Alan Rookwood, in the mean time, had joined his grandson, and they

conversed an instant or two apart.

"My strength will not bear me through the night," said he. "That fellow

has thoroughly disabled me. You must go without me to the hall. Here is

the key of the secret passage. You know the entrance. I will await you

in the tomb."

"The tomb!" echoed Luke.

"Ay, our family vault," returned Alan, with a ghastly grin--"it is the

only place of security for me now. Let me see _her_ there. Let me know

that my vengeance is complete, that I triumph in my death over him, the

accursed _brother_, through you, my grandson. _You_ have a rival

brother--a successful one; you know now what hatred is."

"I do," returned Luke, fiercely.

"But not such hate as mine, which, through a life, a long life, hath

endured, intense as when 'twas first engendered in my bosom; which _from

one_ hath spread o'er all my race--o'er all save _you_--and which even

now, when death stares me in the face--when the spirit pants to fly from

its prison-house, burns fiercely as ever. You cannot know what hate like

that may be. You must have wrongs--such wrongs as _mine_ first."

"My hate to Ranulph is bitter as your own to Sir Reginald."

"Name him not," shrieked Alan. "But, oh! to think upon the bride he

robbed me of--the young--the beautiful!--whom I loved to madness; whose

memory is a barbed shaft, yet rankling keen as ever at my heart. God of

Justice! how is it that I have thus long survived? But some men die by

inches. My dying lips shall name him once again, and then 'twill be but

to blend his name with curses."

"I speak of him no more," said Luke. "I will meet you in the vault."

"Remember, to-morrow is her wedding day with Ranulph."

"Think you I forget it?"

"Bear it constantly in mind. To-morrow's dawn must see her _yours_ or

_his_. You have her oath. To you or to death she is affianced. If she

should hesitate in her election, do not you hesitate. Woman's will is

fickle; her scruples of conscience will be readily overcome; she will

not heed her vows--but let her not escape you. Cast off all your

weakness. You are young, and not as I am, age-enfeebled. Be firm, and,"

added he, with a look of terrible meaning, "if all else should fail--if

you are surrounded--if you cannot bear her off--use this," and he placed

a dagger in Luke's hands. "It has avenged me, ere now, on a perjured

wife, it will avenge you of a forsworn mistress, and remove all obstacle

to Rookwood."

Luke took the weapon.

"Would you have me kill her?" demanded he.

"Sooner than she should be Ranulph's."

"Ay, aught sooner than that. But I would not murder both."

"Both!" echoed Alan. "I understand you not."

"Sybil and Eleanor," replied Luke; "for, as surely as I live, Sybil's

death will lie at my door."

"How so?" asked Alan; "the poison was self-ministered."

"True," replied Luke, with terrible emphasis, "but I _spoke daggers_.

Hearken to me," said he, hollowly whispering in his grandsire's ears.

"Methinks I am not long for this world. I have seen her since her

death!"

"Tut, tut," replied Alan. "'Tis not for you--a man--to talk thus. A

truce to these womanish fancies."

"Womanish or not," returned Luke; "either my fancy has deceived me, or I

beheld her, distinctly as I now behold you, within yon cave, while you

were sleeping by my side."

"It is disordered fancy," said Alan Rookwood. "You will live--live to

inherit Rookwood--live to see them fall crushed beneath your feet. For

myself, if I but see you master of Eleanor's hand, or know that she no

longer lives to bless your rival, or to mar your prospects, I care not

how soon I brave my threatened doom."

"Of one or other you shall be resolved to-night," said Luke, placing the

dagger within his vest.

At this moment a trampling of a horse was heard before the hovel, and in

another instant a loud knocking resounded from the door. The ferryman

instantly extinguished the light, motioning his companions to remain

silent.

"What, ho!" shouted a voice. "Ferry wanted."

"Gad zooks!" exclaimed Dick. "As I live, 'tis Major Mowbray!"

"Major Mowbray!" echoed Alan, in amazement "What doth he here?"

"He must be on his way from York to Rookwood, I conclude," said Dick.

"If he's here, I'll engage the others are not far off."

Scarcely were the words out of Dick's mouth, when further clatter was

heard at the door, and the tones of Coates were heard, in _altissimo_

key, demanding admittance.

"Let us retire into the next room," whispered Turpin, "and then admit

them by all means, Conkey. And, hark ye, manage to detain them a few

seconds."

"I'll do it," said Jem. "There's a bit of a hole you can peep through."

Another loud rat-tat was heard at the door, threatening to burst it from

its hinges.

"Well, I be coming," said Jem, seeing the coast was clear, in a drowsy,

yawning tone, as if just awakened from sleep. "You'll cross the river

none the faster for making so much noise."

With these words he unbarred the door, and Coates and Paterson, who, it

appeared, were proceeding to Rookwood, entered the hovel. Major Mowbray

remained on horseback at the door.

"Can you find us a glass of brandy to keep out the fog?" said Coates,

who knew something of our ferryman's vocations. "I know you are a lad of

amazing _spirit_."

"May be I can, master, if I choose. But won't the other gemman walk

in-doors likewise?"

"No, no," said Coates; "Major Mowbray don't choose to dismount."

"Well, as you please," said Jem. "It'll take me a minute or two to get

the punt in order for all them prads."

"The brandy in the first place," said Coates. "What's here?" added the

loquacious attorney, noticing the remnants of Turpin's repast. "But that

we're hurried, I should like a little frizzled bacon myself."

Jem opened the door of his dormitory with the greatest caution, though

apparent indifference, and almost instantly returned with the brandy.

Coates filled a glass for Paterson, and then another for himself. The

ferryman left the house apparently to prepare his boat, half closing the

door after him.

"By my faith! this is the right thing, Paterson," said the attorney. "We

may be sure the strength of this was never tested by a gauger's proof.

Take another thimbleful. We've twelve miles and a heavy pull to go

through ere we reach Rookwood. After all, we made but a poor night's

work of it, Master Constable. Cursed stupid in us to let him escape. I

only wish we had such another chance. Ah, if we had him within reach

now, how we would spring upon him--secure him in an instant. I should

glory in the encounter. I tell you what, Paterson, if ever he is taken,

I shall make a point of attending his execution, and see whether he dies

game. Ha, ha! You think he's sure to swing, Paterson, eh?"

"Why, yes," replied the chief constable. "I wish I was as certain of my

reward as that Turpin will eventually figure at the scragging-post."

"Your reward!" replied Coates. "Make yourself easy on that score, my

boy; you shall have your dues, depend upon it. Nay, for the matter of

that, I'll give you the money now, if you think proper."

"Nothing like time present," said Paterson. "We'll make all square at

once."

"Well, then," said Coates, taking out a pocket-book, "you shall have the

hundred I promised. You won't get Turpin's reward, the three hundred

pounds; but that can't be helped. You shall have mine--always a man of

my word, Paterson," continued the attorney, counting out the money. "My

father, the thief-taker, was a man of his word before me."

"No doubt," said the chief constable; "I shall always be happy to serve

you."

"And then there's that other affair," said the attorney, mysteriously,

still occupied in doling out his bank-notes, "that Luke Bradley's case;

the fellow, I mean, who calls himself Sir Luke Rookwood--ha, ha! A rank

impostor! Two fives, that makes fifty: you want another fifty, Paterson.

As I was saying, we may make a good job of that--we must ferret him out.

I know who will come down properly for that; and if we could only tuck

him up with his brother blade, why it would be worth double. He's all

along been a thorn in my Lady Rookwood's side; he's an artful

scoundrel."

"Leave him to me," said Paterson; "I'll have him in less than a week.

What's your charge against him?"

"Felony, burglary, murder, every description of crime under the

heavens," said Coates. "He's a very devil incarnate. Dick Turpin is as

mild as milk compared with him. By-the-by, now I think of it, this Jem,

Conkey Jem, as folks call him, may know something about him; he's a keen

file; I'll sound him. Thirty, forty, fifty--there's the exact amount. So

much for Dick Turpin."

"Dick Turpin thanks you for it in person," said Dick, suddenly snatching

the whole sum from Paterson's hands, and felling the chief constable

with a blow of one of his pistols. "I wish I was as sure of escaping the

gallows as I am certain that Paterson has got his reward. You stare,

sir. You are once more in the hands of the Philistines. See who is at

your elbow."

Coates, who was terrified almost out of his senses at the sight of

Turpin, scarcely ventured to turn his head; but when he did so, he was

perfectly horror-stricken at the threatening aspect of Luke, who held a

cutlass in his hand, which he had picked up in the ferryman's bedroom.

"So you would condemn me for crimes I have never committed," said Luke.

"I am tempted, I own, to add the destruction of your worthless existence

to their number."

"Mercy, for God's sake, mercy!" cried Coates, throwing himself at Luke's

feet. "I meant not what I said."

"Hence, reptile," said Luke, pushing him aside; "I leave you to be dealt

upon by others."

At this juncture, the door of the hut was flung open, and in rushed

Major Mowbray, sword in hand, followed by Conkey Jem.

"There he stands, sir," cried the latter; "upon him!"

"What! Conkey Jem turned snitch upon his pals?" cried Dick; "I scarce

believe my own ears."

"Make yourself scarce, Dick," growled Jem; "the jigger's open, and the

boat loose. Leave Luke to his fate. He's sold."

"Never! vile traitor," shouted Dick; "'tis thou art _sold_, not he;"

and, almost ere the words were spoken, a ball was lodged in the brain of

the treacherous ferryman.

Major Mowbray, meanwhile, had rushed furiously upon Luke, who met his

assault with determined calmness. The strife was sharp, and threatened a

speedy and fatal issue. On the Major's side it was a desperate attack of

cut and thrust, which Luke had some difficulty in parrying; but as yet

no wounds were inflicted. Soldier as was the Major, Luke was not a whit

inferior to him in his knowledge of the science of defence, and in the

exercise of the broadsword he was perhaps the more skilful of the two:

upon the present occasion his coolness stood him in admirable stead.

Seeing him hard pressed, Turpin would have come to his assistance; but

Luke shouted to him to stand aside, and all that Dick could do, amid the

terrific clash of steel, was to kick the tables out of the way of the

combatants. Luke's aim was now slightly grazed by a cut made by the

Major, which he had parried. The smart of the wound roused his ire. He

attacked his adversary in his turn, with so much vigor and good will,

that, driven backwards by the irresistible assault, Major Mowbray

stumbled over the ferryman's body, which happened to lie in his way; and

his sword being struck from his grasp, his life became at once at his

assailant's disposal.

Luke sheathed his sword. "Major Mowbray," said he, sternly, "your life

is in my power. I spare it for the blood that is between us--for your

sister's sake. I would not raise my hand against her brother."

"I disclaim your kindred with me, villain!" wrathfully exclaimed the

Major. "I hold you no otherwise than as a wretched impostor, who has set

up claims he cannot justify; and as to my sister, if you dare to couple

her name----" and the Major made an ineffectual attempt to raise

himself, and to regain his sword, which Turpin, however, removed.

"Dare!" echoed Luke, scornfully; "hereafter, you may learn to fear my

threats, and acknowledge the extent of my daring; and in that confidence

I give you life. Listen to me, sir. I am bound for Rookwood. I have

private access to the house--to your sister's chamber--_her

chamber_--mark you that! I shall go armed--attended. This night she

shall be mine. From you--from Ranulph--from Lady Rookwood, from all will

I bear her off. She shall be mine, and you, before the dawn, my brother,

or----" And Luke paused.

"What further villainy remains untold?" inquired the Major, fiercely.

"You shall bewail your sister's memory," replied Luke, gloomily.

"I embrace the latter alternative with rapture," replied the Major--"God

grant her firmness to resist you. But I tremble for her." And the stern

soldier groaned aloud in his agony.

"Here is a cord to bind him," said Turpin; "he must remain a prisoner

here."

"Right," said Alan Rookwood, "unless--but enough blood has been shed

already."

"Ay, marry has there," said Dick, "and I had rather not have given

Conkey Jem a taste of blue plumb, had there been any other mode of

silencing the snitching scoundrel, which there was not. As to the Major,

he's a gallant enemy, and shall have fair play as long as Dick Turpin

stands by. Come, sir," added he, to the Major, as he bound him hand and

foot with the rope, "I'll do it as gently as I can. You had better

submit with a good grace. There's no help for it. And now for my friend

Paterson, who was so anxious to furnish me with a hempen cravat, before

my neck was in order, he shall have an extra twist of the rope himself,

to teach him the inconvenience of a tight neckcloth when he recovers."

Saying which, he bound Paterson in such a manner, that any attempt at

liberation on the chief constable's part would infallibly strangle him.

"As to you, Mr. Coates," said he, addressing the trembling man of law,

"you shall proceed to Rookwood with us. You may yet be useful, and I'll

accommodate you with a seat behind my own saddle--a distinction I never

yet conferred upon any of your tribe. Recollect the countryman at the

Bowling-green at York--ha, ha! Come along, sir." And having kicked out

the turf fire, Dick prepared to depart.

It would be vain to describe the feelings of rage and despair which

agitated the major's bosom, as he saw the party quit the hovel,

accompanied by Coates. Aware as he was of their destination, after one

or two desperate but ineffectual attempts to liberate himself, by which

he only increased the painful constriction of his bonds, without in the

slightest degree ameliorating his condition, he resigned himself, with

bitterest forebodings, to his fate. There was no one even to sympathize

with his sufferings. Beside him lay the gory corpse of the ferryman,

and, at a little distance, the scarcely more animate frame of the chief

constable. And here we must leave him, to follow, for a short space, the

course of Luke and his companions.

Concerning themselves little about their own steeds, the party took

those which first offered, and embarking man and horse in the boat, soon

pushed across the waters of the lutulent Don. Arrived at the opposite

banks of the river, they mounted, and, guided by Luke, after half an

hour's sharp riding, arrived at the skirts of Rookwood Park. Entering

this beautiful sylvan domain, they rode for some time silently among the

trees, till they reached the knoll whence Luke beheld the hall on the

eventful night of his discovery of his mother's wedding ring. A few days

only had elapsed, but during that brief space what storms had swept over

his bosom--what ravages had they not made! He was then all ardor--all

impetuosity--all independence. The future presented a bright unclouded

prospect. Wealth, honors, and happiness apparently awaited him. It was

still the same exquisite scene, hushed, holy, tranquil--even solemn, as

upon that glorious night. The moon was out, silvering wood and water,

and shining on the white walls of the tranquil mansion. Nature was calm,

serene, peaceful as ever. Beneath the trees, he saw the bounding

deer--upon the water, the misty wreaths of vapor--all, all was dreamy,

delightful, soothing, all save his heart--_there_ was the

conflict--_there_ the change. Was it a troubled dream, with the dark

oppression of which he was struggling, or was it stern, waking, actual

life? That moment's review of his wild career was terrible. He saw to

what extremes his ungovernable passions had hurried him; he saw their

inevitable consequences; he saw also his own fate; but he rushed madly

on.

He swept round the park, keeping under the covert of the wood, till he

arrived at the avenue leading to the mansion. The stems of the aged

limes gleamed silvery white in the moonshine. Luke drew in the rein

beneath one of the largest of the trees.

"A branch has fallen," said he, as his grandsire joined him.

"Ha!" exclaimed Alan, "a branch from that tree?"

"It bodes ill to Ranulph," whispered Luke, "does it not?"

"Perchance," muttered Alan. "'Tis a vast bough!"

"We meet within an hour," said Luke, abruptly.

"Within the tomb of our ancestry," replied Alan; "I will await you

there."

And as he rode away, Alan murmured to himself the following verse from

one of his own ballads:

But whether gale or calm prevail, or threatening cloud hath fled,

By hand of Fate, predestinate, a limb that tree will shed--

A verdant bough, untouched, I trow, by axe or tempest's breath--

To Rookwood's head an omen dread of fast approaching death.

_CHAPTER III_

_HANDASSAH_

I have heard it rumored for these many years,

None of our family dies but there is seen

The shape of an old woman, which is given

By tradition to us to have been murthered

By her nephews for her riches. Such a figure

One night, as the prince sat up late at 's book,

Appeared to him; when, crying out for help,

The gentleman of his chamber found his Grace

All in a cold sweat, altered much in face

And language, since which apparition

He hath grown worse and worse, and much I fear

He cannot live.

_Duchess of Malfy._

In one of those large antique rooms, belonging to the suite of

apartments constituting the eastern wing of Rookwood Place--upon the

same night as that in which the events just detailed took place, and it

might be about the same time, sat Eleanor, and her new attendant, the

gipsy Handassah. The eyes of the former were fixed, with a mixture of

tenderness and pity, upon the lineaments of another lovely female

countenance, bearing a striking resemblance to her own, though

evidently, from its attire, and bygone costume, not intended for her,

depicted upon a tablet, and placed upon a raised frame. It was nigh the

witching hour of night. The room was sombre and dusky, partially

dismantled of its once flowing arras, and the lights set upon the table

feebly illumined its dreary extent. Tradition marked it out as the

chamber in which many of the hapless dames of Rookwood had expired; and

hence Superstition claimed it as her peculiar domain. The room was

reputed to be haunted, and had for a long space shared the fate of

haunted rooms--complete desertion. It was now tenanted by one too young,

too pure, to fear aught unearthly. Eleanor seemed, nevertheless,

affected by the profound melancholy of the picture upon which she gazed.

At length, Handassah observed her start, and avert her eye shudderingly

from the picture.

"Take it hence," exclaimed Eleanor; "I have looked at that image of my

ancestors, till it has seemed endowed with life--till its eyes have

appeared to return my gaze, and weep. Remove it, Handassah."

Handassah silently withdrew the tablet, placing it against the wall of

the chamber.

"Not there--not there," cried Eleanor; "turn it with its face to the

wall. I cannot bear those eyes. And now come hither, girl--draw

nearer--for I know not what of sudden dread has crossed me. This was

_her_ room, Handassah--the chamber of my ancestress--of all the Ladies

Rookwood--where they say----Ha! did you not hear a noise?--a rustle in

the tapestry--a footstep near the wall? Why, you look as startled as I

look, wench; stay by me--I will not have you stir from my side--'twas

mere fancy."

"No doubt, lady," said Handassah, with her eyes fixed upon the arras.

"Hist!" exclaimed Eleanor, "there 'tis again."

"'Tis nothing," replied Handassah. But her looks belied her words.

"Well, I will command myself," said Eleanor, endeavoring to regain her

calmness; "but the thoughts of the Lady Eleanor--for _she_ was an

Eleanor like to me, Handassah--and ah! even more ill-fated and

unhappy--have brought a whole train of melancholy fancies into my mind.

I cannot banish them: nay, though painful to me, I recur to these images

of dread with a species of fascination, as if in their fate I

contemplated mine own. Not one, who hath wedded a Rookwood, but hath

rued it."

"Yet you will wed one," said Handassah.

"He is not like the rest," said Eleanor.

"How know you that, lady?" asked Handassah. "His time may not yet be

come. See what to-morrow will bring forth."

"You are averse to my marriage with Ranulph, Handassah."

"I was Sybil's handmaid ere I was yours, lady. I bear in mind a solemn

compact with the dead, which this marriage will violate. You are

plighted by oath to another, if he should demand your hand."

"But he has not demanded it."

"Would you accept him were he to do so?" asked Handassah, suddenly.

"I meant not that," replied Eleanor. "My oath is annulled."

"Say not so, lady," cried Handassah--"'twas not for this that Sybil

spared your life. I love you, but I loved Sybil, and I would see her

dying behests complied with."

"It may not be, Handassah," replied Eleanor. "Why, from a phantom sense

of honor, am I to sacrifice my whole existence to one who neither can

love me, nor whom I myself could love? Am I to wed this man because, in

her blind idolatry of him, Sybil enforced an oath upon me which I had no

power to resist, and which was mentally cancelled while taken? Recall

not the horrors of that dreadful cell--urge not the subject more. 'Tis

in the hope that I may be freed for ever from this persecution that I

have consented thus early to wed with Ranulph. This will set Luke's

fancied claims at rest for ever."

Handassah answered not, but bent her head, as if in acquiescence.

Steps were now heard near the door, and a servant ushered in Dr. Small

and Mrs. Mowbray.

"I am come to take leave of you for the night, my dear young lady," said

the doctor; "but before I start for the Vicarage, I have a word or two

to say, in addition to the advice you were so obliging as to receive

from me this morning. Suppose you allow your attendant to retire for a

few minutes. What I have got to say concerns yourself solely. Your

mother will bear us company. There," continued the doctor, as Handassah

was dismissed--"I am glad that dark-faced gipsy has taken her departure.

I can't say I like her sharp suspicious manner, and the first exercise I

should make at my powers, were I to be your husband, should be to

discharge the handmaiden. To the point of my visit. We are alone, I

think. This is a queer old house, Miss Mowbray; and this is the queerest

part of it. Walls have ears, they say; and there are so many holes and

corners in this mansion, that one ought never to talk secrets above

one's breath."

"I am yet to learn, sir," said Eleanor, "that there is any secret to be

communicated."

"Why, not much, I own," replied the doctor; "at least what has occurred

is no secret in the house by this time. What do you think _has_

happened?"

"It is impossible for me to conjecture. Nothing to Ranulph, I hope."

"Nothing of consequence, I trust,--though he is part concerned with it."

"What is it?" asked Eleanor.

"Pray satisfy her curiosity, doctor," interposed Mrs. Mowbray.

"Well, then," said Small, rather more gravely, "the fact of the matter

stands thus:--Lady Rookwood, who, as you know, was not the meekest wife

in the world, now turns out by no means the gentlest mother, and has

within this hour found out that she has some objection to your union

with her son."

"You alarm me, doctor."

"Don't alarm yourself at all. It will be got over without difficulty,

and only requires a little management. Ranulph is with her now, and I

doubt not will arrange all to her satisfaction."

"What was her objection?" asked Eleanor; "was it any one founded upon my

obligation to Luke--my oath?"

"Tut, tut! dismiss that subject from your mind entirely," said the

doctor. "That oath is no more binding on your conscience than would have

been the ties of marriage had you been wedded by yon recusant Romish

priest, Father Checkley, upon whose guilty head the Lord be merciful!

Bestow not a thought upon it. My anxiety, together with that of your

mother, is to see you now, as speedily as may be, wedded to Ranulph, and

then that idle question is set at rest for ever; and therefore, even if

such a thing were to occur as that Lady Rookwood should not yield her

consent to your marriage, as that consent is totally unnecessary, we

must go through the ceremonial without it."

"The grounds of Lady Rookwood's objections----" said Mrs. Mowbray.

"Ay, the grounds of her ladyship's objections," interposed Small, who,

when he had once got the lead, liked nobody to talk but himself, "are

simply these, and exactly the sort of objections one would expect her to

raise. She cannot bear the idea of abandoning the control of the house

and estates to other hands. She cannot, and will not relinquish her

station, as head of the establishment, which Ranulph has insisted upon

as your right. I thought, when I conversed with her on this subject,

that she was changed, but

Naturam expellas furcâ, tamen usque recurret.

I beg your pardon. She is, and always will be, the same."

"Why did not Ranulph concede the point to her? I wish not to dwell here.

I care not for these domains--for this mansion. They have no charms for

me. I could be happy with Ranulph anywhere--happier anywhere than

here."

The kind-hearted doctor squeezed her hand in reply, brushing a tear from

his eyes.

"Why did he not concede it?" said Mrs. Mowbray, proudly. "Because the

choice remained not with him. It was not his to concede. This

house--these lands--all--all are yours; and it were poor requital,

indeed, if, after they have so long been wrongfully withheld from us,

you should be a dependant on Lady Rookwood."

"Without going quite so far as that, madam," said the doctor, "it is but

justice to your daughter that she should be put in full possession of

her rights; nor should I for one instant advise, or even allow her to

inhabit the same house with Lady Rookwood. Her ladyship's peculiarities

of temper are such as to preclude all possibility of happiness. At the

same time, I trust by management--always by management, madam--that her

ladyship's quiet departure may be ensured. I understand that all such

legal arrangements in the way of settlements as could be entered into

between your daughter and her future husband are completed. I have only

to regret the absence of my friend, Mr. Coates, at this momentous

conjuncture. It will be a loss to him. But he inherits from his father a

taste for thief-taking, which he is at present indulging, to the

manifest injury of his legitimate practice. Hark! I hear Ranulph's step

in the gallery. He will tell us the result of his final interview. I

came to give you advice, my dear," added the doctor in a low tone to

Eleanor; "but I find you need it not. 'Whoso humbleth himself, shall be

exalted.' I am glad you do not split upon the rock which has stranded

half your generation."

At this moment Ranulph Rookwood entered the room, followed by Handassah,

who took her station at the back of the room, unperceived by the rest of

the party, whose attention was attracted by Ranulph's agitated manner.

"What has happened?" asked Dr. Small and Mrs. Mowbray in the same

breath.

Ranulph hesitated for a moment in his answer, during which space he

regarded Eleanor with the deepest anxiety, and seemed revolving within

himself how he could frame his reply in such way as should be least

painful to her feelings; while, with instinctive apprehension of coming

misfortune, Miss Mowbray eagerly seconded the inquiries of her friends.

"It is with great pain," said he, at length, in a tone of despondency,

not unmingled with displeasure, "that I am obliged to descant upon the

infirmities of a parent, and to censure her conduct as severely as I may

do now. I feel the impropriety of such a step, and I would willingly

avoid it, could I do so in justice to my own feelings--and especially at

a moment like the present--when every hope of my life is fixed upon

uniting myself to you, dear Eleanor, by ties as near as my own to that

parent. But the interview which I have just had with Lady

Rookwood--bitter and heart-breaking as it has been--compels me to

reprobate her conduct in the strongest terms, as harsh, unjust, and

dishonorable; and if I could wholly throw off the son, as she avows she

has thrown off the mother, I should unhesitatingly pronounce it as

little short of----"

"Dear Ranulph," said Eleanor, palpitating with apprehension, "I never

saw you so much moved."

"Nor with so much reason," rejoined Ranulph. "For myself, I could endure

anything--but for _you_----"

"And does your dispute relate to _me_?" asked Eleanor. "Is it for _my_

sake you have braved your mother's displeasure? Is it because Lady

Rookwood is unwilling to resign the control of this house and these

lands to _me_, that you have parted in anger with her? Was this the

cause of your quarrel?"

"It was the origin of it," replied Ranulph.

"Mother," said Eleanor, firmly, to Mrs. Mowbray, "go with me to Lady

Rookwood's chamber."

"Wherefore?" demanded Mrs. Mowbray.

"Question me not, dear mother, or let me go alone."

"Daughter, I guess your meaning," said Mrs. Mowbray, sternly. "You would

relinquish your claims in favor of Lady Rookwood. Is it not so?"

"Since you oblige me to answer you, mother," said Eleanor, crimsoning,

"I must admit that you have guessed my meaning. To Lady Rookwood, as to

yourself, I would be a daughter as far as is consistent with my duty,"

added she, blushing still more deeply, "but my first consideration shall

be my husband. And if Lady Rookwood can be content----But pray question

me not further--accompany me to her chamber."

"Eleanor," interposed Ranulph, "dearest Eleanor, the sacrifice you would

make is unnecessary--uncalled for. You do not know my mother. She would

not, I grieve to say, appreciate the generosity of your motives. She

would not give you credit for your feelings. She would only resent your

visit as an intrusion."

"My daughter comprehends you, sir," said Mrs. Mowbray, haughtily. "I

will take care that, in her own house, Miss Mowbray shall remain free

from insult."

"Mother, dear mother," said Eleanor, "do not wilfully misunderstand

him."

"You can be little aware, madam," said Ranulph, calmly, yet sadly, "how

much I have recently endured--how much of parental anger--how much of

parental malediction I have incurred, to save you and your daughter from

the indignity you apprehend. As I before said, you do not know my

mother; nor could it enter into any well-regulated imagination to

conceive the extremities to which the violence of her passion will, when

her schemes are thwarted, hurry her. The terms upon which you met

together will not escape your recollection; nor shall I need to recall

to your mind her haughtiness, her coldness. That coldness has since

ripened into distrust; and the match which she was at first all anxiety

to promote, she would now utterly set aside, were it in her power to do

so. Whence this alteration in her views has arisen, I have no means of

ascertaining; it is not my mother's custom to give a reason for her

actions, or her wishes: it is all-sufficient to express them. I have

perceived, as the time has drawn nigh for the fulfilment of my dearest

hopes, that her unwillingness has increased; until to-day, what had

hitherto been confined to hints, has been openly expressed, and absolute

objections raised. Such, however, is the peculiarity of her temper, that

I trusted, even at the eleventh hour, I should be able to work a change.

Alas! our last meeting was decisive. She commanded me to break off the

match. At once, and peremptorily, I refused. Pardon me, madam, pardon

me, dearest Eleanor, if I thus enter into particulars; it is absolutely

necessary I should be explicit. Enraged at my opposition to her wishes,

her fury became ungovernable. With appalling imprecations upon the

memory of my poor father, and upon _your_ father, madam, whose chief

offence in her eyes was, it seems, the disposition of his property to

Eleanor, she bade me be gone, and take her curses as my wedding portion.

Beneath this roof--beneath _her_ roof, she added--no marriage of mine

should e'er take place. I might go hence, or might stay, as I thought

fitting; but you and your daughter, whom she characterized as intruders,

should not remain another hour within her house. To this wild raving I

answered, with as much composure as I could command, that she entirely

mistook her own position, and that, so far from the odium of intrusion

resting with you, if applicable to any one, the term must necessarily

affix itself on those who, through ignorance, had for years unjustly

deprived the rightful owners of this place of their inheritance. Upon

this her wrath was boundless. She disowned me as her son; disclaimed all

maternal regard, and heaped upon my head a frightful malediction, at the

recollection of which I still tremble. I will spare you further details

of this dreadful scene. To me it is most distressing; for, however

firmly resolved I may be to pursue a line of conduct which every sound

principle within me dictates as the correct one, yet I cannot be

insensible to the awful responsibility I shall incur in bringing down a

mother's curse upon my head, nor to the jeopardy in which her own

excessive violence may place her."

Mrs. Mowbray listened to Ranulph's explanation in haughty displeasure;

Eleanor with throbbing, tearful interest; Dr. Small, with mixed feelings

of anger and astonishment.

"Lady Rookwood's conduct," said the doctor, "is--you must forgive me, my

dear Sir Ranulph, for using strong expressions--outrageous beyond all

precedent, and only excusable on the ground of insanity, to which I wish

it were possible we could attribute it. There is, however, too much

method in her madness to allow us to indulge any such notion; she is

shrewd, dangerous, and designing; and, since she has resolved to oppose

this match, she will leave no means untried to do so. I scarcely know

how to advise you under the circumstances--that is, if my advice were

asked."

"Which I scarcely think it likely to be, sir," said Mrs. Mowbray,

coldly. "After what has occurred, _I_ shall think it my duty to break

off this alliance, which I have never considered to be so desirable that

its rupture will occasion me an instant's uneasiness."

"A plague on all these Rookwoods!" muttered Small. "One would think all

the pride of the Prince of Darkness were centered in their bosoms. But,

madam," continued the benevolent doctor, "have you no consideration for

the feelings of your daughter, or for those of one who is no distant

relation to you--your nephew? Your son, Major Mowbray, is, if I mistake

not, most eager for this union to take place between his sister and his

friend."

"My children have been accustomed to yield implicit obedience to my

wishes," said Mrs. Mowbray, "and Major Mowbray, I am sure, will see the

propriety of the step I am about to take. I am content, at least, to

abide by _his_ opinion."

"Snubbed again!" mentally ejaculated the doctor, with a shrug of

despair. "It is useless attempting to work upon such impracticable

material."

Ranulph remained mute, in an attitude of profound melancholy. An

eloquent interchange of glances had passed between him and Eleanor,

communicating to each the anxious state of the other's feelings.

At this crisis the door was suddenly opened, and old Agnes, Lady

Rookwood's aged attendant, rushed into the room, and sank upon her knees

on the floor, her limbs shaking, her teeth chattering, and every feature

expressive of intense terror. Ranulph went instantly towards her to

demand the cause of her alarm.

"No, let me pray," cried Agnes, as he took her hand in the attempt to

raise her; "let me pray while there is yet time--let the worthy doctor

pray beside me. Pray for an overladen soul, sir; pray heartily, as you

would hope for mercy yourself. Ah! little know the righteous of the

terrors of those that are beyond the pale of mercy. The Lord pardon me

my iniquities, and absolve _her_."

"Whom do you mean?" asked Ranulph, in agitation. "You do not allude to

my mother?"

"You have no longer a mother, young man," said Agnes, solemnly.

"What!" exclaimed Ranulph, terror-stricken; "is she dead?"

"She is gone."

"Gone! How? Whither?" exclaimed all, their amazement increasing each

instant at the terror of the old woman, and the apparently terrible

occasion of it.

"Speak!" exclaimed Ranulph; "but why do I loiter? my mother, perchance,

is dying--let me go."

The old woman maintained her clutching grasp, which was strong and

convulsive as that of one struggling betwixt life and death. "It's of no

use, I tell you; it's all over," said she--"the dead are come--the dead

are come--and she is gone."

"Whither?--whither?"

"To the grave--to the tomb," said Agnes, in a deep and hollow tone, and

with a look that froze Ranulph's soul. "Listen to me, Ranulph Rookwood,

my child, my nursling--listen while I _can_ speak. We were alone, your

mother and I, after that scene between you; after the dark denunciations

she had heaped upon the dead, when I heard a low and gasping kind of

sob, and there I saw your mother staring wildly upon the vacancy, as if

she saw that of which I dare not think."

"What think you she beheld?" asked Ranulph, quaking with apprehension.

"That which had been your father," returned Agnes, in a hollow tone.

"Don't doubt me, sir--you'll find the truth of what I say anon. I am

sure he was there. There was a thrilling, speechless horror in the very

sight of her countenance that froze my old blood to ice--to the ice in

which 'tis now--ough! ough! Well, at length she arose, with her eyes

still fixed, and passed through the paneled door without a word. She is

gone!"

"What madness is this?" cried Ranulph. "Let me go, woman--'tis that

ruffian in disguise--she may be murdered."

"No, no," shrieked Agnes; "it was no disguise. She is gone, I tell

you--the room was empty, all the rooms were empty--the passage was

void--through the door they went together--silently, silently--ghostlike,

slow. Ha! that tomb--they are there together now--he has her in his

arms--see, they are here--they glide through the door--do you not see

them now? Did I not speak the truth? She is dead--ha, ha!" And with a

frantic and bewildering laugh the old woman fell upon her face.

Ranulph raised her from the floor; but the shock of what she had beheld

had been too much for her. She was dead!

_CHAPTER IV_

_THE DOWER OF SYBIL_

_Card._ Now art thou come? Thou look'st ghastly;

There sits in thy face some great determination,

Mixed with some fear.

_Bos._ Thus it lightens into action:

I am come to kill thee.

_Duchess of Malfy._

Ranulph Rookwood was for some moments so much stunned by the ghastly

fate of Agnes, connected, as it appeared to be, with a supernatural

summons similar to that which he imagined he had himself received, that

he was incapable of stirring from the spot, or removing his gaze from

the rigid features of the corpse, which, even in death, wore the strong

impress of horror and despair. Through life he knew that Agnes, his own

nurse, had been his mother's constant and faithful attendant; the

unhesitating agent of her schemes, and it was to be feared, from the

remorse she had exhibited, the participator of her crimes; and Ranulph

felt, he knew not why, that in having witnessed her terrible end, he

beheld the ultimate condition of his own parent. Conquering, not without

great effort, the horror which had riveted him to the spot, he turned to

look towards Eleanor. She had sunk upon a chair, a silent witness of the

scene, Mrs. Mowbray and Dr. Small having, upon the first alarm given by

Agnes respecting Lady Rookwood's departure from the house quitted the

room to ascertain the truth of her statement. Ranulph immediately flew

to Eleanor.

"Ranulph," said she, though almost overcome by her alarm, "stay not an

instant here with me. I am sure, from that poor woman's dreadful death,

that something terrible has occurred, perhaps to Lady Rookwood. Go to

her chamber. Tarry not, I entreat of you."

"But will you, can you remain here alone with that body?" asked Ranulph.

"I shall not be alone. Handassah is within call--nay, she is here. Oh,

what an eve of our espousals has this been, dear Ranulph. Our whole life

is a troubled volume, of which each successive leaf grows darker. Fate

is opposed to us. It is useless to contend with our destiny. I fear we

shall never be united."

"Dismiss me not with words like those, dear Eleanor," returned Ranulph.

"Fate cannot have greater woes in store for us than those by which we

are now opposed. Let us hope that we are now at that point whence all

must brighten. Once possessed of you, assured of thus much happiness, I

would set even fate at defiance. And you will be mine to-morrow."

"Ranulph, dear Ranulph, your suit at this moment is desperate. I dare

not, cannot pledge myself. You yourself heard, even now, my mother's

sentiments, and I cannot marry without her consent."

"Your mother, like my own, regards not the feelings of her children.

Forgive my boldness, Eleanor; forgive me if I linger now, when duty

calls me hence; but I cannot tear myself away. Your mother may

return--my hopes be crushed; for even your love for me seems annihilated

in her presence."

"Ranulph, your vehemence terrifies me," rejoined Eleanor. "I implore

you, by the tender affection which you know I bear you, not to urge me

further at this moment. Recall your firmer feelings, and obtain some

mastery over yourself. I repeat, I am yours only, if I am bride of any

one. But when our union can take place rests not with myself. And now, I

entreat of you, leave me."

"You are mine," said Ranulph, with fervor; "mine only."

"Yours only," replied Eleanor.

"Be this the earnest of my happiness!" exclaimed Ranulph, imprinting a

long and impassioned kiss upon her lips.

The lovers were startled from their embrace by a profound sigh; it

proceeded from Handassah, who, unbidden, had replaced the picture of the

Lady Eleanor upon its frame. The augury seemed sinister. Every one who

has gazed steadfastly upon a portrait must have noticed the peculiar and

lifelike character which, under certain aspects, the eyes will assume.

Seen by the imperfect light upon the table, the whole character of the

countenance of the Lady Eleanor seemed changed; the features appeared to

be stamped with melancholy, and the eyes to be fixed with pitying

tenderness upon her descendants. Both gazed at each other and at the

picture, struck with the same sentiment of undefined awe. Beside them

stood the dark figure of the gipsy girl, watching, with ill-concealed

satisfaction, the effect of her handiwork. Ranulph was aroused from his

abstraction by hearing a loud outcry in Mrs. Mowbray's voice. Hastily

committing Eleanor to the care of her attendant, he left the room.

Handassah followed him to the door, closed it after him, and then locked

it within side. This done, she walked back hastily towards Eleanor,

exclaiming, in a tone of exultation, "You have parted with him forever."

"What mean you, girl?" cried Eleanor, alarmed at her manner. "Why have

you fastened the door? Open it, I command you."

"Command _me_!" laughed Handassah, scornfully. "What if I refuse your

mandate? What, if, in my turn, I bid _you_ obey _me_? I never owned but

one mistress. If I have bowed my neck to you for a time, 'twas to fulfil

her dying wishes. If I have submitted to your control, it was to

accomplish what I have now accomplished. Your oath! Remember your oath.

The hour is come for its fulfilment."

With these words Handassah clapped her hands. A panel in the wall

opened, and Luke stood suddenly before them. Silently and with stern

deliberation he strode towards Eleanor, and seizing one of her hands,

drew her forcibly towards him. Eleanor resisted not; she had not the

power; neither did she scream, for so paralyzing was her terror, that

for the moment it took away all power of utterance. Luke neither stirred

nor spoke, but, still maintaining his hold, gazed searchingly upon her

features, while Eleanor, as if spell-bound, could not withdraw her eyes

from him. Nothing more terribly impressive could be conceived than

Luke's whole appearance. Harassed and exhausted by the life he had

recently led; deprived almost of natural rest; goaded by remorse, his

frame was almost worn to the bone, while his countenance, once dark and

swarthy, was now blanched and colorless as marble. This pallid and

deathlike hue was, in all probability, owing to the loss of blood he had

sustained from the wound inflicted by Major Mowbray, with the stains of

which his apparel was dyed; for, though staunched, the effusion had been

sufficient to cause great faintness. His dark eyes blazed with their

wonted fire--nay, they looked darker and larger from his exceeding

paleness, and such intense mental and bodily suffering was imprinted

upon his countenance, that, despite its fierceness and desperation, few

could have regarded him without sympathy. Real desperation has so much

of agony in its character, that no one can witness it unmoved. His garb

was not that in which the reader first beheld him, but a rich, dark,

simple suit of velvet, corresponding more with his real rank in life

than his former peasant's attire; but it was disordered by his recent

conflict, and stained with bloody testimonials of the fray; while his

long, sable curls, once his pride and ornament, now hung in intertangled

elf-locks, like a coil of wreathed water-snakes. Even in her terror, as

she dwelt upon his noble features, Eleanor could not help admitting that

she beheld the undoubted descendant, and the living likeness of the

handsomest and most distinguished of her house--the profligate and

criminal Sir Reginald. As her eye, mechanically following this train of

thought, wandered for an instant to the haughty portraiture of Sir

Reginald, which formed part of the family pictures, and thence to those

of his unfortunate lady, she was struck with the fancy that, by some

terrible fatality, the tragic horrors of bygone days were to be again

enacted in their persons, and that they were in some way strangely

identified with their unfortunate progenitors. So forcibly was this idea

impressed upon her features that Luke, who had followed the direction of

her glances, became instantly aware of it. Drawing her nearer to the

portrait of the Lady Eleanor, he traced the resemblance in mute wonder;

thence, turning towards that of Sir Reginald, he proudly exclaimed: "You

doubted once my lineage, maiden--can you gaze on those features, which

would almost seem to be a reflection of mine own, and longer hesitate

whose descendant I am? I glory in my likeness. There is a wild delight

in setting human emotions at naught, which he was said to feel--which I

feel now. Within these halls I seem to breathe an atmosphere congenial

to me. I visit what I oft have visited in my dreams; or as in a state of

pre-existence. Methinks, as I gaze on you, I could almost deem myself

Sir Reginald, and you his bride, the Lady Eleanor. Our fates were

parallel: _she_ was united to her lord by ties of hatred--by a _vow_--_a

bridal vow_! So are you to me. And she could ne'er escape him--could

ne'er throw off her bondage--nor shall you. I claim the fulfilment of

_your_ oath; you are _mine_."

"Never, never!" shrieked Eleanor, struggling to disengage herself. But

Luke laughed at her feeble efforts. Handassah stood by, a passive

spectatress of the scene, with her arms folded upon her bosom.

"You refuse compliance," said Luke, scornfully. "Have you no hopes of

Heaven, no fears of perdition, that you dare to violate your vow?

Bethink you of the awful nature of that obligation; of the life that was

laid down to purchase it; of the blood which will cry out for vengeance

'gainst the _murderess_, should you hesitate. By that blood-cemented

sacrament, I claim you as my own. You are mine." And he dragged her

towards the opening.

Eleanor uttered a long and terrific scream.

"Be silent, on your life," added he, searching for the dagger given to

him by Alan Rookwood, when, as his hand sought the weapon, Eleanor

escaped from his grasp, and fled towards the door. But Handassah had

anticipated her intention. The key was withdrawn from the lock, and the

wretched maiden vainly tried to open it.

At this instant Turpin appeared at the sliding panel.

"Quick, quick!" cried he, impatiently--"despatch, in the devil's name.

The house is alarmed. I hear young Ranulph's voice in the gallery."

"Ranulph!" shrieked Eleanor--"then I am saved," and she redoubled her

outcries for assistance.

Luke again seized his victim. Her hands clutched so convulsively fast in

her despairing energy against the handle of the door that he could not

tear her thence. By this time Ranulph Rookwood, who had caught her

reiterated screams for help, was at the entrance. He heard her

struggles; he heard Luke's threats--his mockery--his derisive

laughter--but vainly, vainly did he attempt to force it open. It was of

the strongest oak, and the bolts resisted all his efforts. A board alone

divided him from his mistress. He could hear her sobs and gasps. He saw,

from the action of the handle, with what tenacity she clung to it; and,

stung to frenzy by the sight, he hurled himself against the sturdy

plank, but all in vain. At length the handle was still. There was a

heavy fall upon the floor--a stifled scream--and a sound as of a body

being dragged along. The thought was madness.

"To the panel! to the panel!" cried a voice--it was that of Turpin--from

within.

"The panel!--ha!" echoed Ranulph, with a sudden gleam of hope. "I may

yet save her." And he darted along the corridor with the swiftness of

thought.

Luke, meanwhile, had for some minutes fruitlessly exhausted all his

force to drag Eleanor from the door. Despair gave her strength; she

clutched at the door; but she felt her strength failing her--her grasp

was relaxing. And then the maddening thought that she would be shortly

his--that he would slay her--while the idea that Ranulph was so near,

and yet unable to protect her, added gall even to her bitterness. With

savage delight Luke exulted in the lovers' tortures. He heard Ranulph's

ineffectual attempts; he heard his groans; he heard their mutual cries.

Inflamed by jealousy, he triumphed in his power of vengeance, and even

prolonged the torture which accident had given him the means of

inflicting. He stood like the inquisitor who marks his victim's anguish

on the rack, and calculates his powers of further endurance. But he

could no longer dally, even with this horrible gratification. His

companion grew impatient. Eleanor's fair long tresses had escaped from

their confinement in the struggle, and fell down her neck in disorder.

Twining his fingers amidst its folds, Luke dragged her backwards from

her hold, and, incapable of further resistance, her strength completely

exhausted, the wretched girl fell to the ground.

Luke now raised her almost inanimate form in his arms, and had nigh

reached the aperture, when a crash was heard in the panel opposite to

that by which he was about to escape, and communicating with a further

apartment. It was thrown open, and Ranulph Rookwood presented himself at

the narrow partition. An exclamation of joy, that he was yet in time,

escaped his lips; and he was about to clear the partition at a bound,

and to precipitate himself upon Luke, when, as suddenly as his own

action, was the person of the unfortunate Mr. Coates wedged into the

aperture.

"Traitor!" cried Ranulph, regarding Coates with concentrated fury, "dare

you to oppose me?--hence! or, by Heaven, I will cut you down!"

"'Tis impossible," ejaculated the attorney. "For your own sake, Sir

Ranulph--for my sake--I entreat--implore of you--not to attempt to pass

this way. Try the other door."

Ranulph said no more. He passed his sword through the body of the

miserable attorney, who, with a deep groan, fell. The only obstacle to

his passage being thus removed, he at once leaped into the room.

The brothers were now confronted, together, but little of brotherly love

mingled with the glances which they threw upon each other. Ranulph's

gentle, but withal enthusiastic temperament, had kindled, under his

present excitement, like flax at the sudden approach of flame. He was

wild with frenzy. Luke was calmer, but his fury was deadly and

inextinguishable. The meeting was terrible on both sides.

With one arm Luke enfolded Eleanor, with the other he uplifted the

dagger. Its point was towards her bosom. Scowling grim defiance at

Ranulph, he exclaimed, in a determined tone, "Advance a footstep, and my

dagger descends into her heart."

Ranulph hesitated, uncertain how to act; foaming with rage, yet

trembling with apprehension.

"Ranulph," gasped Eleanor, "life without you were valueless.

Advance--avenge me!"

Ranulph still hesitated. He could not, by any act of his own, compromise

Eleanor's safety.

Luke saw his advantage, and was not slow to profit by it. "You seal her

destruction if you stir," said he.

"Villain," returned Ranulph, between his ground teeth, and with

difficulty commanding sufficient coolness to speak with deliberation,

"you perceive your power. Injure her, and nothing earthly shall protect

you. Free her, and take your life and liberty; nay, reward if you will.

You cannot otherwise escape me."

"Escape you!" laughed Luke, disdainfully. "Stand aside, and let me pass.

Beware," added he, sternly, "how you oppose me. I would not have a

brother's blood upon my soul."

"Nor I," cried Ranulph; "but you pass not." And he placed himself full

in Luke's path.

Luke, however, steadily moved forward, holding Eleanor between himself

and Ranulph, so as to shield his own person; but, fancying he saw an

opportunity of dealing a blow without injury to his mistress, the latter

was about to hazard the thrust, when his arms were seized behind, and he

was rendered powerless.

"Lost, lost," groaned he; "she is lost to me forever!"

"I fear that's but too true," said Turpin, for it was the highwayman

whose grasp confined Ranulph.

"Must I see her borne away before my eyes?" cried Ranulph. "Release

me--set me free!"

"Quite impossible at present," returned Dick. "Mount and away, Sir

Luke," continued he; "never mind me. Leave me to shift for myself."

"Eleanor!" cried Ranulph, as she passed close by his side.

"Ranulph!" shrieked Eleanor, with a loud scream, recalled to

consciousness by his voice, "farewell for ever."

"Ay, for ever," responded Luke, triumphantly. "You meet no more on

earth."

He was about to pass through the panel, when Eleanor exerted all her

remaining strength in a last futile attempt at liberation. In the

struggle, a packet fell from Luke's bosom.

Handassah stooped to pick it up.

"From Sybil!" exclaimed she, glancing at the superscription.

"Remember my promise to old Barbara," roared Dick, who had some

curiosity, as the reader knows, to learn what the package contained.

"The time is arrived. Eleanor is in your power--in your presence."

"Give me the packet," said Luke, resigning Eleanor for the instant to

Handassah's custody--"take the steel, and grasp her firmly."

Handassah, who, though slight of figure, was of singular personal

strength, twined her arms about Miss Mowbray in such a manner as to

preclude all possibility of motion.

Luke tore open the package. It was a box carefully enclosed in several

folds of linen, and lastly within a sheet of paper, on which were

inscribed these words:

THE DOWER OF SYBIL

Hastily, and with much curiosity, Luke raised the lid of the box. It

contained one long silken tress of blackest hair enviously braided. It

was Sybil's. His first impulse was to cast it from him; his next,

reproachfully to raise it to his lips. He started as if a snake had

stung him.

At this moment a loud clamor was heard in the gallery. In the next, the

door was assailed by violent strokes, evidently proceeding from some

weighty instrument, impelled by the united strength of several

assailants.

The voice of Turpin rose above the deafening din. "A bullet for the

first who enters," shouted he. "Quick, Sir Luke, and the prize is

safe--away, and----"

But as he seconded his exhortation with a glance at Luke, he broke off

the half-uttered sentence, and started with horror and amazement. Ere

the cause of his alarm could be expressed, the door was burst open, and

a crowd of domestics, headed by Major Mowbray and Titus Tyrconnel,

rushed into the room.

"Nay, then, the game's up!" exclaimed Dick; "I have done with Rookwood."

And, springing through the panel, he was seen no more.

When the newcomers first looked round, they could perceive only two

figures besides themselves--those of the two lovers--Eleanor having

sunk pale, exhausted, and almost senseless, into the arms of Ranulph.

Presently, however, a ghastly object attracted their attention. All

rushed towards it--all recoiled, as soon as they discovered that it was

the lifeless body of Luke Rookwood. His limbs were stiff, like those of

a corpse which has for hours been such; his eyes protruded from their

sockets; his face was livid and blotched. All bespoke, with terrible

certainty, the efficacy of the poison, and the full accomplishment of

Barbara's revenge.

Handassah was gone. Probably she had escaped ere Turpin fled. At all

events, she was heard of no more at Rookwood.

It required little to recall the senses of Eleanor. Shortly she revived,

and as she gazed around, and became conscious of her escape, she uttered

exclamations of thanksgiving, and sank into the embraces of her brother.

Meanwhile, Mrs. Mowbray and Dr. Small had joined the assemblage.

The worthy doctor had been full of alarm; but his meditated condolences

were now changed to congratulations, as he heard the particulars of the

terrible scene that had occurred, and of Eleanor's singular and almost

providential deliverance.

"After what has befallen, madam," said the doctor to Mrs. Mowbray,

slightly coughing, "you can no longer raise any objection to a certain

union, eh?"

"I will answer for my mother in that particular," said Major Mowbray,

stepping forward.

"She will answer for herself, my son," said Mrs. Mowbray. "The match has

her full and entire consent. But to what am I to attribute the

unexpected happiness of your return?"

"To a chain of singular circumstances," replied the Major, "which I will

hereafter detail to you. Suffice it to say, that but for this

gentleman's fortunate arrival," added he, looking at Titus Tyrconnel,

"at the hut on Thorne Waste, I might have been detained a prisoner,

without _parole_, and, what is worse, without provision perhaps for

days; and to add to my distress, fully acquainted with the meditated

abduction of my sister. It was excessively lucky for me, Mr. Tyrconnel,

that you happened to pass that way, and for poor Paterson likewise."

"Arrah, by my sowl, major, and you may say that with safety; and it was

particularly fortunate that we stumbled upon the tits in the cellar, or

we'd never have been here just in the nick of it. I begin to think we've

lost all chance of taking Dick Turpin this time. He's got clean away."

"I am not sorry for his escape," said the major. "He's a brave fellow;

and I respect courage wherever I find it, even in a highwayman. I should

be sorry to appear as a witness against him; and I trust it will never

be my fate to do so."

We shall not pause to describe the affectionate meeting which now ensued

between the brother and sister--the congratulations upon Eleanor's

escape from peril, intermingled with the tenderest embraces, and the

warmest thanks offered to Ranulph for his gallant service. "She is

yours, my dear boy," said the major; "and though you are a Rookwood, and

she bears the ill-fated name of Eleanor, I predict that, contrary to the

usual custom of our families in such cases, all your misfortunes will

have occurred _before_ marriage."

"There is only one thing," said Small, with a very peculiar expression,

which might almost be construed into serio-comic, could we suspect the

benevolent doctor of any such waggery, "that can possibly throw a shade

over our present felicity. Lady Rookwood is not to be found."

"My poor mother," said Ranulph, starting.

"Make yourself easy," said the doctor; "I doubt not we shall hear of her

to-morrow. My only apprehension," added he, half aside, "is, that she

may be heard of before."

"One other circumstance afflicts me," said Ranulph. "Poor Mr. Coates!"

"What's that you say of Mr. Coates, Sir Ranulph?" exclaimed Titus.

"I fear he was killed in the recent affray," said Ranulph. "Let some one

search for the body."

"Kilt!" echoed Titus. "Is it kilt that Mr. Coates is? Ah! _ullagone_,

and is it over with him entirely? Is he gone to rejoin his father, the

thief-taker? Bring me to his remains."

"He will bring them to you himself," said the attorney, stepping

forward. "Luckily, Sir Ranulph," said the incurable punster, "it was

merely the _outer coats_ that your sword passed through; the _inner_

remains uninjured, so that you did not act as my _conveyancer_ to

eternity. Body o' me! I've as many lives as a cat--ha, ha!"

Ranulph welcomed the facetious man of law with no little satisfaction.

We think it unnecessary to enter into further detail. Another chamber

was prepared for Eleanor's reception, to which she was almost

immediately transported. The remains of the once fierce and haughty

Luke, now stiff and stark, but still wearing, even in death, their proud

character, were placed upon the self-same bier, and covered with the

self-same pall which, but a week ago, had furnished forth his father's

funeral. And as the domestics crowded round the corpse, there was not

one of them but commented upon his startling resemblance to his

grandsire, Sir Reginald; nor, amongst the superstitious, was the falling

of the fatal bough forgotten.

Tranquillity was at length restored at the hall. Throughout the night

and during the next day, Ranulph made every search for his mother, but

no tidings could be learned of her. Seriously alarmed, he then caused

more strict and general inquiry to be instituted, but with like

unsuccessful effect. It was not, indeed, till some years afterwards that

her fate was ascertained.

_CHAPTER V_

_THE SARCOPHAGUS_

So now 'tis ended, like an old wife's story.--WEBSTER.

Notwithstanding the obscurity which hung over the fate of Lady Rookwood,

the celebration of the nuptials of Sir Ranulph and Eleanor was not long

delayed; the ceremony took place at the parish church, and the worthy

vicar officiated upon the occasion. It was a joyous sight to all who

witnessed it, and not few were they who did so, for the whole

neighborhood was bidden to the festival. The old avenue was thronged

with bright and beaming faces, rustic maidens decked out in ribbons of

many-colored splendor, and stout youths in their best holiday trim; nor

was the lusty yeoman and his buxom spouse--nor yet the patriarch of the

village, nor prattling child, wanting. Even the ancestral rooks seemed

to participate in the universal merriment, and returned, from their

eyries, a hoarse greeting, like a lusty chorus of laughter, to the

frolic train. The churchyard path was strewn with flowers--the church

itself a complete garland. Never was there seen a blither wedding: the

sun smiled upon the bride--accounted a fortunate omen, as dark lowering

skies and stormy weather had, within the memory of the oldest of the

tenantry, inauspiciously ushered in all former espousals. The bride had

recovered her bloom and beauty, while the melancholy which had seemingly

settled for ever upon the open brow of the bridegroom, had now given

place to a pensive shade that only added interest to his expressive

features; and, as in simple state, after the completion of the sacred

rites, the youthful pair walked, arm in arm, amongst their thronging and

admiring tenants towards the Hall, many a fervent prayer was breathed

that the curse of the house of Rookwood might be averted from their

heads; and, not to leave a doubt upon the subject, we can add that these

aspirations were not in vain, but that the day, which dawned so

brightly, was one of serene and unclouded happiness to its close.

After the ceremonial, the day was devoted to festivity. Crowded with

company, from the ample hall to the kitchen ingle, the old mansion could

scarce contain its numerous guests, while the walls resounded with

hearty peals of laughter, to which they had been long unaccustomed. The

tables groaned beneath the lordly baron of beef, the weighty chine, the

castled pasty flanked on the one hand with neat's tongue, and on the

other defended by a mountainous ham, an excellent _pièce de résistance_,

and every other substantial appliance of ancient hospitality. Barrels of

mighty ale were broached, and their nut-brown contents widely

distributed, and the health of the bride and bridegroom was

enthusiastically drunk in a brimming wassail cup of spicy wine with

floating toast. Titus Tyrconnel acted as master of the ceremonies, and

was, Mr. Coates declared, "_quite in his element_." So much was he

elated, that he ventured to cut some of his old jokes upon the vicar,

and, strange to say, without incurring the resentment of Small.

To retrace the darker course of our narrative, we must state that some

weeks before this happy event the remains of the unfortunate Sir Luke

Rookwood had been gathered to those of his fathers. The document that

attested his legitimacy being found upon his person, the claims denied

to him in life were conceded in death; and he was interred, with all the

pomp and peculiar solemnity proper to one of the house, within the tomb

of his ancestry.

It was then that a discovery was made respecting Alan Rookwood, in order

to explain which we must again revert to the night of the meditated

_enlèvement_ of Eleanor.

After quitting his grandson in the avenue, Alan shaped his course among

the fields in the direction to the church. He sought his own humble,

but now deserted dwelling. The door had been forced; some of its meagre

furniture was removed; and the dog, his sole companion, had fled. "Poor

Mole!" said he, "thou hast found, I trust, a better master." And having

possessed himself of what he came in search--namely, a bunch of keys and

his lantern, deposited in an out-of-the-way cupboard, that had escaped

notice, he quickly departed.

He was once more within the churchyard; once more upon that awful stage

whereon he had chosen to enact, for a long season, his late fantastical

character; and he gazed upon the church tower, glistening in the

moonshine, the green and undulating hillocks, the "chequered

cross-sticks," the clustered headstones, and the black and portentous

yew-trees, as upon "old familiar faces." He mused, for a few moments,

upon the scene, apparently with deep interest. He then walked beneath

the shadows of one of the yews, chanting an odd stanza or so of one of

his wild staves, wrapped the while, it would seem, in affectionate

contemplation of the subject-matter of his song:

THE CHURCHYARD YEW

---- Metuendaque succo

Taxus.

STATIUS.

A noxious tree is the churchyard yew,

As if from the dead its sap it drew;

Dark are its branches, and dismal to see,

Like plumes at Death's latest solemnity.

Spectral and jagged, and black as the wings

Which some spirit of ill o'er a sepulchre flings:

Oh! a terrible tree is the churchyard yew;

Like it is nothing so grimly to view.

Yet this baleful tree hath a core so sound,

Can nought so tough in the grove be found;

From it were fashioned brave English bows,

The boast of our isle, and the dread of its foes.

For our sturdy sires cut their stoutest staves

From the branch that hung o'er their fathers' graves;

And though it be dreary and dismal to view,

Staunch at the heart is the churchyard yew.

His ditty concluded, Alan entered the churchyard, taking care to leave

the door slightly ajar, in order to facilitate his grandson's entrance.

For an instant he lingered in the chancel. The yellow moonlight fell

upon the monuments of his race; and, directed by the instinct of hate,

Alan's eye rested upon the gilded entablature of his perfidious brother,

Reginald, and, muttering curses, "not loud but deep," he passed on.

Having lighted his lantern in no tranquil mood, he descended into the

vault, observing a similar caution with respect to the portal of the

cemetery, which he left partially unclosed, with the key in the lock.

Here he resolved to abide Luke's coming. The reader knows what

probability there was of his expectations being realized.

For a while he paced the tomb, wrapped in gloomy meditation, and

pondering, it might be, upon the result of Luke's expedition, and the

fulfilment of his own dark schemes, scowling from time to time beneath

his bent eyebrows, counting the grim array of coffins, and noticing,

with something like satisfaction, that the shell which contained the

remains of his daughter had been restored to its former position. He

then bethought him of Father Checkley's midnight intrusion upon his

conference with Luke, and their apprehension of a supernatural

visitation, and his curiosity was stimulated to ascertain by what means

the priest had gained admission to the spot unperceived and unheard. He

resolved to sound the floor, and see whether any secret entrance

existed; and hollowly and dully did the hard flagging return the stroke

of his heel as he pursued his scrutiny. At length the metallic ringing

of an iron plate, immediately behind the marble effigy of Sir Ranulph,

resolved the point. There it was that the priest had found access to

the vault; but Alan's disappointment was excessive, when he discovered

that the plate was fastened on the underside, and all communication

thence with the churchyard, or to wherever else it might conduct him,

cut off: but the present was not the season for further investigation,

and tolerably pleased with the discovery he had already made, he

returned to his silent march round the sepulchre.

At length a sound, like the sudden shutting of the church door, broke

upon the profound stillness of the holy edifice. In the hush that

succeeded, a footstep was distinctly heard threading the aisle.

"He comes--he comes!" exclaimed Alan, joyfully; adding, an instant

after, in an altered voice, "but he comes alone."

The footstep drew near to the mouth of the vault--it was upon the

stairs. Alan stepped forward to greet, as he supposed, his grandson, but

started back in astonishment and dismay as he encountered in his stead

Lady Rookwood. Alan retreated, while the lady advanced, swinging the

iron door after her, which closed with a tremendous clang. Approaching

the statue of the first Sir Ranulph, she paused, and Alan then remarked

the singular and terrible expression of her eyes, which appeared to be

fixed upon the statue, or upon some invisible object near it. There was

something in her whole attitude and manner calculated to impress the

deepest terror on the beholder. And Alan gazed upon her with an awe

which momently increased. Lady Rookwood's bearing was as proud and erect

as we have formerly described it to have been--her brow was haughtily

bent--her chiselled lip as disdainfully curled; but the staring,

changeless eye, and the deep-heaved sob which occasionally escaped her,

betrayed how much she was under the influence of mortal terror. Alan

watched her in amazement. He knew not how the scene was likely to

terminate, nor what could have induced her to visit this ghostly spot at

such an hour, and alone; but he resolved to abide the issue in

silence--profound as her own. After a time, however, his impatience got

the better of his fears and scruples, and he spoke.

"What doth Lady Rookwood in the abode of the dead?" asked he, at length.

She started at the sound of his voice, but still kept her eye fixed upon

the vacancy.

"Hast thou not beckoned me hither, and am I not come?" returned she, in

a hollow tone. "And now thou asketh wherefore I am here--I am here

because, as in thy life I feared thee not, neither in death do I fear

thee. I am here because----"

"What seest thou?" interrupted Peter, with ill-suppressed terror.

"What see I--ha--ha!" shouted Lady Rookwood, amidst discordant laughter;

"that which might appal a heart less stout than mine--a figure

anguish-writhen, with veins that glow as with a subtle and consuming

flame. A substance yet a shadow, in thy living likeness. Ha--frown if

thou wilt; I can return thy glances."

"Where dost thou see this vision?" demanded Alan.

"Where!" echoed Lady Rookwood, becoming for the first time sensible of

the presence of a stranger. "Ha--who are you that question me?--what are

you?--speak!"

"No matter who or what I am," returned Alan, "I ask you what you

behold."

"Can you see nothing?"

"Nothing," replied Alan.

"You knew Sir Piers Rookwood?"

"Is it he?" asked Alan, drawing near her.

"It is," replied Lady Rookwood; "I have followed him hither, and I will

follow him whithersoever he leads me, were it to----"

"What doth he now?" asked Alan; "do you see him still?"

"The figure points to that sarcophagus," returned Lady Rookwood--"can

you raise up the lid?"

"No," replied Alan; "my strength will not avail to lift it."

"Yet let the trial be made," said Lady Rookwood; "the figure points

there still--my own arm shall aid you."

Alan watched her in dumb wonder. She advanced towards the marble

monument, and beckoned him to follow. He reluctantly complied. Without

any expectation of being able to move the ponderous lid of the

sarcophagus, at Lady Rookwood's renewed request he applied himself to

the task. What was his surprise, when, beneath their united efforts, he

found the ponderous slab slowly revolve upon its vast hinges, and, with

little further difficulty, it was completely elevated; though it still

required the exertion of all Alan's strength to prop it open, and

prevent its falling back.

"What does it contain?" asked Lady Rookwood.

"A warrior's ashes," returned Alan.

"There is a rusty dagger upon a fold of faded linen," cried Lady

Rookwood, holding down the light.

"It is the weapon with which the first dame of the house of Rookwood was

stabbed," said Alan, with a grim smile:

"Which whoso findeth in the tomb

Shall clutch until the hour of doom;

And when 'tis grasped by hand of clay,

The curse of blood shall pass away.

So saith the rhyme. Have you seen enough?"

"No," said Lady Rookwood, precipitating herself into the marble coffin.

"That weapon shall be mine."

"Come forth--come forth," cried Alan. "My arm trembles--I cannot support

the lid."

"I will have it, though I grasp it to eternity," shrieked Lady Rookwood,

vainly endeavoring to wrest away the dagger, which was fastened,

together with the linen upon which it lay, by some adhesive substance

to the bottom of the shell.

At this moment Alan Rookwood happened to cast his eye upward, and he

then beheld what filled him with new terror. The axe of the sable statue

was poised above its head, as in the act to strike him. Some secret

machinery, it was evident, existed between the sarcophagus lid and this

mysterious image. But in the first impulse of his alarm Alan abandoned

his hold of the slab, and it sunk slowly downwards. He uttered a loud

cry as it moved. Lady Rookwood heard this cry. She raised herself at the

same moment--the dagger was in her hand--she pressed it against the lid,

but its downward force was too great to be withstood. The light was

within the sarcophagus, and Alan could discern her features. The

expression was terrible. She uttered one shriek and the lid closed for

ever.

Alan was in total darkness. The light had been enclosed with Lady

Rookwood. There was something so horrible in her probable fate, that

even _he_ shuddered as he thought upon it. Exerting all his remaining

strength, he essayed to raise the lid, but now it was more firmly closed

than ever. It defied all his power. Once, for an instant, he fancied

that it yielded to his straining sinews, but it was only his hand that

slided upon the surface of the marble. It was fixed--immovable. The

sides and lid rang with the strokes which the unfortunate lady bestowed

upon them with the dagger's point; but those sounds were not long heard.

Presently all was still; the marble ceased to vibrate with her blows.

Alan struck the lid with his knuckles, but no response was returned. All

was silent.

He now turned his attention to his own situation, which had become

sufficiently alarming. An hour must have elapsed, yet Luke had not

arrived. The door of the vault was closed--the key was in the lock, and

on the outside. He was himself a prisoner within the tomb. What if Luke

should _not_ return? What if he were slain, as it might chance, in the

enterprise? That thought flashed across his brain like an electric

shock. None knew of his retreat but his grandson. He might perish of

famine within this desolate vault.

He checked this notion as soon as it was formed--it was too dreadful to

be indulged in. A thousand circumstances might conspire to detain Luke.

He was sure to come. Yet the solitude--the darkness was awful, almost

intolerable. The dying and the dead were around him. He dared not stir.

Another hour--an age it seemed to him--had passed. Still Luke came not.

Horrible forebodings crossed him; but he would not surrender himself to

them. He rose, and crawled in the direction, as he supposed, of the

door--fearful, even of the stealthy sound of his own footsteps. He

reached it, and his heart once more throbbed with hope. He bent his ear

to the key; he drew in his breath; he listened for some sound, but

nothing was to be heard. A groan would have been almost music in his

ears.

Another hour was gone! He was now a prey to the most frightful

apprehensions, agitated in turns by the wildest emotions of rage and

terror. He at one moment imagined that Luke had abandoned him, and

heaped curses upon his head; at the next, convinced that he had fallen,

he bewailed with equal bitterness his grandson's fate and his own. He

paced the tomb like one distracted; he stamped upon the iron plate; he

smote with his hands upon the door; he shouted, and the vault hollowly

echoed his lamentations. But Time's sand ran on, and Luke arrived not.

Alan now abandoned himself wholly to despair. He could no longer

anticipate his grandson's coming, no longer hope for deliverance. His

fate was sealed. Death awaited him. He must anticipate his slow but

inevitable stroke, enduring all the grinding horrors of starvation. The

contemplation of such an end was madness, but he was forced to

contemplate it now; and so appalling did it appear to his imagination,

that he half resolved to dash out his brains against the walls of the

sepulchre, and put an end at once to his tortures; and nothing, except a

doubt whether he might not, by imperfectly accomplishing his purpose,

increase his own suffering, prevented him from putting this dreadful

idea into execution. His dagger was gone, and he had no other weapon.

Terrors of a new kind now assailed him. The dead, he fancied, were

bursting from their coffins, and he peopled the darkness with grisly

phantoms. They were around about him on each side, whirling and

rustling, gibbering, groaning, shrieking, laughing, and lamenting. He

was stunned, stifled. The air seemed to grow suffocating, pestilential;

the wild laughter was redoubled; the horrible troop assailed him; they

dragged him along the tomb, and amid their howls he fell, and became

insensible.

When he returned to himself, it was some time before he could collect

his scattered faculties; and when the agonizing consciousness of his

terrible situation forced itself upon his mind, he had nigh relapsed

into oblivion. He arose. He rushed towards the door; he knocked against

it with his knuckles till the blood streamed from them; he scratched

against it with his nails till they were torn off by the roots. With

insane fury he hurled himself against the iron frame; it was in vain.

Again he had recourse to the trap-door. He searched for it; he found it.

He laid himself upon the ground. There was no interval of space in which

he could insert a finger's point. He beat it with his clenched hand; he

tore it with his teeth; he jumped upon it; he smote it with his heel.

The iron returned a sullen sound.

He again essayed the lid of the sarcophagus. Despair nerved his

strength. He raised the slab a few inches. He shouted, screamed, but no

answer was returned; and again the lid fell.

"She is dead!" cried Alan. "Why have I not shared her fate? But mine is

to come. And such a death!--oh, oh!" And, frenzied at the thought, he

again hurried to the door, and renewed his fruitless attempts to

escape, till nature gave way, and he sank upon the floor, groaning and

exhausted.

Physical suffering now began to take the place of his mental tortures.

Parched and consumed with a fierce internal fever, he was tormented by

unappeasable thirst--of all human ills the most unendurable. His tongue

was dry and dusty, his throat inflamed; his lips had lost all moisture.

He licked the humid floor; he sought to imbibe the nitrous drops from

the walls; but, instead of allaying his thirst, they increased it. He

would have given the world, had he possessed it, for a draught of cold

spring-water. Oh, to have died with his lips upon some bubbling

fountain's marge! But to perish thus----!

Nor were the pangs of hunger wanting. He had to endure all the horrors

of famine, as well as the agonies of quenchless thirst.

In this dreadful state three days and nights passed over Alan's fated

head. Nor night nor day had he. Time, with him, was only measured by its

duration, and that seemed interminable. Each hour added to his

suffering, and brought with it no relief. During this period of

prolonged misery reason often tottered on her throne. Sometimes he was

under the influence of the wildest passions. He dragged coffins from

their recesses, hurled them upon the ground, striving to break them open

and drag forth their loathsome contents. Upon other occasions he would

weep bitterly and wildly; and once--only once--did he attempt to pray;

but he started from his knees with an echo of infernal laughter, as he

deemed, ringing in his ears. Then, again, would he call down

imprecations upon himself and his whole line, trampling upon the pile of

coffins he had reared; and lastly, more subdued, would creep to the

boards that contained the body of his child, kissing them with a frantic

outbreak of affection.

At length he became sensible of his approaching dissolution. To him the

thought of death might well be terrible, but he quailed not before it,

or rather seemed, in his latest moments, to resume all his wonted

firmness of character. Gathering together his remaining strength, he

dragged himself towards the niche wherein his brother, Sir Reginald

Rookwood, was deposited, and placing his hand upon the coffin, solemnly

exclaimed, "My curse--my dying curse--be upon thee evermore!"

Falling with his face upon the coffin, Alan instantly expired. In this

attitude his remains were discovered.

_L'ENVOY_

Our tale is told. Yet, perhaps, we may be allowed to add a few words

respecting two of the subordinate characters of our drama--melodrama we

ought to say--namely Jerry Juniper and the knight of Malta. What became

of the Caper Merchant's son after his flight from Kilburn Wells we have

never been able distinctly to ascertain. Juniper, however, would seem to

be a sort of Wandering Jew, for certain it is, that _somebody very like

him_ is extant still, and to be met with at Jerry's old haunts; indeed,

we have no doubt of encountering him at the ensuing meetings of Ascot

and Hampton.

As regards the knight of Malta--Knight of _Roads_--"Rhodes"--he should

have been--we are sorry to state that the career of the Ruffler

terminated in a madhouse, and thus the poor knight became in reality a

_Hospitaller_! According to the custom observed in those establishments,

the knight was deprived of his luxuriant locks, and the loss of his

beard rendered his case incurable; but, in the mean time, the barber of

the place made his fortune by retailing the materials of all the black

wigs he could collect to the impostor's dupes.

Such is the latest piece of intelligence that has reached us of the

_Arch-hoaxer_ of Canterbury!

Turpin--why disguise it?--was hanged at York in 1739. His firmness

deserted him not at the last. When he mounted the fatal tree his left

leg trembled; he stamped it impatiently down, and, after a brief chat

with the hangman, threw himself suddenly and resolutely from the ladder.

His sufferings would appear to have been slight: as he himself sang,

He died, not as other men, by _degrees_,

But _at once_, without wincing, and quite at his ease!

We may, in some other place, lay before the reader the particulars--and

they are not incurious--of the "night before Larry was stretched."

The remains of the vagrant highwayman found a final resting-place in the

desecrated churchyard of Saint George, without the Fishergate postern, a

green and grassy cemetery, but withal a melancholy one. A few recent

tombs mark out the spots where some of the victims of the pestilence of

1832-33 have been interred; but we have made vain search for Turpin's

grave--unless--as is more than probable--the plain stone with the simple

initials R. T. belongs to him.

The gyves by which he was fettered are still shown at York Castle, and

are of prodigious weight and strength; and though the herculean robber

is said to have moved in them with ease, the present turnkey was

scarcely able to lift the ponderous irons. An old woman of the same city

has a lock of hair, said to have been Turpin's, which she avouches her

grandfather cut off from the body after the execution, and which the

believers look upon with great reverence. O rare Dick Turpin!

We shall, perhaps, be accused of dilating too much upon the character of

the highwayman, and we plead guilty to the charge. But we found it

impossible to avoid running a little into extremes. Our earliest

associations are connected with sunny scenes in Cheshire, said to have

been haunted by Turpin; and with one very dear to us--from whose lips,

now, alas! silent, we have listened to many stories of his exploits--he

was a sort of hero. We have had a singular delight in recounting his

feats and hairbreadth escapes; and if the reader derives only half as

much pleasure from the perusal of his adventures as we have had in

narrating them, our satisfaction will be complete. Perhaps, we may have

placed him in too favorable a point of view--and yet we know not. As

upon those of more important personages, many doubts rest upon his

history. Such as we conceive him to have been, we have drawn him--hoping

that the benevolent reader, upon finishing our Tale, will arrive at the

same conclusion; and, in the words of the quaint old Prologue to the

Prince of Prigs' Revels,

------------Thank that man,

Can make each thief a complete Roscian!

NOTES

[1] See the celebrated recipe for the Hand of Glory in "_Les Secrets du

Petit Albert_."

[2] The seven planets, so called by Mercurius Trismegistus.

[3] Payne Knight, the scourge of Repton and his school, speaking of the

license indulged in by the modern landscape-gardeners, thus vents his

indignation:

But here, once more, ye rural muses weep

The ivy'd balustrade, and terrace steep;

Walls, mellowed into harmony by time,

On which fantastic creepers used to climb;

While statues, labyrinths, and alleys pent

Within their bounds, at least were innocent!--

_Our modern taste--alas!--no limit knows;

O'er hill, o'er dale, through wood and field it flows;

Spreading o'er all its unprolific spawn,

In never-ending sheets of vapid lawn._

_The Landscape, a didactic Poem,

addressed to Uvedale Price, Esq._

[4] Mason's English Garden.

[5] Cowley.

[6] Query, Damocles?--_Printer's Devil._

[7] James Hind--the "Prince of Prigs"--a royalist captain of some

distinction, was hanged, drawn, and quartered, in 1652. Some good

stories are told of him. He had the credit of robbing Cromwell,

Bradshaw, and Peters. His discourse to Peters is particularly edifying.

[8] See Du-Val's life by Doctor Pope, or Leigh Hunt's brilliant sketch

of him in _The Indicator_.

[9] We cannot say much in favor of this worthy, whose name was Thomas

Simpson. The reason of his _sobriquet_ does not appear. He was not

particularly scrupulous as to his mode of appropriation. One of his

sayings is, however, on record. He told a widow whom he robbed, "that

the end of a woman's husband begins in tears, but the end of her tears

is another husband." "Upon which," says his chronicler, "the gentlewoman

gave him about fifty guineas."

[10] Tom was a sprightly fellow, and carried his sprightliness to the

gallows; for just before he was turned off he kicked Mr. Smith, the

ordinary, and the hangman out of the cart--a piece of pleasantry which

created, as may be supposed, no small sensation.

[11] Many agreeable stories are related of Holloway. His career,

however, closed with a murder. He contrived to break out of Newgate but

returned to witness the trial of one of his associates; when, upon the

attempt of a turnkey, one Richard Spurling, to seize him, Will knocked

him on the head in the presence of the whole court. For this offence he

suffered the extreme penalty of the law in 1712.

[12] Wicks's adventures with Madame Toly are highly diverting. It was

this hero--not Turpin, as has been erroneously stated--who stopped the

celebrated Lord Mohun. Of Gettings and Grey, and "the five or six," the

less said the better.

[13] One of Jack's recorded _mots_. When a Bible was pressed upon his

acceptance by Mr. Wagstaff, the chaplain, Jack refused it, saying, "that

in his situation one file would be worth all the Bibles in the world." A

gentleman who visited Newgate asked him to dinner; Sheppard replied,

"that he would take an early opportunity of waiting upon him." And we

believe he kept his word.

[14] The word Tory, as here applied, must not be confounded with the

term of party distinction now in general use in the political world. It

simply means a thief on a grand scale, something more than "a snapper-up

of unconsidered trifles," or petty-larceny rascal. We have classical

authority for this:--TORY: "An advocate for absolute monarchy; _also, an

Irish vagabond, robber, or rapparee_."--GROSE'S _Dictionary_.

[15] A trio of famous High-Tobygloaks. Swiftneck was a captain of

_Irish_ dragoons, by-the-bye.

[16] REDMOND O'HANLON was the Rob Roy of Ireland, and his adventures,

many of which are exceedingly curious, would furnish as rich _materials_

for the novelist, as they have already done for the ballad-mongers: some

of them are, however, sufficiently well narrated in a pleasant little

tome, published at Belfast, entitled _The History of the Rapparees_. We

are also in possession of a funeral discourse, preached at the obsequies

of the "noble and renowned" Henry St. John, Esq., who was unfortunately

killed by the _Tories_--the _Destructives_ of those days--in the

induction to which we find some allusion to Redmond. After describing

the thriving condition of the north of Ireland, about 1680, the Rev.

Lawrence Power, the author of the sermon, says, "One mischief there was,

which indeed in a great measure destroyed all, and that was a pack of

insolent bloody outlaws, whom they here call _Tories_. These had so

riveted themselves in these parts, that by the interest they had among

the natives, and some English, too, _to their shame be it spoken_, they

exercise a kind of separate sovereignty in three or four counties in the

north of Ireland. REDMOND O'HANLON is their chief, and has been these

many years; a cunning, dangerous fellow, who, though proclaimed an

outlaw with the rest of his crew, and sums of money set upon their

heads, yet he reigns still, and keeps all in subjection, so far that

'tis credibly reported _he raises more in a year by contributions

à-la-mode de France than the king's land taxes and chimney-money come

to, and thereby is enabled to bribe clerks and officers_, IF NOT THEIR

MASTERS, (!) _and makes all too much truckle to him_." Agitation, it

seems, was not confined to our own days--but the "finest country in the

world" has been, and ever will be, the same. The old game is played

under a new color--the only difference being, that had Redmond lived in

our time, he would, in all probability, not only have pillaged a county,

but _represented_ it in parliament. The spirit of the Rapparee is still

abroad--though we fear there is little of the _Tory_ left about it. We

recommend this note to the serious consideration of the declaimers

against the sufferings of the "six millions."

[17] Here Titus was slightly in error. He mistook the cause for the

effect. "They were called Rapparees," Mr. Malone says, "from being armed

with a half-pike, called by the Irish a _rapparee_."--TODD'S JOHNSON.

[18] _Tory_, so called from the Irish word _Toree_, give me your

money.--TODD'S JOHNSON.

[19] As he was carried to the gallows, Jack played a fine tune of his

own composing on the bagpipe, which retains the name of Macpherson's

tune to this day.--_History of the Rapparees_.

[20] "Notwithstanding he was so great a rogue, Delany was a handsome,

portly man, extremely diverting in company, and could behave himself

before gentlemen very agreeably. _He had a political genius_--not

altogether surprising in so eminent a _Tory_--and would have made great

proficiency in learning if he had rightly applied his time. He composed

several songs, and put tunes to them; and by his skill in music gained

the favor of some of the leading musicians in the country, who

endeavored to get him reprieved."--_History of the Rapparees_. The

particulars of the _Songster's_ execution are singular:--"When he was

brought into court to receive sentence of death, the judge told him that

he was informed he should say 'that there was not a rope in Ireland

sufficient to hang him. But,' says he, 'I'll try if Kilkenny can't

afford one strong enough to do your business; and if that will not do,

you shall have another, and another.' Then he ordered the sheriff to

choose a rope, and Delany was ordered for execution the next day. The

sheriff having notice of his mother's boasting that no rope could hang

her son--and pursuant to the judge's desire--provided two ropes, but

Delany broke them one after the other! The sheriff was then in a rage,

and went for three bed-cords, which he plaited threefold together, _and

they did his business_! Yet the sheriff was afraid he was not dead; and

in a passion, to make trial, stabbed him with his sword in the soles of

his feet, and at last cut the rope. After he was cut down, his body was

carried into the courthouse, where it remained in the coffin for two

days, standing up, till the judge and all the spectators were fully

satisfied that he was stiff and dead, and then permission was given to

his friends to remove the corpse and bury it."-_History of the

Rapparees_.

[21] Highwaymen, as contradistinguished from footpads.

[22] Since Mr. Coates here avows himself the writer of this diatribe

against Sir Robert Walpole, attacked under the guise of _Turpin_ in the

_Common Sense_ of July 30, 1737, it is useless to inquire further into

its authorship. And it remains only to refer the reader to the _Gents.

Mag._, vol. vii. p. 438, for the article above quoted; and for a reply

to it from the _Daily Gazetteer_ contained in p. 499 of the same volume.

[23] In reference to this imaginary charm, Sir Thomas Browne observes,

in his "Vulgar Errors." "What natural effects can reasonably be

expected, when, to prevent the Ephialtes, or Nightmare, we hang a hollow

stone in our stables?" Grose also states, "that a stone with a hole in

it, hung at the bed's head, will prevent the nightmare, and is therefore

called a hag-stone." The belief in this charm still lingers in some

districts, and maintains, like the horse-shoe affixed to the barn-door,

a feeble stand against the superstition-destroying "march of intellect."

[24] Brown's Pastorals.

[25] The Merry Beggars.

[26] The parties to be wedded find out a dead horse, or any other beast,

and standing one on the one side, and the other on the other, the

patrico bids them live together till death do them part; and so shaking

hands, the wedding dinner is kept at the next alehouse they stumble

into, where the union is nothing but knocking of cannes, and the sauce,

none but drunken brawles.--DEKKAR.

[27] Receiver.

[28] Memoirs, of the right villainous John Hall, the famous, and

notorious Robber, penned from his Mouth some Time before his Death,

1708.

[29] A famous highwayman.

[30] A real gentleman.

[31] Breeches and boots.

[32] Gipsy flask.

[33] How he exposes his pistols.

[34] For an account of these, see Grose. They are much too _gross_ to be

set down here.

[35] "The shalm, or shawm, was a wind instrument, like a pipe, with a

swelling protuberance in the middle."--_Earl of Northumberland's

Household Book_.

[36] Perhaps the most whimsical laws that were ever prescribed to a gang

of thieves were those framed by William Holliday, one of the prigging

community, who was hanged in 1695:

Art. I. directs--That none of his company should presume to wear shirts,

upon pain of being cashiered.

II.--That none should lie in any other places than stables, empty

houses, or other bulks.

III.--That they should eat nothing but what they begged, and that they

should give away all the money they got by cleaning boots among one

another, for the good of the fraternity.

IV.--That they should neither learn to read nor write, that he may have

them the better under command.

V.--That they should appear every morning by nine, on the parade, to

receive necessary orders.

VI.--That none should presume to follow the scent but such as he ordered

on that party.

VII.--That if any one gave them shoes or stockings, they should convert

them into money to play.

VIII.--That they should steal nothing they could not come at, for fear

of bringing a scandal upon the company.

IX.--That they should cant better than the Newgate birds, pick pockets

without bungling, outlie a Quaker, outswear a lord at a gaming-table,

and brazen out all their villainies beyond an Irishman.

[37] Cell.

[38] Newgate.

[39] A woman whose husband has been hanged.

[40] A dancing-master.

[41] "Nothing, comrades; on, on," supposed to be addressed by a thief to

his confederates.

[42] Thus Victor Hugo, in "Le Dernier Jour d'un Condamné," makes an

imprisoned felon sing:

"J'le ferai danser une danse

Où il n'y a pas de plancher."

[43] Thieves in prison.

[44] Shoplifter.

[45] Pickpocket.

[46] Handkerchiefs.

[47] Rings.

[48] To the pawnbroker.

[49] Snuff-boxes.

[50] Pickpocket.

[51] The two forefingers used in picking a pocket.

[52] Pickpocket.

[53] Pick a pocket.

[54] No inside coat-pocket; buttoned up.

[55] Scissors.

[56] Steal a pocket-book.

[57] Best-made clothes.

[58] Thief.

[59] With my hair dressed in the first fashion.

[60] With several rings on my hands.

[61] Seals.

[62] Gold watch.

[63] Laced shirt.

[64] Gentlemanlike.

[65] Easily than forged notes could I pass.

[66] Favorite mistress.

[67] Police.

[68] Taken at length.

[69] Cast for transportation.

[70] Fetters.

[71] Turnkey.

[72] Gipsy.

[73] Pickpockets.

[74] This song describes pretty accurately the career of an

extraordinary individual, who, in the lucid intervals of a half-crazed

understanding, imposed himself upon the credulous inhabitants of

Canterbury, in the year 1832, as a certain "SIR WILLIAM PERCY HONEYWOOD

COURTENAY, KNIGHT OF MALTA;" and contrived--for there was considerable

"method in his madness"--to support the deception during a long period.

The anachronism of his character in a tale--the data of which is nearly

a century back--will, perhaps, be overlooked, when it is considered of

how much value, in the illustration of "wise saws," are "_modern

instances_." Imposture and credulity are of all ages; and the Courtenays

of the nineteenth are rivalled by the Tofts and Andrés of the eighteenth

century. The subjoined account of the _soi-disant_ SIR WILLIAM COURTENAY

is extracted from "An Essay on his Character, and Reflections on his

Trial," published at the theatre of his exploits: "About Michaelmas last

it was rumored that an extraordinary man was staying at the Rose Inn of

this city--Canterbury--who passed under the name of Count Rothschild,

but had been recently known in London by the name of Thompson! This

would have been sufficient to excite attention, had no other incidents

materially added to the excitement. His costume and countenance denoted

foreign extraction, while his language and conversation showed that he

was well acquainted with almost every part of this kingdom. He was said

to live with singular frugality, notwithstanding abundant samples of

wealth, and professions of an almost unlimited command of money. He

appeared to study retirement, if not concealment, although subsequent

events have proved that society of every grade, beneath the middle

class, is the element in which he most freely breathes. _He often decked

his person with a fine suit of Italian clothing, and sometimes with the

more gay and imposing costume of the Eastern nations; yet these foreign

habits were for months scarcely visible beyond the limits of the inn of

his abode, and the chapel not far from it, in which he was accustomed to

offer his Sabbath devotions._ This place was the first to which he made

a public and frequent resort; and though he did not always attempt to

advance towards the uppermost seat in the synagogue, he attracted

attention from the mere singularity of his appearance.

"Such was the eccentric, incongruous individual who surprised our city

by proposing himself as a third candidate for its representation, and

who created an entertaining contest for the honor, long after the

sitting candidates had composed themselves to the delightful vision of

an inexpensive and unopposed return. The notion of representing the city

originated beyond all doubt in the fertile brain of the man himself. It

would seem to have been almost as sudden a thought in his mind, as it

was a sudden and surprising movement in the view of the city; nor have

we been able to ascertain whether his sojourn at the Rose was the cause

or the effect of his offering to advocate our interests in

Parliament--whether he came to the city with that high-minded purpose,

or subsequently formed the notion, when he saw, or thought he saw, an

opening for a stranger of enterprise like himself.

* * * * *

"As the county election drew on, we believe between the nomination on

Barham Downs and the voting in the cattle market of the city, the

draught of a certain handbill was sent to a printer of this city, with a

request that he would publish it without delay. Our readers will not be

surprised that he instantly declined the task; but as we have obtained

possession of the copy, and its publication can now do no injury to any

one, we entertain them with a sight of this delectable sample of

Courtenay prudence and politeness.

"'O yes! O yes! O yes! I, Lord Viscount William Courtenay, of Powderham

Castle, Devon, do hereby proclaim Sir Thomas Tylden, Sir Brook Brydges,

Sir Edward Knatchbull, and Sir William Cosway, four cowards, unfit to

represent, or to assist in returning members of Parliament to serve the

brave men of Kent.

"'Percy Honeywood Courtenay, of Hales and Evington Place, Kent, and

Knight of Malta.

"'Any gentleman desiring to know the reasons why Lord Courtenay so

publicly exposes backbiters, any man of honor shall have satisfaction at

his hands, and in a public way, according to the laws of our land--trial

by combat; when the Almighty God, the Lord of Hosts is his name, can

decide the "truth," whether it is a libel or not. I worship truth as my

God, and will die for it--and upon this we will see who is strongest,

God or man.'

"It is a coincidence too curious to be overlooked, that this doughty

champion of _truth_ should so soon have removed himself from public life

by an act of deliberate and wanton perjury. We never read any of his

rhapsodies, periodical or occasional, till the publication of this essay

imposed the self-denying task upon us; but now we find that they abound

in strong and solemn appeals to the _truth_; in bold proclamations that

_truth_ is his palladium; in evidences that he writes and raves, that he

draws his sword and clenches his fist, that he expends his property and

the property of others committed to his hands, in no cause but that of

_truth_! His famous periodical contains much vehement declamation in

defence of certain doctrines of religion, which he terms the truth of

the sublime system of Christianity, and for which alone he is content to

live, and also willing to die. All who deviate from his standard of

truth, whether theological or moral, philosophical or political, he

appears to consider as neither fit for life nor death. Now it is a

little strange, his warmest followers being witness, that such an

advocate of truth should have become the willing victim of falsehood,

the ready and eager martyr of the worst form of falsehood--perjury.

"The decline of his influence between the city and county elections has

been partly attributed, and not without reason, to the sudden change in

his appearance from comparative youth to advancing, if not extreme age.

_On the hustings of the city he shone forth in all the dazzling lustre

of an Oriental chief; and such was the effect of gay clothing on the

meridian of life, that his admirers, especially of the weaker sex, would

insist upon it that he had not passed the beautiful spring-time of May.

There were, indeed, some suspicious appearances of a near approach to

forty, if not two or three years beyond it; but these were fondly

ascribed to his foreign travels in distant and insalubrious climes; he

had acquired his duskiness of complexion, and his strength of feature

and violence of gesture, and his profusion of beard, in Egypt and Syria,

in exploring the catacombs of the one country, and bowing at the shrines

of the other. On the other hand, the brilliancy of his eye, the melody

of his voice, and the elasticity of his muscles and limbs, were

sufficient arguments in favor of his having scarcely passed the limit

that separates manhood from youth._

"All doubts on these points were removed, when the crowd of his fair

admirers visited him at the retirement of his inn, and the intervals of

his polling. These _sub-Rosa_ interviews--we allude to the name of the

inn, and not to anything like privacy there, which the very place and

number of the visitors altogether precluded--convinced them that he was

even a younger and lovelier man than his rather boisterous behavior in

the hall would allow them to hope. In fact, he was now installed by

acclamation _Knight of Canterbury as well as Malta, and King of Kent as

well as Jerusalem_! It became dangerous then to whisper a syllable of

suspicion against his wealth or rank, his wisdom or beauty; and all who

would not bow down before this golden image were deemed worthy of no

better fate than Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego--to be cast into a

burning fiery furnace."

As a sequel to the above story, it may be added that the knight of Malta

became the inmate of a lunatic asylum; and on his liberation was shot at

the head of a band of Kentish hinds, whom he had persuaded that he was

the Messiah!

[75] A pipe of tobacco.

[76] A drink composed of beer, eggs, and brandy.

[77] The supposed malignant influence of this plant is frequently

alluded to by our elder dramatists; and with one of the greatest of

them, Webster--as might be expected from a muse revelling like a ghoul

in graves and sepulchres--it is an especial favorite. But none have

plunged so deeply into the subject as Sir Thomas Browne. He tears up the

fable root and branch. Concerning the danger ensuing from eradication of

the mandrake, the learned physician thus writes: "The last assertion is,

that there follows a hazard of life to them that pull it up, that some

evil fate pursues them, and that they live not very long hereafter.

Therefore the attempt hereof among the ancients was not in ordinary way;

but, as Pliny informeth, when they intended to take up the root of this

plant, they took the wind thereof, and with a sword describing three

circles about it, they digged it up, looking toward the west. A conceit

not only injurious unto truth and confutable by daily experience, but

somewhat derogatory unto the providence of God; that is, not only to

impose so destructive a quality on any plant, but to conceive a

vegetable whose parts are so useful unto many, should, in the only

taking up, prove mortal unto any. This were to introduce a second

forbidden fruit, and enhance the first malediction, making it not only

mortal for Adam to taste the one, but capital for his posterity to

eradicate or dig up the other."--_Vulgar Errors_, book ii. c. vi.

[78] The moon.

[79] Light.

[80] Highwayman.

[81] "Cherry-colored--black; there being black cherries as well as

red."--GROSE.

[82] Sword.

[83] Pistols.

[84] Highway robbery.

[85] Pocket-book.

[86] Money.

[87] Bullets.

[88] The gallows.

[89] Ditto.

[90] Pocket-book.

[91] Inside coat-pocket.

[92] A small pocket-book.

[93] We have heard of a certain gentleman tobyman, we forget his name,

taking the horses from his curricle for a similar purpose, but we own we

think King's the simpler plan, and quite practicable still. A cabriolet

would be quite out of the question, but particularly easy to _stop_.

[94] Four celebrated highwaymen, all rejoicing in the honorable

distinction of captain.

[95] The exact spot where Turpin committed this robbery, which has often

been pointed out to us, lies in what is now a woody hollow, though once

the old road from Altringham to Knutsford skirting the rich and sylvan

domains of Dunham, and descending the hill that brings you to the bridge

crossing the little river Bollin. With some difficulty we penetrated

this ravine. It is just the place for an adventure of the kind. A small

brook wells through it; and the steep banks are overhung with timber,

and were, when we last visited the place, in April, 1834, a perfect nest

of primroses and wild flowers. Hough (pronounced Hoo) Green lies about

three miles across the country--the way Turpin rode. The old

Bowling-green is one of the pleasantest inns in Cheshire.

[96] Money.

[97] Man.

[98] Stripped.

[99] Fellow.

[100] A particular kind of pugilistic punishment.

[101] Kept each an eye upon the other.

[102] Hands.

[103] Deceive them.

[104] Accomplice.

[105] A farthing.

[106] Cards.

[107] Qy. _élite_.--PRINTER'S DEVIL.

[108] Shoot him.

[109] Since the earlier editions of this Romance were published, we

regret to state--for to _us_, at least, it is matter of regret, though

probably not to the travellers along the Edgeware Road--that this gentle

ascent has been cut through, and the fair prospect from its brow utterly

destroyed.

[110] This, we regret to say, is not the case. The memory of bold Will

Davies, the "_Golden Farmer_"--so named from the circumstances of his

always paying his rent in gold,--is fast declining upon his peculiar

domain, Bagshot. The inn, which once bore his name, still remains to

point out to the traveller the dangers his forefathers had to encounter

in crossing this extensive heath. Just beyond this house the common

spreads out for miles on all aides in a most gallop-inviting style; and

the passenger, as he gazes from the box of some flying coach, as we have

done, upon the gorse-covered waste, may, without much stretch of fancy,

imagine he beholds Will Davies careering like the wind over its wild and

undulating expanse. We are sorry to add that the "_Golden_ Farmer" has

altered its designation to the "_Jolly_ Farmer." This should be amended;

and when next we pass that way, we hope to see the original sign

restored. We cannot afford to lose our _golden_ farmers.