"a thought strikes me. I have a scheme _in petto_ which may, perhaps,
afford you some fun, and will, at all events, insure your safety during
your stay."
"What is it?" asked Dick.
"Just amuse yourself with a flirtation for a moment or two with that
pretty damsel, who has been casting her ogles at you for the last five
minutes without success, while I effect a master-stroke."
And as Turpin, nothing loth, followed his advice, Jerry addressed
himself to Zoroaster. After a little conference, accompanied by that
worthy and the knight of Malta, the trio stepped forward from the line,
and approached Dick, when Juniper, assuming some such attitude as our
admirable Jones, the comedian, is wont to display, delivered himself of
the following address. Turpin listened with the gravity of one of the
distinguished persons alluded to, at the commencement of the present
chapter, upon their receiving the freedom of the city at the hands of a
mayor and corporation. Thus spoke Jerry:
"Highest of High-Tobymen! rummest of rum Padders, and most scampish of
Scampsmen! We, in the name of Barbara, our most tawny queen; in the name
of Zoroaster, our Upright Man, Dimber Damber, or Olli Campolli, by all
which titles his excellency is distinguished; in our own respective
names, as High Pads and Low Pads, Rum Gills and Queer Gills, Patricos,
Palliards, Priggers, Whip-Jacks, and Jarkmen, from the Arch Rogue to the
Needy Mizzler, fully sensible of the honor you have conferred upon us in
gracing Stop-Hole Abbey with your presence; and conceiving that we can
in no way evince our sense of your condescension so entirely as by
offering you the freedom of our crew, together with the privileges of an
Upright Man,[34] which you may be aware are considerable, and by
creating you an honorary member of the Vagrant Club, which we have
recently established; and in so doing, we would fain express the
sentiments of gratification and pride which we experience in enrolling
among our members one who has extended the glory of roguery so widely
over the land, and who has kicked up such a dust upon the highways of
England, as most effectually to blind the natives--one who is in himself
a legion--of highwaymen! Awaiting, with respectful deference, the
acquiescence of Captain Richard Turpin, we beg to tender him the freedom
of our crew."
"Really, gentlemen," said Turpin, who did not exactly see the drift of
this harangue, "you do me a vast deal of honor. I am quite at a loss to
conceive how I can possibly have merited so much attention at your
hands; and, indeed, I feel myself so unworthy----" Here Dick received an
expressive wink from Juniper, and therefore thought it prudent to alter
his expression. "Could I suppose myself at all deserving of so much
distinction," continued the modest speaker, "I should at once accept
your very obliging offer; but----"
"None so worthy," said the upright man.
"Can't hear of a refusal," said the knight of Malta.
"Refusal--impossible!" reiterated Juniper.
"No; no refusal," exclaimed a chorus of voices. "Dick Turpin must be one
of us. He shall be our dimber damber."
"Well, gentlemen, since you are so pressing," replied Turpin, "even so
be it. I _will_ be your dimber damber."
"Bravo! bravo!" cried the mob, _not_ "of gentlemen."
"About it, pals, at once," said the knight of Malta, flourishing
Excalibur. "By St. Thomas à Becket, we'll have as fine a scene as I
myself ever furnished to the Canterbury lieges."
"About what?" asked Dick.
"Your matriculation," replied Jerry. "There are certain forms to be
gone through, with an oath to be taken, merely a trifle. We'll have a
jolly booze when all's over. Come bing avast, my merry pals; to the
green, to the green: a Turpin! a Turpin! a new brother!"
"A Turpin! a Turpin! a new brother!" echoed the crew.
"I've brought you through," said Jerry, taking advantage of the uproar
that ensued to whisper to his chum; "none of them will dare to lift a
finger against you now. They are all your friends for life."
"Nevertheless," returned Turpin, "I should be glad to know what has
become of Bess."
"If it's your prancer you are wanting," chirped a fluttering creature,
whom Turpin recognized as Luke's groom, Grasshopper, "I gave her a fresh
loaf and a stoup of stingo, as you bade me, and there she be, under yon
tree, as quiet as a lamb."
"I see her," replied Turpin; "just tighten her girths, Grasshopper, and
bring her after me, and thou shalt have wherewithal to chirp over thy
cups at supper."
Away bounded the elfin dwarf to execute his behest.
A loud shout now rent the skies, and presently afterwards was heard the
vile scraping of a fiddle, accompanied by the tattoo of a drum.
Approaching Turpin, a host of gipsies elevated the highwayman upon their
shoulders, and in this way he was carried to the centre of the green,
where the long oaken table, which had once served the Franciscans for
refection, was now destined for the stage of the pageant.
Upon this table three drums were placed; and Turpin was requested to
seat himself on the central one. A solemn prelude, more unearthly than
the incantation in the Freyschütz, was played by the orchestra of the
band, conducted by the Paganini of the place, who elicited the most
marvellous notes from his shell. A couple of shawms[35] emitted
sepulchral sounds, while the hollow rolling of a drum broke ever and
anon upon the ear. The effect was prodigiously fine. During this
overture the patrico and the upright man had ascended the rostrum, each
taking his place; the former on the right hand of Turpin, the latter
upon his left. Below them stood the knight of Malta, with Excalibur
drawn in his hand, and gleaming in the sunshine. On the whole, Dick was
amused with what he saw, and with the novel situation in which he found
himself placed. Around the table were congregated a compact mass of
heads; so compact, indeed, that they looked like one creature--an Argus,
with each eye upturned upon the highwayman. The idea struck Turpin that
the restless mass of parti-colored shreds and patches, of vivid hues and
varied tintings, singularly, though accidentally, disposed to produce
such an effect, resembled an immense tiger-moth, or it might be a Turkey
carpet spread out upon the grass!
The scene was a joyous one. It was a brilliant sunshiny morning.
Freshened and purified by the storm of the preceding night, the air
breathed a balm upon the nerves and senses of the robber. The wooded
hills were glittering in light; the brook was flowing swiftly past the
edge of the verdant slope, glancing like a wreathed snake in the
sunshine--its "quiet song" lost in the rude harmony of the mummers, as
were the thousand twitterings of the rejoicing birds; the rocks bared
their bosoms to the sun, or were buried in deep-cast gloom; the shadows
of the pillars and arches of the old walls of the priory were projected
afar, while the rose-like ramifications of the magnificent marigold
window were traced, as if by a pencil, upon the verdant tablet of the
sod.
The overture was finished. With the appearance of the principal figures
in this strange picture the reader is already familiar. It remains only
to give him some idea of the patrico. Imagine, then, an old
superannuated goat, reared upon its hind legs, and clad in a white
sheet, disposed in folds like those of a simar about its limbs, and you
will have some idea of Balthazar, the patrico. This resemblance to the
animal before mentioned was rendered the more striking by his huge,
hanging, goat-like under lip, his lengthy white beard, and a sort of
cap, covering his head, which was ornamented with a pair of horns, such
as are to be seen in Michael Angelo's tremendous statue of Moses.
Balthazar, besides being the patrico of the tribe, was its principal
professor of divination, and had been the long-tried and faithful
minister of Barbara Lovel, from whose secret instructions he was
supposed to have derived much of his magical skill.
Placing a pair of spectacles upon his "prognosticating nose," and
unrolling a vellum skin, upon which strange characters were written,
Balthazar, turning to Turpin, thus commenced in a solemn voice:
Thou who wouldst our brother be,
Say how we shall enter thee?
Name the name that thou wilt bear
Ere our livery thou wear?
"I see no reason why I should alter my designation," replied the
noviciate; "but as popes change their titles on their creation, there
can be no objection to a scampsman following so excellent an example.
Let me be known as the Night Hawk."
"The Night Hawk--good," returned the hierophant, proceeding to register
the name upon the parchment. "Kneel down," continued he.
After some hesitation, Turpin complied.
"You must repeat the 'salamon,' or oath of our creed, after my
dictation," said the patrico; and Turpin, signifying his assent by a
nod, Balthazar propounded the following abjuration:
OATH OF THE CANTING CREW
I, Crank-Cuffin, swear to be
True to this fraternity;
That I will in all obey
Rule and order of the lay.
Never blow the gab, or squeak;
Never snitch to bum or beak;
But religiously maintain
Authority of those who reign
Over Stop-Hole Abbey Green,
Be they tawny king, or queen.
In their cause alone will fight;
Think what they think, wrong or right;
Serve them truly, and no other,
And be faithful to my brother;
Suffer none, from far or near,
With their rights to interfere;
No strange Abram, ruffler crack,
Hooker of another pack,
Rogue or rascal, frater, maunderer,
Irish toyle, or other wanderer;
No dimber damber, angler, dancer,
Prig of cackler, prig of prancer;
No swigman, swaddler, clapperdudgeon;
Cadge-gloak, curtal, or curmudgeon;
No whip-jack, palliard, patrico;
No jarkman, be he high or low;
No dummerar, or romany;
No member of "_the Family_;"
No ballad-basket, bouncing buffer,
Nor any other, will I suffer;
But stall-off now and for ever,
All outliers whatsoever:
And as I keep to the foregone,
So may help me Salamon![36]
"So help me Salamon!" repeated Turpin, with emphasis.
"Zoroaster," said the patrico to the upright man, "do thy part of this
ceremonial."
Zoroaster obeyed; and, taking Excalibur from the knight of Malta,
bestowed a hearty thwack with the blade upon the shoulders of the
kneeling highwayman, assisting him afterwards to arise.
The inauguration was complete.
"Well," exclaimed Dick, "I'm glad it's all over. My leg feels a little
stiffish. I'm not much given to kneeling. I must dance it off;" saying
which, he began to shuffle upon the boards. "I tell you what," continued
he, "most reverend patrico, that same 'salmon' of yours has a cursed
long tail. I could scarce swallow it all, and it's strange if it don't
give me an indigestion. As to you, sage Zory, from the dexterity with
which you flourish your sword, I should say you had practised at court.
His majesty could scarce do the thing better, when, slapping some fat
alderman upon the shoulder, he bids him arise Sir Richard. And now,
pals," added he, glancing round, "as I am one of you, let's have a booze
together ere I depart, for I don't think my stay will be long in the
land of Egypt."
This suggestion of Turpin was so entirely consonant to the wishes of the
assemblage, that it met with universal approbation; and upon a sign from
Zoroaster, some of his followers departed in search of supplies for the
carousal. Zoroaster leaped from the table, and his example was followed
by Turpin, and more leisurely by the patrico.
It was rather early in the day for a drinking bout. But the Canting Crew
were not remarkably particular. The chairs were removed, and the
jingling of glasses announced the arrival of the preliminaries of the
matutine symposion. Poles, canvas, and cords were next brought; and in
almost as short a space of time as one scene is substituted for another
in a theatrical representation, a tent was erected. Benches, stools, and
chairs appeared with equal celerity, and the interior soon presented an
appearance like that of a booth at a fair. A keg of brandy was broached,
and the health of the new brother quaffed in brimmers.
Our highwayman returned thanks. Zoroaster was in the chair, the knight
of Malta acting as croupier. A second toast was proposed--the tawny
queen. This was drunk with a like enthusiasm, and with a like allowance
of the potent spirit; but as bumpers of brandy are not to be repeated
with impunity, it became evident to the president of the board that he
must not repeat his toasts quite so expeditiously. To create a
temporary diversion, therefore, he called for a song.
The dulcet notes of the fiddle now broke through the clamor; and, in
answer to the call, Jerry Juniper volunteered the following:
JERRY JUNIPER'S CHANT
In a box[37] of the stone jug[38] I was born,
Of a hempen widow[39] the kid forlorn.
_Fake away,_
And my father, as I've heard say,
_Fake away._
Was a merchant of capers[40] gay,
Who cut his last fling with great applause,
_Nix my doll pals, fake away._[41]
Who cut his last fling with great applause,[42]
To the tune of a "hearty choke with caper sauce."
_Fake away._
The knucks in quod[43] did my schoolmen play,
_Fake away,_
And put me up to the time of day;
Until at last there was none so knowing,
_Nix my doll pals, fake away._
Until at last there was none so knowing,
No such sneaksman[44] or buzgloak[45] going.
_Fake away._
Fogles[46] and fawnies[47] soon went their way,
_Fake away_,
To the spout[48] with the sneezers[49] in grand array.
No dummy hunter[50] had forks[51] so fly;
_Nix my doll pals, fake away_.
No dummy hunter had forks so fly,
No knuckler[52] so deftly could fake a cly,[53]
_Fake away._
No slour'd hoxter[54] my snipes[55] could stay,
_Fake away._
None knap a reader[56] like me in the lay.
Soon then I mounted in swell-street high.
_Nix my doll pals, fake away._
Soon then I mounted in swell-street high,
And sported my flashiest toggery[57],
_Fake away._
Firmly resolved I would make my hay,
_Fake away,_
While Mercury's star shed a single ray;
And ne'er was there seen such a dashing prig,[58]
_Nix my doll pals, fake away._
And ne'er was there seen such a dashing prig,
With my strummel faked in the newest twig.[59]
_Fake away._
With my fawnied famms,[60] and my onions gay,[61]
_Fake away;_
My thimble of ridge[62], and my driz kemesa[63];
All my togs were so niblike[64] and splash,
_Nix my doll pals, fake away._
All my togs were so niblike and splash,
Readily the queer screens I then could smash;[65]
_Fake away._
But my nuttiest blowen,[66] one fine day,
_Fake away,_
To the beaks[67] did her fancy man betray,
And thus was I bowled out at last[68]
_Nix my doll pals, fake away._
And thus was I bowled out at last,
And into the jug for a lag was cast;[69]
_Fake away._
But I slipped my darbies[70] one morn in May,
_Fake away,_
And gave to the dubsman[71] a holiday.
And here I am, pals, merry and free,
A regular rollicking romany.[72]
_Nix my doll pals, fake away._
Much laughter and applause rewarded Jerry's attempt to please; and
though the meaning of his chant, even with the aid of the numerous notes
appended to it, may not be quite obvious to our readers, we can assure
them that it was perfectly intelligible to the Canting Crew. Jerry was
now entitled to a call; and happening, at the moment, to meet the fine
dark eyes of a sentimental gipsy, one of that better class of mendicants
who wandered about the country with a guitar at his back, his election
fell upon him. The youth, without prelude, struck up a
GIPSY SERENADE
Merry maid, merry maid, wilt thou wander with me?
We will roam through the forest, the meadow, and lea;
We will haunt the sunny bowers, and when day begins to flee,
Our couch shall be the ferny brake, our canopy the tree.
_Merry maid, merry maid, come and wander with me!
No life like the gipsy's, so joyous and free!_
Merry maid, merry maid, though a roving life be ours,
We will laugh away the laughing and quickly fleeting hours;
Our hearts are free, as is the free and open sky above,
And we know what tamer souls know not, how lovers ought to love.
_Merry maid, merry maid, come and wander with me!
No life like the gipsy's so joyous and free!_
Zoroaster now removed the pipe from his upright lips to intimate his
intention of proposing a toast.
A universal knocking of knuckles by the knucklers[73] was followed by
profound silence. The sage spoke:
"The city of Canterbury, pals," said he; "and may it never want a knight
of Malta."
The toast was pledged with much laughter, and in many bumpers.
The knight, upon whom all eyes were turned, rose, "with stately bearing
and majestic motion," to return thanks.
"I return you an infinitude of thanks, brother pals," said he, glancing
round the assemblage; and bowing to the president, "and to you, most
upright Zory, for the honor you have done me in associating my name with
that city. Believe me, I sincerely appreciate the compliment, and echo
the sentiment from the bottom of my soul. I trust it never _will_ want
a knight of Malta. In return for your consideration, but a poor one you
will say, you shall have a ditty, which I composed upon the occasion of
my pilgrimage to that city, and which I have thought proper to name
after myself."
THE KNIGHT OF MALTA
_A Canterbury Tale_[74]
Come list to me, and you shall have, without a hem or haw, sirs,
A Canterbury pilgrimage, much better than old Chaucer's.
'Tis of a hoax I once played off upon that city clever,
The memory of which, I hope, will stick to it for ever.
_With my coal-black beard, and purple cloak,
jack-boots, and broad-brimmed castor,
Hey-ho! for the knight of Malta!_
To execute my purpose, in the first place, you must know, sirs,
My locks I let hang down my neck--my beard and whiskers grow, sirs;
A purple cloak I next clapped on, a sword lagged to my side, sirs,
And mounted on a charger black, I to the town did ride, sirs.
_With my coal-black beard, &c._
Two pages were there by my side, upon two little ponies,
Decked out in scarlet uniform, as spruce as macaronies;
Caparisoned my charger was, as grandly as his master,
And o'er my long and curly locks, I wore a broad-brimmed castor.
_With my coal-black beard, &c._
The people all flocked forth, amazed to see a man so hairy,
Oh I such a sight had ne'er before been seen in Canterbury!
My flowing robe, my flowing beard, my horse with flowing mane, sirs!
They stared--the days of chivalry, they thought, were come again, sirs!
_With my coal-black beard, &c._
I told them a long rigmarole romance, that did not halt a
Jot, that they beheld in me a real knight of Malta!
Tom à Becket had I sworn I was, that saint and martyr hallowed,
I doubt not just as readily the bait they would have swallowed.
_With my coal-black beard, &c._
I rode about, and speechified, and everybody gullied,
The tavern-keepers diddled, and the magistracy bullied;
Like puppets were the townsfolk led in that show they call a raree;
The Gotham sages were a joke to those of Canterbury.
_With my coal-black beard, &c._
The theatre I next engaged, where I addressed the crowd, sirs,
And on retrenchment and reform I spouted long and loud, sirs;
On tithes and on taxation I enlarged with skill and zeal, sirs,
Who so able as a Malta knight, the malt tax to repeal, sirs.
_With my coal-black beard, &c._
As a candidate I then stepped forth to represent their city,
And my non-election to that place was certainly a pity;
For surely I the fittest was, and very proper, very,
To represent the wisdom and the wit of Canterbury.
_With my coal-black beard, &c._
At the trial of some smugglers next, one thing I rather queer did,
And the justices upon the bench I literally _bearded_;
For I swore that I some casks did see, though proved as clear as
day, sirs,
That I happened at the time to be some fifty miles away, sirs.
_With my coal-black beard, &c._
This last assertion, I must own, was somewhat of a blunder,
And for perjury indicted they compelled me to knock under;
To my prosperous career this slight error put a stop, sirs,
And thus _crossed_, the knight of Malta was at length obliged to
_hop_, sirs.
_With his coal-black beard, and purple cloak,
jack-boots, and broad-brimmed castor,
Good-by to the knight of Malta._
The knight sat down amidst the general plaudits of the company.
The party, meanwhile, had been increased by the arrival of Luke and the
sexton. The former, who was in no mood for revelry, refused to comply
with his grandsire's solicitation to enter, and remained sullenly at the
door, with his arms folded, and his eyes fixed upon Turpin, whose
movements he commanded through the canvas aperture. The sexton walked up
to Dick, who was seated at the post of honor, and, clapping him upon
the shoulder, congratulated him upon the comfortable position in which
he found him.
"Ha, ha! Are you there, my old death's-head on a mop-stick?" said
Turpin, with a laugh. "Ain't we merry mumpers, eh? Keeping it up in
style. Sit down, old Noah--make yourself comfortable, Methusalem."
"What say you to a drop of as fine Nantz as you ever tasted in your
life, old cove?" said Zoroaster.
"I have no sort of objection to it," returned Peter, "provided you will
all pledge my toast."
"That I will, were it old Ruffin himself," shouted Turpin.
"Here's to the three-legged mare," cried Peter. "To the tree that bears
fruit all the year round, and yet has neither bark nor branch. You won't
refuse that toast, Captain Turpin?"
"Not I," answered Dick; "I owe the gallows no grudge. If, as Jerry's
song says, I must have a 'hearty choke and caper sauce' for my breakfast
one of these fine mornings, it shall never be said that I fell to my
meal without appetite, or neglected saying grace before it. Gentlemen,
here's Peter Bradley's toast: 'The scragging post--the three-legged
mare,' with three times three."
Appropriate as this sentiment was, it did not appear to be so inviting
to the party as might have been anticipated, and the shouts soon died
away.
"They like not the thoughts of the gallows," said Turpin to Peter. "More
fools they. A mere bugbear to frighten children, believe me; and never
yet alarmed a brave man. The gallows, pshaw! One can but die once, and
what signifies it how, so that it be over quickly. I think no more of
the last leap into eternity than clearing a five-barred gate. A rope's
end for it! So let us be merry, and make the most of our time, and
that's true philosophy. I know you can throw off a rum chant," added he,
turning to Peter. "I heard you sing last night at the hall. Troll us a
stave, my antediluvian file, and, in the meantime, tip me a gage of
fogus,[75] Jerry; and if that's a bowl of huckle-my-butt[76] you are
brewing, Sir William," added he, addressing the knight of Malta, "you
may send me a jorum at your convenience."
Jerry handed the highwayman a pipe, together with a tumbler of the
beverage which the knight had prepared, which he pronounced excellent;
and while the huge bowl was passed round to the company, a prelude of
shawms announced that Peter was ready to break into song.
Accordingly, after the symphony was ended, accompanied at intervals by a
single instrument, Peter began his melody, in a key so high, that the
utmost exertions of the shawm-blower failed to approach its altitudes.
The burden of his minstrelsy was
THE MANDRAKE[77]
{Môly de min kaleousi theoi, chalnpon de t' oryssein
Andrasi ge thnêtoisi theoi, de te panta dynantai.}
HOMERUS.
The mandrake grows 'neath the gallows-tree,
And rank and green are its leaves to see;
Green and rank, as the grass that waves
Over the unctuous earth of graves;
And though all around it lie bleak and bare,
Freely the mandrake flourisheth there.
_Maranatha--Anathema!
Dread is the curse of mandragora!
Euthanasy!_
At the foot of the gibbet the mandrake springs;
Just where the creaking carcase swings;
Some have thought it engendered
From the fat that drops from the bones of the dead;
Some have thought it a human thing;
But this is a vain imagining.
_Maranatha--Anathema!
Dread is the curse of mandragora!
Euthanasy!_
A charnel leaf doth the mandrake wear,
A charnel fruit doth the mandrake bear;
Yet none like the mandrake hath such great power,
Such virtue resides not in herb or flower;
Aconite, hemlock, or moonshade, I ween,
None hath a poison so subtle and keen.
_Maranatha--Anathema!
Dread is the curse of mandragora!
Euthanasy!_
And whether the mandrake be create
Flesh with the power incorporate,
I know not; yet, if from the earth 'tis rent,
Shrieks and groans from the root are sent;
Shrieks and groans, and a sweat like gore
Oozes and drops from the clammy core.
_Maranatha--Anathema!
Dread is the curse of mandragora!
Euthanasy!_
Whoso gathereth the mandrake shall surely die;
Blood for blood is his destiny.
Some who have plucked it have died with groans,
Like to the mandrake's expiring moans;
Some have died raving, and some beside--
With penitent prayers--but _all_ have died.
_Jesu! save us by night and day!
From the terrible death of mandragora!
Euthanasy!_
"A queer chant that," said Zoroaster, coughing loudly, in token of
disapprobation.
"Not much to my taste," quoth the knight of Malta. "We like something
more sprightly in Canterbury."
"Nor to mine," added Jerry; "don't think it's likely to have an encore.
'Pon my soul, Dick, you must give us something yourself, or we shall
never cry Euthanasy at the Triple Tree."
"With all my heart," replied Turpin. "You shall have--but what do I see,
my friend Sir Luke? Devil take my tongue, Luke Bradley, I mean. What,
ho! Luke--nay, nay, man, no shrinking--stand forward; I've a word or two
to say to you. We must have a hob-a-nob glass together for old
acquaintance sake. Nay, no airs, man; damme you're not a lord yet, nor a
baronet either, though I do hold your title in my pocket; never look
glum at me. It won't pay. I'm one of the Canting Crew now; no man shall
sneer at me with impunity, eh, Zory? Ha, ha! here's a glass of Nantz;
we'll have a bottle of black strap when you are master of your own. Make
ready there, you gut-scrapers, you shawm-shavers; I'll put your lungs in
play for you presently. In the meantime--charge, pals, charge--a toast,
a toast! Health and prosperity to Sir Luke Rookwood! I see you are
surprised--this, gemmen, is Sir Luke Rookwood, somewhile Luke Bradley,
heir to the house of that name, not ten miles distant from this. Say,
shall we not drink a bumper to his health?"
Astonishment prevailed amongst the crew. Luke himself had been taken by
surprise. When Turpin discovered him at the door of the tent, and
summoned him to appear, he reluctantly complied with the request; but
when, in a half-bantering vein, Dick began to rally him upon his
pretensions, he would most gladly have retreated, had it been in his
power. It was then too late. He felt he must stand the ordeal. Every eye
was fixed upon him with a look of inquiry.
Zoroaster took his everlasting pipe from his mouth.
"This ain't true, sure_ly_?" asked the perplexed Magus.
"He has said it," replied Luke; "I may not deny it."
This was sufficient. There was a wild hubbub of delight amongst the
crew, for Luke was a favorite with all.
"Sir Luke Rookwood!" cried Jerry Juniper, who liked a title as much as
Tommy Moore is said to dote upon a lord. "Upon my soul I sincerely
congratulate you; devilish fortunate fellow. Always cursed unlucky
myself. I could never find out my own father, unless it were one
Monsieur des Capriolles, a French dancing-master, and _he_ never left
anything behind him that I could hear of, except a broken kit and a
hempen widow. Sir Luke Rookwood, we shall do ourselves the pleasure of
drinking your health and prosperity."
Fresh bumpers and immense cheering.
Silence being in a measure restored, Zoroaster claimed Turpin's promise
of a song.
"True, true," replied Dick; "I have not forgotten it. Stand to your
bows, my hearties."
THE GAME OF HIGH TOBY
Now Oliver[78] puts his black nightcap on,
And every star its glim[79] is hiding,
And forth to the heath is the scampsman[80] gone,
His matchless cherry-black[81] prancer riding;
Merrily over the common he flies,
Fast and free as the rush of rocket,
His crape-covered vizard drawn over his eyes,
His tol[82] by his side, and his pops[83] in his pocket.
CHORUS
_Then who can name
So merry a game,
As the game of all games--high toby?_[84]
The traveller hears him, away! away!
Over the wide wide heath he scurries;
He heeds not the thunderbolt summons to stay,
But ever the faster and faster he hurries.
But what daisy-cutter can match that black tit?
He is caught--he must "stand and deliver;"
Then out with the dummy[85], and off with the bit,[86]
Oh! the game of high toby for ever!
CHORUS
_Then who can name
So merry a game,
As the game of all games--high toby?_
Believe me, there is not a game, my brave boys,
To compare with the game of high toby;
No rapture can equal the tobyman's joys,
To blue devils, blue plumbs[87] give the go-by;
And what if, at length, boys, he come to the crap![88]
Even rack punch has _some_ bitter in it,
For the mare-with-three-legs[89], boys, I care not a rap,
'Twill be over in less than a minute.
GRAND CHORUS
_Then hip, hurrah!
Fling care away!
Hurrah for the game of high toby!_
"And now, pals," said Dick, who began to feel the influence of these
morning cups, "I vote that we adjourn. Believe me I shall always bear in
mind that I am a brother of your band. Sir Luke and I must have a little
chat together ere I take my leave. Adieu!"
And taking Luke by the arm, he walked out of the tent. Peter Bradley
rose, and followed them.
At the door they found the dwarfish Grasshopper with Black Bess.
Rewarding the urchin for his trouble, and slipping the bridle of his
mare over his hand, Turpin continued his walk over the green. For a few
minutes he seemed to be lost in rumination.
"I tell you what, Sir Luke," said he; "I should like to do a generous
thing, and make you a present of this bit of paper. But one ought not to
throw away one's luck, you know--there is a tide in the affairs of
thieves, as the player coves say, which must be taken at the flood, or
else----no matter! Your old dad, Sir Piers--God help him!--had the
gingerbread, _that_ I know; he was, as we say, a regular rhino-cerical
cull. You won't feel a few thousands, especially at starting; and
besides, there are two others, Rust and Wilder, who row in the same boat
with me, and must therefore come in for their share of the reg'lars.
All this considered, you can't complain, I think if I ask five thousand
for it. That old harridan, Lady Rookwood, offered me nearly as much."
"I will not talk to you of fairness," said Luke; "I will not say that
document belongs of right to me. It fell by accident into your hands.
Having possessed yourself of it, I blame you not that you dispose of it
to the best advantage. I must, perforce, agree to your terms."
"Oh, no," replied Dick, "it's quite optional; Lady Rookwood will give as
much, and make no mouths about it. Soho, lass! What makes Bess prick her
ears in that fashion?--Ha! carriage-wheels in the distance! that jade
knows the sound as well as I do. I'll just see what it's like!--you will
have ten minutes for reflection. Who knows if I may not have come in for
a good thing here?"
At that instant the carriage passed the angle of a rock some three
hundred yards distant, and was seen slowly ascending the hill-side.
Eager as a hawk after his quarry, Turpin dashed after it.
In vain the sexton, whom he nearly overthrew in his career, called after
him to halt. He sped like a bolt from the bow.
"May the devil break his neck!" cried Peter, as he saw him dash through
the brook; "could he not let them alone?"
"This must not be," said Luke; "know you whose carriage it is?"
"It is a shrine that holds the jewel that should be dearest in your
eyes," returned Peter; "haste, and arrest the spoiler's hand."
"Whom do you mean?" asked Luke.
"Eleanor Mowbray," replied Peter. "She is there. To the rescue--away."
"Eleanor Mowbray!" echoed Luke--"and Sybil?----"
At this instant a pistol-shot was heard.
"Will you let murder be done, and upon your cousin?" cried Peter, with a
bitter look. "You are not what I took you for."
Luke answered not, but, swift as the hound freed from the leash, darted
in the direction of the carriage.
_CHAPTER VI_
_ELEANOR MOWBRAY_
----Mischiefs
Are like the visits of Franciscan friars,
They never come to prey upon us single.
_Devil's Law Case._
The course of our tale returns now to Eleanor Mowbray. After she had
parted from Ranulph Rookwood, and had watched him disappear beneath the
arches of the church porch, her heart sank, and, drawing herself back
within the carriage, she became a prey to the most poignant affliction.
In vain she endeavored to shake off this feeling of desolation. It would
not be. Despair had taken possession of her; the magic fabric of delight
melted away, or only gleamed to tantalize, at an unreachable distance. A
presentiment that Ranulph would never be hers had taken root in her
imagination, and overshadowed all the rest.
While Eleanor pursued this train of reflection, the time insensibly wore
away, until the sudden stoppage of the carriage aroused the party from
their meditation. Major Mowbray perceived that the occasion of the halt
was the rapid advance of a horseman, who was nearing them at full speed.
The appearance of the rider was somewhat singular, and might have
created some uneasiness as to the nature of his approach, had not the
major immediately recognized a friend; he was, nevertheless, greatly
surprised to see him, and turned to Mrs. Mowbray to inform her that
Father Ambrose, to his infinite astonishment, was coming to meet them,
and appeared, from his manner, to be the bearer of unwelcome tidings.
Father Ambrose was, perhaps, the only being whom Eleanor disliked. She
had felt an unaccountable antipathy towards him, which she could neither
extirpate nor control, during their long and close intimacy. It may be
necessary to mention that her religious culture had been in accordance
with the tenets of the Romish Church, in whose faith--the faith of her
ancestry--her mother had continued; and that Father Ambrose, with whom
she had first become acquainted during the residence of the family near
Bordeaux, was her ghostly adviser and confessor. An Englishman by birth,
he had been appointed pastor to the diocese in which they dwelt, and
was, consequently, a frequent visitor, almost a constant inmate of the
château; yet though duty and respect would have prompted her to regard
the father with affection, Eleanor could never conquer the feelings of
dislike and distrust which she had at first entertained towards him; a
dislike which was increased by the strange control in which he seemed to
hold her mother, who regarded him with a veneration approaching to
infatuation. It was, therefore, with satisfaction that she bade him
adieu. He had, however, followed his friends to England under a feigned
name as--being a recusant Romish priest, and supposed to have been
engaged in certain Jesuitical plots, his return to his own country was
attended with considerable risk--, and had now remained domesticated
with them for some months. That he had been in some way, in early life,
connected with a branch of the house of Rookwood, Eleanor was aware--she
fancied he might have been engaged in political intrigue with Sir
Reginald, which would have well accorded with his ardent, ambitious
temperament--, and the knowledge of this circumstance made her doubly
apprehensive lest the nature of his present communication should have
reference to her lover, towards whose cause the father had never been
favorable, and respecting whose situation he might have made some
discovery, which she feared he might use to Ranulph's disadvantage.
Wrapped in a long black cloak, with a broad-brimmed hat drawn closely
over his brows, it was impossible to distinguish further of the priest's
figure and features beyond the circumstance of his height, which was
remarkable, until he had reached the carriage window, when, raising his
hat, he disclosed a head that Titian might have painted, and which,
arising from the dark drapery, looked not unlike the visage of some
grave and saturnine Venetian. There was a venerable expanse of forehead,
thinly scattered with hair, towering over black pent-house-like brows,
which, in their turn, shadowed keen penetrating eyes; the temples were
hollow, and blue veins might be traced beneath the sallow skin; the
cheek-bones were high, and there was something in the face that spoke of
self-mortification; while the thin livid lips, closely compressed, and
the austere and sinister expression of his countenance, showed that his
self-abasement, if he had ever practised it, had scarcely prostrated the
demon of pride, whose dominion might still be traced in the lines and
furrows of his haughty physiognomy. The father looked at Mrs. Mowbray,
and then glanced suspiciously at Eleanor. The former appeared to
understand him.
"You would say a word to me in private," said Mrs. Mowbray; "shall I
descend?"
The priest bowed assent.
"It is not to you alone that my mission extends," said he, gravely; "you
are all in part concerned; your son had better alight with you."
"Instantly," replied the major. "If you will give your horse in charge
to the postilion, we will attend you at once."
With a feeling of renewed apprehension, connected, she knew not why,
with Ranulph, Eleanor beheld her relatives descend from the carriage;
and, in the hope of gaining some clue from their gestures to the subject
of their conversation, she watched their motions as narrowly as her
situation permitted. From the earnest manner of the priest, and the
interest his narrative seemed to excite in his hearers, it was evident
that his communication was of importance.
Presently, accompanied by Father Ambrose, Mrs. Mowbray returned to the
carriage, while the major, mounting the priest's horse, after bidding a
hasty adieu to his sister, adding, with a look that belied the
consolation intended to be conveyed by his words, that "all was well,"
but without staying to offer her any explanation of the cause of his
sudden departure, rode back the way they had just traversed, and in the
direction of Rookwood. Bereft of the only person to whom she could have
applied for information, though dying with curiosity and anxiety to know
the meaning of this singular interview and of the sudden change of plans
which she felt so intimately concerned herself, Eleanor was constrained
to preserve silence, as, after their entrance into the carriage, her
mother again seemed lost in painful reflection, and heeded her not; and
the father, drawing from his pocket a small volume, appeared intently
occupied in its perusal.
"Dear mother," said Eleanor, at length, turning to Mrs. Mowbray, "my
brother is gone----"
"To Rookwood," said Mrs. Mowbray, in a tone calculated to check further
inquiry; but Eleanor was too anxious to notice it.
"And wherefore, mother?" said she. "May I not be informed?"
"Not as yet, my child--not as yet," replied Mrs. Mowbray. "You will
learn all sufficiently early."
The priest raised his cat-like eyes from the book to watch the effect of
this speech, and dropped them instantly as Eleanor turned towards him.
She had been about to appeal to him, but having witnessed this look, she
relinquished her scarce-formed purpose, and endeavored to divert her
tristful thoughts by gazing through the glimmering medium of her tears
upon the soothing aspect of external nature--that aspect which, in
sunshine or in storm, has ever relief in store for a heart embittered by
the stormy coldness of the world.
The road, meanwhile, led them through a long woody valley, and was now
climbing the sides of a steep hill. They were soon in the vicinity of
the priory, and of the gipsies' encampment. The priest leaned forward,
and whispered something in Mrs. Mowbray's ear, who looked towards the
ruined shrine, part of the mouldering walls being visible from the road.
At the moment the clatter of a horse's hoofs, and the sound of a loud
voice, commanding the postilion, in a menacing tone, to stop,
accompanied by a volley of imprecations, interrupted the conference, and
bespoke the approach of an unwelcome intruder, and one whom all, too
truly, feared would not be readily dismissed. The postilion did his best
to rid them of the assailant. Perceiving a masked horseman behind him,
approaching at a furious rate, he had little doubt as to his intentions,
and Turpin, for it was our highwayman, soon made his doubts certainties.
He hallooed to him to stop; but the fellow paid no attention to his
command, and disregarded even the pistol which he saw, in a casual
glimpse over his near side, presented at his person. Clapping spurs into
his horse's flanks, he sought succor in flight. Turpin was by his side
in an instant. As the highwayman endeavored to catch his reins, the lad
suddenly wheeled the carriage right upon him, and but for the dexterity
of Turpin, and the clever conduct of his mare, would inevitably have
crushed him against the roadside. As it was, his left leg was slightly
grazed. Irritated at this, Turpin fired over the man's head, and with
the butt-end of the pistol felled him from his seat. Startled by the
sound, and no longer under the governance of their rider, the horses
rushed with frantic violence towards a ditch that bounded the other side
of the highway, down which the carriage was precipitated, and at once
overturned. Turpin's first act, after he had ascertained that no
mischief had been occasioned to those within, beyond the alarm incident
to the shock, was to compel the postilion, who had by this time gained
his legs, to release the horses from their traces. This done, with the
best grace he could assume, and, adjusting his mask, he opened the
carriage, and proceeded to liberate the captives.
"Beg pardon, ma'am," said he, as soon as he had released Mrs. Mowbray;
"excessively sorry, upon my soul, to have been the cause of so much
unnecessary alarm to you--all the fault, I assure you, of that rascal of
a postilion; had the fellow only pulled up when I commanded him, this
botheration might have been avoided. You will remember that, when you
pay him--all his fault, I assure you, ma'am."
Receiving no reply, he proceeded to extricate Eleanor, with whose beauty
the inflammable highwayman was instantly smitten. Leaving the father to
shift for himself, he turned to address some observation of coarse
gallantry to her; but she eluded his grasp, and flew to her mother's
side.
"It is useless, sir," said Mrs. Mowbray, as Turpin drew near them, "to
affect ignorance of your intentions. You have already occasioned us
serious alarm; much delay and inconvenience. I trust, therefore, that
beyond our purses, to which, though scantily supplied, you are welcome,
we shall sustain no molestation. You seem to have less of the ruffian
about you than the rest of your lawless race, and are not, I should
hope, destitute of common humanity."
"Common humanity!" replied Turpin: "bless you, ma'am, I'm the most
humane creature breathing--would not hurt a fly, much less a lady.
Incivility was never laid to my charge. This business may be managed in
a few seconds; and as soon as we have settled the matter, I'll lend your
stupid jack-boy a hand to put the horses to the carriage again, and get
the wheels out of the ditch. You have a banker, ma'am, I suppose, in
town--perhaps in the country; but I don't like country bankers; besides,
I want a little ready cash in Rumville--beg pardon, ma'am, London I
mean. My ears have been so stunned with those Romany patterers, I
almost _think_ in flash. Just draw me a check; I've pen and ink always
ready: a check for fifty pounds, ma'am--only fifty. What's your banker's
name? I've blank checks of all the best houses in my pocket; that and a
kiss from the pretty lips of that cherry-cheeked maid," winking to
Eleanor, "will fully content me. You see you have neither an exorbitant
nor uncivil personage to deal with."
Eleanor shrank closer towards her mother. Exhausted by previous
agitation of the night, greatly frightened by the shock which she had
just sustained, and still more alarmed by the words and gestures of the
highwayman, she felt that she was momentarily in danger of fainting, and
with difficulty prevented herself from falling. The priest, who had
succeeded in freeing himself from the carriage, now placed himself
between Turpin and the ladies.
"Be satisfied, misguided man," said the father, in a stern voice,
offering a purse, which Mrs. Mowbray hastily extended towards him, "with
the crime you have already committed, and seek not to peril your soul by
deeper guilt; be content with the plunder you now obtain, and depart;
for, by my holy calling, I affirm to you, that if you advance one
footstep towards the further molestation of these ladies, it shall be at
the hazard of your life."
"Bravo!" exclaimed Turpin. "Now this is what I like; who would have
thought the old autem-bawler had so much pluck in him? Sir, I commend
you for your courage, but you are mistaken. I am the quietest man
breathing, and never harm a human being; in proof of which, only look at
your rascal of a postilion, whom any one of my friends would have sent
post-haste to the devil for half the trouble he gave me. Easy as I am, I
never choose to be balked in my humors. I must have the fifty and the
buss, and then I'm off, as soon as you like; and I may as well have the
kiss while the old lady signs the check, and then we shall have the seal
as well as the signature. Poh--poh--no nonsense! Many a pretty lass has
thought it an honor to be kissed by Turpin."
Eleanor recoiled with deepest disgust, as she saw the highwayman thrust
aside the useless opposition of the priest, and approach her. He had
removed his mask; his face, flushed with insolent triumph, was turned
towards her. Despite the loathing, which curdled the blood within her
veins, she could not avert her eyes. He drew near her; she uttered a
shrill scream. At that moment a powerful grasp was laid upon Turpin's
shoulder; he turned and beheld Luke.
"Save me! save me," cried Eleanor, addressing the new comer.
"Damnation!" said the highwayman, "what has brought _you_ here? one
would think you were turned assistant to all distressed damsels. Quit
your hold, or, by the God above us, you will repent it."
"Fool!" exclaimed Luke, "talk thus to one who heeds you." And as he
spoke he hurled Turpin backwards with so much force that, staggering a
few yards, the highwayman fell to the ground.
The priest stood like one stunned with surprise at Luke's sudden
appearance and subsequent daring action.
Luke, meanwhile, approached Eleanor. He gazed upon her with curiosity
mixed with admiration, for his heart told him she was very fair. A
deathlike paleness had spread over her cheeks; yet still, despite the
want of color, she looked exquisitely beautiful, and her large blue eyes
eloquently thanked her deliverer for her rescue. The words she wanted
were supplied by Mrs. Mowbray, who thanked him in appropriate terms,
when they were interrupted by Turpin, who had by this time picked
himself up, and was drawing near them. His countenance wore a fierce
expression.
"I tell you what," said he, "Luke Bradley, or Luke Rookwood, or whatever
else you may call yourself, you have taken a damned unfair advantage of
me in this matter, and deserve nothing better at my hands than that I
should call you to instant account for it--and curse me, if I don't
too."
"Luke Bradley!" interrupted Mrs. Mowbray--"are you that individual?"
"I have been so called, madam," replied Luke.
"Father Ambrose, is this the person of whom you spoke?" eagerly asked
the lady.
"So I conclude," returned the priest, evasively.
"Did he not call you Luke Rookwood?" eagerly demanded Eleanor. "Is that
also your name?"
"Rookwood is my name, fair cousin," replied Luke, "if I may venture to
call you so."
"And Ranulph Rookwood is----"
"My brother."
"I never heard he had a brother," rejoined Eleanor, with some agitation.
"How can that be?"
"I am his brother, nevertheless," replied Luke, moodily--"his ELDER
BROTHER!"
Eleanor turned to her mother and the priest with a look of imploring
anguish; she saw a confirmation of the truth of this statement in their
glances. No contradiction was offered by either to his statement; both,
indeed, appeared in some mysterious manner prepared for it. This, then,
was the dreaded secret. This was the cause of her brother's sudden
departure. The truth flashed with lightning swiftness across her brain.
Chagrined and mortified, Luke remarked that glance of inquiry. His pride
was hurt at the preference thus naturally shown towards his brother. He
had been struck, deeply struck, with her beauty. He acknowledged the
truth of Peter's words. Eleanor's loveliness was without parallel. He
had seen naught so fair, and the instant he beheld her, he felt that for
_her_ alone could he cancel his vows to Sybil. The spirit of rivalry and
jealousy was instantly aroused by Eleanor's exclamations.
"His elder brother!" echoed Eleanor, dwelling upon his words, and
addressing Luke--"then you must be--but no, you are not, you cannot
be--it is Ranulph's title--it is not yours--you are not----"
"I am Sir Luke Rookwood," replied Luke, proudly.
Ere the words were uttered Eleanor had fainted.
"Assistance is at hand, madam, if you will accept it, and follow me,"
said Luke, raising the insensible girl in his arms, and bearing her down
the hill towards the encampment, whither he was followed by Mrs. Mowbray
and the priest, between whom, during the hurried dialogue we have
detailed, very significant glances had been exchanged. Turpin, who, as
it may be supposed, had not been an incurious observer of the scene
passing, burst into his usual loud laugh on seeing Luke bear away his
lovely burden.
"Cousin! Ha, ha!" said he. "So the wench is his cousin. Damme, I half
suspect he has fallen in love with his new-found cousin; and if so, Miss
Sybil, or I'm mistaken, will look as yellow as a guinea. If that little
Spanish devil gets it into her pretty jealous pate that he is about to
bring home a new mistress, we shall have a tragedy-scene in the
twinkling of a bed-post. However, I shan't lose sight of Sir Luke until
I have settled my accounts with him. Hark ye, boy," continued he,
addressing the postilion; "remain where you are; you won't be wanted yet
awhile, I imagine. There's a guinea for you, to drink Dick Turpin's
health."
Upon which he mounted his mare, and walked her easily down the hill.
"And so that be Dick Turpin, folks talk so much about," soliloquized the
lad, looking curiously after him; "well, he's as civil-speaking a chap
as need be, blow my boots if he ain't! and if I'd had a notion it were
he, I'd have pulled up at first call, without more ado. Nothing like
experience--I shall know better another time," added he, pocketing the
douceur.
Rushing swiftly down the hill, Luke tarried at the river's brink, to
sprinkle some of the cool element upon the pale brow of Eleanor. As he
held her in his arms, thoughts which he fain would have stifled in their
birth took possession of his heart. "Would she were mine!" murmured he.
"Yet no! the wish is unworthy." But that wish returned unbidden.
Eleanor opened her eyes. She was still too weak to walk without support,
and Luke, raising her once more in his arms, and motioning Mrs. Mowbray
to follow, crossed the brook by means of stepping-stones, and conducted
his charge along a bypath towards the priory, so as to avoid meeting
with the crew assembled upon the green.
They had gained one of the roofless halls, when he encountered
Balthazar. Astonished at the sight of the party, the patrico was about
to address the priest as an acquaintance, when his more orthodox brother
raised his finger to his lips, in token of caution. The action passed
unobserved.
"Hie thee to Sybil," said Luke to the patrico. "Bid her haste hither.
Say that this maiden--that Miss Mowbray is here, and requires her aid.
Fly! I will bear her to the refectory."
As Balthazar passed the priest, he pointed with a significant glance
towards a chasm in the wall, which seemed to be an opening to some
subterraneous chamber. The father again made a gesture of silence, and
Balthazar hastened upon his mission.
Luke led them to the refectory. He brought a chair for Eleanor's
support; but so far from reviving, after such attention as could be
afforded her, she appeared to become weaker. He was about to issue forth
in search of Sybil, when to his surprise he found the door fastened.
"You cannot pass this way," said a voice, which Luke instantly
recognized as that of the knight of Malta.
"Not pass!" echoed Luke. "What does this mean?"
"Our orders are from the queen," returned the knight.
At this instant the low tone of a muffled bell was heard.
"Ha!" exclaimed Luke; "some danger is at hand."
His heart smote him as he thought of Sybil, and he looked anxiously
towards Eleanor.
Balthazar rushed into the room.
"Where is Sybil?" cried Luke. "Will she not come?"
"She will be here anon," answered the patrico.
"I will seek her myself, then," said Luke. "The door by which you
entered is free."
"It is _not_ free," replied Balthazar. "Remain where you are."
"Who will prevent my going forth?" demanded Luke, sternly.
"I will," said Barbara Lovel, as she suddenly appeared in the doorway.
"You stir not, excepting at my pleasure. Where is the maiden?" continued
she, looking around with a grim smile of satisfaction at the
consternation produced by her appearance. "Ha! I see; she faints. Here
is a cordial that shall revive her. Mrs. Mowbray, you are welcome to the
gipsies' dwelling--you and your daughter. And you, Sir Luke Rookwood, I
congratulate you upon your accession of dignity." Turning to the priest,
who was evidently overwhelmed with confusion, she exclaimed, "And you
too, sir, think you I recognize you not? We have met ere this, at
Rookwood. Know you not Barbara Lovel? Ha, ha! It is long since my poor
dwelling has been so highly honored. But I must not delay the remedy.
Let her drink of this," said she, handing a phial to Mrs. Mowbray. "It
will instantly restore her."
"It is poison," cried Luke. "She shall not drink it."
"Poison!" reiterated Barbara. "Behold!" and she drank of the liquid. "I
would not poison your bride," added she, turning to Luke.
"My bride!" echoed Luke.
"Ay, your bride," repeated Barbara.
Luke recoiled in amazement. Mrs. Mowbray almost felt inclined to believe
she was a dreamer, so visionary did the whole scene appear. A dense
crowd of witnesses stood at the entrance. Foremost amongst them was the
sexton. Suddenly a shriek was heard, and the crowd opening to allow her
passage, Sybil rushed forward.
_CHAPTER VII_
_MRS. MOWBRAY_
Well, go thy ways, old Nick Machiavel, there will never be the peer
of thee for wholesome policy and good counsel: thou took'st pains to
chalk men out the dark paths and hidden plots of murther and deceit,
and no man has the grace to follow thee. The age is unthankful, thy
principles are quite forsaken, and worn out of memory.
SHAKERLEY MARMION'S _Antiquary_.
Sybil's sudden entrance filled the group that surrounded Miss Mowbray
with new dismay. But she saw them not. Her soul seemed riveted by
Eleanor, towards whom she rushed; and while her eye wandered over her
beauty, she raised the braided hair from her brow, revealing the clear,
polished forehead. Wonder, awe, devotion, pity, usurped the place of
hatred. The fierce expression that had lit up her dark orbs was
succeeded by tender commiseration. She looked an imploring appeal at
Barbara.
"Ay, ay," returned the old gipsy, extending at the same time the phial;
"I understand. Here is that will bring the blood once more into her
pallid cheeks, and kindle the fire within her eyes. Give her of this."
The effect of the potion was almost instantaneous, amply attesting
Barbara's skill in its concoction. Stifled respiration first proclaimed
Eleanor's recovery. She opened her large and languid eyes; her bosom
heaved almost to bursting; her pulses throbbed quickly and feverishly;
and as the stimulant operated, the wild lustre of excitement blazed in
her eyes.
Sybil took her hand to chafe it. The eyes of the two maidens met. They
gazed upon each other steadfastly and in silence. Eleanor knew not whom
she regarded, but she could not mistake that look of sympathy; she could
not mistake the tremulous pressure of her hand; she felt the silent
trickling tears. She returned the sympathizing glance, and gazed with
equal wonder upon the ministering fairy, for such she almost seemed,
that knelt before her. As her looks wandered from the kindly glance of
Sybil to the withered and inauspicious aspect of the gipsy queen, and
shifted thence to the dusky figures of her attendants, filled with
renewed apprehension, she exclaimed, "Who are these, and where am I?"
"You are in safety," replied Luke. "This is the ruined priory of St.
Francis; and those strange personages are a horde of gipsies. You need
fear no injury from them."
"My deliverer!" murmured Eleanor; when all at once the recollection that
he had avowed himself a Rookwood, and the elder brother of Ranulph,
flashed across her memory. "Gipsies! did you not say these people were
gipsies? Your own attire is the same as theirs. You are not, cannot be,
the brother of Ranulph."
"I do not boast the same mother," returned Luke, proudly, "but my father
was Sir Piers Rookwood, and I am his elder born."
He turned away. Dark thoughts swept across his brain. Maddened by the
beauty of Eleanor, stung by her slights, and insensible to the silent
agony of Sybil, who sought in vain to catch his eye, he thought of
nothing but of revenge, and the accomplishment of his purposes. All
within was a wild and fearful turmoil. His better principles were
stifled by the promptings of evil. "Methinks," cried he, half aloud, "if
the Tempter were near to offer the maiden to me, even at the peril of my
soul's welfare, I could not resist it."
The Tempter _was_ at hand. He is seldom absent on occasions like the
present. The sexton stood beside his grandson. Luke started. He eyed
Peter from head to foot, almost expecting to find the cloven foot,
supposed to be proper to the fiend. Peter grinned in ghastly derision.
"Soh! you would summon hell to your aid; and lo! the devil is at your
elbow. Well, she is yours."
"Make good your words," cried Luke, impatiently.
"Softly--softly," returned Peter. "Moderate yourself, and your wishes
shall be accomplished. Your own desires chime with those of others; nay,
with those of Barbara. _She_ would wed you to Miss Mowbray. You stare.
But it is so. This is a cover for some deeper plot; no matter. It shall
go hard, despite her cunning, if I foil her not at her own weapons.
There is more mischief in that old woman's brain than was ever hatched
within the crocodile's egg; yet she shall find her match. Do not thwart
her; leave all to me. She is about it now," added he, noticing Barbara
and Mrs. Mowbray in conference together. "Be patient--I will watch her."
And he quitted his grandson for the purpose of scanning more closely the
man[oe]uvres of the old gipsy.
Barbara, meanwhile, had not remained inactive.
"You need fear no relapse in your daughter; I will answer for that,"
said the old gipsy to Mrs. Mowbray; "Sybil will tend her. Quit not the
maiden's side," continued she, addressing her grandchild, adding, in a
whisper, "Be cautious--alarm her not--mine eye will be upon you--drop
not a word."
So saying, she shuffled to a little distance with Mrs. Mowbray, keeping
Sybil in view, and watching every motion, as the panther watches the
gambols of a fawn.
"Know you who speaks to you?" said the old crone, in the peculiar low
and confidential tone assumed by her tribe to strangers. "Have you
forgotten the name of Barbara Lovel?"
"I have no distinct remembrance of it," returned Mrs. Mowbray.
"Think again," said Barbara; "and though years are flown, you may
perchance recall the black gipsy woman, who, when you were surrounded
with gay gallants, with dancing plumes, perused your palm, and whispered
in your ear the favored suitor's name. Bide with me a moment, madam,"
said Barbara, seeing that Mrs. Mowbray shrank from the recollection thus
conjured up; "I am old--very old; I have survived the shows of flattery,
and being vested with a power over my people, am apt, perchance, to take
too much upon myself with others." The old gipsy paused here, and then,
assuming a more familiar tone, exclaimed, "The estates of Rookwood are
ample----"
"Woman, what mean you?"
"They should have been yours, lady, and would have been, but for that
marriage. You would have beseemed them bravely. Sir Reginald was wilful,
and erased the daughter's name to substitute that of his son. Pity it is
that so fair a creature as Miss Mowbray should lack the dower her beauty
and her birth entitle her to expect. Pity that Ranulph Rookwood should
lose his title, at the moment when he deemed it was dropping into his
possession. Pity that those broad lands should pass away from you and
your children, as they will do, if Ranulph and Eleanor are united."
"They never shall be united," replied Mrs. Mowbray, hastily.
"'Twere indeed to wed your child to beggary," said Barbara.
Mrs. Mowbray sighed deeply.
"There is a way," continued the old crone, in a deep whisper, "by which
the estates might still be hers and yours."
"Indeed!" said Mrs. Mowbray, eagerly.
"Sir Piers Rookwood had two sons."
"Ha!"
"The elder is here."
"Luke--Sir Luke. He brought us hither."
"He loves your daughter. I saw his gaze of passion just now. I am old
now, but I have some skill in lovers' glances. Why not wed her to him? I
read hands--read hearts, you know. They were born for each other. Now,
madam, do you understand me?"
"But," returned Mrs. Mowbray, with hesitation, "though I might wish
for--though I might sanction this, Eleanor is betrothed to Ranulph--she
loves him."
"Think not of _her_, if _you_ are satisfied. She cannot judge so well
for herself as you can for her. She is a child, and knows not what she
loves. Her affection will soon be Luke's. He is a noble youth--the image
of his grandfather, your father, Sir Reginald; and if your daughter be
betrothed to any one, 'twas to the heir of Rookwood. That was an
essential part of the contract. Why should the marriage not take place
at once, and here?"
"Here! How were that possible?"
"You are within sacred walls. I will take you where an altar stands.
There is no lack of holy priest to join their hands together. Your
companion, Father Ambrose, as you call him, will do the office
fittingly. He has essayed his clerkly skill already on others of your
house."
"To what do you allude, mysterious woman?" asked Mrs. Mowbray, with
anxiety.
"To Sir Piers and Susan Bradley," returned Barbara. "That priest united
them."
"Indeed! He never told me this."
"He dared not do so; he had an oath which bound him to concealment. The
time is coming when greater mysteries will be revealed."
"'Tis strange I should not have heard of this before," said Mrs.
Mowbray, musingly; "and yet I might have guessed as much from his
obscure hints respecting Ranulph. I see it all now. I see the gulf into
which I might have been plunged; but I am warned in time. Father
Ambrose," continued she, to the priest, who was pacing the chamber at
some little distance from them, "is it true that my brother was wedded
by you to Susan Bradley?"
Ere the priest could reply the sexton presented himself.
"Ha, the very father of the girl!" said Mrs. Mowbray, "whom I met within
our family vault, and who was so strangely moved when I spoke to him of
Alan Rookwood. Is he here likewise?"
"Alan Rookwood!" echoed Barbara, upon whom a light seemed suddenly to
break; "ha! what said he of him?"
"Ill-boding raven," interposed Peter, fiercely, "be content with what
thou knowest of the living, and trouble not the repose of the dead. Let
them rest in their infamy."
"The dead!" echoed Barbara, with a chuckling laugh; "ha! ha! he is dead,
then; and what became of his fair wife--his brother's minion? 'Twas a
foul deed, I grant, and yet there was expiation. Blood flowed--blood----"
"Silence, thou night hag!" thundered Peter, "or I will have thee burned
at the stake for the sorcery thou practisest. Beware," added he, in a
deep tone--"I am thy friend."
Barbara's withered countenance exhibited for an instant the deepest
indignation at the sexton's threat. The malediction trembled on her
tongue; she raised her staff to smite him, but she checked the action.
In the same tone, and with a sharp, suspicious look, she replied, "My
_friend_, sayest thou? See that it prove so, or beware of _me_."
And, with a malignant scowl, the gipsy queen slowly shuffled towards her
satellites, who were stationed at the door.
_CHAPTER VIII_
_THE PARTING_
No marriage I esteem it, where the friends
Force love upon their children; where the virgin
Is not so truly given as betrayed.
I would not have betrothed people--for
I can by no means call them lovers--make
Their rites no wedlock, but a sacrifice.
_Combat of Love and Friendship._
Eleanor Mowbray had witnessed her mother's withdrawal from her side with
much uneasiness, and was with difficulty prevented by Sybil from
breaking upon her conference with the gipsy queen. Barbara's dark eye
was fixed upon them during the whole of the interview, and communicated
an indefinite sense of dread to Eleanor.
"Who--who is that old woman?" asked Eleanor, under her breath. "Never,
even in my wildest dreams, have I seen aught so terrible. Why does she
look so at us? She terrifies me; and yet she cannot mean me ill, or my
mother--we have never injured her?"
"Alas!" sighed Sybil.
"You sigh!" exclaimed Eleanor, in alarm. "Is there any real danger,
then? Help us to avoid it. Quick, warn my mother; she seems agitated.
Oh, let me go to her."
"Hush!" whispered Sybil, maintaining an unmoved demeanor under the
lynx-like gaze of Barbara. "Stir not, as you value your life; you know
not where you are, or what may befall you. Your safety depends upon your
composure. Your life is not in danger; but what is dearer than life,
your love, is threatened with a fatal blow. There is a dark design to
wed you to another."
"Heavens!" ejaculated Eleanor, "and to whom?"
"To Sir Luke Rookwood."
"I would die sooner! Marry _him_? They shall kill me ere they force me
to it!"
"Could you not love him?"
"Love him! I have only seen him within this hour. I knew not of his
existence. He rescued me from peril. I would thank him. I would love
him, if I could, for Ranulph's sake; and yet for Ranulph's sake I hate
him."
"Speak not of him thus to me," said Sybil, angrily. "If _you_ love him
not, _I_ love him. Oh! forgive me, lady; pardon my impatience--my heart
is breaking, yet it has not ceased to beat for him. You say you will die
sooner than consent to this forced union. Your faith shall not be so
cruelly attested. If there must be a victim, I will be the sacrifice.
God grant I may be the only one. Be happy! as happy as I am wretched.
You shall see what the love of a gipsy can do."
As she spoke, Sybil burst into a flood of passionate tears. Eleanor
regarded her with the deepest commiseration; but the feeling was
transient; for Barbara, now advancing, exclaimed: "Hence to your mother.
The bridegroom is waiting: to your mother, girl!" And she motioned
Eleanor fiercely away. "What means this?" continued the old gipsy. "What
have you said to that girl? Did I not caution you against speech with
her? and you have dared to disobey me. You, my grandchild--the daughter
of my Agatha, with whom my slightest wish was law. I abandon you! I
curse you!"
"Oh, curse me not!" cried Sybil. "Add not to my despair."
"Then follow my advice implicitly. Cast off this weakness; all is in
readiness. Luke shall descend into the vaulted chapel, the ceremony
shall there take place--there also shall Eleanor _die_--and there again
shall you be wedded. Take this phial, place it within the folds of your
girdle. When all is over, I will tell you how to use it. Are you
prepared? Shall we set out?"
"I am prepared," replied Sybil, in accents hollow as despair; "but let
me speak with Luke before we go."
"Be brief, then--each moment is precious. Keep a guard upon your tongue.
I will to Mrs. Mowbray. You have placed the phial in safety. A drop will
free you from your troubles."
"'Tis in that hope I guard it," replied Sybil, as she departed in the
direction of Luke. Barbara watched her join him, and then turned shortly
towards Mrs. Mowbray and her daughter.
"You are ill, dear Luke," said Sybil, who had silently approached her
faithless lover; "very ill."
"Ill!" echoed Luke, breaking into frantic laughter. "Ill! Ha, ha!--upon
my wedding-day. No, I am well--well. Your eyes are jaundiced by
jealousy."
"Luke, dear Luke, laugh not thus. It terrifies me. I shall think you
insane. There, you are calmer--you are more like yourself--more human.
You looked just now--oh God! that I should say it of you--as if you were
possessed by demons."
"And if I were possessed, what then?"
"Horrible! hint not at it. You almost make me credit the dreadful tales
I have heard, that on their wedding-day the Rookwoods are subject to the
power of the 'Evil One.'"
"Upon their wedding-day--and _I_ look thus?"
"You do--you do. Oh! cast this frenzy from you."
"She is mine--she is mine! I care not though fiends possess me, if it is
my wedding-day, and Eleanor is my bride. And you say I look like a
Rookwood. Ha, ha!"
"That wild laughter again. Luke, I implore you, hear me one word--my
last----"
"I will not bear reproaches."
"I mean not to reproach you. I come to bless you--to forgive you--to bid
you farewell. Will you not say farewell?"
"Farewell."
"Not so--not so. Mercy! my God! compassionate him and me! My heart will
break with agony. Luke, if you would not kill me, recall that word. Let
not the guilt of my death be yours. 'Tis to save you from that remorse
that I die!"
"Sybil, you have said rightly, I am not myself. I know not what demons
have possession of my soul, that I can behold your agonies without
remorse; that your matchless affection should awaken no return. Yet so
it is. Since the fatal moment when I beheld yon maid, I have loved her."
"No more. _Now_ I can part with you. Farewell!"
"Stay, stay! wretch that I am. Stay, Sybil! If we must part--and that it
_must_ be so I feel--let me receive your pardon, if you can bestow it.
Let me clasp you once more within my arms. May you live to happier
days--may you----"
"Oh, to die thus!" sobbed Sybil, disengaging herself from his embrace.
"Live to happier days, said you? When have _I_ given you reason to
doubt, for an instant, the sincerity of _my_ love, that you should
insult me thus?"
"Then live with me--live for me."
"If you can love me still, I will live as your slave, your minion, your
wife; aught you will have me be. You have raised me from wretchedness.
Oh!" continued she in an altered tone, "have I mistaken your meaning?
Did you utter those words in false compassion for my sufferings?--Speak,
it is not yet too late--all may be well. My fate--my life is in your
hands. If you love me yet--if you can forsake Eleanor, speak--if not, be
silent."
Luke averted his head.
"Enough!" continued Sybil, in a voice of agony; "I understand. May God
forgive you! Fare you well! We shall meet no more."
"Do we part for ever?" asked Luke, without daring to regard her.
"FOR EVER!" answered Sybil.
Before her lover could reply, she shot from his side, and plunging
amidst the dark and dense assemblage near the door, disappeared from
view. An instant after, she emerged into the open air. She stood within
the roofless hall. It was filled with sunshine--with the fresh breath of
morn. The ivied ruins, the grassy floor, the blue vault of heaven,
seemed to greet her with a benignant smile. All was _riant_ and
rejoicing--all, save her heart. Amid such brightness, her sorrow seemed
harsh and unnatural; as she felt the glad influence of day, she was
scarcely able to refrain from tears. It was terrible to leave this
beautiful world, that blue sky, that sunshine, and all she loved--so
young, so soon.
Entering a low arch that yawned within the wall, she vanished like a
ghost at the approach of morn.
_CHAPTER IX_
_THE PHILTER_
Thou hast practised on her with foul charms--
Abused her delicate youth with drugs and minerals.
SHAKSPEARE: _Othello_.
To return to Eleanor Mowbray. In a state of mind bordering upon
distraction, she rushed to her mother, and, flinging her arms wildly
round her neck, besought her to protect her. Mrs. Mowbray gazed
anxiously upon the altered countenance of her daughter, but a few
moments relieved her from much of her uneasiness.--The expression of
pain gradually subsided, and the look of vacuity was succeeded by one of
frenzied excitement. A film had, for an instant or two, dimmed her eyes;
they now gleamed with unnatural lustre. She smiled--the smile was
singular; it was not the playful, pleasurable lighting up of the face
that it used to be; but it _was_ a smile, and the mother's heart was
satisfied.
Mrs. Mowbray knew not to what circumstance she could attribute this
wondrous change. She looked at the priest. He was more apt in divining
the probable cause of the sudden alteration in Eleanor's manner.
"What if she has swallowed a love-powder?" said he, approaching Mrs.
Mowbray, and speaking in a whisper. "I have heard of such abominable
mixtures; indeed, the holy St. Jerome himself relates an instance of
similar sorcery, in his life of Hilarius; and these people are said to
compound them."
"It may be so," replied Mrs. Mowbray, in the same tone. "I think that
the peculiar softness in the eye is more than natural."
"I will at least hazard an experiment, to attest the truth or fallacy of
my supposition," returned the father. "Do you see your destined
bridegroom yonder?" continued he, addressing Eleanor.
She followed with her eyes in the direction which Father Ambrose
pointed. She beheld Luke. We know not how to describe the sensations
which now possessed her. She thought not of Ranulph; or, if she did, it
was with vague indifference. Wrapped in a kind of mental trance, she
yielded to the pleasurable impulse that directed her unsettled fancies
towards Luke. For some moments she did not take her eyes from him. The
priest and Mrs. Mowbray watched her in silence.
Nothing passed between the party till Luke joined them. Eleanor
continued gazing at him, and the seeming tenderness of her glance
emboldened Luke to advance towards her. The soft fire that dwelt in
those orbs was, however, cold as the shining wing of the luciola.
Luke approached her; he took her hand--she withdrew it not. He kissed
it. Still she withdrew it not, but gazed at him with gently-glimmering
eyes.
"My daughter is yours, Sir Luke Rookwood," exclaimed Mrs. Mowbray.
"What says the maid herself?" asked Luke.
Eleanor answered not. Her eyes were still fixed on him.
"She will not refuse me her hand," said Luke.
The victim resisted not.
"To the subterranean shrine," cried Barbara. And she gave the
preconcerted signal to the band.
The signal was repeated by the gipsy crew. We may here casually note,
that the crew had been by no means uninterested or silent spectators of
passing events, but had, on the contrary, indulged themselves in a
variety of conjectures as to their probable issue. Several bets were
pending as to whether it would be a match or not after all. Zoroaster
took long odds that the match was off--offering a _bean_ to
_half-a-quid_--in other words, a guinea to a half-guinea--that Sybil
would be the bride. His offer was taken at once by Jerry Juniper, and
backed by the knight of Malta.
"Ha! there's the signal," cried the knight; "I'll trouble you for the
bean."
"And I," added Jerry Juniper, "for another."
"See 'em fairly spliced first," replied the Magus; "that's vot I
betted."
"Vell, vell, a few minutes will settle that. Come, pals, to the autem
ken. Avay. Mind and obey orders."
"Ay, ay," answered the crew.
"Here's a torch for the altar of Hymen," said the knight, flashing his
torch in the eyes of the patrico as he passed him.
"For the halter of Haman, you might say," returned Balthazar, sulkily.
"It's well if some of us don't swing for it."
"You don't say," rejoined the perplexed Magus, "swing! Egad I fear it's
a ticklish business. But there's no fighting shy, I fear, with Barbara
present; and then there's that infernal autem-bawler; it will be so
cursedly regular. If you had done the job, Balty, it would not have
signified a brass farden. Luckily there will be no vitnesses to snitch
upon us. There will be no one in the vault besides ourselves."
"There will be a silent and a solemn witness," returned Balthazar, "and
one whom you expect not."
"Eh! Vot's that you say? a spy?"
But the patrico was gone.
"Make way there--make way, pals, for the bride and bridegroom," cried
the knight of Malta, drawing Excalibur, and preparing to lead the way to
the vault.
The train began to move. Eleanor leaned upon the arm of her mother.
Beside them stalked Barbara, with an aspect of triumph. Luke followed
with the priest. One by one the assemblage quitted the apartment.
The sexton alone lingered. "The moment is at hand," said he, musingly,
"when all shall be consummated."
A few steps brought him into the court. The crowd was there still. A
brief delay had taken place. The knight of Malta then entered the mouth
of the vault. He held his torch so as to reveal a broken flight of
steps, conducting, it would seem, to regions of perpetual night. So
thought Eleanor, as she shudderingly gazed into the abyss. She
hesitated; she trembled; she refused. But her mother's entreaties, and
Barbara's threatening looks, induced, in the end, reluctant compliance.
At length the place was empty. Peter was about to follow, when the sound
of a horse's hoofs broke upon his ear. He tarried for an instant, and
the mounted figure of the highwayman burst within the limits of the
court.
"Ha, ha! old earthworm," cried Dick, "my Nestor of the churchyard,
alone! Where the devil are all the folks gone? Where's Sir Luke and his
new-found cousin, eh?"
Peter hastily explained.
"A wedding under ground? famous! the thing of all others I should like
to see. I'll hang Bess to this ivy tod, and grub my way with you
thither, old mole."
"You must stay here, and keep guard," returned Peter.
"May I be hanged if I do, when such fun is going on."
"Hanged, in all probability, you will be," returned Peter; "but I should
not, were I you, desire to anticipate my destiny. Stay here you must,
and shall--that's peremptory. You will be the gainer by it. Sir Luke
will reward you nobly. I will answer for him. You can serve him most
effectually. Ranulph Rookwood and Major Mowbray are expected here."
"The devil they are. But how, or why----"
"I have not time to explain. In case of a surprise, discharge a pistol;
they must not enter the vault. Have you a whistle? for you must play a
double part, and we may need your assistance below."
"Sir Luke may command me. Here's a pipe as shrill as the devil's own
cat-call."
"If it will summon you to our assistance below, 'tis all I need. May we
rely on you?"
"When did Dick Turpin desert his friends? Anywhere on this side the Styx
the sound of that whistle will reach me. I'll ride about the court, and
stand sentry."
"Enough," replied the sexton, as he dived under ground.
"Take care of your shins," shouted Dick. "That's a cursed ugly turn, but
he's used to the dark. A surprise, eh! I'll just give a look to my
snappers--flints all safe. Now I'm ready for them, come when they like."
And, having made the circuit of the place, he halted near the mouth of
the subterranean chapel, to be within hearing of Peter's whistle, and,
throwing his right leg lazily over his saddle, proceeded coolly to light
a short pipe--the luxury of the cigar being then unknown,--humming the
while snatches of a ballad, the theme of which was his own calling.
THE SCAMPSMAN
Quis verè rex?
SENECA.
There is not a king, should you search the world round,
So blithe as the king of the road to be found;
His pistol's his sceptre, his saddle's his throne,
Whence he levies supplies, or enforces a loan.
_Derry down._
To this monarch the highway presents a wide field,
Where each passing subject a tribute must yield;
His palace--the tavern!--receives him at night,
Where sweet lips and sound liquor crown all with delight.
_Derry down._
The soldier and sailor, both robbers by trade,
Full soon on the shelf, if disabled, are laid;
The one gets a patch, and the other a peg,
But, while luck lasts, the highwayman shakes a loose leg!
_Derry down._
Most fowl rise at dawn, but the owl wakes at e'en,
And a jollier bird can there nowhere be seen;
Like the owl, our snug scampsman his snooze takes by day,
And, when night draws her curtain, scuds after his prey!
_Derry down._
As the highwayman's life is the fullest of zest,
So the highwayman's death is the briefest and best;
He dies not as other men die, by _degrees_!
But AT ONCE! without wincing, and quite at his ease!
_Derry down._
And thus, for the present, we leave him. O rare Dick Turpin!
_CHAPTER X_
_SAINT CYPRIAN'S CELL_
Lasciate ogni speranza voi ch' entrate.
DANTE.
Cyprian de Mulverton, fifth prior of the monastery of Saint Francis, a
prelate of singular sanctity, being afflicted, in his latter days, with
a despondency so deep that neither penance nor fasting could remove it,
vowed never again to behold, with earthly eyes, the blessed light of
heaven, nor to dwell longer with his fellowmen; but, relinquishing his
spiritual dignity, "the world forgetting, by the world forgot," to
immure himself, while living, within the tomb.
He kept his vow. Out of the living rock that sustained the saintly
structure, beneath the chapel of the monastery, was another chapel
wrought, and thither, after bidding an eternal farewell to the world,
and bestowing his benediction upon his flock, whom he committed to the
care of his successor, the holy man retired.
Never, save at midnight, and then only during the performance of masses
for his soul's repose, did he ascend from his cell: and as the sole
light allowed within the dismal dungeon of his choice was that of a
sepulchral lamp, as none spoke with him when in his retreat, save in
muttered syllables, what effect must the lustre emanating from a
thousand tapers, the warm and pungent odors of the incense-breathing
shrine, contrasted with the earthy vapors of his prison-house, and the
solemn swell of the Sanctus, have had upon his excited senses? Surely
they must have seemed like a foretaste of the heaven he sought to gain!
Ascetic to the severest point to which nature's endurance could be
stretched, Cyprian even denied himself repose. He sought not sleep, and
knew it only when it stole on him unawares. His couch was the flinty
rock; and long afterwards, when the zealous resorted to the sainted
prior's cell, and were shown those sharp and jagged stones, they
marvelled how one like unto themselves could rest, or even recline upon
their points without anguish, until it was explained to them that,
doubtless, He who tempereth the wind to the shorn lamb had made that
flinty couch soft to the holy sufferer as a bed of down. His limbs were
clothed in a garb of horsehair of the coarsest fabric; his drink was the
dank drops that oozed from the porous walls of his cell; and his
sustenance, such morsels as were bestowed upon him by the poor--the only
strangers permitted to approach him. No fire was suffered, where
perpetual winter reigned. None were admitted to his nightly vigils;
none witnessed any act of penance; nor were any groans heard to issue
from that dreary cave; but the knotted, blood-stained thong, discovered
near his couch, too plainly betrayed in what manner those long lone
nights were spent. Thus did a year roll on. Traces of his sufferings
were visible in his failing strength. He could scarcely crawl; but he
meekly declined assistance. He appeared not, as had been his wont, at
the midnight mass; the door of his cell was thrown open at that hour;
the light streamed down like a glory upon his reverend head; he heard
the distant reverberations of the deep _Miserere_; and breathed odors as
if wafted from Paradise.
One morn it chanced that they who sought his cell found him with his
head upon his bosom, kneeling before the image of the virgin patroness
of his shrine. Fearing to disturb his devotions, they stood reverently
looking on; and thus silently did they tarry for an hour; but, as in
that space he had shown no signs of motion, fearing the worst, they
ventured to approach him. He was cold as the marble before which he
knelt. In the act of humblest intercession--it may be, in the hope of
grace--had Cyprian's spirit fled.
"Blessed are they who die in the Lord," exclaimed his brethren,
regarding his remains with deepest awe. On being touched, the body fell
to the ground. It was little more than a skeleton.
Under the cloisters of the holy pile were his bones interred, with a
degree of pomp and ostentation that little accorded with the lowliness
and self-abasement of this man of many sorrows.
This chapel, at the time of which we treat, was pretty much in the same
condition as it existed in the days of its holy inmate. Hewn out of the
entrails of the rock, the roof, the vaults, the floor, were of solid
granite. Three huge cylindrical pillars, carved out of the native rock,
rough as the stems of gnarled oak-trees, lent support to the ceiling.
Support, however, was unneeded; an earthquake would scarce have shaken
down those solid rafters. Only in one corner, where the water welled
through a crevice of the rock, in drops that fell like tears, was decay
manifest. Here the stone, worn by the constant dripping, had, in some
places, given way. In shape, the vault was circular. The integral
between each massive pillar formed a pointed arch. Again, from each
pillar sprang other arches, which, crossed by diagonal, ogive branches,
weaving one into the other, and radiating from the centre, formed those
beautifully intricate combinations upon which the eye of the
architectural enthusiast loves to linger. Within the ring formed by
these triple columns, in which again the pillars had their own web of
arches, was placed an altar of stone, and beside it a crucifix of the
same rude material. Here also stood the sainted image of her who had
filled the prior with holy aspirations, now a shapeless stone. The dim
lamp, that, like a star struggling with the thick gloom of a wintry
cell, had shed its slender radiance over the brow of the Virgin Thecla,
was gone. But around the keystone of the central arches, whence a chain
had once depended, might be traced in ancient characters, half effaced
by time, the inscription:
STA. THECLA ORA PRO NOBIS.
One outlet only was there from the chapel--that which led by winding
steps to the monastery; one only recess--the prior's cell. The former
faced the altar; the latter yawned like the mouth of a tomb at its back.
Altogether it was a dreary place. Dumb were its walls as when they
refused to return the murmured orisons of the anchorite. One uniform sad
coloring prevailed throughout. The gray granite was grown hoar with age,
and had a ghostly look; the columns were ponderous, and projected heavy
shadows. Sorrow and superstition had their tale, and a moral gloom
deepened the darkness of the spot. Despair, which had inspired its
construction, seemed to brood therein. Hope shunned its inexorable
recesses.
Alone, within this dismal sanctuary, with hands outstretched towards the
desecrated image of its tutelar saint, knelt Sybil. All was darkness.
Neither the heavy vapors that surrounded her, nor the shrine before
which she bent, were visible; but, familiar with the dreary spot, she
knew that she had placed herself aright. Her touch had satisfied her
that she bowed before the altar of stone; that her benighted vision was
turned towards the broken image of the saint, though now involved in
gloom the most profound; and with clasped hands and streaming eyes, in
low and mournful tones, she addressed herself in the following hymn to
the tutelar saint of the spot:
HYMN TO SAINT THECLA
In my trouble, in my anguish,
In the depths of my despair,
As in grief and pain I languish,
Unto thee I raise my prayer.
Sainted virgin! martyr'd maiden!
Let thy countenance incline
Upon one with woes o'erladen,
Kneeling lowly at thy shrine;
That in agony, in terror,
In her blind perplexity,
Wandering weak in doubt and error,
Calleth feebly upon thee.
Sinful thoughts, sweet saint, oppress me,
Thoughts that will not be dismissed;
Temptations dark possess me,
Which my strength may not resist.
I am full of pain, and weary
Of my life; I fain would die:
Unto me the world is dreary;
To the grave for rest I fly.
For rest!--oh! could I borrow
Thy bright wings, celestial dove!
They should waft me from my sorrow,
Where peace dwells in bowers above.
Upon one with woes o'erladen,
Kneeling lowly at thy shrine;
Sainted virgin! martyr'd maiden!
Let thy countenance incline!
_Mei miserere Virgo,
Requiem æternam dona!_
By thy loveliness, thy purity,
Unpolluted, undefiled,
That in serene security
Upon earth's temptations smiled;--
By the fetters that constrain'd thee,
By thy flame-attested faith,
By the fervor that sustain'd thee,
By thine angel-ushered death;--
By thy soul's divine elation,
'Mid thine agonies assuring
Of thy sanctified translation
To beatitude enduring;--
By the mystic interfusion
Of thy spirit with the rays,
That in ever bright profusion
Round the Throne Eternal blaze;--
By thy portion now partaken,
With the pain-perfected just;
Look on one of hope forsaken,
From the gates, of mercy thrust.
Upon one with woes o'erladen,
Kneeling lowly at thy shrine,
Sainted virgin! martyr'd maiden!
Let thy countenance incline!
_Ora pro me mortis horâ!
Sancta Virgo, oro te!
Kyrie Eleison!_
The sweet, sad voice of the singer died faintly away. The sharpness of
her sorrow was assuaged. Seldom, indeed, is it that fervent
supplication fails to call down solace to the afflicted. Sybil became
more composed. She still, however, trembled at the thoughts of what
remained to be done.
"They will be here ere my prayer is finished," murmured she--"ere the
end is accomplished for which I came hither alone. Let me, oh! let me
make my peace with my Creator, ere I surrender my being to His hands,
and then let them deal with me as they will." And she bowed her head in
lowly prayer.
Again raising her hands, and casting her eyes towards the black ceiling,
she implored, in song, the intercession of the saintly man who had
bequeathed his name to the cell.
HYMN TO SAINT CYPRIAN
Hear! oh! hear me, sufferer holy,
Who didst make thine habitation
'Mid these rocks, devoting wholly
Life to one long expiation
Of thy guiltiness, and solely
By severe mortification
Didst deliver thee. Oh! hear me!
In my dying moments cheer me.
By thy penance, self-denial,
Aid me in the hour of trial.
May, through thee, my prayers prevailing
On the Majesty of Heaven,
O'er the hosts of hell, assailing
My soul, in this dark hour be driven!
So my spirit, when exhaling,
May of sinfulness be shriven,
And His gift unto the Giver
May be rendered pure as ever!
By thy own dark, dread possession,
Aid me with thine intercession!
Scarcely had she concluded this hymn, when the torch of the knight of
Malta in part dissipated the gloom that hung around the chapel.
_CHAPTER XI_
_THE BRIDAL_
_Cari._ I will not die; I must not. I am contracted
To a young gentleman.
_Executioner._ Here's your wedding-ring.
_Duchess of Malfy._
Slowly did the train descend; solemnly and in silence, as if the rites
at which they were about to assist had been those of funereal, and not
of nuptial, solemnization. Indeed, to look upon those wild and fierce
faces by the ruddily-flashing torchlight, which lent to each a stern and
savage expression; to see those scowling visages surrounding a bride
from whose pallid cheeks every vestige of color, and almost of
animation, had fled; and a bridegroom, with a countenance yet more
haggard, and demeanor yet more distracted--the beholder must have
imagined that the spectacle was some horrible ceremonial, practised by
demons rather than human beings. The arched vault, the pillars, the
torchlight, the deep shadows, and the wild figures, formed a picture
worthy of Rembrandt or Salvator.
"Is Sybil within the chapel?" asked Barbara.
"I am here," returned a voice from the altar.
"Why do we tarry?" said the gipsy queen. "We are all assembled. To the
altar."
"To the altar!" shrieked Eleanor. "Oh! no--no----"
"Remember my threat, and obey," muttered Barbara. "You are in my power
now."
A convulsive sob was all the answer Eleanor could make.
"Our number is not complete," said the priest, who had looked in vain
for the sexton. "Peter Bradley is not with us."
"Ha!" exclaimed Barbara. "Let him be sought for instantly."
"Their search need not extend beyond this spot," said Peter, stepping
forward.
The knight of Malta advanced towards the altar. The torchlight reddened
upon the huge stone pillars. It fell upon the shrine, and upon the
ghastly countenance of Sybil, who stood beside it. Suddenly, as the
light approached her, an object, hitherto hidden from view, was
revealed. Sybil uttered a prolonged and fearful shriek; the knight
recoiled likewise in horror; and a simultaneous cry of astonishment
burst from the lips of the foremost of the group. All crowded forwards,
and universal consternation prevailed amongst the assemblage. Each one
gazed at his neighbor, anxious to learn the occasion of this tumult, and
vague fears were communicated to those behind, from the terrified
glances, which were the only answers returned by their comrades in
front.
"Who has dared to bring that body here?" demanded Barbara, in a tone in
which anger struggled with apprehension, pointing at the same time to
the ghastly corpse of a female, with streaming hair, at the altar's
feet. "Who has dared to do this, I say? Quick! remove it. What do you
stare at? Cravens! is this the first time you have looked upon a corpse,
that you should shrink aghast--that you tremble before it? It is a
clod--ay, less than a clod. Away with it! away, I say."
"Touch it not," cried Luke, lifting a cloud of black hair from off the
features; "it is my mother's body."
"My daughter!" exclaimed the sexton.
"What!" vociferated Barbara, "is that your daughter--is that the first
Lady Rookwood? Are the dead arisen to do honor to these nuptials? Speak!
you can, perchance, explain how she came hither."
"I know not," returned Peter, glancing fiercely at Barbara; "I may,
anon, demand that question of you. How came this body here?"
"Ask of Richard Checkley," said Barbara, turning to the priest. "He can,
perchance, inform you. Priest," added she, in a low voice, "this is your
handiwork."
"Checkley!" screamed Peter. "Is that Richard Checkley? is that----"
"Peace!" thundered Barbara; "will none remove the body? Once more I ask
you, do you fear the dead?"
A murmur arose. Balthazar alone ventured to approach the corpse.
Luke started to his feet as he advanced, his eyes glaring with tiger
fury.
"Back, old man," cried he, "and dare not, any of you, to lay a
sacrilegious finger on her corse, or I will stretch him that advances as
lowly as lies my mother's head. When or how it came hither matters not.
Here, at the altar, has it been placed, and none shall move it hence.
The dead shall witness my nuptials. Fate has ordained it--_my_ fate!
o'er which the dead preside. Her ring shall link me to my bride. I knew
not, when I snatched it from her death-cold finger, to what end I
preserved it. I learn it now. It is here." And he held forth a ring.
"'Tis a fatal boon, that twice-used ring," cried Sybil; "such a ring my
mother, on her death-bed, said should be mine. Such a ring she said
should wed me----"
"Unto whom?" fiercely demanded Luke.
"UNTO DEATH!" she solemnly rejoined.
Luke's countenance fell. He turned aside, deeply abashed, unable further
to brook her gaze; while in accents of such wildly touching pathos as
sank into the hearts of each who heard her--hearts, few of them framed
of penetrable stuff--the despairing maiden burst into the following
strain:
THE TWICE-USED RING
"Beware thy bridal day!"
On her death-bed sighed my mother;
"Beware, beware, I say,
Death shall wed thee, and no other.
Cold the hand shall grasp thee,
Cold the arms shall clasp thee,
Colder lips thy kiss shall smother!
Beware thy bridal kiss!
"Thy wedding ring shall be
From a clay-cold finger taken;
From one that, like to thee,
Was by her love forsaken.
For a twice-used ring
Is a fatal thing;
Her griefs who wore it are partaken--,
Beware that fatal ring!
"The altar and the grave
Many steps are not asunder;
Bright banners o'er thee wave,
Shrouded horror lieth under.
Blithe may sound the bell,
Yet 'twill toll thy knell;
Scathed thy chaplet by the thunder--
Beware that blighted wreath!"
Beware my bridal day!
Dying lips my doom have spoken;
Deep tones call me away;
From the grave is sent a token.
Cold, cold fingers bring
That ill-omen'd ring;
Soon will a _second_ heart be broken;
_This_ is my bridal day.
There was a deep, profound silence as the last melancholy cadence died
away, and many a rugged heart was melted, even to tears. Eleanor,
meanwhile, remained in a state of passive stupefaction, vacantly gazing
at Sybil, upon whom alone her eyes were fixed, and appearing
indistinctly to apprehend the meaning of her song.
"This is my bridal day," murmured she, in a low tone, when Sybil had
finished. "Said not that sweet voice so? I know 'tis my bridal day. What
a church you have chosen, mother! A tomb--a sepulchre--but 'tis meet for
such nuptials as mine--and what wedding guests! Was that pale woman in
her shroud-like dress invited here by you? Tell me that, mother."
"My God, her senses are gone!" cried Mrs. Mowbray. "Why did I venture
into this horrible place?"
"Ask not _why_ now, madam," rejoined the priest. "The hour for
consideration is past. We must act. Let the marriage proceed, at all
hazards; we will then take means to extricate ourselves from this
accursed place."
"Remove that horrible object," said Mrs. Mowbray; "it fascinates the
vision of my child."
"Lend me your hand, Richard Checkley," said Peter, sternly regarding the
priest.
"No, no," replied the priest, shuddering; "I will not, cannot touch it.
Do you alone remove it."
Peter approached Luke. The latter now offered no further opposition, and
the body was taken away. The eyes of Eleanor followed it into the dark
recesses of the vault; and when she could no longer distinguish the
white flutter of the cereclothes, her laboring bosom seemed torn asunder
with the profound sigh that burst from it, and her head declined upon
her shoulder.
"Let me see that ring," said the priest, addressing Luke, who still held
the wedding-ring between his fingers.
"I am not naturally superstitious," said Mrs. Mowbray; "whether my mind
be affected with the horrors of this place, I know not; but I have a
dread of that ring. She shall not use it."
"Where no other can be found," said the priest, with a significant and
peculiar look at Mrs. Mowbray, "I see no reason why this should be
rejected. I should not have suspected you, madam, of such weakness.
Grant there were evil spell, or charm, attached to it, which, trust me,
there is _not_--as how should there be, to a harmless piece of gold?--my
benediction, and aspersion with holy lymph, will have sufficient power
to exorcise and expel it. To remove your fears it shall be done at
once."
A cup containing water was brought, together with a plate of salt--which
condiment the devil is said to abhor, and which is held to be a symbol
of immortality and of eternity; in that, being itself incorruptible, it
preserves all else from corruption,--and, with the customary Romish
formula of prayer and exorcism, the priest thrice mingled the crystal
particles with the pure fluid; after which, taking the ring in his hand
with much solemnity, he sprinkled it with a few drops of the water which
he had blessed; made the sign of the cross upon the golden circlet;
uttered another and more potent exorcism to eradicate and expel every
device of Satan, and delivered it back to Luke.
"She may wear it now in safety," said the sexton, with strong contempt.
"Were the snake himself coiled round that consecrated bauble, the
prayers of the devout Father Checkley would unclasp his lithest folds.
But wherefore do we tarry now? Naught lies between us and the altar. The
path is clear. The bridegroom grows impatient."
"And the bride?" asked Barbara.
"Is ready," replied the priest. "Madam, delay not longer. Daughter, your
hand."
Eleanor gave her hand. It was clammy and cold. Supported by her mother,
she moved slowly towards the altar, which was but a few steps from where
they stood. She offered no resistance, but did not raise her head. Luke
was by her side. Then for the first time did the enormity of the cruel,
dishonorable act he was about to commit, strike him with its full
force. He saw it in its darkest colors. It was one of those terrible
moments when the headlong wheel of passion stands suddenly still.
"There is yet time," groaned he. "Oh! let me not damn myself
perpetually! Let me save her; save Sybil; save myself."
They were at the altar--that wild wedding train. High over head the
torch was raised. The red light flashed on bridegroom and on bride,
giving to the pale features of each an almost livid look; it fell upon
the gaunt aspect of the sexton, and lit up the smile of triumphant
malice that played upon his face; it fell upon the fantastical
habiliments of Barbara, and upon the haughty but perturbed physiognomy
of Mrs. Mowbray; it fell upon the salient points of the Gothic arches;
upon one molded pillar; upon the marble image of the virgin Thecla; and
on the scarcely less marble countenance of Sybil who stood behind the
altar, silent, statue-like, immovable. The effect of light and shade on
other parts of the scene, upon the wild drapery, and harsh lineaments of
many of the group, was also eminently striking.
Just as the priest was about to commence the marriage service, a yelling
chorus, which the gipsies were accustomed to sing at the celebration of
the nuptials of one of their own tribe, burst forth. Nothing could be
more horribly discordant than their song.
WEDDING CHORUS OF GIPSIES
Scrape the catgut! pass the liquor!
Let your quick feet move the quicker.
Ta-ra-la!
Dance and sing in jolly chorus,
Bride and bridegroom are before us,
And the patrico stands o'er us.
Ta-ra-la!