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 farewell, 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.

_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 favorite 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

with 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 neglected. The only book, indeed, Sir Piers ever read, was the

"Anatomie of Melancholy;" and he merely studied Burton because the

quaint, racy style of the learned old hypochondriac suited his humor at

seasons, and gave a zest to his sorrows, such as the olives lent to his

wine.

Four portraits adorned the walls: those of Sir Reginald Rookwood and his

wives. The ladies were attired in the flowing drapery 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 costume. She was portrayed tending a flock of downy

sheep, with azure ribbons round their necks, accompanied by one of those

invaluable little dogs whose length of ear and silkiness of skin evinced

him perfect in his breeding, but whose large-eyed indifference to his

charge proved him to be as much out of character with his situation as

the refined and luxuriant charms of his mistress were out of keeping

with her artless attire. This was Sir Piers's mother, the third wife, a

beautiful woman, answering to the notion of one who had been somewhat of

a flirt in her day. Next to her was a magnificent dame, with the throat

and arm of a Juno, and a superb bust--the bust was then what the bustle

is now--a paramount attraction; whether the modification be an

improvement, we leave to the consideration of the lovers of the

beautiful--this was the dowager. Lastly, there was the lovely and

ill-fated Eleanor. Every gentle grace belonging to this unfortunate lady

had been stamped in undying beauty on the canvas by the hand of Lely,

breathing a spell on the picture, almost as powerful as that which had

dwelt around the exquisite original. Over the high carved mantelpiece

was suspended the portrait of Sir Reginald. It had been painted in

early youth; the features were beautiful, disdainful,--with a fierceness

breaking through the courtly air. The eyes were very fine, black as

midnight, and piercing as those of Cæsar Borgia, as seen in Raphael's

wonderful picture in the Borghese Palace at Rome. They seemed to

fascinate the gazer--to rivet his glances--to follow him whithersoever

he went--and to search into his soul, as did the dark orbs of Sir

Reginald in his lifetime. It was the work likewise of Lely, and had all

the fidelity and graceful refinement of that great master; nor was the

haughty countenance of Sir Reginald unworthy the patrician 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. Polycarp 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

professed, in her presence, the profoundest respect for Lady Rookwood:

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 _tête-à-tête_ with his lady. He

would have been recognized at once as the true Amphitryon, had any one

been hardy enough to play the part of Jupiter. Ever ready to give a

dinner, he found a difficulty arise, not usually experienced on such

occasions--there was no one upon whom to bestow it. He had the best of

wine; kept an excellent table; was himself no niggard host; but his own

merits, and those of his _cuisine_, were forgotten in the invariable

_pendant_ to the feast; and the best of wine lost its flavor 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 discontent.

"Anything for a quiet life," was his constant saying; and, like the

generality of people with whom those words form a favorite maxim, he led

the most uneasy life imaginable. Endurance, to excite commiseration,

must be uncomplaining--an axiom the aggrieved of the gentle sex should

remember. Sir Piers endured, but he grumbled lustily, and was on all

hands voted a bore; domestic grievances, especially if the husband be

the plaintiff, being the most intolerable of all mentionable 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 represented

the absolute necessity of complying with Sir Piers's testamentary

instructions, which were particular in that respect, she thought proper

to defer her intentions until after the ceremonial of interment should

be completed, and, in the mean time, strange to say, committed its

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 essential part of it all." He kept open house--open

dining-room--open cellar; resolved that his patron's funeral should

emulate as much as possible an Irish burial on a grand scale, "the

finest sight," in his opinion, "in the whole world."

Inflated with the importance of his office, inflamed with heat, sat

Titus, like a "robustious 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 place to a denser

vapor, occasioned by the introduction of the pipe and its

accompaniments.

Ensconced in a comfortable old chair--it is not every old chair that

_is_ comfortable,--with pipe in mouth, and in full unbuttoned ease, his

bushy cauliflower wig laid aside, by reason of the heat, reposed Dr.

Small. Small, indeed, was somewhat of a misnomer, as applied to the

worthy doctor, who, besides being no diminutive specimen of his kind,

entertained no insignificant opinion of himself. His height was

certainly not remarkable; but his width of shoulder--his sesquipedality

of stomach--and obesity of calf--these were unique! Of his origin we

know nothing; but presume he must, in some way or other, have been

connected with 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 humor. He was accounted a man

of parts and erudition, and had obtained high honors at his university.

Rigidly 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 inclined to be disputatious. His prejudices did not prevent

him from passing the claret, nor from laughing, as heartily as a

plethoric asthma and sense of the decorum due to the occasion would

permit, at the quips and quirks of the Irishman, who, he admitted,

notwithstanding his heresies, was a pleasant fellow in the main. And

when, in addition to the flattery, a pipe had been insinuated by the

officious Titus, at the precise moment 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 apothegm. We all of us

hould our lives by a thrid. Och! many's the sudden finale I have seen.

Many's the fine fellow's heels tripped up unawares, when least expected.

Death hangs over our heads by a single hair, as your reverence says,

precisely like the sword of Dan Maclise,[6] 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 diminutive. "It is to be

regretted that his over-conviviality should so much have hastened his

lamented demise."

"Conviviality!" replied Titus; "no such thing--it was

apoplexy--extravasation of _sarum_."

"Extra vase-ation of rum and water, you mean," 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

vitæ--the grand panacea--he might have been hale and hearty at this

present moment, and as well as any of us. But he wouldn't be advised. To

my thinking, as that was the case, he'd have been all the better for a

little of your reverence's sperretual advice; and his conscience having

been relieved by confession and absolution, he might have opened a fresh

account with an aisy heart and clane breast."

"I trust, sir," said Small, gravely withdrawing his pipe 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--may live to regret it, I say--that's all. I've just sent up

a package to Lady Rookwood, which was not to be delivered till after Sir

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 was as much as his life was worth to leave him for a moment in that

state, I was forced to comply: and, would you believe it, as I left the

room, I heard high words. Yes, 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

vapor 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 resolution 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. 'Halloo! tallyho!' cried he: 'who clears that fence?--who swims

that stream?' The next, he was drinking, carousing, and hurrahing, 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 doted 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--tell her. Call Alan Rookwood--I shall die before I

can tell it. Come hither,' said he to me. 'There is a dark, dreadful

secret on my mind--it must forth. Tell my sister--no, my senses

swim--Susan is near me--fury 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. 'Come in,' cried he, in a dying voice; and Heaven

forgive me if I confess that I expected a certain person, whose company

one would rather dispense with 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 gray 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; '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 again alive.' And true enough it

was--I never did see him again with breath in his body. Without more

ado, I left him, and I had scarcely reached the corridor when I heard

the door bolted behind me. I then stopped to listen: and I'm sure you'll

not blame me when I say I clapped my eye to the keyhole; for I suspected

something wrong. But, Heaven save us! that crafty gravedigger had taken

his precautions too well. I could neither see nor hear anything, except

after a few minutes, a wild unearthly screech. And then the door was

thrown open, and I, not expecting it, was precipitated head foremost

into the room, to the great damage of my nose. When I got up, Peter had

vanished, I suppose, as he came; and there was poor Sir Piers leaning

back upon the pillow with his hands stretched out as if in supplication,

his eyes unclosed and staring, and his limbs stark and stiff!"

A profound silence succeeded 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 currency 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 endangered 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 incomprehensible

lunatic, Peter Bradley, has obtained an ascendancy over him. His

daughter, you are aware, was Sir Piers's mistress. Our friend is now

gone, and with him let us bury his offences, and the remembrance of

them. That his soul was heavily laden, would appear from your account of

his last moments; yet I fervently trust that his 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 repeating a

syllable of what I have just said, devil a word more will I utter on the

subject. My lips shall be shut and sealed, as close as one of Mr.

Coates's bonds, for ever and a day: but I thought it just right to make

you acquainted with the circumstances. And now, having dismissed the bad

for ever, I am ready to speak of Sir Piers's good qualities, and not few

they were. What was there becoming a 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 peculiarities and humors, wasn't he 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-humored, 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. Notwithstanding this tendency to baldness, Jack

could not be more than thirty, though his looks were some five years in

advance. His face was one of those inexplicable countenances, which

appear to be proper to a peculiar class of men--a regular Newmarket

physiognomy--compounded chiefly of cunning and assurance; not low

cunning, nor vulgar assurance, but crafty sporting subtlety, careless as

to results, indifferent to obstacles, ever on the alert for the main

chance, game and turf all over, eager, yet easy, keen, yet quiet. He was

somewhat showily dressed, in such wise that he looked half like a fine

gentleman of that day, half like a jockey of our own. His nether man

appeared in well-fitting, well-worn buckskins, and boots with tops, not

unconscious of the saddle; while the airy extravagance of his

broad-skirted, sky-blue riding coat, the richness of his vest--the

pockets of which were beautifully exuberant, according to the mode of

1737--the smart luxuriance of his 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,

in justice to Jack, can we allow that he was in error. He was a model

of a man for five feet ten; square, compact, capitally built in every

particular, excepting that his legs 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 outstripped a whole field, that had procured him

the honor of an invitation to Rookwood. Who he was, or whence he came,

was a question not easily answered--Jack, himself, evading all solution

to the inquiry. Sir Piers never troubled his head about the matter: he

was a "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 discomposed 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."

"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."

"How long will it all occupy, think you?" asked Jack, carelessly.

"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 _berrin'_. 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, renewing the

conversation.

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

Badger's wounds the first thing this morning; and a deep cut there was,

just over the eye, besides other bruises."

"Is the wound dangerous?" inquired Palmer.

"Not exactly mortal, if you mean that," replied the 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 _sowl_ 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 around 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 snugly drowned all the

while--ha, ha!"

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

ha!"

"He! who?" inquired the attorney.

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

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 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

rumors," 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 that sort of thing is remembered. One would think

people had something else to do than talk of one's private affairs for

ever. For my part, I despise such tattle. But there _are_ persons in the

neighborhood who still say it was an awkward business. Amongst others,

I've heard that this very Luke Bradley talks in pretty plain terms about

it."

"Does he, indeed?" said Coates. "So much the worse for him. Let me once

lay hands upon him, and I'll put a gag in his mouth that shall spoil his

talking in the future."

"That's precisely the point I desire to arrive at," replied Jack; "and I

advise you by all means to accomplish that, for the sake of the family.

Nobody likes his friends to be talked about. So I'd settle the 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."

"Turn stag!" replied Coates, "what the deuce is that? In my opinion, he

has 'turned stag' already. At all events, he'll pay _deer_ for his

night's sport, you may depend upon it. What signifies it what _he_ says?

Let me lay hands upon him, that's all."

"Well, well," said Jack, "no offence. I only meant to offer a

suggestion. I thought the family, young Sir Ranulph, I mean, mightn't

like the story to be revived. As to Lady Rookwood, she don't, I suppose,

care much about idle reports. Indeed, if I've been rightly informed, she

bears this youngster no particular 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 killing a

bit of venison in his own father's park."

"Which he'd a _nat'ral_ right to do," cried Titus.

"He had no natural right to bruise, violently assault, and endanger the

life of his father's, or anybody else's gamekeeper," retorted Coates. "I

tell you, sir, he's committed a capital offence, and if he's taken----"

"No chance of that, I hope," interrupted Jack.

"That's a wish I can't 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 enthusiasm,

"are those birds of the night, and minions of the moon, whom we call,

most unjustly, poachers. They are, after all, only _professional

sportsmen_, making a business of what we make a pleasure; a nightly

pursuit of what is to us a daily relaxation; there's the main

distinction. As to the 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 scientifically and

systematically they set to work than we amateurs do! how noiselessly

they bag a hare, smoke a pheasant, or knock a buck down with an air-gun!

how independent are they of any license, except that of a good eye, and

a swift pair of legs! how unnecessary is it for them to ask permission

to shoot over Mr. So-and-so's grounds, or my Lord That's preserves!

they are free of every cover, and indifferent to any alteration in the

game laws. I've some thoughts, when everything else fails, of taking to

poaching myself. In my opinion, a poacher's a highly respectable

character. What say you, Mr. Coates?" turning very gravely to that

gentleman.

"Such a question, sir," replied Coates, bridling up, "scarcely deserves

a serious answer. I make no doubt you will next maintain that a

highwayman is a gentleman."

"Most undoubtedly," replied Palmer, in the same 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 Captain Lovelace, Hind, Hannum, and Dudley,

were eminent on the road, and they set the fashion. Ever since their day

a real highwayman would consider himself disgraced, if he did not

conduct himself in every way like a gentleman. Of course, there are

pretenders in this line, as in everything else. But these are only

exceptions, and prove the rule. What are the distinguishing

characteristics of a fine gentleman?--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 example: 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, 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 contrabandist 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

proof of his gentility. I wish he'd not been a Mounseer. The women

never mistake. _They_ can always discover the true gentlemen, 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, "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 for once in his life sentimental, and sighed.

"Poor Du-Val! he was seized at the Hole-in-the-Wall in Chandos-street 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 thousand pities," said Mr. Coates, with a sneer, "that so fine a

gentleman should come to so ignominious an end!"

"Quite the contrary," returned Jack. "As his biographer, Doctor Pope,

properly remarks, 'Who is there worthy of the name of man, that would

not prefer such a death before a mean, solitary, inglorious life?'

By-the-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

favorable opinion of Jack's vocal powers, and was by no means an

indifferent performer; "only let it be in a minor key."

Jack required no further encouragement, but disregarding the hints and

looks of Coates, sang with much unction the following ballad to a good

old tune, then very popular--the merit of which "nobody can deny."

A CHAPTER OF HIGHWAYMEN

Of every rascal of every kind,

The most notorious to my mind,

Was the Cavalier Captain, gay JEMMY HIND![7]

_Which nobody can deny._

But the pleasantest coxcomb among them all

For lute, coranto, and madrigal,

Was the galliard Frenchman, CLAUDE DU-VAL![8]

_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![9]

_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![10]

_Which nobody can deny._

A blither fellow on broad highway,

Did never with oath bid traveller stay,

Than devil-may-care WILL HOLLOWAY![11]

_Which nobody can deny._

And in roguery naught could exceed the tricks

Of GETTINGS and GREY, and the five or six

Who trod in the steps of bold NEDDY WICKS![12]

_Which nobody can deny._

Nor could any so handily break a lock

As SHEPPARD, who stood on the Newgate dock,

And nicknamed the jailers around him "_his flock_!"[13]

_Which nobody can deny._

Nor did highwaymen 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. "But your English robbers are nothing at all, compared with our

Tories[14] and Rapparees--nothing at all. They were the _raal_

gentlemen--they were 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 glass,

Titus delivered himself with much joviality of the following ballad; the

words of which he adapted to the tune of the _Groves of the Pool_:

THE RAPPAREES

Let the Englishman boast of his Turpins and Sheppards, as cocks of

the walk,

His Mulsacks, and Cheneys, and Swiftnecks[15]--it's all botheration

and talk;

Compared with the robbers of Ireland, they don't come within half a

mile,

There never were yet any rascals like those of my own native isle!

First and foremost comes REDMOND O'HANLON, allowed the first thief

of the world,[16]

That o'er the broad province of Ulster the Rapparee banner unfurled;

Och! he was an elegant fellow, as ever you saw in your life,

At fingering the blunderbuss trigger, or handling the throat-cutting

knife.

And then such a dare-devil squadron as that which composed REDMOND'S

_tail_!

Meel, Mactigh, Jack Reilly, Shan Bernagh, Phil Galloge, and Arthur

O'Neal;

_Shure_ never were any boys like 'em for rows, _agitations_, and

sprees,

Not a _rap_ did they leave in the country, and hence they were

called _Rap_parees.[17]

Next comes POWER, the great Tory[18] 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,

For as he was led to the gallows, he played his own "march to the

camp."[19]

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.

There's PAUL LIDDY, the curly-pate Tory, whose noddle was stuck on a

spike,

And BILLY DELANEY, the "_Songster_,"[20] 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 CAHIR NA CAPPUL, 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 CAHIR gets _hould_ of his ear.

Then success to the Tories of Ireland, the generous, the gallant,

the gay!

With them the best _Rumpads_[21] 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 Whigs.

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

"Well," said Coates, "we've had enough about the Irish highwaymen, in

all conscience. But there's a rascal on our side of the Channel, whom

you have only incidentally mentioned, and who makes more noise than them

all put together."

"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'Hanlons, you have

either of you enumerated."

"I did not think of him," replied Palmer, smiling; "though, if I had, he

scarcely deserves to be ranked with those illustrious heroes."

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

United Kingdom, and can ride faster and further in a day than any other

man in a week."

"So I've heard," said Palmer, with a glance of 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 Coates. "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 neighborhood of the

metropolis, and made Epping Forest his headquarters."

"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 he 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. "Government ought to look to it.

Is the whole kingdom to be kept in a state of agitation by a single

highwayman?--Sir Robert Walpole should take the affair into his own

hands."

"Fudge!" exclaimed Jack, 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 favor 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 preliminary remarks, and come to the point

at once."

"By all means," said Jack.

"'I thank God,'" began Coates, in an authoritative tone, "'that I was

born in a country that hath formerly emulated the Romans in their public

spirit; as is evident from their conquests abroad, and their struggles

for liberty at home.'"

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

"You will hear," replied the attorney--"no interruptions if you please.

'But this noble principle,'" continued he, with great emphasis, "'though

not utterly lost, I cannot think at present so active as it ought to be

in a nation so jealous of her liberty.'"

"Good!" exclaimed Jack. "There is more than '_common sense_' in that

observation, Mr. Coates."

"'My suspicion,'" proceeded Coates, "'is founded on a late instance. 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."

"'That a fellow,'" continued Coates, "'who is known to be a thief by the

whole kingdom, shall for so long a time continue to rob us, and not only

rob us, but make a jest of us----'"

"Ha--ha--ha--capital! Excuse me, sir," roared Jack, laughing till the

tears ran down his cheeks--"pray, pray, go on."

"I see nothing to laugh at," replied Coates, somewhat offended;

"however, I will conclude my letter, since I have begun it--'not only

rob us, but make a jest of us, shall defy the laws, and laugh at

justice, argues a want of public spirit, which should make every

particular member of the community sensible of the public calamity, and

ambitious of the honor 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, "that,

professing myself, as I do, to be a staunch new Whig, I had not some

covert political object in penning this epistle.[22] Nevertheless,

setting aside my principles----"

"Right," observed Jack; "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 I suppose you

do not expect to catch this '_ought-to-lick-us_,' 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."

"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, as 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 endeavor to tread in my worthy father's

footsteps. I hope to signalize 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 sometimes: not very often, though. But here is

Turpin's description in the _Gazette_, _June 28th_, A.D. 1737:--'_It

having been represented to the King that Richard Turpin did, on

Wednesday, the 4th of May last, rob on his Majesty's highway Vavasour

Mowbray, Esq., Major of the 2d troop of Horse Grenadiers_'--that Major

Mowbray, by-the-by, is a nephew of the late Sir Piers, and cousin of the

present baronet--'_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 two 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: "I wish he

were in your place at this moment, Jack."

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

"'_Turpin_,'" continued Coates, "'_was 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, however, to

proceed:--'_Is by trade a butcher_,'--you, sir, I believe, never had any

dealings in that line?"

"I have some notion how to dispose of a troublesome calf," returned

Jack. "But Turpin, though described as a butcher, is, I understand, a

lineal descendant of a great French 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 '_is about five

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 favor," returned the unperturbed

attorney, deliberately proceeding with his examination--"'_he has a

brown complexion, marked with the smallpox_.'"

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

"Those whiskers would conceal anything," replied Coates, with a grin.

"Nobody wears whiskers nowadays, except a highwayman."

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

"I don't mean to be so," replied Coates; "but you must allow the

description tallies with your own in a remarkable manner. Hear me out,

however--'_his cheek 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 delicate point.

I can't say that I approve of a gentleman being likened to a highwayman.

But if ever there was a highwayman I'd wish to resemble, it's either

Redmond O'Hanlon or Richard Turpin; and may the devil burn me if I know

which of the two is the greater rascal!"

"Well, Mr. Palmer," said Coates, "I repeat, I mean no offence.

Likenesses are unaccountable. I am said to be like my Lord North;

whether I am or not, the Lord knows. But if ever I meet with Turpin I

shall bear you in mind--he--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 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."

"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 manner, that----"

"_Quod factu f[oe]dum 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 company were

seated. His appearance excited the utmost astonishment in the whole

group: curiosity was exhibited in every countenance--the magnum remained

poised midway in the hand of Palmer--Dr. Small scorched his thumb in the

bowl of his pipe; and Mr. Coates was almost choked, by swallowing an

inordinate whiff of vapor.

"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 honor," 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."

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

"Troth, Sir Ranulph, as nearly as I can recollect, it might be a few

minutes before midnight."

"The very hour!" exclaimed Ranulph, striding towards the window. His

steps were arrested as his eye fell upon the attire of his father,

which, as we have before noticed, hung at that end of the room. A slight

shudder passed over his frame. There was a momentary pause, during which

Ranulph continued gazing intently at the apparel. "The very dress, too!"

muttered he; then turning to the assembly, who were watching his

movements with surprise; "Doctor," said he, addressing Small, "I have

something for your private ear. Gentlemen, will you spare us the room

for a few minutes?"

"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_

_RANULPH ROOKWOOD_

_Fer._ Yes, Francisco,

He hath left his curse upon me.

_Fran._ How?

_Fer._ His curse I 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 Dr. Small, as the door was closed, "that weighs upon your mind,

beyond the sorrow naturally incident to an affliction, severe as the

present. Forgive my apprehensions if I am wrong. You know the

affectionate interest I have 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

disclosure, you will 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, unnecessarily apprehensive. But I own,

I am startled at the incoherence of your expressions, coupled with your

sudden and almost mysterious appearance at this distressing conjuncture.

Answer me: has your return been the result of mere 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 realized,--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 pressing

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 consequences--which

influenced my conduct in my final interview between my father and

myself--an interview which occasioned my departure for the

Continent--and which was of a character so dreadful, that I would not

even revert to it, were it not a necessary 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 inexpressible charm to me, from its marked resemblance to the

portrait 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 color of the hair--the tenderness of the eyes.

No--the expression is not so sad, except when----but no matter! I

recognized her features at once.

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

surprise, especially the elder lady. For my own 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 'love at first sight,' that I was insensible

to the agitation of the mother. In vain I endeavored 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

admiration 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 attention to a peculiar expression in the features of Miss

Mowbray, and then instanced the likeness that subsisted between her and

my ancestress. 'It is the more singular,' I said, turning to her mother,

'because there could have been no affinity, that I am aware of, between

them, and yet the likeness is really surprising.'--'It is not so

singular as you imagine,' answered Mrs. Mowbray; 'there _is_ a close

affinity. That Lady Rookwood was my mother. Eleanor Mowbray _does_

resemble her ill-fated ancestress.'

"Words cannot paint my astonishment. I gazed at Mrs. Mowbray,

considering whether I had not misconstrued her speech--whether I had not

so shaped the sounds as to suit my own quick and passionate conceptions.

But no! I read in her calm, collected countenance--in the downcast

glance, and sudden sadness of Eleanor, as well as in the changed and

haughty demeanor 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 my surprise, I addressed Mrs. Mowbray, endeavoring 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 forbade 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 communication 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 encouragement. Love lent

me eloquence; and at length, as a token of my success, and her own

relenting, Mrs. Mowbray held forth her hand: I clasped it eagerly. It

was the 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 adverse circumstances have

hitherto conspired to separate us, the time for a renewal of our

acquaintance is approaching, I trust, for I am not yet altogether

without hope. But 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 neighbors,

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 communicated an inexpressible charm, even to

the language which she spoke.

"I will not dwell too long upon this theme. I feel ashamed of my own

prolixity. And yet I am sure you will pardon it. Ah, those bright brief

days! too quickly were they fled! I could expatiate upon each

minute--recall each word--revive each look. It may not be. I must hasten

on. Darker themes await me.

"My love made rapid progress--I became each hour more enamored 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 written to my

father, explaining every particular attending it. This I should have

done of my own free will, but I was urged to it by Mrs. Mowbray.

Unaccustomed to disguise, I had expatiated upon the beauty of Eleanor,

and in such terms, I fear, that I excited some uneasiness in his breast.

His letter was laconic. He made no allusion to the subject upon which I

had expatiated when writing to him. He commanded me to return.

"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 inclinations I fancied I

had some assurance; but without her mother's consent, to whose will she

was devoted, I felt, had I even been inclined to urge it, that my suit

was hopeless. The letter which I had received from my father made me

more than doubt whether I should not find him utterly adverse to my

wishes. Agonized, therefore, with a thousand apprehensions, I presented

myself on the morning of my departure. It was then I made the

declaration of my passion to Eleanor; it was then that every hope was

confirmed, every apprehension realized. I received from her lips a

confirmation of my fondest wishes; yet were those hopes blighted in the

bud, when I heard, at the same time, that their consummation was

dependent on the will of two others, whose assenting voices, she feared,

could never be obtained. From Mrs. Mowbray I received a more decided

reply. All her haughtiness was aroused. Her farewell words assured me,

that it was indifferent to her whether we met again as relatives or as

strangers. Then was it that the native tenderness of Eleanor displayed

itself, in an outbreak of feeling peculiar to a heart keenly sympathetic

as hers. She saw my suffering--the reserve natural to her sex gave

way--she flung herself into my arms--and so we parted.

"With a heavy foreboding I returned to Rookwood, and, oppressed with the

gloomiest anticipations, endeavored 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 willingly have

postponed the interview till the morrow. It could not be. He insisted

upon seeing me.

"My mother was present. You know the restraint she usually had over my

father, and how she maintained it. On this occasion she had none. He

questioned me as to every particular; probed my secret soul; dragged

forth every latent feeling, and then thundered out his own determination

that Eleanor never should be bride of mine; nor would he receive, under

his roof, her mother, the discountenanced daughter of his father. I

endeavored to remonstrate with him. He was deaf to my entreaties. My

mother added sharp and stinging words to my expostulations. 'I had her

consent,' she said; 'what more was needed? The lands were entailed. I

should at no distant period be their master, and might then please

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

"'Have a care, madam,' replied he, 'and bridle your tongue; they _are_

entailed, 'tis true, but I need not 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 approve the consequences.'

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

were alone.

"'Ranulph,' said he, 'you waste time in seeking to change my resolution.

It is unalterable. I have many motives which influence me; they are

inexplicable, but imperative. Eleanor Mowbray never can be 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.'

"'Never!' he replied, 'The tie is sundered, and cannot be reunited; my

father bound me by an oath never to meet in friendship with my sister; I

will not break my vow, I will not violate its conditions, even in the

second degree. We never can meet again. An idle prophecy which I have

heard has said "_that when a Rookwood shall marry a Rookwood the end of

the house draweth nigh_." That I regard not. It may have no meaning, or

it may have much. To me it imports nothing 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 neighborhood, but saw him again on the same evening.

"Our last interview took place in the garden. I then told him that I had

determined to go abroad for two years, at the expiration of which period

I proposed returning to England; trusting that his resolution might then

be changed, and that he would listen to my request, for the fulfilment

of which I could never cease to hope. Time, I 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 forever. Indulge no

vain hopes. Eleanor never can be yours, but upon one condition, and to

that you would never consent!'--'Propose it!' I cried; 'there is no

condition I could not accede to.'--'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.'--'Speak now, I beseech you!' I exclaimed;

'anything, everything--what you will!'--'Say no more,' replied he,

walking towards the house; 'when you return we will renew this subject;

farewell--perhaps forever!' His words were prophetic--that parting _was_

forever. I remained in the garden till nightfall. I saw my mother, but

_he_ came not again. I quitted England without beholding Eleanor."

"Did you not acquaint her by letter with what had 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 occasion 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 neighboring scenery. My fancy was smitten by the situation of a

villa on the banks of the Garonne, within a few leagues of the city. It

was an old château, with fine gardens bordering the blue waters of the

river, and commanding a multitude of enchanting prospects. The house,

which had in part gone to decay, was inhabited by an aged couple, who

had formerly been servants to an English family, the members of which

had thus provided for them on their return to their own country. I

inquired the name. Conceive my astonishment to find that this château

had been the residence of the Mowbrays. This intelligence decided me at

once--I took up my abode in the house; and a new and unexpected source

of solace and delight was opened to me, I traced the paths she had

traced; occupied the room she had occupied; tended the flowers she had

tended; and, on the golden summer evenings, would watch the rapid

waters, tinged with all the glorious hues of sunset, sweeping past my

feet, and think how _she_ had watched them. Her presence seemed to

pervade the place. I was now comparatively happy, and, anxious to remain

unmolested, wrote home that I was leaving Bordeaux for the Pyrenees, on

my way to Spain."

"That account arrived," observed Small.

"One night," continued Ranulph--"'tis now the sixth since the occurrence

I am about to relate--I was seated in a bower that overlooked the river.

It had been a lovely 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

reflected radiance, and I still lingering at its brink.

"I had been musing for some moments, with my head resting upon my hand,

when, happening to raise my eyes, I beheld a figure immediately before

me. I was astonished at the sight, for I had perceived no one

approach--had heard no footstep advance towards me, and was satisfied

that no one besides myself could be in the garden. The presence of the

figure inspired me with an undefinable awe! and, I can scarce tell why,

but a thrilling presentiment convinced me that it was a supernatural

visitant. Without motion--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 'Return!' sounded hollowly in my ears, it

gradually melted from my view. I cannot tell how I recovered from the

swoon into which I fell, but daybreak saw me on my way to England. I am

here. On that night--at that same hour, my father died."

"It was, after all, then, a supernatural summons that you received?"

said Small.

"Undoubtedly," replied Ranulph.

"Humph!--the coincidence, I own, is sufficiently curious," returned

Small, musingly; "but it would not be difficult, I think, to discover a

satisfactory explanation of the delusion."

"There was no delusion," replied 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," returned 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 endeavor 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.

_Vit. Cor._ Oh, he's a happy husband!

Now he owes nature nothing.

_Mon._ And look upon this creature as his wife.

She comes not like a widow--she comes armed

With scorn and impudence. Is this a mourning habit?

_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, discolored 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 surprising in a lady so amiable as she was

represented to have been. Grim-visaged Herod glared from the ghostly

woof, with his shadowy legions, executing their murderous purposes,

grouped like a troop of Sabbath-dancing witches around him. Mysterious

twilight, admitted through the deep, dark, mullioned windows, revealed

the antique furniture of the room, which still boasted a sort of

mildewed splendor, 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 crimson hangings were embroidered in

gold, with the arms and cipher of Elizabeth, from whom the apartment,

having once been occupied by that sovereign, obtained the name of the

"Queen's Room."

The sole tenant of this chamber was a female, in whose countenance, 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 symmetry of her full form, accord with the beau ideal of

antique perfection. Shaded by smooth folds of raven hair, which still

maintained its jetty dye, her lofty forehead would have been displayed

to the greatest advantage, had it not been at this moment knit and

deformed by excess of passion, if that 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 escritoire. Examining the papers

which it contained with great deliberation, she threw each aside, as

soon as she had satisfied herself of its purport, until she arrived at a

little package, carefully tied up with black ribbon, and sealed. This,

Lady Rookwood hastily broke open, and drew forth a small miniature. It

was that of a female, young and beautiful, rudely, yet faithfully,

executed--faithfully, we say, for there was an air of sweetness and

simplicity--and, in short, a look of reality and nature about the

picture (it is seldom, indeed, that we mistake a likeness, even if we

are unacquainted with the original) that attested 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. Underneath the miniature was written, in Sir Piers's

hand, the words "_Lady Rookwood_." A slip of folded paper was also

attached to it.

Lady Rookwood scornfully scrutinized the features for a few moments, and

then unfolded the paper, at the sight of which she started, and turned

pale. "Thank God!" she cried, "this is in my possession--while I hold

this, we are safe. Were it not better to destroy this evidence at once?

No, no, not _now_--it shall not part from me. I will abide Ranulph's

return. This document will give me a power over him such as I could

never otherwise obtain." Placing the marriage certificate, for such it

was, within her breast, and laying the miniature upon the table, she

next proceeded, deliberately, to arrange the disordered contents of the

box.

All outward traces of emotion had, ere this, become so subdued in Lady

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 interest to herself. It was a dread

calm, which they who knew her would have trembled to behold. "From these

letters I gather," exclaimed she, "that their wretched offspring knows

not of his fortune. So far, well. There is no channel whence he can

derive 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 neighborhood, 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 Rookwood.

Thus summoned, the old attendant entered the room.

"Why are my orders disobeyed?" asked the lady, in a severe tone of

voice. "Did I not say, when you delivered me this package from Mr.

Coates, which he himself wished to present, that I would not be

disturbed?"

"You did, my lady, but----"

"Speak out," said Lady Rookwood, somewhat more mildly, perceiving, from

Agnes's manner, that she had something of importance to communicate.

"What is it brings you hither?"

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

"But what?" interrupted Lady Rookwood, impatiently.

"I could not help it, my lady--he would have me come; he said he was

resolved to see your ladyship, whether you would or not."

"Would see me, ha! is it so? I guess his errand, and its object--he has

some suspicion. No, that cannot be; he would not dare to tamper with

these seals. Agnes, I will _not_ see him."

"But he swears, my lady, that he will not leave the house without seeing

you--he would have forced his way into your presence, if I had not

consented to announce him."

"Insolent!" exclaimed Lady Rookwood, with a glance of indignation;

"force his way! I promise you he shall not display an equal anxiety to

repeat the visit. Tell Mr. Coates I will see him."

"Mr. Coates! Mercy on us, my lady, it's not he. He'd never have intruded

upon you unasked. No such thing. He knows his place too well. No, no;

it's not Mr. Coates----"

"If not he, who is it?"

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

"He here--now?----"

"Yes, my lady; and looking so fierce and strange, I was quite frightened

to see him. He looked so like his--his----"

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

"No, my lady, his grandfather--old Sir 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--he'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 surprise,

could command speech. She fixed her eyes with a look of keen and angry

inquiry upon the bold intruder, who, nothing daunted, confronted her

glances with a gaze as stern and steadfast as her own.

"Who are you, and what seek you?" exclaimed Lady Rookwood, 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, unless 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, however, answered,

with some calmness:

"What you can have to say is of small moment to me--nor does it signify

who may hear it. It shall not, however, be said that Lady Rookwood

feared to be alone, even though she endangered her life."

"I am no assassin," replied Luke, "nor have sought the destruction of my

deadliest foe--though 'twere but retributive justice to have done so."

Lady Rookwood started.

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

accomplished."

"Go," said Lady 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. Summon your household--let them lay hands upon me,

and I will proclaim 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 night_?"

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

"Let that be fresh in your memory. Move not a footstep, whatever you may

hear," added he, in the same tone as before.

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

Luke felt some wavering in his resolution when he found himself alone

with the lady, whose calm, collected, yet haughty demeanor, 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 my father's. My object is, the

restitution of my rights."

"Soh!--it is as I suspected," thought Lady Rookwood, involuntarily

casting her large eyes down. "Do I hear you rightly?" exclaimed she,

aloud; "your name is----"

"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 instant. But I would see

how far your audacity will carry you. The name you bear is Bradley?"

"In ignorance I have done so," replied Luke. "I am the son of her whose

maiden name was Bradley. She was----"

"'Tis false--I will not hear it--she was _not_," cried Lady Rookwood,

her vehemence getting the master of her prudence.

"Your ladyship anticipates my meaning," returned Luke. "Susan Bradley

was the first wife of Sir Piers Rookwood."

"His minion--his mistress if you will; nought else. Is it new to you,

that a village wench, who lends herself to 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 dishonor."

"Lady Rookwood," sternly answered Luke, "my mother's fame is as free

from dishonor 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 exclusion 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 endangering herself, and, if possible, secure the

person of Luke, when the latter, turning sharply round upon her, and

drawing a pistol, exclaimed,--

"Follow me!"

"Whither?" asked she, in alarm.

"To the chamber of death!"

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

"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 Rookwood, pressing towards the antechamber.

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

panel,--"

"Ha! how know you that?"

"No matter; follow."

Luke touched a spring, and the panel flying open, disclosed a dim

recess, into which he entered; and, seizing Lady 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.

_De 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 courtyard

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 extremity 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 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 panelled 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 colors

pompously set forth the heraldic honors of the departed. Tall lights

burned at the head and feet, and fragrant perfumes diffused their odors

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 wrapped in mournful contemplation of the sad

spectacle before him. Suddenly 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 the glance of

Ranulph. All three seemed paralyzed by surprise. Ranulph, in

astonishment, extended his arm to his mother, who, placing one arm over

his shoulder, pointed with the other to Luke; the latter stared sternly

and inquiringly at both--yet none spoke.

_CHAPTER XIII_

_THE BROTHERS_

We're sorry

His violent act has e'en drawn blood of honor,

And stained our honors;

Thrown ink upon the forehead of our fame,

Which envious spirits will dip their pens into

After our death, and blot us in our tombs;

For that which would seem treason in our lives,

Is laughter when we're dead. Who dares now whisper,

That dares not then speak out; and even proclaim,

With loud words, and broad pens, our closest shame?

_The Revenger's Tragedy._

With that quickness of perception which at once supplies information on

such an emergency, Luke instantly conjectured who was before him.

Startled as he was, he yet retained his composure, abiding the result

with his arms folded upon his breast.

"Seize him!" cried Lady Rookwood, as soon as she could command her

speech.

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

pistol.

"Bethink you where you are, villain!" cried 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."

"Hold, mother!" exclaimed Ranulph, detaining Lady Rookwood; "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

gazing on in silence. Not so Lady Rookwood. The moment for action was

arrived. Addressing her son in a low tone, she said, "Your prey is

within your power. Secure 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 astonishment."

"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, 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 drag 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. "I had a deed

to do, which I wished you to witness. It was a wild conception. But the

means by which I have acquired the information of my rights were wild.

Ranulph, we are both the slaves of fate. You have received your summons

hither--I have had mine. Your father's ghost called you; my mother's

spectral hand beckoned me. Both are arrived. One thing more remains, 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, "for ever."

"Will you suffer that?" said Lady Rookwood, 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 remove what you have placed upon it."

"I will neither remove it nor suffer it to be removed," returned 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 direction. This startling

effect was occasioned by the approach of 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 prepared 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, snatching 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 thief-taker's runners couldn't have

done it better--hand me that pistol--loaded, I see--slugs, no doubt--oh,

he's a precious rascal--search him--turn his pockets inside out, while I

speak to her ladyship." Saying which, the brisk attorney, enchanted with

the feat he had performed, approached Lady Rookwood with a profound bow,

and an amazing smirk of self-satisfaction. "Just in time to prevent

mischief," said he; "hope your ladyship does not suffer any

inconvenience from the alarm--beg pardon, annoyance I meant to

say--which this horrible outrage must have occasioned; excessively

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 discovered----"

"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.

"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!"

"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 Ranulph, in

a low tone. "Why would you detain him?"

"Why?" returned she, "our safety demands it--our honor."

"Our honor demands his instant liberation; each moment he remains in

those bonds sullies its purity. I will free him myself from his

fetters."

"And brave my curse, foolish boy? You incurred your miserable father's

anathema for a lighter cause than this. Our honor 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 honor,

then, stripped of my fair estates--my son--myself--beggars--dependent on

the bounty of an upstart? Does honor ask you to bear this? It is a

phantom sense of honor, 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 between 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 meantime, I will consider over my line of conduct."

"Is this, then, your resolve?"

"It is. Mr. Coates," said Ranulph, calling the attorney, who had been an

inquisitive 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 regretted

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, bowing and

departing.

"_Sir_ Ranulph!" echoed Lady Rookwood, with strong emphasis; "marked you

that?"

"Body o' me," muttered the attorney, "this is the most extraordinary

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 Dr. Small, Titus Tyrconnel, and Jack Palmer.

"Odsbodikins! are you there, honey?" said Titus, who discovered his

ally; "the bird's caught, you see."

"Caught be d--d," replied Jack, bluffly; "so I see; all his own fault;

infernal folly to come here, at such a time as this. However, it can't

be helped now; he must make the best of it. And as to that sneaking,

gimlet-eyed, parchment-skinned quill-driver, if I don't serve him out

for his 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, moreover, 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."