 Chapter 5 Book 3 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 3 Chapter 5 The Inauguration Beggar Concerts, sir. We have musicians, too, among us. True. Mary Beggars, indeed, that, being within the reach of the lash for singing libelous songs at London, were feigned to fly into one cover, and here they sing all our poet's ditties. They can sing anything, most tunably, sir. But psalms. What they may do hereafter, under a triple tree, is much expected, but they live very civilly and gentilly among us. Spring. But what is here? That solemn old fellow that neither speaks of himself or any for him. Beggar. Oh, sir, the rarest man of all. He is a prophet. See how he holds up his prognosticating nose. He is divining now. Spring. How? A prophet. Beggar. Yes, sir. A cunning man and a fortune teller. A very ancient stroller all the world over, and has travelled with gypsies. And is a patrico. The Mary Beggars. In consequence of some few words which the sexton let fall in the presence of the attendants during breakfast, more perhaps by design than accident, it was speedily rumoured throughout the camp that the redoubted Richard Terpin was for the time its inmate. This intelligence produced some such sensation as is experienced by the inhabitants of a petty town on the sudden arrival of a prince of the blood, a commanding chief, or other illustrious and distinguished personage, whose fame has been vaunted abroad amongst his fellow men by rumour and her thousand tongs, and who, like our highwayman, has rendered himself sufficiently notorious to be an object of admiration and emulation amongst his contemporaries. All started up at the news. The upright man, the chief of the crew, arose from his chair, donned his gown of state, a very ancient brocade dressing gown, filched most probably from the wardrobe of some strolling player, grasped his baton of office, a stout oak entrenchment, and sallied forth. The ruffler who found his representative in a very magnificently equipped and by no means ill-favoured knave, whose chin was decorated with a beard as lengthy and black as sultum-muck moods, together with a dexterous hooker issued forth from the hovel which they termed their boozing ken, eager to catch a glimpse of the prince of the high toby-gloaks. The limping palliard tore the bandages from his mock wounds, shouldered his crutch, and trudged hastily after them. The whip-jack unbuckled his strap, threw away his timber-leg, and leapt exulting like the bounding row. With such a sale in sight, he said, he must heave, too, like the rest. The dummerer, whose tongue had been cut out by the algorenes, suddenly found the use of it, and made the welkin ring with his shouts. Wonderful were the miracles Dick's advent wrought. The lame suddenly became active, the blind saw, the dumb spoke. Nay, if truth must be told, absolutely gave utterance to the most vernacular execrations. Morts, autumn morts, walking morts, dels, doxies, kinching morts, and their coals, with all the shades and grades of the canting crew, were assembled. There were, to use the words of Brommet, stark, errant, downright beggars, aye, without equivocation, statute beggars, cuchante and passante, gardante, rampant beggars, currant and vagrant, stockant, whippant beggars. Each sunburned violet started from his shed, each dusky day with her brown, half-naked urchins followed at his heels, each ripe young maiden with the glossy eye lingered but to sleek her raven tresses, and to arrange her straw bonnet, and then overtook the others. Each wrinkled bell-dam hobbled as quickly after her stiffened joints would permit, while the ancient Patrickot, the priest of the crew, who joined the couples together by the hedge side with the nice custom of dead horse between, brought up the rear, all bent on one grand object, that of having a peep at the foremost man of all this prigging world. Dick Turpin, at the period of which we treat, was in the zenith of his reputation, his deeds were full-blown, his exploits were in every man's mouth, and a heavy price was set upon his head, that he should show himself thus openly, where he might be so easily betrayed, excited no little surprise amongst the craftiest of the crew, and augured an excess of temerity on his part. Rashdaring was the main feature of Turpin's character. Like our great Nelson, he knew fear only by name, and when he thus trusted himself in the hands of strangers, confident in himself and in his own resources, he felt perfectly easy as to the result. He relied also in the continuance of his good fortune, which had as yet never deserted him. Possessed of the belief that his hour was not yet come, he cared little or nothing for any risk he might incur, and though he might, undoubtedly, have some presentiment of the probable termination of his career, he never suffered it to militate against his present enjoyment, which proved that he was no despicable philosopher. Turpin was the ultimate Romanorum, the last of a race, which, we were almost about to say we regret, is now altogether extinct. Several successes he had, it is true, but no name worthy to be recorded after his own. With him expired the chivalrous spirit which animated successively the bosoms of so many knights of the road. With him died away that passionate love of enterprise, that high spirit of devotion to the fair sex, which was first breathed upon the highway by the gay galant, Claude Duval, the Bayard of the road, La Foulue Sainte Peur et Saint-Ré-Proche, but which was extinguished at last by the cord that tied the heroic turpin to the remorseless tree. It were a subject well worthy of inquiry to trace this decline and fall of the empire of the Tobi men to which remota causes. To ascertain the why and the wherefore, that with so many half-pay captains, so many poor curates, so many lieutenants of both services without hopes of promotion, so many penny aligners and fashionable novelists, so many damned dramatists and damning critics, so many Edinburgh and quarterly reviews, so many detrimental brothers and younger sons, when there are horses to be hired, pistols to be borrowed, purses to be taken and males are as plentiful as partridges, it were worth serious investigation, we repeat, to ascertain why, with the best material imaginable for a new race of highwaymen, we have none, not even an amateur. Why do not some of these choice spirits quit the salons of Palmael and take to the road? The air of the heath is more bracing and wholesome we should conceive than any of hell whatever, and the chances of success in comparably greater. We throw out this hint without a doubt of seeing it followed up. Probably the solution of our inquiry may be that the supply is greater than the demand, that in the present state of things Embryo highwaymen may be more abundant than purses, and then have we not the horse patrol? With such an admirably organised system of conservation, it is vain to anticipate a change. The highwaymen, we fear, like their Irish brothers, the wraparsees, went out with the Tories. They were averse to reform and eschewed emancipation. Lest anyone should think we have overrated the pleasures of the highwaymen's existence, they shall hear what the right villainous Jack Hall, a celebrated tobeyman of his day, has got to say on the subject. His life, the highwaymen's, has generally the most mirth and the least care in it of any man's breathing, and all he deals for is clear profit. He has that point of good conscience, that he always sells as he buys a good penny with, which is something rare since he trades with so small a stock. The fence and he are like the devil and the doctor. They live by one another, and like traitors, it is best to keep each other's counsel. He has his point of honesty, that he never robs the house he frequents. Turpin had the same scruples respecting the Hall of Rookwood in Sir Pears's lifetime, and perhaps pays his debt better than some others, for he holds it below the dignity of his employment to commit so un-gentilla crime as insolvency, and loves to pay nobly. He has another quality, not much amiss, that he takes no more than he has occasion for, Jack, we think, was a little mistaken here, which he verifies this way. He craves no more while that lasts. He is a less nuisance in a commonwealth than a miser, because the money he engrosses all circulates again, which the other hordes as though twere only to be found again at the day of judgement. He is the tithed pig of the family, which the gallows, instead of the parson, claims as its due. He has reason enough to be bold in his undertakings, for though all the world threaten him, he stands in fear of but one man in it, and that's the hangman. And with him too he is generally in fee, however I cannot confirm he's so valiant that he dares to look at any man in the face, for in that point he is now and then a little modest. Newgate may be said to be his country house, where he frequently lives so many months in the year, and he is not so much concerned to be carried thither for a small matter, if twere only for the benefit of renewing his acquaintance there. He holds a petty larceny as light as a nun does a ricular confession, though the priest has a more compassionate character than the hangman. Every man in this community is esteemed according to his particular quality, of which there are several degrees, though it is contrary often to public government, for here a man shall be valued purely for his merit, and rise by it too, though it be put to a halter in which there is a great deal of glory in dying like a hero, and making a decent figure in the cart to the last two staves of the 51st Psalm. This we repeat is the plain statement of a practical man, and again we throw out the hint for adoption. All we regret is that we are now degenerated from the grand tobey man to the cracksman and the sneak, about whom there are no redeeming features, how much lower the next generation of thieves will dive it boots not to conjecture. Itas parentum pejor avis tulit nos nequiores mox daturos progeniem vitiosiorem. Sivantes laughed Spain's chivalry away, sang Byron, and if gay did not extinguish the failing flame of our night, errantry, unlike the robbers of Shiller which is said to have inflamed the Saxon youth with an irrepressible mania for brigandage, the beggars opera helped not to fan the dying fire. That laugh was fatal as laughs generally are, McHeath gave the highwayman his kudigrass. The last of this race, for we must persist in maintaining that he was the last, Turpin like the setting sun threw up some parting rays of glory and tinged the far highways with a luster that may yet be traced like a cloud of dust raised by his horse's retreating heels. Unequalled in the command of his steed, the most singular feat that the whole race of the annals of horsemanship has yet to record, and of which we may have more to say hereafter, was achieved by him. So perfect was his jockey ship, so clever his management of the animal he mounted, so intimately acquainted was he with every crossroad in the neighbourhood of the Metropolis, a book of which he constructed and carried constantly about his person, as well as with many other parts of England, particularly the counties of Chester, York and Lancaster, that he outstripped every pursuer and baffled all attempts at capture, his reckless daring, his restless rapidity, for so suddenly did he change his ground and renew his attacks in other quarters that he seemed to be endowed with ubiquity, his bravery, his resolution, and above all, his generosity, won for him a high reputation amongst his compatriots, and even elicited applauses from those upon whom he levied his contributions. Beyond dispute he ruled as master of the road, his hands were as yet unstained with blood, he was ever prompt to check the disposition to outrage, and to prevent as much as lay in his power the commission of violence by his associates. Of late, since he had possessed himself of his favourite mare, Black Bess, his robberies had been perpetrated with a suddenness of succession, and at distances so apparently impracticable that the idea of all having been executed by one man was rejected as an impossibility. And the only way of reconciling the description of the horse and rider, which tallied in each instance, was the supposition that these attacks were performed by Confederates similarly mounted and similarly acuted. There was, in all this, as much of the Fima Sacrafemes as of the Ori, of the hungering after distinction as well as of the appetite of gain, enamoured of his vocation, Turpin delighted to hear himself designated as the flying highwayman, and it was with rapturous triumph that he found his single-handed feats attributed to a band of marauders. But this state of things could not long endure. His secret was blown, the vigilance of the police was aroused, he was tracked to his haunts, and after a number of hair-bred scapes, which he only affected by miracle or by the aid of his wonder-working mare, he reluctantly quitted the heathy hills of Bagshot, the Pampas Plains of Hounslow, over which, like an archetype of the galloping Sir Francis Head, he had so often scoured. The gorsy commons of Highgate, Hampstead and Finchley, the marshy fields of Battersea, almost all of which he had been known to visit in a single night, and leaving these beaten tracks to the occupation of younger and less practised hands, he bequeathed to them at the same time his own reversionary interest in the gibbets thereupon erected and betook himself to the country. After a journey of more or less success, our adventurer found himself at Rookwood, wither he had been invited after a grand field day by its hospitable and by no means inquisitive owner, breach of faith and good fellowship formed no part of Turpin's character. He had his lights as well as his shades, and as long as suppers lived his purse and coffers would have been free from molestation, except, so far, Dick said, as a cog or two of dice went, my dice, you know, our lungs for odd and even, a bale of barred, sink juices, a pattern of which he always carried with him. Beyond this, accepting a take-in at a steeple chase, Rookwood Church being the mark, a doer to leap or some such trifle, to which the most screed pillars could not raise an objection, Dick was all fair and aboveboard, but when Porse appears had put on his wooden suit out, to use Dick's own expressive metaphor, his conscientious scruples evaporating to thin air. Lady Rookwood was nothing to him. There was excellent booty to be appropriated. The wise convey it call. He began to look about for hands, and having accidentally encountered his old comrades, Rust and Wilder, they were let into the business, which was imperfectly accomplished in the manner heretofore described. To return from this digression, when Turpin presented himself at the threshold of the door, on his way to inquire after his mare, to his astonishment he found it closely invested. A cheering shout from the tawny throng, succeeded by a general clapping of hands, and attended by a buzzing saceration of applause, such as welcomes the entrance of a popular actor upon the stage, greeted the appearance of the highwaymen. At the first sight of the crowd he was a little startled, and involuntarily sought for his pistols. But the demonstrations of admiration were too unequivocal to be for a moment mistaken. His hand was drawn from his pocket to raise his hat from his brow. Turpin's external man, we have before said, was singularly prepossessing. It was especially so in the eyes of the sex. Fair, we certainly cannot say up on the present occasion, amongst whom not a single dissentient voice was to be heard, all concurred in thinking him a fine fellow. Could plainly read his high courage in his bearing, his good breeding in his debonair deportment, and his manly beauty in his extravagant red whiskers. Dick saw the effect that he produced. He was at home in a moment. Your true highwayman has ever a passion for effect. This does not desert him at the gallows. It rises superior to death itself, and has been known to influence the manner of his dangling from the gibbit. To hear someone cry, there goes a proper handsome man, saith our previously quoted authority, Jack Hall. Somewhat ameliorates the terrible thoughts of the meagre tyrant death, and to go in a dirty shirt where enough to save the hangman a labour, and make a man die with grief and shame at being in that deplorable condition. With gracious smile of condescension, like a popular orator, with a look of blarney like that of O'Connell, and of assurance like that of Hume, he surveyed the male portion of the spectators, tipped a knowing wink at the prettiest brunettes he could select, and finally cut a sort of fling with his well-booted legs that brought down another appeal of rapturous applause. E rank scamp! cried the upright man, and this exclamation, however equivocal it may sound, was intended on his part to be highly complementary. I believe ye! returned the ruffler, stroking his chin. One may see he's no half-swell by the care with which he cultivates the best gifts of nature, his whiskers. He's a rank nib. Togged out to the ruffian, no doubt, said the palliard. He was incomparably the shabbiest rascal in the corps. Though a needy misle of myself, I like to see a corvus velled dressed. Just twig his swell kicks his ant pipes. If they ain't the thing, I'm done. Lame larry can't dance no better he. No, no, jerry juniper neither. I'm dumbfounded, roared the dummara. If he can't pat a roman he as well as the best on us. He looks like a roman. And a roman, un he be, take my word for it! returned the whipjack, or sham sailor. Look at his rigging! See how he flashes his sticks. Those are the tools to rake a three-decker. He's as clever a craft as I've seen this many a day, or I'm no judge. The women were equally enchanted. Equally equivalent in the expression of their admiration. What ogles! cried a mort. What pins! said an autumn mort, or married woman. Sharp as needles! said a dark-eyed dell, who had encountered one of the three, and frolic some glances which are highwaymen distributed so liberally among the petticoats. It was at this crisis Dick took off his hat. Caesar betrayed his baldness. A thousand pities! cried the men, compassionating his thinly-covered skull, and twisting their own ringlets, glossy and luxuriant, though unconscious of macassur. A thousand pities that so fine a fellow should have a sconce like a coconut. But then his red whiskers rejoined the women, tired of the uniformity of thick black heads of hair, what a warmth of colouring they impart to his face, and then only to look how beautifully bushy they make his cheeks appear. Lafoschus and the court of the Queen of Navarre were not more smitten with the surdy choirs jelly-pair of whiskers. The hawk's eye of turpin ranged over the whole assemblage. Amidst that dark throng of dark faces there was not one familiar to him. Before him stood the upright man, Zoroaster, so was he called, a sturdy stalwart rogue whose superior strength and stature, as has not been unfrequently been the case, in the infancy of governments that have arisen to more importance than is likely to be the case, with that of lesser Egypt, had been the means of his elevation to his pregnant dignified position. Zoroaster literally fought his way upwards, and had at first to maintain his situation by the strong arm, but he now was unable to repose upon his hard-worn laurels, to smoke the calamet of peace and quaff his tipple with impunity. For one of gypsy blood he presented an unusually jovial, liquor-loving countenance. His eye was mirthful, his lip moist, as if from oft-potations, his cheek mellow as an Arlene's plum, which fruit in colour and texture it mightily resembled. Strange to say, also, for one of that lithe race, his person was heavy and heavy-tudinous. The consequence, no doubt, of habitual intemperance. Like Cribb he waxed obese upon the championship. There was a kind of mock state in his carriage as he placed himself before Turpin, and with his left hand twisted up the tail of his dressing gown, while the right thrust his truncheon into his hip, which was infinitely diverting to the highwaymen. Turpin's attention, however, was chiefly directed towards his neighbour, the Ruffler, in whom he recognised a famous imposter of the day, with whose history he was sufficiently well-acquainted to be able at once to identify the individual. We have before stated that a magnificent coal-black beard decorated the chin of this worthy, but this was not all. His costume was in perfect keeping with his beard, and consisted of a very theatrical-looking tunic, upon the breast of which was embroidered in golden wire, the Maltese Cross, while over his shoulders were thrown the folds of an ample cloak of Tyrian hue. To his side was Goet, a long and daughty sword, which he termed in his nightly phrase Excalibur, and upon his profuse hair rested a hat as broad in the brim as a Spanish sombrero. Exaggerated as this description may appear, we can assure our readers that it is not overdrawn, and that a counterpart of the sketch we have given of the Ruffler certainly strutted his hour upon the stage of human life, and that the very ancient and discriminating city of Canterbury, to which be all honour, was his theatre of action. His history is so far curious that it exemplifies more strongly than a thousand discourses could do how prone we are to be governed by appearances, and how easily we may be made the dupes of a plausible imposter. Be it remembered, however, that we treat of the 18th century before the March of Intellect had commenced, we are much too knowing to be similarly practised upon in these enlightened times. But we will let the Night of Malta, for such was the title assumed by the Ruffler, tell his own story in his own way hereafter, contenting ourselves with the moral precepts we have already deduced from it. Next to the Night of Malta stood the Whipjack, habited in his sailor gear, striped shirt, and dirty canvas trousers, and the joining him was the Palliard, a loathsome Tata demilion in his dress, one heap of rags, and his discoloured skin, one mass of artificial leprosy in impostumes. As Turpin's eyes shifted from one to another of these figures, he chanced upon an individual who had been long endeavouring to arrest his attention. This personage was completely in the background. All that Dick could discern of him was a brown, curly head of hair, carelessly arranged in the modern mode, a handsome, impudent, sun-freckled face with one eye closed, and the other occupied by a broken bottleneck, through which, as a substitute for a long yet, the individual reconnoitred him. A cocked hat was placed in a very degarde manner under his arm, and he held an ebony cane in his hand, very much in the style of a fashionable, as the French have it, of the present day. This glimpse was sufficient to satisfy Turpin. He recognised in this whimsical personage an acquaintance. Jerry Juniper was what the classical Captain Gross would designate a gentleman with three outs, and although he was not entirely without wit, nor his associates avouched without money, nor certainly in his own opinion had that been asked without manners, yet was he assuredly without shoes, without stockings, without shirt. This latter deficiency was made up by a voluminous cravat tied with proportionately large bows, a jaunty pair of yellow breeches somewhat faded, a waistcoat of silver brocade, richly embroidered, somewhat tarnished and lackluster, a murry-coloured velvet coat somewhat chafed, completed the costume of this beggar brummel, this mendicant macaroni. Jerry Juniper was a character well known at the time, as a constant frequenter of all races, fares, regalters, ship launches, bullbates, and prize fights, all of which he attended, and to which he transported himself with an expedition little less remarkable than that of Turpin. You met him at Epsom, at Ascot, at Newmarket, at Doncaster, at the Rode of Chester, at the Curra of Kildare, the most remote as well as the most adjacent meeting attracted him. The cockpit was his constant haunt, and in more senses than one was he a leg. No opera dancer could be more agile, more nimble, scarcely indeed more graceful than was Jerry with his shoeless and stockingless feet, and the manner in which he executed a pirouette or a par before a line of carriages seldom failed to procure him golden opinions from all sorts of dames. With the ladies, it must be owned, Jerry was rather upon two easy terms, but then perhaps the ladies were upon two easy terms with Jerry, and if a bright-eyed fair one condescended to jest with him, what marvel if he should sometimes slightly transgress the laws of decorum. These aberrations, however, were trifling. Altogether he was so well known, and knew everybody else so well, that he seldom committed himself, and, singular to say, could on occasions even be serious. In addition to his other faculties, no one cut a slide joke or trolled a merry ditty better than Jerry. His peculiarities, in short, were on the pleasant side, and he was a general favourite in consequence. No sooner did Jerry perceive that he was recognised than, after kissing his hand with the air of a petty mater to the highwayman, he strove to edge his way through the crowd. All his efforts were fruitless, and, tired of a situation in the rear rank so inconsistent he conceived with his own importance, he had recourse to an expedient often practised with success in Harley-Quinards, a knot unfrequently in real life where a flying leap is occasionally taken over our heads. He ran back a few yards to give himself an impetus, returned, and, placing his hands upon the shoulders of a stalwart vagabond near to him, threw a Somerset upon the broad cap of a palliard, who was so jammed in the midst that he could not have stirred to avoid the shock. Thence, without pausing, he vaulted forwards and dropped lightly upon the ground in front of Zoroasta, and immediately before the highwayman. Dick laughed immoderately at Jerry's manoeuvre. He shook his old chump cordially by the hand saying in a whisper, What the devil brings you here, Jerry? I might retort and ask you that question, Captain Turpin, replied Jerry, Soto Voce. It is odd to see me here, certainly, quite out of my element, lost among this canaili, this canting crew, all the fault of a pair of gypsy eyes, bright as a diamond, dark as a slow, you comprehend, a little afar, liable to these things. Bring your ear closer, my boy, be upon your guard, keep a sharp look out, there's a devil of a reward upon your head. I won't answer for all those rascals. Thank you for the hint, Jerry, replied Dick, in the same tone. I calculated my chances pretty nicely when I came here, but if I should perceive any symptoms of foul play, any attempt to snitch on nose amongst this pack of peddlers, I have a friend or two at hand who won't be silent upon the occasion, rest assured, I shall have my eye upon the gnarling scoundrels, I won't be sold for nothing. Trust you for that, returned Juniper with a wink. Stay, added he, a thought strikes me, I have a scheme in petto which may perhaps afford you some fun and will, at all events, ensure your safety during your stay. What is it? asked Dick. Just amuse yourself with a flirtation for a moment or two with that pretty damsel who has been casting her ogles at you for the last five minutes without success, while I affect a master stroke. And as Turpin, nothing loth, following his advice, Jerry addressed himself to Zoroasta. After a little conference accompanied by that worthy and the knight of Malta, the trio stepped forward from the line and approached Dick. When Juniper, assuming some such altitude as our admirable Jones the Comedian is want to display, delivered himself of the following address. Turpin listened with the gravity of one of the distinguished persons alluded to at the commencement of the present chapter, upon their receiving the freedom of the city at the hands of a mare and corporation. Thus spoke Jerry. Highest of the high tobymen, rummest of rum padders and most scampus of scampsmen. We, in the name of Barbara, our most tawny queen, in the name of Zoroasta, our upright man, Dimbodamba or Oli Campoli, by which titles his excellencies distinguished in our own respective names as highpads and lowpads, rumgills and queergills, patricles, palliards, priggers, whipjacks and jackman, from the arch rogue to the needy missler, fully sensible of the honor you have conferred upon us in gracing stop-hole abbey with your presence. And conceiving that we can in no way envince our sense of your condescension, so entirely as by offering you the freedom of our crew, together with the privileges of an upright man, which you may be aware are considerable, and by creating you an honorary member of the Vagrant Club, which we have recently established, and in doing so we would feign express the sentiments of gratification and pride which we experience in enrolling amongst our members, one who has extended the glory of roguery so widely over the land, and who was kicked up so much dust upon the highways of England, as most effectually to blind the natives, one who is in himself a legion, of highwaymen. Awaiting with respectful deference, the aquietans have Captain Richard Turpin. We beg to tender him the freedom of our crew. Really, gentlemen, said Turpin, who did not exactly see the drift of this harangue, you do me a vast deal of honor. I'm quite at a loss to conceive how I can possibly have merited so much attention at your hands, and indeed I feel myself so unworthy. Here Dick received an expressive wink from Juniper, and therefore thought it prudent to alter his expression. Could I suppose myself at all deserving of so much distinction? continued the modest speaker. I should at once accept your very obliging offer, but none so worthy, said the upright man. Can't hear of a refusal, said the night of Malta. Refusal, impossible, reiterated Juniper. No, no refusal, exclaimed the chorus of voices. Dick Turpin must be one of us, he shall be our dimba-damba. Well, gentlemen, since you are so pressing, replied Turpin, even so be it, I will be your dimba-damba. Bravo, bravo, cried the mob, not of gentleman. About it, pals, at once, said the night of Malta, flourishing Excalibur. By St. Thomas a Beckett, we'll have as fine a scene as I myself ever furnished to the Cantabriliages. About what, said Dick? Your matriculation, replied Jerry, there are certain forms to be gone through, with an oath to be taken, merely a trifle. We'll have a jelly booze when all's over, come bing-a-vast, my merry pals, to the green, to the green, a Turpin, a Turpin, a new brother, a Turpin, a Turpin, a new brother, echoed the crew. I've brought you through, said Jerry, taking an advantage of the up-brother tense shoe to whisper to his chum. None of them will dare to lift a finger against you now, they are all your friends, for life. Nevertheless, returned Turpin, I shall be glad to know what has become of best. If it is your prance that you are wanting, chirped a fluttering creature, whom Turpin recognised as Luke's groom, Grasshopper, I gave her a fresh loaf and a stoop of stingo as you bade me, and there she be, under yon tree, as quiet as a lamb. I see her, replied Turpin, just tighten her girth, Grasshopper, and bring her after me, and thou shalt have wherewithal to chirp over thy cups at supper. A way bounded the Elfin dwarf to execute his behest. A loud shout now rent the skies, and presently afterwards was heard the vile scraping of a fiddle, accompanied by the tattoo of a drum. Approaching Turpin, a host of gypsies elevated the highwaymen upon their shoulders, and in this way he was carried to the centre of the green, where the long oaken table, which had once served the Franciscans for refection, was now destined for the stage of the pageant. Upon this table three drums were placed, and Turpin was requested to seat himself on the central one. A solemn prelude, more unearthly than the incantation of the phrase Shutz, was played by the orchestra of the band, conducted by the Paganini of the place, who elicited the most marvellous notes from his shell. A couple of shawms emitted suporcral sounds, while the hollow rolling of a drum broke ever and unknown upon the ear. The effect was prodigiously fine. During this overture the patricot and the upright man had ascended the rostrum, each taking his place, the former on the right hand of Turpin, the latter upon his left. Below them stood the night of Malta, with Excalibur drawn in his hand, and gleaming in the sunshine. On the whole Dick was amused with what he saw, and with the novel situation in which he found himself placed. Around the table were congregated a compact mass of heads, so compact indeed that they looked like one creature, an argous, with each eye upturned upon the highwayman. The idea struck Turpin that the restless mass of party-coloured shreds and patches of vivid hues and varied tintings, singularly though accidentally disposed to produce such an effect resembled an immense tiger-moth, or might it be a turkey carpet spread out upon the grass? The scene was a joyous one. It was a brilliant sun-shiny morning, freshened and purified by the storm of the preceding night. The air breathed the balm upon the nerves and senses of the robber. The wooded hills were glittering in light. The brook was flowing swiftly past the edge of the verdant slope, glancing like a wreathe snake in the sunshine. Its quiet song, lost in the rude harmony of the mummers, as were the thousand twitterings of the rejoicing birds. The rocks bared their bosoms to the sun, or were buried in deep cast gloom. The shadows of the pillars and arches of the old walls of the priory were projected afar, while the rose-like ramifications of the magnificent marigold window were traced, as if by a pencil, upon the verdant tablet of the sod. The overture was finished. With the appearance of the principal figures in this strange picture the reader is already familiar, it remains only to give him some idea of the patricot. Imagine then, an old, superannuated goat. Reared upon its hind legs, and clad in a white sheet, disposed in folds like those of a simar about its limbs, and you will have some idea of Balthazar, the patricot. This resemblance to the animal before mentioned was rendered the more striking by his huge, hanging, goat-like underlip, his lengthy white beard, and the sort of cap covering his head, which was ornamented with a pair of horns, such as to be seen in Michelangelo's tremendous statue of Moses. Balthazar, besides being the patricot of the tribe, was its principal professor of divination, and had been the long-tried and faithful minister of Barbara Lovell, from whose secret instructions he was supposed to have derived much of his magical skill. Placing a pair of spectacles upon his, prognosticating nose, and unrolling a vellum skin upon which strange characters were written, Balthazar, turning to turpin, thus commenced in a solemn voice. Thou who wouldst our brother be. See how we shall enter thee. Name the name that thou wilt bear, ere our livery thou wear. I see no reason why I should alter my designation, replied the novitiate, but as popes change their titles on their creation, there can be no objection to a scampzman following so excellent an example. Let me be known as the Nighthawk. The Nighthawk, good, returned the hierophant. Proceeding to register the name upon the parchment, kneel down, continued he. After some hesitation, turpin complied. You must repeat the salamon or oath of acrid after my dictation, said the patricot, and turpin signifying his assent by a nod, Balthazar propounded the following abjuration. Oath of the canting crew. I, crank-cuffin, swear to be, true to this fraternity, that I will, in all obey, rule and order of the lay, never blow the gab boss squeak, never snitch to bum or beak, but religiously maintain authority of those who reign, overstop whole Abbey Green, be they Tawny King or Queen, in their cause alone will fight, think what they think wrong or right, serve them truly, and no other, and be faithful to my brother, suffer none from far or near with their rights to interfere, no strange abram, raffle a crack, hooker of another pack, rogue or rascal, freighter, marauder, Irish toil or other wonderer, no dimbodamba, angler, dancer, prigg of cackler, prigg of prancer, no swigman, swadler, clappadudgin, catchcloak, kirtle, or camudgin, no whipjack, palliard, patrico, no jackman, be he high or low, no dumarar, no romany, no member of the family, no ballad basket, bouncing buffer, nor any other will I suffer, but staff off now and forever, all outliers whatsoever, and as I keep to the foregone, so may help me salamon, so help me salamon, repeated Terpin with emphasis. Zoroasta, said the patrico to the upright man, do thy part of this ceremonial. Zoroasta obeyed, and taking Excalibur from the night of Malta, bestowed a hearty thwack with the blade upon the shoulders of the kneeling highwayman, assisting him afterwards to arise. The inauguration was complete. Well, exclaimed Dick, I'm glad it's all over, my leg feels a little stiffish, I'm not much given to kneeling, I must dance it off. Saying which, he began to shuffle upon the boards, I tell you what, continued he, most reverend patrico, that name Salmon of yours has accursed long tail, I could scarce swallow it all, and it's strange if it don't give me an indigestion, as to you sage Zori, from the dexterity with which you flourish your sword, I should say you had practised at court. His majesty could scarce do the better thing, when, slapping some fat old man upon the shoulder, he bids him arise Sir Richard, and now pals, added he, glancing around, as I'm one of you, let's have a boost together, ere I depart, for I don't think my stay will be long in the land of Egypt. This suggestion of Terpin was so entirely consonant to the wishes of the assemblage, that it met with universal approbation, and upon a sign from Zoroaster, some of his followers departed in search of supplies for the carousel. Zoroaster leapt from the table, and his example was followed by Terpin, and more leisurely by the patrico. It was rather early in the day for a drinking bout, but the canting crew were not remarkably particular, the chairs were removed, and the jingling of glasses announced the arrival of the preliminaries, the machutine symposium. Pools, canvas, and cords were next brought, and in almost a shorter space of time as one scene is substituted for another in a theatrical representation, a tent was erected. Benches, stools, and chairs appeared with equal celerity, and the interior soon presented an appearance like that of a booth at a fair. A keg of brandy was broached, and the health of the new brother quaffed in brimmers. Our highwayman returned thanks. Zoroaster was in the chair, the night of Malta acting as croupier. A second toast was proposed, the tawny queen. This was drunk with a like enthusiasm, and with a like allowance of the potent spirit, but as bumpers of brandy are not to be repeated with impunity, it became evident to the president of the board that he must not repeat his toasts quite so expeditiously. To create a temporary diversion, therefore, he called for a song. The dulcet tones of the fiddle now broke through the clamour, and, in answer to the call, Jerry Juniper volunteered the following. Jerry Juniper's chant. In a box of the stone jug I was born, of a hempen widow the kid fake away, and my father, as I've heard say, fake away, was a merchant of capers gay, who cut his last fling with great applause, nix my doll pals, fake away, who cut his last fling with great applause, to the tune of a hearty choke with caper sauce, fake away. He nooks and quads did my schoolmen play, fake away, and put me up to the time of day, until at last there was none so knowing, nix my doll pals, fake away. Until at last there was none so knowing, no such sneaksmen or buzzgloak going, fake away, foggles and fawnies soon went their way, fake away, to the spout with the sneezes in grand array. No dummy hunter had fox so fly, nix my doll pals, fake away, no dummy hunter had fox so fly, no nookler so deftly could fake a clay, fake away, no slowered hoax to my snipes could stay, fake away. Non-napper reader, like me in the lay, soon then I mounted in swell street high, nix my doll pals, fake away, soon then I mounted in swell street high, and sported my flashiest togery, fake away, firmly resolved I would make my hay, fake away, while mercury star shed a single ray, and ne'er was there seen such a dashing prigg, nix my doll pals, fake away, and ne'er was there seen such a dashing prigg, with my strumble faked in the newest twig, fake away, with my fawned fams and my onions gay, fake away, my thimble of ridge and my driss commisa, all my tocs were so nib-like and splash, nix my doll pals, fake away, and all my tocs were so nib-like and splash, readily the queer screens I then could mash, fake away, but by nuttiest blowing, one fine day, fake away, to the bleaks did her fancy man betray, and thus I was bowled out at last, nix my doll pals, fake away, and thus I was bowled out at last, and into the jug for a lag was cast, fake away, but I slipped my darbys one morning may, fake away, and gave to the dubsmen a holiday, and here I am pals, merry and free, a regular rollicking romany, nix my doll pals, fake away. Much laughter and applause rewarded Gerry's attempt to please, and though the meaning of his chant, even with the aid of the numerous notes appended to it, may not be quite obvious to our readers, we can assure them that it was perfectly intelligible to the canting crew. Gerry was now entitled to a call, and happening, at the moment, to meet the dark, fine eyes of a sentimental gypsy, one of that better class of mendicants who wandered about the country with a guitar at his back, his election fell upon him. The youth, without prelude, struck up a gypsy serenade. Merry maid, merry maid, wilt thou wander with me? We will roam through the forest, the meadow, and lee. We will haunt the sunny bowers, and when the day begins to flee, our couch shall be the ferny break, our canopy the tree. Merry maid, merry maid, come wonder with me, no life like the gypsy so joyous and free. Merry maid, merry maid, though a roving life be ours, we will laugh away the laughing and quickly fleeting hours. Our hearts are free, as is the free and open sky above, and we know what tamer souls know not how lovers ought to love. Merry maid, merry maid, come and wonder with me, no life like the gypsies so joyous and free. Zoroaster now removed the pipe from his upright lips to intimate his intention of proposing a toast. A universal knocking of knuckles by the knuckles was followed by a profound silence. The sage spoke. The city of Canterbury pals, said he, and made never want a night of malta. The toast was pledged with much laughter and in many bumpers. The night upon whom all eyes were turned rose with stately bearing and majestic motion to return thanks. I return you an infinitude of thanks, brother pals, said he, glancing around the assemblage and bowing to the president. Add to you most upright Zori for the honour you have done me in associating my name with that city. Believe me, I sincerely appreciate the compliment and echo the sentiment from the bottom of my soul. I trust it never will want a night of malta. In return for your consideration, but a poor one you will say, you shall have a ditty which I composed upon the occasion of my pilgrimage to that city and which I have thought proper to name after myself. The night of malta, a Canterbury tale. Come list to me and you shall have, without a hem or horses, a Canterbury pilgrimage much better than old Chaucer's. Tis of a hoax I once played off upon that city clever, the memory of which I hope will stick to it forever. With my cold black beard and purple cloak, jack boots and broad-brin caster, hey-ho for the night of malta. To execute my purpose in the first place you must know, sirs, my locks I let hang down my neck, my beard and whispers grossers. A purple cloak I next clapped on, a sword lagged to my side, sirs, and mounted on a charger black. I, too, the town did, right, sirs. With my cold black beard and purple cloak, jack boots and broad-brin caster, hey-ho for the night of malta. Two pages were there by my side, upon two little ponies, decked out in scarlet uniform, as spruce as macaroni's. Comparisoned my charger was, as grandly as his master, and all my long and curly locks, I wore a broad-brin caster. With my cold black beard and purple cloak, jack boots and broad-brin caster, hey-ho for the night of malta. The people all flocked forth, amazed to see a man so hairy. Oh, I such a sight had ne'er before seen in Canterbury. My flowing robe, my flowing beard, my horse with flowing mane, sirs. They stared, the days of chivalry they thought, were come again, sirs. With my cold black beard and purple cloak, jack boots and broad-brin caster, hey-ho for the night of malta. I told them a long rigmarole romance that did not halter. Jot that they beheld in me a real night of malta. Thomas Beckett had I sworn I was, that saint and martyr hallowed. I doubt not just as readily, the bait they would have swallowed. With my cold black beard and purple cloak, jack boots and broad-brin caster, hey-ho for the night of malta. I wrote about, and speachified, and everybody gullied, the tavern keepers dibbled, and the magistrisse bullied. Like puppets were the townsfolk led in that show they called a rary. The Gotham sages were a joke to those of Canterbury. With my cold black beard and purple cloak, jack boots and broad-brin caster, hey-ho for the night of malta. The theatre I next engaged, where I addressed the crowd, sirs. And on retrenchment and reform I spouted long and loud, sirs. On tides and on taxation I enlarge with skill and zeal, sirs. Why so ables a malta night, the malt tax to repeal, sirs. With my cold black beard and purple cloak, jack boots and broad-brin caster, hey-ho for the night of malta. As a candidate, I then stepped forth to represent their city. And my non-election to that place was certainly a pity. For surely I, the fittest was, and very proper, very, to represent the wisdom and the wit of Canterbury. With my cold black beard and purple cloak, jack boots and broad-brin caster, hey-ho for the night of malta. At the trial of some smugglers next, one thing I rather quaded, and the just it is upon the bench I literally bearded, for I swore that I some casks did see, though proved as clear as day, sirs, that I happened at the time to be some fifty miles away, sirs. With my cold black beard and purple cloak, jack boots and broad-brin caster, hey-ho for the night of malta. This last assertion, I must own, was somewhat of a blunder, and for perjureen dieted they compelled me to knock under. To my prosperous career this slight error puts a stop, sir. And thus crossed the night of malta was at length obliged to hop, sirs. With his cold black beard and purple cloak, jack boots and broad-brin caster, goodbye to the night of malta. The night sat down amidst the general plaudits of the company. The party, meanwhile, had been increased by the arrival of Luke and the sexton. The former, who was in no mood for revelry, refused to comply with his grand sire's solicitation to enter, and remained sullenly at the door with his arms folded and his eyes fixed upon Turpin, whose movements he commanded through the canvas aperture. The sexton walked up to Dick, who was seated at the post of honour, and, clapping him upon the shoulder, congratulated him upon the comfortable position in which he found him. Aha! Are you there, my old death's head, on a mopstick, said Turpin with a laugh, ain't we merry bumpers, eh, keeping it up in style? Sit down, old knower, make yourself comfortable, but use a limb. What say you to a drop of as fine nance as you ever tasted in your life, old cove? I have no sort of objection to it, returned Peter, provided you will all pledge my toast. That I will, were it all roughing himself, shouted Turpin. Here's to the three-legged mare, cried Peter, to the tree that bears fruit all the year round, and yet has neither back nor branch. You won't refuse that toast, Captain Turpin. Not I, answered Dick. I owe the gallows no grudge, if, as Jerry Long says, I must have a hearty choke and caper sauce for my breakfast, one of these fine mornings, it shall never be said that I fell to my meal without appetite, or neglected sane grace before it. Gentlemen, here's Peter Bradley's toast, the scragging post, the three-legged mare, with three times three. Appropriate as this sentiment was, it did not appear to be so inviting to the party as might have been anticipated, and the shout soon died away. They, like not the thoughts of the gallows, said Turpin to Peter, more feels they, a mere bunk bed to frighten children, believe me, and never yet alarmed a brave man. The gallows, one can but die once, and what signifies it how, so that it be over quickly. I think no more of the last leap into eternity than clearing a five-barred gate, a rope's end for it, so let us be merry and make most of our time, and that's true philosophy. I know you can throw off a rum chance, added he, turning to Peter. I heard you sing last night at the hall. Troll is a stave, my antediluvian file, and in the meantime, tick me a gauge of Fogus Jerry. And if that's a bowl of huckle my butt, you are brewing Sir William, added he, addressing the night of Malta, you may send me a jorum at your convenience. Jerry handed the highwayman a pipe, together with a tumble of the beverage which the night had prepared, which he pronounced excellent, and while the huge bowl was passed round to the company, a prelude of shawms announced that Peter was ready to break into a song. Accordingly, after the symphony was ended, accompanied at intervals by a single instrument, Peter began his melody in a key so high that the utmost exertions of the shornblower failed to approach its altitudes. The burden of his minstrelsy was the mandrake. The mandrake grows near the gallows tree, and rank and green are its leaves to see, green and rank as the grass that waves over the unctuous earth of graves, and though all around it lie bleak and bare, freely the mandrake flourisheth there. Maranatha, anathama, dread is the curse of Mandragora, euthanasie. At the foot of the jibbit, the mandrake springs, just where the creaking carcass swings. Some have thought it engendered from the fat that drops from the bones of the dead. Some have thought it a human thing, but this is a vain imagining. Maranatha, anathema, dread is the curse of Mandragora, euthanasie. A charnal leaf doth the mandrake wear, a charnal fruit doth the mandrake bear, yet none like the mandrake hath such great power, such virtue reside not in herb or flower. Akinite, hemlock, or moonshade I wean, none hath a poison so subtle and keen. Maranatha, anathema, dread is the curse of Mandragora, euthanasie. And whether the mandrake becreate, flesh with the power incorporate, I know not, yet if from the earth tis rent, shrieks and groans from the root are sent, shrieks and groans and the sweat like gore, oozes and drops from the clammy core. Maranatha, anathema, dread is the curse of Mandragora, euthanasie. Whoso gathereth the mandrake shall surely die, blood for blood is his destiny. Some who have plucked it have died with groans, like to the mandrake's expiring moans. Some have died raving and some beside with penitent prayers, but all have died. Jesu save us by night and day from the terrible death of Mandragora, euthanasie. A queer chant, that, said Zoroasta, coughing loudly in a token of disapprobation. Not much to my taste, quoth the night of Malta. We'd like something more sprightly in Canterbury. Not a mine, added Jerry. Don't think it's likely to have an on-core. Pan my soul, Dick, you must give us something yourself, or we shall never cry euthanasie at the triple tree. With all my heart, replied Terpin, you shall have, but what do I see? My friend Sir Luke, devils take my tongue. Luke, Bradley, I mean. What o' Luke, nay, nay, man, no shrinking. Stand forward. I have a word or two to say to you. We must have a hobbonob glass together for all the quaint and sake. Nay, no airs, man. Damn you're not a lord yet, nor a baronet either, though I do hold your tidal in my pocket. Never look glum at me, it won't pay. I'm one of the can-sing-drew now. No man shall sneer at me with impunity, eh, Zory? Here's a glass of nance. We'll have a bottle of black strap when you are master of your own. Make ready there, you gutscrapers, you shawms-shavers. I'll put your lungs in play for you presently. In the meantime, charge, pals, charge. A toast, a toast. Health and prosperity to Sir Luke Rookwood. I see you are surprised. This gemmon is Sir Luke Rookwood. Some while, Luke Bradley, heir to the house of that name, not ten miles distant from this, say, shall we not drink a bumper to his health? Astonishment prevailed amongst the crew. Luke himself had been taken by surprise. When Turpin discovered him at the door of the tent and summoned him to appear, he reluctantly complied with the request. But when, in half-bantering vain, Dick began to rally him upon his pretensions, he would most gladly have retreated had it been in his power. It was then too late. He felt he must stand the ordeal. Every eye was fixed upon him with a look of inquiry. Zoroaster took his everlasting pipe from his mouth. This ain't true, surely? asked the perplexed magus. He has said it, replied Luke. I may not deny it. This was sufficient. There was a wild hubbub of delight amongst the crew, for Luke was a favourite with all. Sir Luke Rookwood, cried Jerry Juniper, who liked a title as much as Tommy Morris said to dot upon a lord. Upon my soul I sincerely congratulate you, devilish fortunate fellow, always cursed and lucky myself. I can never find out my own father unless it were one maturede capriole, a French dancing master, and he never left anything behind him that I could hear of, except a broken kilt and a hempen widow. Sir Luke Rookwood, we shall do ourselves the pleasure of drinking your health and prosperity. Fresh bumpers and immense cheering. Silence being in a measure restored, Zoroaster claimed Turpin's promise of a song. True, true, replied Dick, I've not forgotten it. Stand to your bowers, my hearties. The game of high Toby. Now Oliver puts his black nightcap on, and every star in glim is hiding, and forth to the heath is the scampsman gone, his matchless cherry black prancer riding, merrily over the common he flies, fast and free is the rush of rocket, his crepe cupboard visar drawn over his eyes, his toll by his side and his pops in his pocket. Chorus. Then who came a name, so merry a game, as the game of all games, high Toby. The traveller hears him, away, away, over the wide, wide heath he scurries, he heads not the thunderbolt summons to stay, whatever the faster and faster he hurries, but what daisy cutter can match that black tit? He's caught, he must stand and deliver, then out with the dummy and off with the bit. Oh, the game of high Toby forever! Chorus. Then who can name, so merry a game, as the game of all games, high Toby. Believe me, there is not a game, my brave boys, to compare with the game of high Toby. No rapture can equal the Toby man's joys, to blue devils, blue plums give the go-by, and what if at length, boys, he comes to the crap. Even Rackpunch has some bitter in it. For the mare with three legs, boys, I care not to rap, to be over in less than a minute, Grand Chorus. Then hip hip hooray, fling care away, hurrah for the game of high Toby. And now pals, said Dick, who began to feel the influence of these mourning cups, I vote the weird journey. Believe me, I shall always bear in mind that I am a brother of your band, so Luke and I must have a little chat together ere I take my leave, adieu. And taking Luke by the arm, he walked out of the tent. Peter Bradley rose and followed them. At the door they found the dwarfish grasshopper with black bess, rewarding the urchin for his trouble, and slipping the bridal of his mare over his hand, turpin continued his walk over the green, for a few minutes he seemed to be lost in rumination. I tell you what, Sir Luke, said he, I should like to do a generous thing, and make you a present of this bit of paper. But, one ought not to throw away one's look, you know. There is a tide in the affairs of thieves, as the player coves say, which must be taken at the flood, or else, no matter. Your old dad's appears, God help him, have the gingerbread, that I know, he was, as we say, a regular rhino-cerical cull. You won't feel a few thousands, especially at starting, and besides, there are two others, Nustin Wilder, who row in this same boat with me, and must therefore come in for their share of the regulars. All this considered, you can't complain. I think, if I ask five thousand for it, that old Harriet and Lady Rookwood offered me nearly as much. I will not talk to you of fairness, said Luke. I will not say that document belongs of right to me. It fell by accident into your hands. Having possessed yourself of it, I blame you not that you dispose of it to the best advantage. I must, perforce, agree to your terms. Oh, no, replied Dick, it's quite optional. Lady Rookwood will give us much, and make no mouths about it. So, alas, what makes best precarious in that fashion? Carriage wheels in the distance. That jade knows the sound as well as I do. I'll just see what it's like. You will have ten minutes for reflection. Who knows if I may not have come in for a good thing here? At that instant, the carriage passed the angle of a rock some three hundred yards distant, and was seen slowly ascending the hillside, eager as a hawk after his quarry, turpin' dashed after it. In vain the sexton, whom he nearly overthrew in his career, called after him to halt, he sped like a bolt from the bow. May the devil break his neck! cried Peter, as he saw him dash through the brook. Could he not let them alone? This must not be, said Luke, know you whose carriage it is. It is a shrine that holds the jewel that should be dearest in your eyes, returned Peter, haste and arrest the spoilers' hand. Whom do you mean? asked Luke. Eleanor Mowbray, replied Peter. She's there, to the rescue, away. Eleanor Mowbray, replied Luke, and Sibyl. At this instant a pistol shot was heard. Will you let murder be done and upon your cousin? cried Peter, with a bitter look. You are not what I took you for! Luke answered not, but swift as the hound and freed from the leash, darted in the direction of the carriage. For more information, or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. This reading by Paul Curran. Rookwood, by William Harrison Ainsworth. Book 3, Chapter 6. Eleanor Mowbray Mishchiefs are like the visits of Franciscan friars. They never come to pray upon a single. Devil's Lawcase The course of our tale returns now to Eleanor Mowbray. After she had parted from Randolph Rookwood, and had watched him disappear beneath the arches of the church porch, her heart sank, and drawing herself back within the carriage, she became a prey to the most poignant affliction. In vain she endeavoured to shake off this feeling of desolation. It would not be. Despair had taken possession of her. The magic fabric of delight melted away, or only gleamed to tantalise at an unreachable distance. A presentiment that Randolph would never be hers had taken root in her imagination, and overshadowed all the rest. While Eleanor pursued this train of reflection, the time insensibly wore away until the sudden stoppage of the carriage aroused the party from their meditation. Major Mowbray perceived that the occasion of the halt was the rapid advance of a horseman, who was nearing them at full speed. The appearance of the rider was somewhat singular, and might have created some uneasiness as to the nature of his approach had not the Major immediately recognised a friend. He was, nevertheless, greatly surprised to see him, and turned to Mrs. Mowbray to inform her that Father Ambrose, to his infinite astonishment, was coming to meet them, and appeared from his manner to be the bearer of unwelcome tidings. Father Ambrose was, perhaps, the only being whom Eleanor disliked. She had felt an unaccountable antipathy towards him, which he could neither extirpate nor control, during their long and close intimacy. It may be necessary to mention that her religious culture had been in accordance with the tenets of the Romish Church, in whose faith, the faith of her ancestry, her mother had continued, and that Father Ambrose, with whom she had first become acquainted during the residence of the family near Bordeaux, was her ghostly advisor and confessor. An Englishman by birth, he had been appointed pastor to the diocese in which they dwelt, and was, consequently, a frequent visitor, almost a constant inmate of the chateau. Yet though duty and respect would have prompted her to regard the father with affection, Eleanor could never conquer the feelings of dislike, and distrust, which she had at first entertained towards him. A dislike which was increased by the strange control in which he seemed to hold her mother, who regarded him with a veneration approaching to infatuation. It was, therefore, with satisfaction that she bade him adieu. He had, however, followed his friends to England under a feigned name as, being a recusant Romish priest, and supposed to have been engaged in certain Jesuitical plots, his return to his own country was attended with considerable risk, and had now remained domesticated with them for some months. That he had been in some way, in early life, connected with a branch of the house of Rookwood, Eleanor was aware. She fancied he might have been engaged in political intrigue with Sir Reginald, which would have well accorded with his ardent, ambitious temperament. And the knowledge of this circumstance made her doubly apprehensive, lest the nature of his present communication should have reference to her lover, towards whose cause the father had never been favourable, and respecting whose situation he might have made some discovery, which she feared he might use to Rannel's disadvantage. Wrapped in a long black cloak, with a broad brimmed hat drawn closely over his brows, it was impossible to distinguish further of the priest's figure, and features beyond the circumstance of his height. Which was remarkable, until he had reached the carriage window when, raising his hat, he disclosed ahead that Tisha might have painted, and which, arising from the dark drapery, looked, not unlike the visage, of some grave and satinine venetian. There was a venerable expanse of forehead, thinly scattered with hair, towering over black penthouse-like brows, which, in their turn, shadowed keen penetrating eyes. The temples were hollow, the blue veins might be traced beneath the Salo's skin, the cheekbones were high, and there was something in the face that spoke of self-mortification. While the thin, livid lips, closely compressed, and the austere and sinister expression of his countenance, showed that his self-abasement, if he had ever practised it, had scarcely prostrated the demon of pride, whose dominion might still be traced in the lines and furrows of his haughty physiognomy. The father looked at Mrs. Mulberry, and then glanced suspiciously at Eleanor. The former appeared to understand him. You would say a word to me in private? said Mrs. Mulberry. Shall I descend? The priest bowed ascent. It is not to you alone that my mission extends? said he gravely. You are all, in part, concerned. Your son had better alight with you. Instantly replied the major, if you will give me your horse in charge to the postillion, we will attend you at once. With a feeling of renewed apprehension connected, she knew not why, with Randolph. Eleanor beheld her relatives descend from the carriage, and in the hope of gaining some clue from their gestures to the subject of the conversation, she watched their motions as narrowly as her situation permitted. From the earnest manner of the priest, and the interest his narratives seemed to excite in his hearers, it was evident that his communication was of importance. Presently, accompanied by Father Ambrose, Mrs. Mulberry returned to the carriage, while the major, mounting the priest's horse, after bidding a hasty adieu to his sister, adding with a look that belied the consolation intended to be conveyed by his words that all was well. But without saying to offer her any explanation of the cause of his sudden departure, rode back the way they had just traversed, and in the direction of Rookwood. Bereft of the only person to whom she could have applied for information, though dying with curiosity and anxiety to know the meaning of this singular interview, and the sudden change of plans which she felt so intimately concerned herself, Eleanor was constrained to preserve silence, as, after their entrance to the carriage, her mother again seemed lost in painful reflection, and heeded her not, and the father, drawing from his pocket a small volume, appeared intently occupied in its perusal. Dear mother, said Eleanor at length turning to Mrs. Mulberry. My brother is gone. To Rookwood, said Mrs. Mulberry, in a tone calculated to check further inquiry, but Eleanor was too anxious to notice it. And wherefore, mother, said she, may I not be informed? Not as yet, my child, not as yet, replied Mrs. Mulberry, you will learn all sufficiently early. The priest raised his cat-like eyes from the book to watch the effect of this speech, and dropped them instantly as Eleanor turned towards him. She had been about to appeal to him, but, having witnessed this look, she relinquished her scarce formed purpose, and endeavoured to divide her tristful thought by gazing through the glimmering medium of her tears upon the soothing aspect of external nature. That aspect which, in sunshine or in storm, has ever relief in store for a heart embittered by the stormy coldness of the world. The road, meanwhile, led them through a long woody veil, and was now climbing the sides of a steep hill. They were soon in the vicinity of the priory, and of the gypsy's encampment, the priest leaned forward, and whispered something in Mrs. Mulberry's ear, who looked towards the ruined shrine, part of the mouldering walls being visible from the road. At that moment, the clatter of a horse's hooves, and the sound of a loud voice commanding the pestilion in a menacing tone to stop, accompanied by a volley of implications, interrupted the conference, and bespoke the approach of an unwelcome intruder, and one whom all, too truly, feared would not be readily dismissed. The pestilion did his best to rid them of the assailant. Perceiving a masked horseman behind him, approaching at a furious rate, he had little doubt as to his intentions, and Turpin, for it was our highwayman, soon made his doubts certainties. He hurled him to stop, but the fellow paid no attention to his command, and disregarded even the pistol which he saw in a casual glimpse over his near side presented at his person. Clapping spurs into his horse's flanks, he sought succour in flight. Turpin was by his side in an instant, as the highwayman endeavoured to catch his reins, the lads suddenly wheeled the carriage right upon him, and but for the dexterity of Turpin and the clever conduct of his mare, would inevitably have crushed him against the roadside. As it was, his left leg was slightly grazed. Irritated at this, Turpin fired over the man's head, and with the butt end of the pistol felled him from his seat. Startled by the sound, and no longer under the governance of their rider, the horses rushed with frantic violence towards a ditch that bounded the other side of the highway, down which the carriage was precipitated, and at once overturned. Turpin's first act, after he had ascertained that no mischief had been occasioned to those within, beyond the alarm incident to the shock, was to compel the pestilion, who had by this time gained his legs to release the horses from their traces. This done, with the best grace he could assume, and adjusting his mask, he opened the carriage, and proceeded to liberate the captives. Beg pardon, ma'am, said he, as soon as he had released Mrs. Mowbray, excessively sorry upon my soul to have been the cause of so much unnecessary alarm to you, all the fault, I assure you, of that rascal of a pestilion. Had the fellow only pulled up when I commanded him, this botheration might have been avoided. You will remember that, when you pay him. All his fault, I assure you, ma'am. Receiving no reply, he proceeded to extricate Eleanor, with whose beauty the inflammable highwayman was instantly smitten. Leaving the father to shift for himself, he turned to address some observation of coarse gallantry to her, but she eluded his grasp, and flew to her mother's side. It is useless, sir, said Mrs. Mowbray, as Turpin drew near them, to effect ignorance of your intentions. You have already occasioned a serious alarm, much delay and inconvenience. I trust, therefore, that beyond our purses, to which those scantily supplied you our welcome, we shall sustain no molestation. You seem to have less of the ruffian about you than the rest of your lawless race, and are not, I should hope, destitute of common humanity. Common humanity, replied Turpin, bless you, ma'am, I am the most humane creature breathing, would not hurt a fly, much lesser lady, in civility was never laid to my charge. This business may be managed in a few seconds, and as soon as we have settled the matter, I'll lend your stupid jack by a hand to put the horses to the carriage again, and get the wheels out of the ditch. You have a banker, ma'am, I suppose, in town, perhaps in the country, but I don't like country bankers. Besides, I want a little ready cash in Rumville, beg pardon, ma'am, London, I mean. My ears have been so stunned with those of Romany patterers, I almost think in flash. Just draw me a cheque, I've penned an ink always ready, a cheque for fifty pounds, ma'am, only fifty. What's your banker's name? I've blank cheques all of the best houses in my pocket, and that, and a kiss from the pretty lips of that cherry-cheeked maid, winking to Eleanor, will fully content me. You see, you have neither an exorbitant nor uncivil personage to deal with. Eleanor shrank closer towards her mother, exhausted by previous agitation of the night, greatly frightened by the shock which she had just sustained, and still more alarmed by the words and gestures of the highwaymen, she felt that she was momentarily in danger of fainting, and with difficulty prevented herself from falling. The priest, who had succeeded in freeing himself from the carriage, now placed himself between Turpin and the ladies. Be satisfied, misguided man, said the father in a stern voice offering a purse, which Mrs. Mulberry hastily extended towards him, with the crime you have already committed, and seek not to peril your soul by deeper guilt. Be content with the plunder you now obtain, and depart. For by my holy calling I affirm to you that if you advance one footstep towards the further molestation of these ladies, it shall be at the hazard of your life. Bravo! exclaimed Turpin. Now this is what I like. Who would have thought that the old autumn baller had so much pluck in him? Sir, I commend you for your courage, but you are mistaken. I am the quietest man breathing, and never harm a human being. Improver which? Only look at your rascal of pastilian, whom any one of my friends would have sent post-haste to the devil for half the trouble he gave me. Easy as I am, I never choose to be balked in my humours. I must have the fifty and the bus, and then I am off as soon as you like, and I may as well have to kiss while the old lady signs the cheque, and then we shall have to seal as well as a signature. Popo, no nonsense, many a pretty lass has thought it an honour to be kissed by Turpin. Eleanor recoiled with deepest disgust, as she saw the highwayman thrust aside the useless opposition of the priest and approach her. He had removed his mask. His face, flushed with insolent triumph, was turned towards her. Despite the loathing which curdled the blood within her veins, she could not avert her eyes. He drew near her. She uttered a shrill scream. At that moment, a powerful grasp was laid upon Turpin's shoulder. He turned and beheld Luke. Save me, save me! cried Eleanor, addressing the newcomer. Damnation! said the highwayman. What has brought you here? One would think you were turned assistant to all distressed damsels. Quit your hold, or, by the God above us, you will repent it. Fool! exclaimed Luke. Talk thus to one who heeds you. And as he spoke, he hurled Turpin backwards with so much force that, staggering a few yards, the highwayman fell to the ground. The priest stood like one stunned with surprise at Luke's sudden appearance and subsequent daring action. Luke, meanwhile, approached Eleanor. He gazed upon her with curiosity mixed with admiration, for his heart told him she was very fair. A deathlike paleness had spread over her cheeks, yet still, despite the wands of colour, she looked exquisitely beautiful, and her large blue eyes eloquently thanked her deliverer for her rescue. The words she wanted were supplied by Mrs. Mulberry, who thanked him in appropriate terms. When they were interrupted by Turpin, who had by this time picked himself up and was drawing near them, his countenance wore a fierce expression. I tell you what, said he, Luke Bradley, or Luke Rookwood, or whatever else you may call yourself, you have taken a damned unfair advantage of me in this matter, and deserve nothing better at my hands than that I should call you to instant account for it, and curse me if I don't too. Luke Bradley, interrupted Mrs. Mulberry, are you that individual? I have been so called, madam, replied Luke. Father Ambrose, is this the person of whom you spoke, eagerly asked the lady. So I conclude, returned the priest evasively. Did he not call you Luke Rookwood, eagerly demanded Eleanor, is that also your name? Rookwood is my name, fair cousin, replied Luke, if I may venture to call you so. And Ranoff Rookwood is my brother. I never heard he had a brother, rejoined Eleanor with some agitation. How can that be? I am his brother nevertheless, replied Luke moodily, his elder brother. Eleanor turned to her mother and the priest with a look of imploring anguish. She saw a confirmation of the truth of this statement in their glances. No contradiction was offered by either to his statement. Both indeed appeared in some mysterious manner prepared for it. This then was the dreaded secret. This was the cause of her brother's sudden departure. The truth flashed with lightning swiftness across her brain. Shagrind and mortified, Luke remarked that glance of inquiry. His pride was hurt at the preference thus naturally shown toward his brother. He had been struck, deeply struck with her beauty. He acknowledged the truth of Peter's words. Eleanor's loveliness was without parallel. He had seen naught so fair, and the instant he beheld her he felt that for her alone could he cancel his vows to sible. The spirit of rivalry and jealousy was instantly aroused by Eleanor's exclamations. His elder brother echoed Eleanor, dwelling upon his words and addressing Luke. Then you must be, but no, you are not. You cannot be. It is Ranoff's title. It is not yours. You are not. I am Sir Luke Rookwood, replied Luke proudly. Air the words were uttered, Eleanor had fainted. Assistances at hand, madame, if you will accept it and follow me, said Luke, raising the insensible girl in his arms, and bearing her down the hill towards the encampment, whether he was followed by Mrs. Mulberry and the priest, between whom, during the horrid dialogue we have detailed, very significant glances had been exchanged. Turpin, who was maybe supposed to have not been an incurious observer of the scene passing, burst into his usual loud laugh on seeing Luke bear away his lovely burden. Cousin, said he, so the wench is his cousin. Damn, I half-aspect he has fallen in love with his newfound cousin, and if so, Miss Sybil, or I'm mistaken, will look as yellow as a guinea if that little Spanish devil gets it into her pretty jealous fate that he is about to bring home a new mistress, we shall have a tragedy scene in the twinkling of a bedpost. However, I shan't lose sight of Sir Luke until I have settled my accounts with him. Hark he boy, continued he, addressing the Pastilian, remain where you are, you won't be wanted yet a while, I imagine, there's a guinea for you, to drink Dick Turpin's health, upon which he mounted his mare and walked her easily down the hill. And so that be Dick Turpin, folks talk so much about, soliloquy's the lad, looking curiously after him, well, is as Sybil speaking a chap as needs be, blow my boots if he ain't! And if I had a notion it were he, I'd have pulled up up first call without more ado. Nothing like experience, I shall know better another time, had he he, pocketing the ducheur. Rushing swiftly down the hill, Luke tarried at the river's brink, to sprinkle some of the cool elements upon the pale brow of Eleanor, as he beheld her in his arms, thoughts which he feign would have stifled in their birth took possession of his heart. Would she were mine, murmured he, yet no, the wish is unworthy, but that wish returned unbidden. Eleanor opened her eyes, she was still too weak to walk without support, and Luke, raising her once more in his arms and motioning Mrs. Mulbray to follow, crossed the brook by means of stepping stones, and conducted his charge along a bypass towards the priory, so as to avoid meeting with the crew assembled upon the green. They had gained one of the ruthless halls when he encountered Balthazar. Astonished at the sight of the party, the patrico was about to address the priest as an acquaintance, when his more orthodox brother raised his finger to his lips in token of caution. The action passed unobserved. Highly to Sibyl, said Luke to the patrico, bid her haste hither, say that this maiden, that Miss Mulbray is here, and requires her aid, fly, I will bear her to the refectory. As Balthazar passed the priest, he pointed with a significant glance towards a chasm in the wall, which seemed to be an opening to some subterraneous chamber. The father again made a gesture of silence, and Balthazar hastened upon his mission. Luke led them to the refectory. He brought a chair for Eleanor's support, but so far from reviving, after such attention as could be afforded her, she appeared to become weaker. He was about to issue forth in search of Sibyl, when to his surprise he found the door fastened. You cannot pass this way, said a voice, which Luke instantly recognises that of the knight of Malta. Not pass, echoed Luke. What does this mean? Our orders are from the queen. Returned the knight. At this instant, the low tone of a muffled bell was heard. Ha! exclaimed Luke. Some danger is at hand. His heart smote him as he thought of Sibyl, and he looked anxiously towards Eleanor. Balthazar rushed into the room. Where is Sibyl? cried Luke. Will she not come? She will be here and none, answered the patrico. I will seek her myself then, said Luke. The door by which you entered is free. It is not free, replied Balthazar. Remain where you are. Who will prevent my going forth? demanded Luke sternly. I will, said Barbara Lovell, as she suddenly appeared in the doorway. You stir not, accepting of my pleasure. Where is the maiden? Continued she, looking around with a grim smile of satisfaction at the consternation produced by her appearance. Ha! I see, she faints. Here is a cardial achal reviver. Mrs. Mulberry, you are welcome to the gypsy's dwelling. You and your daughter. And you, Sir Luke Rookwood, I congratulate you upon your accession of dignity. Turning to the priest, who was evidently overwhelmed with confusion, she exclaimed, And you too, Sir, think you I recognize you not. We have met ere this, at Rookwood. No you not, Barbara Lovell. Ha! It is long since my poor dwelling has been so highly honoured. But I must not delay the remedy. Let her drink of this, said she, handing a file to Mrs. Mulberry. It will instantly restore her. It is poison, cried Luke. She shall not drink it. Poison! reiterated Barbara. Behold! And she drank of the liquid. I would not poison your bride. I did she, returning to Luke. My bride! echoed Luke. I, your bride! Repeated Barbara. Luke recoiled in amazement. Mrs. Mulberry almost felt inclined to believe she was a dreamer, so visionary did the whole scene appear. A dense crowd of witnesses stood at the entrance. Foremost amongst them was the sexton. Suddenly a shriek was heard, and the crowd opening to allow her passage, Sibyl rushed forward. End of Chapter 6, Book 3. Chapter 7, Book 3 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 3, Chapter 7, Mrs. Mulberry. Well, go thy ways, old Nick Machiavell. There will never be the peer of thee for wholesome policy and good counsel. Thou tookst pains to chalk men out the dark paths and hidden plots of murder and deceit. And no man has the grace to follow thee. The age is unthankful. Thy principles are quite forsaken and worn out of memory. Shackley, Marmions, Antiquary. Sibyl's sudden entrance filled the group that surrounded Mrs. Mulberry with new dismay, but she saw them not. Her soul seemed riveted by Eleanor, towards whom she rushed, and while her eye wandered over her beauty, she raised the braided hair from her brow, revealing the clear polished forehead. Wonder, awe, devotion, pity usurped the place of hatred. The first expression that had lit up her dark arms was succeeded by tender commiseration. She looked an imploring appeal at Barbara. Aye, aye, returned the old gypsy, extending at the same time the file. I understand. Here is that will bring the blood once more into her pallid cheeks, and kindle the fire within her eyes. Give her of this. The effect of the potion was almost instantaneous, amply attesting Barbara's skill in its concoction. Stifled respiration first proclaimed Eleanor's recovery. She opened her large and languid eyes. Her bosom heaved almost to bursting. Her pulses throbbed quickly and feverishly, and as the stimulant operated, the wild lustre of excitement blazed in her eyes. Sibyl took her hand to chafe it, the eyes of the two maidens met. They gazed upon each other steadfastly and in silence. Eleanor knew not whom she regarded, but she could not mistake that look of sympathy. She could not mistake the tremulous pressure of her hand. She felt the silent, trickling tears. She returned the sympathising glance, and gazed with equal wonder upon the ministering fairy, for such she almost seemed that knelt before her. As her looks wandered from the kindly glance of Sibyl to the withered and inauspicious aspect of the gypsy queen, and shifted thence to the dusty figures of her attendants, filled with renewed apprehension, she exclaimed, Who are these, and where am I? You are in safety, replied Luke. This is the ruined priory of St Francis, and those strange personages are a horde of gypsies. You need fear no injury from them. My deliverer, murmured Eleanor, when all at once the recollection that he had avowed himself of Rookwood, and the elder brother of Randolph flashed across her memory. Gypsies, did you not say these people were gypsies? Your own attire is the same as theirs. You are not, cannot be, the brother of Randolph. I do not boast the same mother, returned Luke proudly, but my father was, so peers Rookwood, and I am his elder-born. He turned away, dark thoughts swept across his brain, maddened by the beauty of Eleanor, stung by her slights, and insensible to the silent agony of Sybil, who sought in vain to catch his eye, he thought of nothing but of revenge, and the accomplishment of his purposes. All within was a wild and fearful turmoil. His better principles were stifled by the promptings of evil. Me thinks, cried he, half aloud, if the tempter were near to offer the raiden to me, even at the peril of my soul's welfare. I could not resist it. The tempter was at hand. He seldom absent on occasions like the present. The sexton stood beside his grandson. Luke started. He eyed Peter from head to foot, almost expecting to find the cloven foot, supposed to be proper to the fiend. Peter grinned in ghastly derision. So you would summon hell to your aid. Hello, the devil is at your elbow. Well, she is yours. Make good your words, cried Luke, impatiently. Softly, softly, returned Peter, moderate yourself, and your wishes shall be accomplished. Your own desires chime with those of others. Nay, with those of Barbara, she would wed you to Miss Mulberry. You stare. But it is so. This is a cover for some deeper plot. No matter. It shall go hard, despite her cunning. If I file her not at her own weapons, there is more mischief in that old woman's brain than was ever hatched within the crocodile's egg. Yet she shall find her match. Do not thwart her. Leave all to me. She's about it now. Added he, noticing Barbara and Miss Mulberry in conference together. Be patient. I will watch her. And he quitted his grandson for the purpose of scanning more closely the maneuvers of the old gypsy. Barbara, meanwhile, had not remained inactive. You need finori laps in your daughter. I will answer for that. Said the old gypsy to Miss Mulberry. Sibil will tend her. Quit not the maiden's side. Continued she, addressing her grandchild, adding in a whisper. Be cautious. Alarm her not. Mine eye will be upon you. Drop not a word. So saying, she shuffled to a little distance with Miss Mulberry, keeping Sibil in view and watching every motion as the panther watches the gambles of a fawn. Know you who speaks to you, said the old crone, in the peculiar low and confidential tone assumed by her tribe to strangers. Have you forgotten the name of Barbara Lovell? I have no distinct remembrance of it, returned Miss Mulberry. Think again, said Barbara. And though years have flown, you may perchance recall the black gypsy woman who, when you were surrounded with gay gallants, with dancing plumes, perused your palm and whispered in your ear the favoured suitor's name, bide with me a moment, madam. Said Barbara, seeing that Miss Mulberry shrank from the recollection thus conjured up. I am old, very old. I have survived the shores of flattery, and being vested with a power over my people, I am apt for chance to take too much upon myself with others. The old gypsy paused here, and then, assuming a more familiar tone exclaimed, the estates of Rookwood are ample. Woman, what mean you? They should have been yours, lady, and would have been, but for that marriage. You would have besiemed them bravely. Sir Reginald was willful, and erased a daughter's name to substitute that of his son. Bide it is that so fair a creature as Miss Mulberry should lack the dower her beauty on her birth and title her to expect. Pity that Ranoff Rookwood should lose his title at the moment when he deemed it was dropping into his possession. Pity that those broad lands should pass away from you and your children, as they will do if Ranoff and Eleanor are united. They shall never be united, replied Miss Mulberry hastily. To her indeed to wed your child to beggary, said Barbara. Mrs. Mulberry sighed deeply. There is a way, continued the old crone in a deep whisper, by which the estates might still be hers and yours. Indeed, said Mrs. Mulberry eagerly, Sir Piers Rookwood had two sons. Ha! The elder is here. Luke, Sir Luke, he brought us hither. He loves your daughter. I saw his gaze of passion just now. I am old now, but I have some skill in lover's glances. Why not wed her to him? I read hands, read hearts, you know. They were born for each other. Now madam, do you understand me? But returned Mrs. Mulberry with hesitation. Though I might wish for, though I might sanction this, Eleanor is betrothed to Ranoff. She loves him. Think not of her, if you are satisfied. She cannot judge so well for herself as you can for her. She is a child and knows not what she loves. Her affection will soon be Luke's. He is a noble youth, the image of his grandfather, your father, Sir Reginald. And if your daughter be betrothed to anyone, it was to the heir of the Rockwood. That was an essential part of the contract. Why should the marriage not take place at once, and here? Here? How were that possible? You are within sacred walls. I will take you where an altar stands. There is no lack of holy priests to join their hands together. Your companion, Father Ambrose as you call him, will do the office fittingly. He has essayed his clarkly skill already on others of your house. To what do you allude, mysterious woman? Asked Mrs. Mowbray with anxiety. To Sir Piers and Susan Bradley, returned Barbara. That priest united them. Indeed, he never told me this. He dared not do so. He had an oath which bound him to concealment. The time is coming when greater mysteries will be revealed. To strange I should not have heard of this before, said Mrs. Mowbray musingly, and yet I might have guessed as much from his obscure hints respecting Ranulf. I see it all now. I see the gulf into which I might have been plunged, but I am warned in time. Father Ambrose continued she to the priest. He was pacing the chamber at some little distance from them. Is it true that my brother was wedded by you to Susan Bradley? Air the priest could reply the sexton presented himself. Ha! The very father of the girl, said Mrs. Mowbray, whom I met within our family vault, and who was so strangely moved when I spoke to him of Alan Rookwood. Is he here likewise? Alan Rookwood echoed Barbara, upon whom a light seemed suddenly to break. Ha! What said he of him? Ill-boding raven, interposed Peter fiercely. Be content with what thou knowest of the living, and trouble not the repose of the dead. Let them rest in their infamy. The dead echoed Barbara with a chuckling laugh. Ha! Ha! He is dead then, and what became of his fair wife, his brother's minion, towards a foul deed I glanked, and yet there was expiation. Blood flowed, blood silenced down night hag. Thundered Peter. Or I will have three burned at the stake for the sorcery thou practicest. Beware, I did he, in a deep tone. I am thy friend. Barbara's withered countenance exhibited for an instant the deepest indignation at the sexton's threat. The malediction trembled on her tongue. She raised her staff to smite him, but she checked the action. In the same tone, and with a sharp, suspicious look, she replied, My friend sayest thou, see that it proves so, or beware of me. And with a malignant scowl, the gypsy queen slowly shuffled towards her satellites, who were stationed at the door. End of Chapter 7, Book 3. Chapter 8, Book 3 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 3, Chapter 8, The Parting. No marriage I esteem it, where the friends force love upon their children, where the virgin is not so truly given as betrayed. I would not have betrothed people, for I can by no means call them lovers, make their rights no wedlock, but a sacrifice. Combat of Love and Friendship. Eleanor Moebray had witnessed her mother's withdrawal from her side with much uneasiness, and was with difficulty prevented by Sybil from breaking upon her conference with the gypsy queen. Barbara's dark eye was fixed upon them during the whole of the interview, and communicated an indefinite sense of dread to Eleanor. Who? Who is that old woman? asked Eleanor under her breath. Never. Even in my wildest dreams have I seen ought so terrible. Why does she look so at us? She terrifies me, and yet she cannot mean me ill. Or my mother. We have never injured her. Alas, sighed Sybil. You sigh? exclaimed Eleanor in alarm. Is there any real danger then? Helps to avoid it. Quick! While my mother, she seems agitated. Oh, let me go to her. Hush! whispered Sybil, maintaining an unmoved demeanour under the lynx-like gaze of Barbara. Stir not, as you value your life. You know not where you are, or what may be for you. Your safety depends upon your composure. Your life is not in danger, but what is dearer than life. Your love is threatened with a fatal blow. There is a dark design to wed you to another. Heavens! ejaculated Eleanor. And to whom? To Sir Luke Rockwood. I would die sooner. Marry him. They shall kill me ere they force me to it. Could you not love him? Love him? I have only seen him within this hour. I knew not of his existence. He rescued me from peril. I would thank him. I would love him, if I could for run of sake. And yet for run of sake, I hate him. Speak not of him thus to me, said Sybil angrily. If you love him not, I love him. Oh, forgive me, lady. Pardon my impatience. My heart is breaking, yet it has not ceased to beat for him. You say you will die sooner than consent to this forced union. Your faith shall not be so cruelly attested. If there must be a victim, I will be the sacrifice. God grant I may be the only one. Be happy, as happy as I am wretched. You shall see what the love of a gypsy can do. As she spoke, Sybil burst into a flood of passionate tears. Eleanor regarded her with the deepest commiseration, but the feeling was transient, for Barbara, now advancing, exclaimed, hence to your mother, the bridegroom is waiting to your mother, girl. And she motioned Eleanor fiercely away. What means this? continued the old gypsy. What have you said to that girl? Did I not caution you against speech with her? And you have dared to disobey me? You, my grandchild, the daughter of my Agatha, with whom my slightest wish was law. I abandon you. I curse you. Oh, curse me not, cried Sybil, and not to my despair. Then follow my advice implicitly, cast off this weakness. All is in readiness. Luke shall descend into the vaulted chapel. The ceremony shall there take place. There also shall Eleanor die. And there again shall you be wedded. Take this file. Place it within the folds of your girdle. When all is over, I will tell you how to use it. Are you prepared? Shall we set out? I am prepared, replied Sybil. In accents, hollowers despair. But let me speak with Luke before I go. Be brief, then. Each moment is precious. Keep a guard up on your tongue. I will to Mrs. Mowbray. You have placed the file in safety. A drop will free you from your troubles. This in that hope, I guard it, replied Sybil, as she departed in the direction of Luke. Barbara watched her join him, and then turned shortly towards Mrs. Mowbray and her daughter. You are ill, dear Luke, said Sybil, who had silently approached her faithless lover. Very ill. Ill? echoed Luke, breaking into frantic laughter. Ill? upon my wedding day? No, I am well. Well, your eyes are jaundiced by jealousy. Luke, dear Luke, laugh not thus it terrifies me. I shall think you insane. There, you are calmer. You are more like yourself, more human. You look just now. Oh, God, that I should say it of you, as if you were possessed by demons. And if I were possessed, what then? Horrible, hint not at it. You almost make me credit the dreadful tales I have heard, that on their wedding day, the Rookwoods are subject to the power of the evil one. Upon their wedding day, and I, look thus, you do, you do, cast this frenzy from you. She is mine. She's mine. I cannot, though, fiends possess me, if it is my wedding day, and Eleanor is my bride. And you say I look like a Rookwood. That wild laughter again, Luke. I implore you. Hear me one word, my last. I will not bear reproaches. I mean not to reproach you. I come to bless you, to forgive you, to bid you farewell. Will you not say farewell? Farewell. Not so. Not so. Mercy, my God. Compassionate him and me. My heart will break with agony. Luke, if you would not kill me, recall that word. Let not the guilt of my death be yours. It is to save you from that remorse that I die. Sybil, you have said rightly, I'm not myself. I know not what demons have possession of my soul that I can behold your agonies without remorse, that your matchless affection should awaken no return. Yet it is so, since the fatal moment when I beheld Yon maid, I have loved her. No more. Now I can part with you. Farewell. Stay. Stay, wretch that I am. Stay, Sybil. If we must part, and that it must be so, I feel, let me receive your pardon. If you can bestow it, let me clasp you once more within my arms. May you live to happier days. May you, oh, to die thus. Subt, Sybil, disengaging herself from his embrace. Live to happier days, said you. When have I given you reason to doubt for an instant the sincerity of my love, that you should insult me thus? Then live with me. Live for me. If you can love me still, I will live as your slave, your minion, your wife. Orch you will have me be. You have raised me from wretchedness. Continued she in an altered tone. Have I mistaken your meaning? Did you utter those words in false compassion for my sufferings? Speak, it is not yet too late. Oh, maybe well. My fate, my life is in your hands. If you love me yet, if you can forsake Eleanor, speak. If not, be silent. Luke averted his head. Enough, continued Sybil, in a voice of agony. I understand. May God forgive you. Fare you well. We shall meet no more. Do we part forever? Asked Luke, without daring to regard her. Forever, answered Sybil. Before her lover could reply, she shot from his side, and plunging amidst the dark and dense assemblage near the door, disappeared from view. An instant after, she emerged into the open air. She stood within the roofless hall. It was filled with sunshine, with the fresh breath of mourn. The ivy ruins, the grassy floor, the blue vault of heaven, seemed to greet her with a benignant smile. All was re-aunt and rejoicing. All save her heart. Amidst such brightness, her sorrow seemed harsh and unnatural. As she felt the glad influence of day, she was scarcely able to refrain from tears. It was terrible to leave this beautiful world, that blue sky, that sunshine, and all she loved, so young, so soon. Entering a low arch that yawned within the wall, she vanished like a ghost at the approach of mourn. End of chapter 8, book 3.