
 " A warrior's ashes," returned Alan. 
 
 " There is a rusty dagger upon a fold of faded linen," cried 
 Lady Rookwood, holding down the light. 
 
 " It is the weapon with which the first dame of the house of 
 Rookwood was stabbed," said Alan, with a grim smile: 
 
 " Which whoso fmdet.h in the tomb 
 
 Shall clutch until the hour of doom ; 
 And when 'tis grasped by hand of clay, 
 The euvse of blood shall pass away. 
 
 Sosaith the rhyme. Have voa seen enough?" 
 
334 ROOKWOOD. 
 
 "No," said Lady Rookwood, precipitating herself into the 
 marble coffin. " That weapon shall be mine." 
 
 " Come forth — come forth," cried Alan. " My arm trembles — 
 I cannot support the lid." 
 
 " I will have it, though I grasp it to eternity," shrieked Lady 
 Rookwood, vainly endeavouring to wrest away the dagger, which 
 was fastened, together with the linen upon which it lay, by some 
 adhesive substance to the bottom of the shell. 
 
 At this moment Alan Rookwood happened to cast his eye 
 upward, and he then beheld what filled him with new terror. The 
 axe of the sable statue was poised above its head, as in the act to 
 strike him. Some secret machinery, it was evident, existed be- 
 tween the sarcophagus lid and this mysterious image. But in the 
 first impulse of his alarm Alan abandoned his hold of the slab, and 
 it sunk slowly downwards. He uttered a loud cry as it moved. 
 Lady Rookwood heard this cry. She raised herself at the same 
 moment — the dagger was in her hand — she pressed it against the 
 lid, but its downward force was too great to be withstood. The 
 light was within the sarcophagus, and Alan could discern her 
 features. The expression was terrible. She uttered one shriek, 
 and the lid closed for ever. 
 
 Alan was in total darkness. The light had been enclosed with 
 Lady Rookwood. There was something so horrible in her probable 
 fate, that even he shuddered as he thought upon it. Exerting all 
 his remaining strength, he essayed to raise the lid, but now it was 
 more firmly closed than ever. It defied all his power. Once, for 
 an instant, he fancied that it yielded to his straining sinews, but it 
 was only his hand that slided upon the surface of the marble. It 
 was fixed — immovable. The sides and lid rang with the strokes 
 Avhich the unfortunate lady bestowed upon them with the dagger's 
 point; but those sounds were not long heard. Presently all was 
 still; the marble ceased to vibrate with her blows. Alan struck 
 the lid with his knuckles, but no response was returned. All was 
 silent. 
 
 He now turned his attention to his own situation, which had be- 
 come sufficiently alarming. An hour must have elapsed, yet Luke 
 had not arrived. The door of the vault was closed — the key was 
 in the lock, and on the outside. He was himself a prisoner within 
 the tomb. What if Luke should not return? What if he were 
 slain, as it might chance, in the enterprise? That thought flashed 
 across his brain like an electric shock. None knew of his retreat 
 but his grandson. He might perish of famine within this desolate 
 vault. 
 
 He checked this notion as soon as it was formed — it was too 
 dreadful to be indulged in. A thousand circumstances might con- 
 spire to detain Luke. He was sure to come. Yet the solitude — ■ 
 the darkness was awful, almost intolerable. The dying and the 
 dead were around him. He dared not stir. 
 
^ecrrj^ <?TU^k5ha*vio 
 
 ^. 
 
 t ew&t?'L 
 
KOOKWOOD. 335 
 
 Another hour — an age it seemed to him — had passed. Still 
 Luke came not. Horrible forebodings crossed him; but he would 
 not surrender himself to them. He rose, and crawled in the direc- 
 tion, as he supposed, of the door — fearful even of the stealthy sound 
 of his own footsteps. He reached it, and his heart once more 
 throbbed with hope. He bent his ear to the key; he drew in his 
 breath; he listened for some sound, but nothing was to be heard. 
 A groan would have been almost music in his car.-. 
 
 Another hour was gone ! He was now a prey to the most 
 frightful apprehensions, agitated in turns by the wildest emotions 
 of rage and terror. lie at one moment imagined that Luke had 
 abandoned him, and heaped curses upon his head ; at the next, con- 
 vinced that he had fallen, he bewailed with equal bitterness his 
 grandson's fate and his own. He paced the tomb like one dis- 
 tracted; he stamped upon the iron plate; he smote with his hands 
 upon the door; he shouted, and the vault hollowly echoed his 
 lamentations. But Time's sand ran on, and Luke arrived not. 
 
 Alan now abandoned himself wholly to despair. Jle could no 
 longer anticipate his grandson's coming, no longer hope for deli- 
 verance. His late was sealed. Death awaited him. lie must 
 anticipate his slow but inevitable stroke, enduring all the grinding 
 horrors of starvation. The contemplation of such an end v. 
 madness, but he was forced to contemplate it now ; and so appalling 
 did it appear to his imagination, that he half resolved to dash out 
 his brains against the walls of the sepulchre, and put an end at once 
 to his tortures; and nothing, except a doubt whether he might not, 
 by imperfectly accomplishing his purpose, increase his own suffer- 
 ing, prevented him from putting this dreadful idea into execution. 
 His dagger was gone, and he had no other weapon. Terrors o 
 new kind now assailed him. The dead, he fancied, were bursting 
 from their coffins, and he peopled the darkness with grisly phan- 
 toms. They were around about him on each side, whirling and 
 rustling, gibbering, groaning, shrieking, laughing, and lamenting. 
 He was stunned, stifled. The air seemed to grow suffocating, pes- 
 tilential; the wild laughter was redoubled; the horrible troop 
 assailed him ; they dragged him along the tomb, and amid their 
 howls he fell, and became insensible. 
 
 When he returned to himself, it was some time before he could 
 collect his scattered faculties; and when the agonising conscious- 
 ness of his terrible situation forced itself upon his mind, he had 
 nigh relapsed into oblivion. He arose. He rushed towards the 
 door; he knocked against it with his knuckles till the blood 
 streamed from them; he scratched against it with his nails till 
 they were torn off by the roots. With insane fury he hurled him- 
 self against the iron frame; it was in vain. Again he had recourse 
 to the trap-door. He searched for it; he found it. He laid him- 
 self upon the ground. There was no interval of space in which 
 he could insert a finger's point. He beat it with his clenched 
 
336 ROOKWOOD. 
 
 hand; he tore it with his teeth; he jumped upon it; he smote it 
 with his heel. The iron returned a sullen sound. 
 
 He again essayed the lid of the sarcophagus. Despair nerved 
 his strength. He raised the slab a few inches. He shouted, 
 screamed, but no answer was returned; and again the lid fell. 
 
 "She is dead!" cried Alan. "Why have I not shared her 
 fate? But mine is to come. And such a death ! — oh, oh !" And, 
 frenzied at the thought, he again hurried to the door, and renewed 
 his fruitless attempts to escape, till nature gave way, and he sank 
 upon the floor, groaning and exhausted. 
 
 Physical suffering now began to take the place of his mental 
 tortures. Parched and consumed with a fierce internal fever, he 
 was tormented by unappeasable thirst — of all human ills the most 
 unendurable. His tongue was dry and dusty, his throat inflamed; 
 his lips had lost all moisture. He licked the humid floor; he 
 sought to imbibe the nitrous drops from the walls ; but, instead of 
 allaying his thirst, they increased it. He would have given the 
 world, had he possessed it, for a draught of cold spring- water. Oh, 
 to have died with his lips upon some bubbling fountain's marge ! 
 But to perish thus ! 
 
 Nor were the pangs of hunger wanting. He had to endure all 
 the horrors of famine, as well as the agonies of quenchless thirst. 
 
 In this dreadful state three days and nights passed over Alan's 
 fated head. Nor night nor day had he. Time, with him, was 
 only measured by its duration, and that seemed interminable. 
 Each hour added to his suffering, and brought with it no relief. 
 During this period of prolonged misery reason often tottered on 
 her throne. Sometimes he was under the influence of the wildest 
 passions. He dragged coffins from their recesses, hurled them 
 upon the ground, striving to break them open and drag forth 
 their loathsome contents. Upon other occasions he would weep 
 bitterly and wildly; and once — only once — did he attempt to 
 pray; but he started from his knees with an echo of infernal 
 laughter, as he deemed, ringing in his ears. Then, again, would 
 he call down imprecations upon himself and his whole line, 
 trampling upon the pile of coffins he had reared; and lastly, more 
 subdued, would creep to the boards that contained the body of his 
 child, kissing them with a frantic outbreak of affection. 
 
 At length he became sensible of his approaching dissolution. 
 To him the thought of death might well be terrible, but he quailed 
 not before it, or rather seemed, in his latest moments, to resume all 
 his wonted firmness of character. Gathering together his remain- 
 ing strength, he dragged himself towards the niche wherein his 
 brother, Sir Reginald Rookwood, was deposited, and placing his 
 hand upon the coffin, solemnly exclaimed, " My curse — my dying 
 curse — be upon thee evermore!" 
 
 Falling with his face upon the coffin, Alan instantly expired. 
 In this attitude his remains were discovered. 
 
 t 
 
ROOKWOOD. 337 
 
 Our tale is told. Yet, perhaps, we inay be allowed to add a few 
 words respecting two of the subordinate characters of our drama 
 (melodrama we ought to say), namely, Jerry Juniper and the 
 knight of Malta. What became of the Caper Merchant's son alter 
 his flight from Kilburn Wells we have never been able distinctly 
 to ascertain. Juniper, however, would seem to be a sort of Wan- 
 dering Jew, for certain it is, that somebody very like him is extant 
 still, and to be met with at Jerry's old haunts; indeed, we have 
 no doubt of encountering him at the ensuing meetings of Ascot 
 and Hampton. 
 
 As regards the knight of Malta — (Knight of Roads (" Rhodes") 
 he should have been) — we are sorry to state that the career of the 
 Rulfler terminated in a madhouse, and thus the poor knight be- 
 came in reality a Hospitaller! According to the custom observed 
 in those establishments, the knight^was deprived of his luxuriant 
 locks, and the loss of his beard rendered his case incurable; but, 
 in the mean time, the barber of the place made his fortune by re- 
 tailing the materials of all the black wigs he could collect to the 
 impostor's dupes. 
 
 Such is the latest piece of intelligence that has reached us of the 
 Arch-hoaxer of Canterbury ! 
 
 Turpin (why disguise it?) was hanged at York in 1739. His 
 firmness deserted him not at the last. When he mounted the 
 fatal tree his left leg trembled; he stamped it impatiently down, 
 and, after a brief chat with the hangman, threw himself suddenly 
 and resolutely from the ladder. His sufferings would appear to 
 have been slight: as he himself sang, 
 
 He died, riot as other men, by degrees, 
 
 But at once, without wincing, and quite at his ease ! 
 
 We may, in some other place, lay before the reader the particu- 
 lars (and they are not incurious) of the " night before Larry was 
 stretched." 
 
 The remains of the vagrant highwayman found a final resting- 
 place in the desecrated churchyard of Saint George, without the 
 Fishergate postern, a green and grassy cemetery, but withal a 
 melancholy one. A few recent tombs mark out the spots where 
 some of the victims of the pestilence of 1832-33 have been in- 
 terred; but we have made vain search for Turpin's grave — unless 
 (as is more than probable) the plain stone with the simple initials 
 R. T. belongs to him. 
 
 The gyves by which he was fettered are still shown atlork 
 Castle, and are of prodigious weight and strength; and though 
 the herculean robber is said to have moved in them with case, the 
 present turnkey was scarcely able to lift the ponderous irons. An 
 
 z « 
 

 338 KOOKWOOD. 
 
 old woman of the same city has a lock of hair, said to have been 
 Turpin's, which she avouches her grandfather cut off from the body 
 after the execution, and which the believers look upon with great 
 reverence. O rare Dick Turpin ! 
 
 We shall, perhaps, be accused of dilating too much upon the 
 character of the highwayman, and we plead guilty to the charge. 
 But we found it impossible to avoid running a little into extremes. 
 Our earliest associations are connected with sunny scenes in 
 Cheshire, said to have been haunted by Turpin; and with one 
 very dear to us (from whose lips, now, alas ! silent, we have lis- 
 tened to many stories of his exploits) he was a sort of hero. We 
 have had a singular delight in recounting his feats and hair- 
 breadth escapes ; and if the reader derives only half as much plea- 
 sure from the perusal of his adventures as we have had in narrating 
 them, our satisfaction will be complete. Perhaps, we may have 
 placed him in too favourable a point of view — and yet we know 
 not. As upon those of more important personages, many doubts 
 rest upon his history. Such as we conceive him to have been, we 
 have drawn him — hoping that the benevolent reader, upon finish- 
 ing our Tale, will arrive at the same conclusion ; and, in the words 
 of the quaint old Prologue to the Prince of Prigs' Revels, 
 
 -Thank that man, 
 
 Can make each thief a complete Roscian ! 
 
 THE END. 
 
 LONDON: 
 C. WHITING BBAUFOET HOUSE, DUKE-STREET, LINCOLN'S INN FIELDS. 
 

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