 Chapter 3 Book 2 of Rookwood This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. This reading by Paul Curran. Rookwood by William Harrison Ainsworth. Book 2 Chapter 3 The Churchyard Me thought I walked about the mid of night into a churchyard. Webster, the white devil. Lights streamed through the chancel window as the sexton entered the churchyard, darkly defining all the ramified tracery of the noble gothic arch, and illumining the gorgeous dyes of its richly stained glass, profusely decorated with the armorial bearings of the founder of the fain, and the many alliances of his descendants. The sheen of their blazing regleamed bright in the darkness, as if to herald to his last home another of the line whose achievements it displayed. Glowing colourings, checkered like rainbow tints, were shed upon the broken leaves of the adjoining yew trees, and upon the round grassy tombs. Opening the gate, as he looked in that direction, Peter became aware of a dark figure, enveloped in a large black coat, and covered with a slouched hat standing at some distance between the window and the tree, and so intervening as to receive the full influence of the stream of radiance which served to dilate its most superhuman statue. The sexton stopped. The figure remained stationary. There was something singular both in the costume and situation of the person. Peter's curiosity was speedily aroused, and familiar with every inch of the churchyard, he determined to take the nearest cut, and to ascertain to whom the mysterious cloak and hat belonged. Making his way over the undulating graves, and instinctively rounding the headstones that intercepted his path, he quickly drew near the object of his inquiry. From the moveless posture it maintained, the figure appeared to be unconscious of Peter's approach. To his eyes it seemed to expand as he advanced. He was now almost close upon it. When his progress was arrested by a violent grasp laid on his shoulder, he started and uttered an exclamation of alarm. At this moment a vivid flash of lightning illumined the whole churchyard, and Peter then thought he beheld, at some distance from him, two other figures, bearing upon their shoulders a huge chest, or it might be a coffin. The garb of these figures, so far as it could be discerned through the drenching rain, was fantastical in the extreme. The foremost seemed to have a long white beard descending to his girdle. Little leisure, however, was allowed Peter for observation. The vision no sooner met his glance than it disappeared, and nothing was seen but the glimmering tombstones. Nothing heard but the whistling wind and the heavily descending shower. He rubbed his eyes. The muffled figure had vanished, and not a trace could be discovered of the mysterious coffin-bearers, if such they were. What have I seen? Mentally ejaculated Peter. Is this sorcery, or treachery, or both? No body snatchers would visit this place at a night like this. When the whole neighbourhood is aroused, can it be a vision I have seen? Trot, shall I struggle myself as I deceive these hinds? It was no bearded demon that I beheld, but the gypsy Patricko Balthazar. I knew him once. But what meant that muffled figure, and whose arm could it have been that gripped my shoulder? What if Lady Rookwood should have given orders for the removal of Susan's body? No. No. That cannot be. Besides, I have the keys of the vault, and there are hundreds now in the church who would permit no such desecration. I am perplexed to think what it can mean. But I will to the vault, saying which he hastened to the church porch, and after ringing the wet from his clothes as a water-dog might shake the moisture from his curly hide, and doffing his broad-felt hat entered the holy edifice. The interior seemed one blaze of light to the sexton, in his sudden transition from outer darkness. Some few persons were assembled, probably such as were engaged in the preparations, but there was one group which immediately caught his attention. Near the communion table stood three persons, habited in deep mourning, apparently occupied in examining the various monumental carvings that enriched the walls. Peter's office led him to that part of the church, about to descend into the vaults, to make the last preparations for the reception of the dead, with lantern in hand, keys, and a crowbar, he approached the party. Little attention was paid to the sexton's proceedings, till the harsh grating of the lock attracted their notice. Peter started as he beheld the face of one of the three, and relaxing his hold upon the key, the strong bolt shot back in the lock. There was a whisper amongst the party. A light step was heard advancing towards him, and there the sexton could sufficiently recover his surprise, or force open the door, a female figure stood by his side. The keen, inquiring stare which Peter bestowed upon the countenance of the young lady so much abashed her, that she hesitated in her purpose of addressing him, and hastily retired. She? Here? muttered Peter. Nay then, I must no longer withhold the dreaded secret from Luke, or Anoth may, deed, rest his possessions from him. Reinforced by her companions, an elderly lady and a tall, handsome man, whose bearing and deportment bespoke him to be a soldier, the fair stranger again ventured towards Peter. You are the sexton, said she, addressing him in a voice sweet and musical. I am, returned Peter. It was harmony succeeded by dissonance. You perhaps can tell us then, said the elderly lady, whether the funeral is likely to take place tonight. We thought it possible that the storm might altogether prevent it. The storm is over, and nearly as may be, replied Peter. The body will soon be on its way. I am but now arrived from the hall. Indeed, exclaimed the lady, none of the family will be present, I suppose. Who is the chief mourner? Young Sir Anoth, answered the sexton. There will be more of the family than were expected. Is Sir Anoth returned? asked the young lady, with great agitation of manner. I thought he was abroad, that he was not expected. Are you sure you are rightly informed? I parted with him at the hall not ten minutes since, replied Peter. He returned from Franz tonight, most unexpectedly. Oh, mother! exclaimed the younger lady, that this should be, that I should meet him here. Why did we come? Let us depart. Impossible, replied her mother. The storm forbids it. This man's information is so strange, I scarce can credit it. Are you sure you have asserted the truth? said she, addressing Peter. I am not accustomed to be doubted, answered he. Other things are strange have happened at the hall. What mean you? asked the gentleman, noticing this last remark. You would not need to ask the question of me, had you been there amongst the other guests? retorted Peter. Odd things, I tell you, have been done there this night, and stranger things may occur before the morning. You are insolent, sir. I comprehend you not. Enough! I can comprehend you! replied Peter, significantly. I know the count of the mourners invited to this ceremonial, and I am aware that there are three too many. No, you this saucy knave, mother! I cannot recall him to mind, though I fancy I have seen him before. My recollection serves me better, lady, interposed Peter. I remember one who was once the proud heiress of Rookwood. I, proud and beautiful, then the house was filled with her gallant suitors. Swords were crossed for her, hearts bled for her, yet she favoured none, until one hapless hour Sir Reginald Rookwood had a daughter. Sir Reginald lost a daughter. Ha! See, I'm right. Well, he is dead and buried, and Reginald his son is dead likewise, and pierces on his road nither, and you are the last, as in the course of nature you might have been the first. And now that they are all gone, you do rightly to bury your grievances with them. Silence, sir, exclaimed the gentleman, or I will beat your brains out with your own spade. No, let him speak, Vavasor, said the lady with an expression of anguish. He has awakened thoughts of other days. I have done, said Peter, and must to work. Will you descend with me, madame, into the sepulchre of your ancestry? All your family lie within. I and the lady Eleanor, your mother, amongst the number. Mrs. Mobri signified her ascent, and the party prepared to follow him. The sexton held the lantern so as to throw its light upon the steps as they entered the gloomy receptacle of the departed. Eleanor half-repented having ventured within its dreary limits. So much did the appearance of the yawning catacombs surcharge with mortality, and above all the ghostly figure of the grim night effect her with dread as she looked wistfully around. She required all the support her brother's arm could afford her, nor was Mrs. Mobri altogether unmoved. And all the family are here in turd, you say, inquired the latter. All replied the sexton. Where then lies Sir Reginald's younger brother? Who? exclaimed Peter, starting. Alan Rookwood. What of him? Nothing a moment, but I thought you could perhaps inform me. He died young. He did, replied Peter, in an altered tone. Very young, but not before he had lived to an old age of wretchedness. Do you know his story, madam? I have heard it, from your father's lips. From Sir Reginald Rookwood's never call him not my father, sir. Even here I will not have him named so to me. Your pardon, madam, returned the sexton. Great cruelty was shown to the lady Eleanor, and may well call forth implacable resentment in her child. Yet me thinks the wrong he did his brother Alan was the foulest stain with which Sir Reginald's black soul was died. With what particular wrong dost thou charge, Sir Reginald? demanded Major Mobri. What injury did he inflict upon his brother Alan? He wronged his brother's honour, replied the sexton. He robbed him of his wife, poisoned his existence, and hurried him to an untimely grave. Eleanor shudderingly held back during this horrible narration, the hearing of which she would willingly have shunned had it been possible. Can this be true? asked the Major. Too true, my son, replied Mrs. Mobri, sorrowfully. And where lies the unfortunate Alan? asked Major Mobri. Twix, two crossroads. Where else should the suicide lie? Evading any further question, Peter hastily traversed the vault, elevating the light so as to reveal the contents of each cell, one circumstance filled him with surprise and dismay. He could nowhere perceive the coffin of his daughter. In vain he peered into every catacomb. They were apparently undisturbed, and with much internal marvelling and misgiving Peter gave up the search. That vision is now explained, muttered he. The body is removed, but by whom? Death? Can I doubt? It must be Lady Rookwood. Who else can have any interest in its removal? She has acted boldly, but she shall yet have reason to repent her to meritry. As he continued his search, his companions silently followed. Suddenly he stopped, and signifying that all was finished, they not unwillingly quitted this abode of horror, leaving him behind them. It is a dreadful place, whispered Eleanor to her mother. Nor would I have visited it had I conceived anything of its horrors. And that strange man, who are what is he? Aye, who is he? repeated Major Mulberry. I recollect him now, replied Mrs Mulberry. He is one who has never been connected with the family. He had a daughter whose beauty was her ruin. It is a sad tale. I cannot tell it now. You have heard enough of misery and guilt, but that may account for his bitterness of speech. He was a dependant upon my poor brother. Poor man, replied Eleanor. If he has been unfortunate, I pity him. I am sorry we have been into that dreadful place. I am very faint, and I tremble more than ever at the thought of meeting Randolph Rookwood again. I can scarcely support myself. I am sure I shall not venture to look upon him. Had I dreamed of the likelihood of his attending the ceremony, rest assured, dear Eleanor, we should not have been here. But I was informed there was no possibility of his return. Compose yourself, my child. It will be a trying time to both of us. But it is now inevitable. At this moment the bell began to toll. The procession has started, said Peter, as he passed the moberies. That bell announces the setting out. See, on the persons hurrying to the door, exclaimed Eleanor with eagerness and trembling violently. They are coming. Oh, I shall never be able to go through with it, dear mother. Peter hastened to the church door, where he stationed himself, in company with a host of others, equally curious. Flickering lights in the distance, shining like stars through the trees, showed them that the procession was collecting in front of the hall. The rain had now entirely ceased, the thunder muttered from afar, and the lightning seemed only to lick the moisture from the trees. The bell continued to toll, and it loud booming awoke the drowsy echoes of the valley. On the sudden, a solitary startling concussion of thunder was heard, and presently a man rushed down from the belfry, with the tidings that he had seen a ball of fire from a cloud right over the hall. Every ear was on the alert for the next sound. None was heard. It was the crisis of the storm. Still, the funeral procession advanced not. The strong sheen of the torchlight was still visible from the bottom of the avenue, now disappearing, now brightly glimmering, as if the bearers were hurrying to and fro amongst the trees. It was evident that much confusion prevailed, and that some misadventure had occurred. Each man muttered to his neighbour, and few were there who were not in a measure surmised the cause of the delay. At this juncture, a person without his hat, breathless with haste and almost palsied with fright, rushed amongst the midst of them, and stumbling over the threshold fell headlong into the church. What's the matter, Master Plant? What has happened? Tell us! Tell us! exclaimed several voices simultaneously. Lord, have mercy upon us! cried Plant, gasping for utterance and not attempting to raise himself. It's horrible! Dreadful! Oh! What has happened? inquired Peter, approaching the fallen man. Undost thou need to ask, Peter Bradley, thou who foretold it all, but I will not say what I think, though my tongue itches to tell thee the truth. Be satisfied, thy wizard's law has served thee right. He is dead! Who? Ranoff Rookwood? Has anything befallen him, or the prisoner, Luke Bradley? asked the sexton with eagerness. A scream here burst forth from one who was standing behind the group, and in spite of the efforts of her mother to withhold her, Eleanor Mulberry rushed forward. Has all it happened to Sir Ranoff? asked she. No! No! Not to Sir Ranoff! He be with the body! Heaven be thanked for that! exclaimed Eleanor, and then, as if ashamed of her own vehemence, and it might seem apparent indifference to her mother's fate, she inquired who was hurt. It be put, neighbour Toft! That be killed by a thunderbolt, ma'am! replied Plant. Exclamations of horror burst from all around. No one was more surprised at this intelligence than the sexton. Like many other seers, he had not, in all probability, calculated upon the fulfilment of his predictions, and now he stared aghast at the extent of his own foreknowledge. I tell you what, Master Peter, said Plant, shaking his bullet head, it be well for thee thou didn't live in my grandfather's time, or thou hast been ducting a blanket, or maybe burns at the stake like Ridley and Latimer, as we read on, but however that may be, ye shall hear how poor Toft's death came to pass, and nobody can tell ye better nor I. Seeing I were near to him, poor fellow, at the time, well, we thought as how the storm were over, and had all got into order of march, and we were just beginning to step up the avenue the coffin bearer is pushing lustily along, and the torch is shining grandly when poor Simon Toft, who could never travel well in liquor in his life, real to one side, and staggering against the first huge lime tree, sat himself down beneath it, down Noah's the tree I mean, the tree of fate, returned Peter. I ought me thinks to know it. Well, I were just stepping aside to pick him up, when all at once there comes such a crack of thunder, and whizzing through the trees flashed a great globe of red fire, so bright and dazzling it nearly blinded me, and when I opened my eyes, winking and watering, I see that which blinded me more even than the flash, that which had just before been poor Simon, but which was now a mass of black, smoldering ashes, clean consumed and destroyed, his clothes rent to a thousand tatters, the earth and stones tossed up, and scattered all about, and the great splinter of the tree lying beside him. Heavens will be done, said the sexton, this is an awful judgement, and Satan cast down, for this is a spice of his handiwork, muttered plant, adding as he slunk away. If ever, Peter Bradley, do come to the blanket, dang me, if I don't lend a helping hand. This reading by Paul Curran, Rookwood by William Harrison Ainsworth, Book 2, Chapter 4, The Funeral How like a silent stream shaded by night, and gliding softly with our windy sighs, moves the whole frame of this solemnity, tears, sighs and blacks filling the simile, whilst I, the only murmur in this grove of death, thus hollowly break forth, the fatal dowry. Word being given that the funeral train was fast approaching, the church door was thrown open, and the assemblage divided in two lines to allow it admission. Meanwhile, a striking change had taken place, even in this brief period in the appearance of the night, the sky, here too forecurtained with darkness, was now illumined by a serene, soft moon, which, floating in a watery halo, tinged with silvery radiance the edges of a few ghostly clouds, that hurried along the deep and starlit skies. The suddenness of the change could not fail to excite surprise and admiration, mingled with regret that the procession had not been delayed until the present time. Slowly, and mournfully, the train was seen to approach the churchyard, winding, two by two, with melancholy step, around the corner of the road. First came Dr. Small, then the mutes, with their sable panoply, next the torchbearers, next those who sustained the coffin, bending beneath their ponderous burden, followed by Sir Ranorth, and a long line of attendants, all plainly to be distinguished by the flashing torchlight. There was a slight halt at the gate, and the coffin changed to porters. It looked beside them, ejaculated Peter. Could they find no other place except that to halt at? Must appears be Gatekeeper to next Yule? No, how did he, seeing what followed? It will be portoffed, after all. Following close upon the coffin came a rude shell, containing as Peter rightly conjectured the miserable remains of Simon Toft, who had met his fate in the manner described by Plant. The bolt of death glanced from the tree which it first struck, and reduced the unfortunate farmer to a heap of dust. Universal consternation prevailed, and doubts were entertained as to what course should be pursued. It was judged best by Dr. Small to remove the remains at once to the channel house. Thus, unanointed, unannailed, with all his imperfections on his head, was poor Simon Toft, in one brief second, in the twinkling of an eye, plunged from the height of festivity to the darkness of the grave, and so horribly disfigured that scarce a vestige of humanity was discernible in the mutilated mass that remained of him. Truly, may we be said to walk in blindness, and amidst deep pitfalls. The churchyard was thronged by the mournful train. The long array of dusty figures, the waving torchlight gleaming rudderly in the white moonshine, now glistening upon the somber habiliments of the bearers, and on their shrouded load, now reflected upon the jagged branches of the yew trees, or falling upon the ivy buttresses of the ancient church, constituted no unimpressive picture. Overall, like a lamp hung in the still sky, shone the moon, shedding a soothing, spiritual lustre over the scene. The organ broke into a solemn strain as the coffin was borne along the mid-isle, the mourners following with reverent step, and slow. It was deposited near the mouth of the vault, the whole assemblage circling around it. Dr. Small proceeded with the performance of that magnificent service appointed for the burial of the dead, in a tone as remarkable for its sadness as for its force and fervour. There was a tear in every eye, a cloud on every brow. Brightly illumined as was the whole building, there were still some recesses which, owing to the intervention of heavy pillars, were thrown into shade. And in one of these, supported by her mother and brother, stood Eleanor, a weeping witness of the scene. She beheld the coffin silently borne along. She saw one dark figure slowly following. She knew those pale features. Oh, how pale they were! A year had wrought a fearful alteration. She could scarce credit what she beheld. He must, indeed, have suffered, deeply suffered, and her heart told her that his sorrows had been for her. Many a wistful look, besides, was directed to the principal figure in the ceremonial, Ranoff-Rookwood. He was a prey to unutterable anguish of soul, his heart bled inwardly for the father he had lost. Mechanically following the body down the aisle, he had taken his station near it, gazing with confused vision upon the bystanders, had listened, with a sad composure, to the expressive delivery of small, until he read, For man walketh in a vain shadow, and disquieteth himself in vain. He heapeth up riches, and cannot tell who shall gather them. Verily exclaimed a deep voice, and Ranoff, looking round, met the eyes of Peter Bradley, fixed full upon him, but it was evidently not the sexton who had spoken. Small continued the service, he arrived at this verse, Thou hast set our misdeeds before thee, and our secret sins in the light of thy countenance. Even so, exclaimed the voice, and as Ranoff raised his eyes in the direction of the sound, he thought he saw a dark figure muffled in a cloak disappear behind one of the pillars. He bestowed however, at the moment, little thought upon this incident. His heart melted within him, and leaning his face upon his hand, he wept aloud. Command yourself, I entreat of you, my dear Ranoff, said Dr. Small, as soon as the service was finished, and suffer this melancholy ceremonial to be completed, saying which he gently withdrew Ranoff from his support, and the coffin was lowered into the vault. Ranoff remained for some time in the extremity of sorrow, when he in part recovered the crowd had disappeared, and few persons were remaining within the church, yet near him stood three apparent loiterers. They advanced towards him. An exclamation of surprise and joy burst from his lips. Eleanor! Ranoff! Is it possible? Do I indeed behold you, Eleanor? No other word was spoken. They rushed into each other's arms. Oh, sad! Sad is the lover's parting! No pang so keen! But if life hath a zest more exquisite than others, if felicity hath one drop more racy than the rest in her hunted cup, it is the happiness enjoyed in such a union as the present. To say that he was as one raised from the depths of misery by some angel comforter were a feeble comparison of the transport of Ranoff. To paint the thrilling delight of Eleanor, the trembling tenderness, the fond abandonment which vanquished all her maiden scruples would be impossible. Reluctantly yielding, fearing, yet complying, her lips were sealed in one long loving kiss, the sanctifying pledge of their tried affection. Eleanor! Dear Eleanor! exclaimed Ranoff, though I hold you within my arms, though each nerve within my frame assures me of your presence, though I look into those eyes which seem fraught with greater endearment than ever I have known them where, though I see and feel and know all this so sudden, so unlooked for is the happiness that I could almost doubt its reality. Say to what blessed circumstance I am indebted for this unlooked for happiness. We are staying, not far hence, with friends, dear Ranoff, and my mother, hearing of Sapir's record's death, and wishing to bury all animosity with him, resolved to be present at the sad ceremony. We were told you could not be here. And would my presence have prevented your attendance, Eleanor? Not that, dear Ranoff, but what? At this moment, the advance of Mrs. Mulberry offered an interruption to their further discourse. My son and I appear to be secondary in your regard, Sir Ranoff, said she gravely. Sir Ranoff mentally echoed the young man. What will she think when she knows that that title is not mine? I dread to tell her. He then added aloud with a melancholy smile, I crave your pardon, madam, the delight of a meeting so unexpected with your daughter must plead my apology. None is wanting, Sir Ranoff, said Major Mulberry. I, who have known what separation from my sister is, can readily excuse your feelings. But you look ill. I have, indeed, experienced much mental anxiety, said Ranoff, looking at Eleanor. It is now past, and I would faint hope that a brighter day is dawning. His heart answered, twizz but a hope. You were unlooked for here tonight, Sir Ranoff, said Mrs. Mulberry. By us, at least, we were told you were abroad. You were rightly informed, madam, replied Ranoff. I only arrived this evening from Bordeaux. I am glad you are returned. We are at present on a visit with your neighbours, the Davenums at Braybrook, and trust we shall see you there. I will ride over to-morrow, replied Ranoff. There is much on which I would consult you all. I would have ventured to request the favour of your company at Rookwood, had the occasion been other than the present. And I would willingly have accepted your invitation, returned Mrs. Mulberry. I should like to see the old house once more. During your father's lifetime, I could not approach it. You are a lord of broad lands, Sir Ranoff, a goodly inheritance. Madam, and a proud title which you will grace well, I doubt not. The first, the noblest of our house, as he from whom you derive your name, you are the third, Sir Ranoff. The first founded the house of Rookwood, the next advanced it. It is for you to raise its glory to its height. Alas, Madam, I have no such thought. Wef or not, you are young, wealthy, powerful, with such domains as those of Rookwood, with such a title as its lord can claim, not should be too high for your aspirations. I aspire to nothing, Madam, but your daughter's hand, and even that I will not venture to solicit until you are acquainted with. And he hesitated. With what? asked Mrs. Mulberry in surprise. A singular, and to me most perplexing event has occurred tonight, replied Ranoff, which may materially affect my future fortunes. Indeed, exclaimed Mrs. Mulberry, does it relate to your mother? Excuse my answering the question now, Madam, replied Ranoff. You shall know all, tomorrow. Hi, tomorrow, dear Ranoff, said Eleanor, and whatever that moral may bring forth, it will bring happiness to me if you are the bearer of the tidings. I shall expect your coming with impatience, said Mrs. Mulberry, and I, adding Major Mulberry, who had listened thus far in silence, would offer you my services in any way you think they would be useful. Command me as you think fitting. I thank you heartily, returned Ranoff. Tomorrow you shall learn all, meanwhile it shall be my business to investigate the truth or falsehood of the statement I have heard, ere I report it to you. Till then, farewell. As they issued from the church, it was grey dawn. Mrs. Mulberry's carriage stood at the door, the party entered it, and, accompanied by Dr. Small, whom he found within in the vestry, Ranoff walked towards the hall, where a fresh surprise awaited him. This reading by Paul Curran. Rookwood by William Harrison Ainsworth. Book two, chapter five, The Captive. Black Will. Which is the place where we're to be concealed? Green. This inner room, Black Will. It is well, the word is, now I take you. Arden of Feversham. Guarded by the two young farmers who had displayed so much address in seizing him, Luke, meanwhile, had been conveyed in safety to the small chamber in the eastern wing, destined by Mr. Coates to be his place of confinement for the night. The room, or rather, closet, opening from another room, was extremely well adapted for the purpose, having no perceptible outlet, being defended on either side by thick partition walls of the hardest oak, and at the extremity by the solid masonry of the mansion. It was, in fact, a remnant of the building anterior to the first Sir Ranoff's day, and the narrow limits of Luke's cell had been erected long before the date of his earliest progenitor. Having seen their prisoners safely bestowed, the room was carefully examined. Every board sounded, every crevice and corn appeared into by the curious eye of the little lawyer, and nothing being found insecure, the light was removed, the door locked, the rustic constables dismissed, and the brace of pistols having been loaded and laid upon the table, Mr. Coates pronounced himself thoroughly satisfied and quite comfortable. Comfortable. Titus, heaved a sigh as he echoed the word. He felt anything but comfortable. His heart was with the body all the while. He thought of the splendour of the funeral, the torches, the illumined church, his own dignified march down the isle, and the effect he expected to produce amongst the bewildered rustics. He thought of all these things, and cursed Luke by all the saints in the calendar. The sight of the musty old apartment hung round with faded aris, which, as he said, smells of nothing but rats and ghosts and such like varmint, did not serve to inspire him, and the proper equilibrium of his temper was not completely restored until the appearance of the butler, with all the requisites for the manufacture of punch afforded him by some prospective solace. And what are they about now, Tim? asked Titus. As joy as can be, answered the domestic. Dr. Small is about to pronounce the funeral ration. Devil take it, ejaculated Titus. There's another miss. Couldn't I just slip out and hear that? On no account, said Coates. Consider Sir Rannolf is there. Well, well, rejoined Titus, heaving a deep sigh and squeezing a lemon. Are you sure this is Bilingwater, Tim? You know, I'm mighty particular. Perfectly aware of it, sir. Ah, Tim, do you recollect the way I used to brew for poor superiors, with a bunch of red currents at the bottom of the glass? And then to think that, after all, I should be left out of his funeral. It's the height of barbarity. Tim, this rum of yours is poor stuff. There's no punch with the trouble of drinking except whiskey punch. A glass of ripethene, straw colour, beet flavour, ten degrees overproof would be the only thing to drown my cares. Any such thing in the cellar? There used to be an odd bottle or so, Tim, in the left bin, near the door. I've a notion there be, returned Timothy. I'll try the bin your honour mentions, and if I can lay hands upon a bottle, you shall have it. You may depend. The butler departed, and Titus, emulating Mr. Coats, who had already enveloped himself, like Juno, at the approach of Ixion in a cloud, proceeded to light his pipe. Luke, meanwhile, had been left alone without light. He had so much to meditate upon, and with naught to check the currents of his thoughts, he pensively revolved his present situation and future prospects. The future was gloomy enough, the present fraught with danger, and now, that the fever of excitement had passed, he severely reproached himself for his precipitancy. His mind, by degrees, assumed a more tranquil state, and, exhausted with his great previous fatigue, he threw himself upon the floor of his prison house, and addressed himself to slumber. The noise he made induced Coats to enter the room, which he did with a pistol in each hand, followed by Titus with a pipe and candle, but finding all safe, the sentinels retired. One may see, with half an eye, that you're not used to a feather bed, my friend, said Titus, as the door was locked. By the powers he's a tall chap, anyhow. Why, his feet almost touched the door. I should say that room was a matter of six feet long, Mr. Coats. Exactly six feet, sir. Well, that's a good guess. Hang that ugly rascal, Tim. He's never brought the whiskey, but I'll be even with him tomorrow. Couldn't you just see to the prisoner for ten minutes, Mr. Coats? Not ten seconds. I shall report you, if you stir from your post. Here the door was opened, and Tim entered with the whiskey. Da, my soul, Tim, and here you are at last. Uncork it, man, and give us a thimbleful blob. There goes the stopper. Here's a glass, smacking his lips. Whist him, another drop. Stuff like this will never hurt a body. Mr. Coats, try it. No, I thought you'd be a man of more taste. I must limit you to a certain quantity, replied Coats. Or you will not be fit to keep guard. Another glass must be the extent of your allowance. Another glass. And do you think I'll submit to any such iniquitous proposition? Beg pardon, gentlemen, said Tim. But her ladyship desires me to tell you both that she trusts you will keep the strictest watch upon the prisoner. I have the same message also from Sir Ranoff. Do you hear that? said Coats. And what are they all about now, Tim? Growned Titus. Just starting, sir, returned Tim. And indeed, I must not lose my time gossiping here for I be wanted below. You must be pleased to take care of yourselves, gentlemen, for an hour or so, for there will be only a few women kind left in the house. The storm's just over, and the men are all lighting their torches. Oh, it's a grand sight. And off, said Tim. Bad luck to myself, anyhow, ejaculated Titus. This is more than I can bear. I've had enough of this watch and ward business. If the prisoner stirs, shoot him. If you think it proper, I'll be back in an hour. I tell you what, Mr. Tierconnell, said Coats, coolly taking up the pistol from the table. I'm a man of few words, but those few are, I hope, to the purpose. And I'd have you to know if you stir from that chair or attempt to leave the room, damn it, I'll send a brace of bullets after you. I'm serious, I assure you. And he cocked the pistol. By way of reply to this menace, Titus deliberately filled a stiff glass of whiskey and water. That's your last glass, said the inexorable Coats. To return once more to Luke, he slept uneasily for some short space, and was awakened by a sound which reached his dreaming ears and connected itself with the visions that Slumber was weaving around him. It was some moments before he could distinctly remember where he was. He would not venture to sleep again, though he felt overwhelmed by drowsiness. There was a fixed pain in his heart as if circulation was suspended. Changing his posture, he raised himself upon one arm. He then became aware of a scratching noise, somewhat similar to the sound he had heard in his dream, and perceived a light gleaming through a crevice in the oaken partition. His attention was immediately arrested, and placing his eye close to the chink, he distinctly saw a dark lantern burning, and by its light a man filing some implements of housebreaking. The light fell before the hard features of the man, with whose countenance Luke was familiar, and although only one person came within the scope of his view, Luke could make out, from a muttered conversation that was carried on. He had a companion. The parties were near to him, and though speaking in a low tone, Luke's quick ear caught the following. What keeps Jack Palmer, I wonder, said one of the file. We're all ready for the fakements, props primed. I'll tell you what, Rob Rust, I've made my class knife as sharp as a razor, and damn, if Lady Rook would offer any assistance, I'll spoil her taking in future. I promise you. Supressed laughter from Rust followed this speech. That laugh made Luke's blood run cold with his veins. Hark, he dick wilder, you're a regal out and out, and stops at nothing, and curse me if I think any more of it than yourself. But Jack's a squeamish of blood, said his young miss that cries it a cut finger. It's the safer plan, say what you will. Nothing but that will stop a woman's tongue. I shall make sure work with her ladyship tonight anyhow. Pissed, here Jack comes. A footstep crossed the room, and presently afterwards, exclamations of surprise and smothered laughter were heard from the parties. Bravo Jack, famous, that disguise would deceive the devil himself. And now my lads, said the newcomer, is all right, right and tight. Nothing forgotten, nothing. Then off with your stamps, and on with your list slippers, not a word. Follow me, and for your lives, don't move a step but as I direct you. The word must be, so peers Rookwood calls. We'll overhaul the swag here. This crap may make us all for life, and if you'll follow my directions implicitly, we'll do the trick in style. This slum must be our rendezvous when all's over. For Harky, my lads, I'll not budge an inch till Luke Bradley be set free. He's an old friend, and I always stick by old friends. I'd do the same for one of you, if you were in the same scrape. So damn you, no flinching. Besides, I owe that spider-shanked, sniveling, split-cold coat who stands sentry a grudge, and I'll pay him off, as Paul did the Ephesians. You may crop his ears, or slit his tongue as you would of magpies, or any other chattering varmint, make him sign his own testament, or treat him with a touch of your habeas corpus act if you think proper, or give him a taste of blue plum. One thing only, I stipulate, that you don't hurt that fat, mutton-headed, broganeer. Whatever he may say or do, he's a devilish good fellow, and out of business. Saying which, they noiselessly departed, but carefully as the door was closed, Luke's ear could detect the sound, his blood boiled with indignation, and he experienced what almost a felt who had been similarly situated with the will, but not the power, to assist another, a sensation almost approaching to torture. At this moment, a distant scream burst upon his ears, another he hesitated no longer, with all his force he thundered at the door. What do you want, rascal? cried Coates from without. There are robbers in the house. Thank you for the information. There is one I know of already. Fool, there in Lady Rookwood's room, runs her assistance. A likely story, and leave you here. Do you hear that scream? Eh? What? What's that? I do hear something. Here Luke dashed with all his force against the door. It yielded to the blow, and he stood before the astonished attorney. Advance a footstep villain, exclaimed Coates, presenting both his pistols, and I lodge a brace of balls in your head. Listen to me, said Luke. The robbers are in Lady Rookwood's chamber. They will plunder the place of everything. Perhaps murder her, fly to her assistance. I will accompany you, assist you. It is your only chance. My only chance? Your only chance? Do you take me for a greenhorn? This is a poor subterfuge. Could you not have vamped up something better? Get back to your own room, or I shall make no more of shooting you than I would of snuffing that candle. Be advised, sir, continued Luke. There are three of them. Give me a pistol and fear nothing. Give you a pistol? Ha! To be its mark myself. You are an amusing rascal, I will say. Sir, I tell you not a moment is to be lost is life nothing. Lady Rookwood may be murdered. I tell you once for all it won't do. Go back to your room or take the consequences. Buy the powers, but it shall do. Anyhow, exclaimed Titus, flinging himself upon the attorney and holding both his arms. You've bullied me long enough. I'm sure the lads in the right. Luke snatched the pistols from the hands of coats. Very well, Mr. T'Connel. Very well, sir, cried the attorney, boiling with wrath, and spluttering out his words. Extremely well, sir. You are not perhaps aware, sir, what you have done. But you will repent this, sir. Repent, I say. Repent was my word, Dr. T'Connel. Po! Po! replied Titus. I shall never repent a good natured action. Follow me, cried Luke. Set all your disputes hereafter. Quick! Are we shall be too late? Coats bustled after him, and Titus, putting the neck of the forbidden whiskey bottle to his lips, and gulping down a hasty mouthful, snatched up a rusty poker, and followed the party, with more alacrity than might have been expected from so portly a personage. End of Chapter 5, Book 2. Chapter 6, Book 2 of Rookwood. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. This reading by Paul Curran. Rookwood by William Harrison Ainsworth. Book 2, Chapter 6, The Apparition. Jibbit. Well, gentlemen, it is a fine night for our enterprise. Hounds low, dark as hell. Bagshot, and blows like the devil. Bonnie face, you have no creature to deal with but the ladies. Jibbit. And I can assure you, friend, there's a great deal of address and good manners in robbing a lady. I am the most of a gentleman that way that's ever travelled the road. Boe Strategium. Accompanied by her son, Lady Rookwood on quitting the chamber of the dead returned to her own room. She then renewed all her arguments, had recourse to passionate supplications, to violent threats but without effect. Randolph maintained profound silence. Passion, as it ever doth, defeated its own ends, and Lady Rookwood, seeing the ill effect her anger would probably produce, gradually softened the asperity of her manner and suffered him to depart. Left to herself and to the communings of her own troubled spirit, her fortitude in a measure foresuck her, under the pressure of the difficulties by which she was environed. There was no plan she could devise, no scheme adopt, unattended with peril. She must act alone, with promptitude and secrecy. To win her son over was her chief desire and that, at all hazards, she was resolved to do. But how? She knew of only one point on which he was vulnerable, his love for Eleanor Mulberry. By raising doubts in his mind and placing fresh difficulties in his path, she might compel him to acquiesce in her machinations as a necessary means of accomplishing his own object. This she hoped to effect. Still, there was a depth of resolution in the placid stream of Randolph's character which she had often noticed with apprehension. Aware of his firmness, she dreaded lest his sense of justice should be stronger than his passion. As she wove these webs of darkness, fear hitherto unknown took possession of her soul. She listened to the howling of the wind, to the vibration of the rafters, to the thunder's roar and the hissing rain, till she, who never trembled at the thought of danger, became filled with vague uneasiness. Lights were ordered, and when her old attendant returned, Lady Rook would fix her look so wistful upon her that Agnes ventured to address her. Bless you, my lady, said the ancient handmaiden trembling. You look very pale, and no wonder I feel sick at heart, too. Oh, I shall be glad when they return from the church, and happier still when the morning dawns. I can't sleep a wink, can't close my eyes, but I think of him. Of him? Of Supears, my lady, for though he's dead, I don't think he's gone. How? Why, my lady, the corruptible part of him's gone, sure enough, but the incorruptible, as Dr. Small calls it, the spirit, my lady. It might be my fancy, your ladyship, but as I'm standing here, when I went back into the room just now for the lights, as I hope to live, I thought I saw Supears in the room. You are crazed, Agnes. No, my lady, I'm not crazed. It was mere fancy, no doubt. Oh, it's a blessed thing to live with an easy conscience, a thrice-blessed thing to die with an easy one, and that's what I never shall, I'm afraid. Poor Supears, I'd mumble a prayer for him if I durst. Leave me, said Lady Rookwood, impatiently, and Agnes quitted the room. What if the dead can return, thought Lady Rookwood. All men doubt it, yet all men believe it. I would not believe it were there not a creeping horror that overmasters me when I think of the state beyond the grave, that intermediate state for such it be, where the body lieth mouldering in the ground, and the soul survives to wonder unconfined until the hour of doom, and doth the soul survive when disenthralled. Is it dependent on the body? Does it perish with the body? These are doubts I cannot resolve. But if I deemed there was no future state, this hand should at once liberate me for my own weakness, my fears, my life. There is but one path to acquire that knowledge which, once taken, can never be retraced. I am content to live, while living to be feared, it may be hated, when dead to be condemned, yet still remembered. What sound was that? A stifle scream? Agnes, without there, she's full of fears. I'm not free from them myself, but I will shake them off. This will divert their channel, continued she, drawing from her bosom the married certificate. This will arouse the torpid current of my blood. Piers Rookwood to Susan Bradley, and by whom was it sulnaised? The name is Checkley, Richard Checkley. I'd be think me a papis priest, a recusant. He was for some time an inmate of the hall. I've heard of this man. He was afterwards imprisoned, but escaped. He's either dead, or in a foreign land. No witnesses, it is well. Me think Sir Piers Rookwood did well to preserve this. I shall light his funeral pyre. Would he could now behold me as I consume it? She held the paper in the direction of the candle, but ere it could touch the flame it dropped from her hand, as if her horrible wish had been granted, before her stood the figure of her husband. Lady Rookwood started not. No sign of trepidation or alarm, save the sudden stiffening of her form was betrayed. Her bosom ceased to palpitate, her respiration stopped, her eyes were fixed upon the apparition. The figure appeared to regard her sternly. It was at some little distance within the shade cast by the lofty bedstead. She could distinctly discern it. There was no ocular deception. It was a tide in the costume Sir Piers would want to wear, a hunting dress. All that her son had told her rushed to her recollection. The phantom advanced, its countenance was pale and wore a gloomy frown. What would you destroy? Demanded the apparition in a hollow tone. The evidence of what? Your marriage. With yourself a cursed woman. With Susan Bradley. What's that I hear? shouted the figure in an altered tone. Married to her, then Luke is legitimate and heir to his estate. Whereupon the apparition rushed to the table and laid a very substantial grasp upon the document. A marriage certificate, ejaculated the spectre. Here's a piece of luck. It ain't often in our lottery life we draw a prize like this. One way or the other it must turn up a few cool thousands. Restore that paper villain! exclaimed Lady Rookwood, recovering all the audacity natural to her character the instant she discovered the earthly nature of the intruder. Restore it, or by heaven you shall rue your temerity. Softly, softly, replied the pseudo phantom, with one hand pushing back the lady, while the other conveyed the precious documents of the custody of this nether man. Softly, said he, giving the book's skin pocket a slap. Two words to that, my lady. I know its value as well as yourself, and must make my market. The highest offer has me, your ladyship, but he's a poor auctioneer that knocks down his wear when only one bidder is present. Luke Bradley, or as I find he is now, so Luke Rookwood may come down more handsomely. Who are you, Ruffian, and to what end is this masquerade assumed? If for the purpose of terrifying me into compliance with the schemes of that madman Luke Bradley, whom I presume to be your confederate, your labour is misspent, your stolen disguise has no more weight with me than his forged claims. Forged claims? E'god, he must be a clever hand to have forged that certificate. Your ladyship, however, is in error. Sir Luke Rookwood is no associate of mine. I am his late father's friend, but I have no time to banditalk. What money have you in the house? Be alive. You are. A robber then. Not I. I'm a tax-gatherer. A collector of rich rates. What plate have you got? No, don't be alarmed. Take it quietly. These things can't be helped. Better make up your mind to do it without more ado. Much the best plan. No screaming. It may injure your lungs and can alarm nobody. Your maids have done as much before. It's beneath your dignity to make so much noise. So you will not heed me, as you will. Saying which, he deliberately cut the bell cord and drew out a brace of pistols at the same time. Agnes, shrieked Lady Rookwood, now seriously alarmed. I must caution your ladyship to be silent, said the robber, who, as our readers will no doubt have already conjectured, was no other than the redoubted Jack Palmer. Agnes is already disposed of, said he, cocking a pistol. However, like your deceased lord and master, I may appear. You will find you have got a very different spirit from that of so peers to deal with. I am naturally the politest man breathing. I've been accounted the best bread man on the road by every lady whom I've had the honour of addressing. And I should be sorry to sully my well-earned reputation by anything like rudeness. I must use a little force of the gentlest kind. Perhaps you will permit me to hand you a chair. Bless me, what a risk your ladyship has got. Excuse me if I hurt you, but you are so devilish strong. What hope? So peers Rookwood calls. Ready! cried a voice. That's the word! rejoined another. Ready! And immediately, two men, their features entirely hidden by a shroud of black crepe, a cutridium rougher tyre, and each armed with pistols rushed into the room. Lend a hand! said Jack. Even in this perilous extremity, Lady Rookwood's courage did not desert her. Anticipating their purpose, ere her assailants could reach her, she extricated herself from Palmer's grasp, and rushed upon the foremost, so unexpectedly that, before the man could seize her, she snatched a pistol from his hand and presented it at the group with an aspect like that of a Tigris at bay, her eye wandering from one to the other, as if selecting a mark. There was a pause of a few seconds in which the men glanced at the lady, and then at their leader. Jack looked blank. Hem, said he coolly, this is something new, disarmed. Defied by a petticoat, heart key, Rob Rust, the disgrace rests with you. Clear your character by securing her at once. What? Afraid of a woman? A woman! repeated Rust in a surly tone. Devilish like a woman indeed. Few men could do what she has done. Give the word, and I fire. As to seizing her, that's more than I'll engage to do. You are a coward! cried Jack. I will steer clear of blood, if I can help it. Come, madam, surrender, like the most sensible path of your sex. That's discretion. You will find resistance of no avail. And he stepped boldly towards her. Lady Rookwood pulled the trigger. The pistol flashed in the pan. She flung away the useless weapon without a word. Said Jack, as he leisurely stooped to pick up the pistol, and approached her ladyship. The bullet is not yet cast, that is to be my billet. Here, he said, dealing Rust a heavy thump on the shoulder with the butt end of the piece. Take back your snapper, and look, you prick the touch hole, or your barking iron will never bite for you. And now, madam, I must take the liberty of again, handing you to a seat. Dick Wilder, the cord. Quick! It distresses me to proceed to such length with your ladyship, but safe-bind, safe-fined, as Mr. Coach would say. You will not bind me, Ruffian! Your ladyship is very much mistaken. I have no alternative. Your ladyship's wrist is far too dexterous to be at liberty. I must furthermore request of your ladyship to be less vociferous. You interrupt business, which should be transacted with silence and deliberation. Lady Rookwood's rage and vexation at this indignity were beyond all bounds. Resistance, however, was useless, and she submitted in silence. The cord was passed tightly around her arms, when it flashed upon her recollection for the first time that coats and turconal, who were in charge of her captive in the lower corridor, might be summoned to her assistance. This idea no sooner crossed her mind than she uttered a loud and prolonged scream. Steve! cried Jack. Civility's wasted here. Give me the gag, Rob. Better slip her squeaking pipe at once, replied Rust, drawing his clasp knife. She'll thwart everything. The gag, I say. Not that. I can't find the gag, exclaimed wildly savagely. Leave Rob Rust to manage her. He'll silence her, I'll warrant you, while you and I rummage the room. Die! Leave her to me, said the other miscreant. Go about your business and take no heed. Her hands are fast, she can't scratch. I'll do it with a single gash. Send her to join her lord, whom she loved so well before he's on the ground. They'll have something to see when they come home from the master's funeral. Their mistress, cut and dry for another. Mercy! Mercy! Streaked Lady Rookwood. Aye! Aye! I'll be merciful, said Rust, brandishing his knife before her eyes. I'll not belong about it. Leave her to me. I'll give her a taste of Sir Sidney. No, no, Rust. No bloodshed, said Jack, authoritatively. I'll find some other way to gag the jade. At this moment, a noise of rapid footsteps was heard within the passage. Assistant comes! screamed Lady Rookwood. Help! Help! To the door! cried Jack. The words were scarcely out of his mouth before Luke dashed into the room, followed by coats and to Connell. Palmer and his companions levelled their pistols at the intruders, and the latter would have fired. But Jack's keen eye, having discerned Luke amongst the foremost, checked further hostilities for the present. Lady Rookwood, meanwhile, finding herself free from restraint, rushed towards her deliverers, and crouched beneath Luke's protecting arms, which were extended, pistol in hand, over her head. Behind them stood Titus to Connell, flourishing the poker, and Mr. Coates, who, upon the sight of so much warlike preparation, began somewhat to repent having rushed so precipitately into the lion's den. Luke Bradley! exclaimed Palmer, stepping forward. Luke Bradley! echoed Lady Rookwood, recoiling and staring into his face. Fear nothing, madam, cried Luke. I'm here to assist you. I will defend you with my life. You defend me? exclaimed Lady Rookwood doubtfully. Even I, cried Luke, strange as it may sound. Holy powers protect me! ejaculated Titus. As I live, it disappears himself! Sapirth! echoed Coates, catching the infection of terror as he perceived Palmer more distinctly. What? is the dead come to life again? A ghost! a ghost! By my soul! cried Titus. It's the first ghost I ever heard that committed a burglar in its own house, and on the night of the body's burial too. But who the devil at ease? Maybe they're ghosts likewise. They are, said Palmer, in a hollow tone, mimicking the voice of Sapirth's attendant spirits. We are come for this woman. Her time is out. So no more perlavering, Titus. Lend the hand to take her to the churchyard and be hanged to you. Upon my conscience, Mr. Coates, cried Titus. It's either the devil or Sapirth. We'll be only in the way here. He's only just settling his old scores with his lady. I thought it would come to this long ago. We'd best be to retreat. Jack took advantage of the momentary confusion created by this incidental alarm in his disguise to direct rust towards the door, which the newcomers had entered. And this, being accomplished, he burst into a loud laugh. What? Not know me? cried he. Not know your old friend with a new face, Luke? Not you, Titus? Not you? Who I see through a millstone, lawyer Coates? Don't you recognize? Jack Palmer! As I'm a sinner! cried Titus. Why? This beats Banigan! Ah, Jack! Honey, what does this mean? Is it yourself I've seen such company? You're not robbing in earnest. Indeed, but I am, friend Titus, exclaimed Jack. And it is my own self, you see. I just took the liberty of borrowing Sapirth's old hunting coat from the Justice Room. You said my togery wouldn't do for the funeral. I'm no other than plain Jack Palmer, after all. With half a dozen aliases at your back, I dare say, cried Coates. I suspected you all along. All your praise of highwaymen was not lost upon me. No, no. I can see into a millstone. Be it ever so thick. Well, replied Jack, I'm sorry to see you here, friend Titus. Keep quiet, and you shall come to no harm. As to you, Luke Bradley, you have anticipated my intention by half an hour. I meant to set you free. For you, Mr. Coates, you may commit all future care of your affairs to your executors, administrators and the signs. You will have no further need to trouble yourself with worldly concerns. Added he, levelling a pistol at the attorney, who, however, shielded himself in an agony of apprehension behind Luke's person. Stand aside, Luke. I stir not, replied Luke. I thank you for your good intention and will not injure you. That is, if you do not force me to do so, I am here to defend her ladyship. What stat you say? Returned Jack in surprise. Defend her ladyship. With my life, replied Luke. Let me counsel you to depart. Are you mad? Defend her, Lady Rookwood, your enemy. Who would hang you? T-t-t-stand aside, I say, Luke Bradley, or look to yourself. You had better consider well ere you proceed, said Luke. You know me of old. I have taken Odds as great and not come off the vanquished. The Odds are even, cried Titus. If Mr. Coates will but show fight, I'll stand by you to the last, my dear boy. You're the right son of your father, though on the wrong side. Ock, Jack Palmer, my jewel, no wonder you resemble Dick Turpin. You hear this? cried Luke. Hot-headed fool, muttered Jack. Why don't you shoot him on the spot? said Wilder. And Ma, my own chance, thought Jack. No, that will never do. His life is not to be thrown away. Be quiet, said he, in a whisper to Wilder. I have another card to play, which shall serve us better than all the plunder here. No harm must come to that youngster. His life is worth thousands to us. Then, turning to Luke, he continued, I'm loth to hurt you, yet what can I do? You must have the worst of it if we come to a pitch battle. I therefore advise you, as a friend, to draw off your forces. We are three to three, it is true. But two of your party are unarmed. Unarmed! interrupted Titus. Devil burn me! This iron shillayler shall convince you the contrary, Jack, or any of your friends. Make ready, then, my lads, cried Palmer. Stop a minute, exclaimed Coat. This gets serious. It will end in homicide, in murder. We shall all have our throats cut to a certainty. And though these rascals will certainly be hanged for it, that will be poor satisfaction to the sufferers. Had we not better refer the matter to arbitration? I'm for fighting it out, said Titus, whisking the poke around his head like a flail in action. My blood's up. Come on, Jack Palmer, I'm for you. I should vote for retreating, chattered the attorney. If that cursed fellow had not placed a naix yet at the door. Give the word, Captain, replied rust impatiently. Aye, aye, echoed Wilder. A skilful general always palates, said Jack. A word in your ear, Luke, ere that be done which cannot be undone. You me me, no treachery, returned Luke. Jack made no answer, but uncocking his pistols deposited them within his pockets. Shoot him, as he advances, whispered Colts. He's in your power now. Scoundrel, replied Luke, do you think me as bait as yourself? Hush, hush, for God's sake, don't expose me, said Colts. Lady Rookwood had apparently listened to this singular conference with sullen composure. Though in reality she was wracked with anxiety as to its results, and now apprehending that Palmer was about to make an immediate disclosure to Luke, she accosted him as he passed her. Unbind me, cried she. And what you wish shall be yours, money, jewels, ha? May I depend? I pledge my word. Palmer untied the cord, and Lady Rookwood, approaching a table whereon stood the espritoir, touched a spring, and a secret drawer flew open. You do this of your own free will, asked Luke. Speak, if it be otherwise. I do, returned the lady hastily. Palmer's eyes glistened that the treasures exposed to his view. They are the jewels of countless price. Take them, and rid me, she added in a whisper of him. Luke Bradley, I give them to me. They are yours freely on those terms. You hear that, Luke? cried he aloud. You hear it? Titus, this is no robbery. Mr. Colts, no all men by these presence. I call you to witness. Lady Rookwood gives me these pretty things. I do, returned she, adding in a whisper, on the terms which I proposed. Must it be done at once? Without an instance delay before your own eyes? I fear not to look on. Each moment is precious. He's off guard now. You do it, you know, in self-defense, and you? For the same cause. Yet he came here to aid you. What of that? He would have risked his life for yours. I cannot pay back the obligation. He must die. The document will be useless then. Will not that suffice? Why aim at life? You trifle with me. You fear to do it. Fear? About it, then. You shall have more gold. I will about it, cried Jack, throwing the casket to Wilder, and seizing Lady Rookwood's hands. I am no Italian bravo, madam, no assassin, no remorseless cutthroat. What are you, devil or woman? Who asked me to do this, Luke Bradley, I say? Would you betray me? cried Lady Rookwood. You have betrayed yourself, madam. Nay-nay, Luke, hands off. See, Lady Rookwood, how you would treat a friend. This strange fellow would blow out my brains for laying a finger upon your ladyship. I will suffer no injury to be done to her, said Luke. Release her. Your ladyship hears him, said Jack, and you, Luke, shall earn the value set upon your generosity. You will not have her injured. This instant she has proposed, nay, paid for your assassination. How? exclaimed Luke, recoiling. A lie! As black as hell, cried Lady Rookwood. A truth, as clear as heaven, retained Jack. I will speedily convince you of the fact. Then, turning to Lady Rookwood, he whispered, Shall I give him the marriage document? Beware, said Lady Rookwood. Do I avouch the truth, then? She was silent. I am answered, said Luke. Then leave her to her fate, cried Jack. No, replied Luke. She is still a woman, and I will not abandon her to ruffianly violence. Set her free. You are a fool, said Jack. Hurrah! Hurrah! The zipperated coats who had rushed to the window. Rescue! Rescue! They are returning from the church. I see the torchlight in the avenue. We are saved! Hell and the devil, cried Jack. Not an instant is to be lost. Alive, lads! Bring off all the plunder you can. Be handy. Lady Rookwood, I bid you farewell, said Luke, in a tone in which scorn and sorrow were blended. We shall meet again. We have not parted yet, returned she. Will you let this man pass? A thousand pounds for his life. Upon the nail, asked Rust. By the living God, if any of you attempt to touch him, I will blow his brains out upon the spot, be he friend or foe, cried Jack. Luke Bradley, we shall meet again. You shall hear from me. Lady Rookwood, said Luke, as he departed. I shall not forget this night. Is all ready? Asked Palmer, if his comrades. All, then budge! Stay! cried Lady Rookwood, in a whisper to him. What will purchase that document? A thousand pounds? Double it. It shall be doubled. I will turn it over. Resolve me now. You shall hear from me. In what manner? I will find speedy means. Your name is Palmer. Palmer is the name he goes by, your ladyship, replied Coates. But it is the fashion with these rascals to have an alias. Ha ha! said Jack, thrusting the ramrod into his pistol barrel. Are you there, Mr. Coates? Pay your wager, sir. What wager? The hundred we bet that you would take me if ever you had the chance. Take you? It was Dick Turpin I bet it to take. I am Dick Turpin. That's my alias, replied Jack. Dick Turpin! Then I'll have a snap at you at all hazards, replied Coates, springing suddenly towards him. And I at you, said Turpin, discharging his pistol right in the face of the rash attorney. There's a quittance in full! End of chapter six, book two. Chapter one, book three of Rookwood. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. This reading by Paul Curran. Rookwood by William Harrison Ainsworth. Book three, The Gypsy. Lay a garland on my hearse of the dismal you. Maiden's willow branches bear, say I died true. My love was false, but I was firm from my hour of birth. Upon my buried body lie, likely, gentle earth. Beaumont and Fletcher. Chapter one, A Morning Ride. I had a sister, who, among the race of gypsies, was the fairest, fair she was in gentle blood, and gesture to her beauty. Bromme. On quitting Lady Rookwood's chamber, Luke speeded along the gloomy corridor, descended the spiral stairs, and, swiftly traversing sundry other dark passages, issued from a door at the back of the house. Day was just beginning to break. His first object had been to furnish himself with a means to expedite his flight, and, perceiving no one in the yard, he directed his hasty steps towards the stable. The door was fortunately unfastened, and, entering, he found a strong rowan horse, which he knew from description had been his father's favourite hunter, and to the use of which he now considered himself fully entitled. The animal roused himself as he approached, shook his glossy coat and naid, as if he recognised the footsteps and voice. Thou art mistaken, old fellow, said Luke. I am not he thou thinkest. Nevertheless, I am glad thy instinct would have it so. If thou bearest my father's son as thou hast borne thy old master, or many a field for many a day, he need not fear the best mounted of his pursuers. So, ho, come hither, Rook! The noble steed turned at the call. Luke hastily saddled him, vaulted upon his back, and disregarding every impediment in the shape of fence or ditch, shaped his course across the field towards the Sexton's Cottage, which he reached, just as his owner was in the act of unlocking his door. Peter testified his delight and surprise at the escape of his grandson, by a greeting of chuckling laughter. How! escaped, exclaimed he. Who was delivered ye from the hands of the Moabites? Ah, but why do I ask? Who could it have been but Jack Palmer? My own hands have set me free, returned Luke. I am indebted to no man for liberty, still less to him. But I cannot tarry here. Each moment is precious. I came to request you to accompany me to the gypsy encampment. Will you go or not? A mount behind you, replied Peter. I like not the manner of conveyance. Farewell then, and Luke turned to depart. Stay! that is the pierce-horse, old Rook! I care not if I do ride him. Quick then! Mount! I will not delay you a moment, rejoined the Sexton, opening his door and throwing his implements into the cottage. Backmull! Back, sir! cried he, as the dog rushed out to greet him. Bring your steed nigh this stone, grandson Luke. There, a little nearer, all's right. And away they galloped. The Sexton's first inquiries were directed to ascertain how Luke had accomplished his escape. And, having satisfied himself in this particular, he was content to remain silent, musing, it might be, on the incidents detailed to him. The road Luke chose was a rough, unfrequented lane that skirted for nearly a mile the moss-grown railings of the park. It then diverged to the right, and seemed to bear towards a range of hills rising in the distance. High hedges impeded the view on either side, but there were occasional gaps, affording glimpses of the tract of country through which he was riding. Meadows were seen steaming with heavy jues, intersected by a deep-channeled stream, whose course was marked by a hanging cloud of vapor, as well as by a row of melancholy-pollard willows that stood like strict, shivering urchins by the riverside. Other fields succeeded, yellow with the golden grain, or bright with flowering clover, the autumnal crop, coloured with every shade from the light green of the turnip to the darker verger of the bean, the various products of the teeming land. The hole was backed by round, drowsy masses of trees. Luke spoke not, nor abated his furious course, till the road began to climb a steep ascent. He then drew in the rain, and from the heights of the eclivity surveyed the plain over which he had passed. It was a rich agricultural district, with little picturesque beauty, but much of true English endearing loveliness to recommend it. Such a quiet, pleasing landscape, in short, as one views at such season of the year from every eminence in every country of our merry isle. The picture was made up of a tract of land, filled with corn ripe for the sickle, or studded with sheaves of the same golden produce, enlivened with green meadows, so deeply luxuriant as to claim the scythe for the second time. Each divided from the other by thick hedgerows, the uniformity of which was broken, ever and unknown, by some towering elm, tall poplar, or wide branching oak. Many old farmhouses, with their broad barns and crowded haystacks forming little villages in themselves, ornamented the landscape at different points, and by their substantial look evidenced the fertility of the soil, and the thriving condition of its inhabitants. Some three miles distant might be seen the scattered hamlet of Rookwood, the dark, russet thatch of its houses, scarcely perceptible amidst the embrown foliage of the surrounding timber. The sight of the village was, however, pointed out by the square tower of the antique church that crested the summit of the adjoining hill. And although the hall was entirely hidden from view, Luke readily traced out its locality amidst the depths of the dark grove in which it was embusmed. This goodly prospect had other claims to attention in Luke's eye beside its agricultural or pictorial mellet. It was, or he deemed it was, his own. Far as his eye ranged, yea, even beyond the line of vision, the estates of Rookwood extended. "'Do you see that house below us in the valley?' asked Peter, of his companion. "'I do,' replied Luke, a snug old house, a model of a farm. "'Everything looks comfortable and well to do about it. "'There are a dozen lusty haystacks out there about, "'and the great barn with its roof yellowed like gold "'looks built for a granary, "'and there are stables, "'kind houses, orchards, dove cuts and fishponds, "'and an old circular garden with wall fruit in abundance. "'He should be a happy man and a wealthy one "'who dwells therein.' "'He dwells therein no longer,' returned Peter. "'He died last night.' "'How do you know that? "'Not a stirring in the house as yet.' "'The owner of that house, Simon Toft,' replied Peter, "'was last night struck by a thunderbolt. "'He was one of the coffin bearers at your father's funeral. "'They are sleeping within the house, you say.' "'Tis well, let them sleep on. "'They will awaken too soon when wake they may.' "'Peace!' cried Luke. "'You blight everything. "'Even this smiling landscape you would turn to gloom "'does not the man awaken a happier train of thoughts "'within your mind. "'With me it makes a mens for want of sleep. "'A faces resentment and banishes every black misgiving. "'Tis a joyous thing thus to scour the country "'at earliest dawn, "'to catch all the spirits and freshness of the morning, "'to be abroad before the lazy world is half awake, "'to make the most of a brief existence, "'and to have spent a day of keen enjoyment "'almost before the day begins with some.' "'I like to anticipate the rising of the glorious "'luminary, to watch every line of light changing "'as at this moment, from shuddering grey to blushing rose, "'see how the heavens are died. "'Who would exchange young gorgeous spectacle?' "'Continued he, pointing towards the east "'and again urging his horse to full speed down the hill, "'endangering the sextant seat "'and threatening to impale him upon the cropper of the saddle. "'Who would exchange that sight "'and the exhilarating feeling of this fresh morn "'for a couch of ida down and a headache in reversion? "'I, for one,' returned the sextant sharply, "'would willingly exchange it for that or any other couch, "'provided it rid me of this accursed cropper which "'gold me sorely, moderate your pace, grandson Luke, "'or I must throw myself off the horse in self-defense.' "'Luke slackened his charge's pace "'in compliance with the sextant's wish.' "'Ah, well,' continued Peter, "'restored in a measure to comfort, "'now I can contemplate the sunrise which you lured, "'somewhat at my knees. "'Tis a fine sight, I doubt not to the eyes of youth, "'and to the sanguine soul of him upon whom life itself "'is dawning is, I dare say, inspiriting. "'But when the hay-day of existence is passed, "'when the blood flows sluggishly in the veins, "'when one has known the desolating storms "'which the brightest sunrise has preceded, "'the seared heart refuses to trust its false glitter. "'And, like the experienced sailor, "'sees often the brightest skies a forecast of the tempest. "'To such a one, there can be no new dawn of the heart. "'No sun can gild its cold and cheerless horizon. "'No breeze can revive pulses that have long since "'seached a throb with any chance of emotion. "'I am too old to feel freshness in this nipping air. "'It chills me more than the damps of night, "'to which I am accustomed. "'Night, midnight, is my season of delight. "'Nature is instinct then with the secrets dark and dread. "'There is a language which he who sleepeth not, "'but will wake and watch, may happily learn. "'Strange organs of speech have the invisible world. "'Strange language doth it talk. "'Strange communion hold with him "'who would pry into its mysteries. "'It talks by bat and owl, "'by the grave worm and each crawling thing, "'by the dust of graves, as well as by those "'that rot therein, whatever doth it discourse by night. "'And especially when the moon is at the full, "'tis the lure I have then learned "'that makes that season dear to me. "'Like your cat, mine eye expands in darkness. "'I blink at the sunshine, like your owl.' "'Seize this forbidding strain,' returned Luke. "'It sounds as harshly as your own screech owls cry. "'Let your thoughts make a more sprightly turn, "'more in unison with my own and the fair aspect of nature. "'Shy, direct them to the gypsy's camp, then,' said Peter with a sneer. "'Do your own thoughts, tendither? "'You are not altogether in the wrong,' replied Luke. "'I was thinking of the gypsy's camp, "'and of one who dwells amongst its tents.' "'I knew it,' replied Peter. "'Did you hope to deceive me by attributing "'all your joyousness of heart to the dawn? "'Your thoughts have been wandering all this while "'upon one who hath I will engage. "'A pair of shoe-black eyes and olive skin, "'and yet with all a clear tone. "'Black, yet cumbly as the tents of Qida, "'as the curtains of Solomon, "'a mesh of jetty hair that hath entangled you in its network. "'Right lips and a cunning tongue, "'one of the plagues of Egypt.' "'Ha, ha, you've guessed rudely,' replied Luke. "'I care not to own that my thoughts were so occupied.' "'I was assured of it,' replied the sexton. "'And what may be the name of her "'towards whom your imagine was straying?' "'Cibila Perez,' replied Luke. "'Her father was a Spanish hitano. "'She's known amongst her people "'by her mother's name of Lovell. "'She's beautiful, of course. "'Aye, very beautiful, but no matter, "'you shall judge of her charms and none. "'I will take your word for them,' returned the sexton. "'And you love her?' "'Passionately. "'You are not married,' asked Peter hastily. "'Not as yet,' replied Luke, "'but my faith is plighted. "'Heaven be praised, "'the mischief is not then irreparable. "'I would have you married, though, "'not to a gypsy girl. "'And whom would you select? "'One before whom Sibyl's beauty "'would pale as stars at day's approach. "'There lives not such one. "'Just me, there does. "'Ellenham O'Brie's lovely beyond parallel. "'I was mere speculating upon a possibility "'when I wished her yours. "'It is scarcely likely she would cast her eyes upon you. "'I shall not heed her neglect. "'Graced with my title, I doubt not, "'where it my pleasure to seek a bride "'amongst those of gentle blood. "'I should not find all indifferent to my suit. "'Possibly not. "'Yet what might weigh with others would not weigh with her. "'There are qualities you lack "'which she has discovered in another.' "'In whom?' "'In Randolph-Rookwood.' "'Is he her suitor?' "'I have reason to think so. "'And you would have me abandon my own betrothed love "'to be guile from my brother, his destined bride? "'That were to imitate the conduct of my grand-sire, "'the terrible Reginald, to whilst his brother, Alan.' "'The sexton answered not, "'and Luke fancied he could perceive a quivering "'in the hands that grasped his body for support. "'There was a brief pause in their conversation.' "'And who is Ellenham O'Brie?' "'Asked Luke, breaking the silence. "'Your cousin, on the mother's side of Rookwood, "'is there for I would urge your union with her. "'There is a prophecy relating to your house, "'which seems as though it would be fulfilled "'in your person and in hers. "'When the stray Rook shall perch on the topmost bow, "'there shall be clamour and screaming, I trow, "'but a right and a rule of the ancient nest, "'the Rook that with Rook made shall hold him possessed.' "'I place no faith in such fantasies,' replied Luke. "'And yet the lines bear strangely "'upon my present situation.' "'Their application to yourself and Ellenham O'Brie's "'unquestionable,' replied the sexton. "'It would seem so, indeed,' rejoined Luke, "'and he again sank into abstraction, "'from which the sexton did not care to rouse him.' "'The aspects of the country had materially changed "'since their descent of the hill. "'In place of the richly cultivated district "'which lay on the other side, "'a broad, brown tract of wasteland spread out before them, "'covered with scattered patches of gorse, "'stunted fern, and low brushwood, "'presenting an unvaried surface of unbaked turf. "'The shallow coat of sod was manifested by the stones "'that clattered under the horse's hooves, "'as he rapidly traversed the arid soil. "'Clearing with ease to himself, "'though not without discomfort to the sexton, "'every gravelly trench, natural chasm, "'or other inequality of ground that occurred in his course. "'Clinging to his grandson with the tenacity "'of a bird of prey, Peter for some time "'kept his station in security. "'But, unluckily, at one dyke rather wider than the rest, "'the horse, owing possibly to the mismanagement, "'intentional, or otherwise of Luke, "'swerved, and the sexton, dislodged from his high estate, "'fell at the edge of the trench, "'and rolled incontinently to the bottom. "'Luke drew in the rain to inquire if any bones were broken, "'and Peter presently upreared his dusty person "'from the abyss, and without condescending to make reply, "'yet muttering curses, not loud, but deep, "'accepted his grandson's prophet hand, and remounted. "'While thus occupied, Luke fancied he heard a distant shout, "'and noting whence the sound proceeded, "'the same quarter by which he had approached the heath, "'he beheld a single horseman spurring in their direction "'at the top of his speed, "'and to judge from the rate at which he advanced, "'it was evident he was anything but indifferently mounted. "'Apprehensive of pursuit, Luke expedited the sexton's assent, "'and that accomplished, without bestowing further regard "'upon the object of his solicitude, "'he resumed his headlong flight. "'He now thought it necessary to bestow more attention "'on his choice of road, "'and, perfectly acquainted with the heath, "'avoid it all unnecessary hazardous passes. "'In spite of his knowledge of the ground, "'and the excellence of his horse, "'the stranger sensibly gained upon him, "'the danger, however, was no longer imminent.' "'We are safe,' cried Luke. "'The limits of hard chaser passed. "'In a few seconds we shall enter Davenham Wood. "'I will turn the horse loose, "'and we will be take ourselves to flight amongst the trees. "'I will show you a place of concealment. "'He cannot follow us on horseback, "'and on foot I defy him. "'Stay,' cried the sexton. "'He is not in pursuit. "'He takes another course. "'He wheels to the right. "'By heaven! "'It is to fiend himself upon a black horse "'come for bow-legged bend. "'See, he's there already!' The horseman had turned, as the sexton stated, careering towards a revolting object at some little distance on the right. It was a gibbit with its grisly burden. He rode swiftly towards it, and, raining in his horse, took off his hat, bowing profoundly to the carcass that swung in the morning breeze. Just at that moment, a gust of air catching the fleshless skeleton, its arms seemed to be waved in reply to the salutation. A solitary crow winged its flight over the horseman's head as he paused. After a moment's halt, he wheeled about, and again shouted to Luke, waving his hat. "'As I live,' said the latter, "'It is Jack Palmer!' "'Dick Turpin, you mean,' rejoined the sexton. "'He has been paying his respects to a brother-blade. "'Dah, Dick will never have the honour of a jibbit. "'He is too tender of the knife. "'Did you mark the crow?' "'But here he comes.' And in another instant, Turpin was by their side." End of Chapter One, Book Three