The Works of William Harrison Ainsworth

by William Harrison Ainsworth

  “Thereabouts,” said Jack, bluffly. “But what has my age to do with that of Turpin?”

  “Nothing — nothing at all,” answered Coates; “suffer me, however, to proceed:— ‘Is by trade a butcher,’ — you, sir, I believe, never had any dealings in that line?”

  “I have some notion how to dispose of a troublesome calf,” returned Jack. “But Turpin, though described as a butcher, is, I understand, a lineal descendant of a great French archbishop of the same name.”

  “Who wrote the chronicles of that royal robber Charlemagne; I know him,” replied Coates— “a terrible liar! — The modern Turpin ‘is about five feet nine inches high’ — exactly your height, sir — exactly!”

  “I am five feet ten,” answered Jack, standing bolt upright.

  “You have an inch, then, in your favor,” returned the unperturbed attorney, deliberately proceeding with his examination—”’he has a brown complexion, marked with the smallpox.’”

  “My complexion is florid — my face without a seam,” quoth Jack.

  “Those whiskers would conceal anything,” replied Coates, with a grin. “Nobody wears whiskers nowadays, except a highwayman.”

  “Sir!” said Jack, sternly. “You are personal.”

  “I don’t mean to be so,” replied Coates; “but you must allow the description tallies with your own in a remarkable manner. Hear me out, however— ‘his cheek bones are broad — his face is thinner towards the bottom — his visage short — pretty upright — and broad about the shoulders.’ Now I appeal to Mr. Tyrconnel if all this does not sound like a portrait of yourself.”

  “Don’t appeal to me,” said Titus, hastily, “upon such a delicate point. I can’t say that I approve of a gentleman being likened to a highwayman. But if ever there was a highwayman I’d wish to resemble, it’s either Redmond O’Hanlon or Richard Turpin; and may the devil burn me if I know which of the two is the greater rascal!”

  “Well, Mr. Palmer,” said Coates, “I repeat, I mean no offence. Likenesses are unaccountable. I am said to be like my Lord North; whether I am or not, the Lord knows. But if ever I meet with Turpin I shall bear you in mind — he — he! Ah! if ever I should have the good luck to stumble upon him, I’ve a plan for his capture which couldn’t fail. Only let me get a glimpse of him, that’s all. You shall see how I’ll dispose of him.”

  “Well, sir, we shall see,” observed Palmer. “And for your own sake, I wish you may never be nearer to him than you are at this moment. With his friends, they say Dick Turpin can be as gentle as a lamb; with his foes, especially with a limb of the law like yourself, he’s been found but an ugly customer. I once saw him at Newmarket, where he was collared by two constable culls, one on each side. Shaking off one, and dealing the other a blow in the face with his heavy-handled whip, he stuck spurs into his mare, and though the whole field gave chase, he distanced them all, easily.”

  “And how came you not to try your pace with him, if you were there, as you boasted a short time ago?” asked Coates.

  “So I did, and stuck closer to him than any one else. We were neck and neck. I was the only person who could have delivered him to the hands of justice, if I’d felt inclined.”

  “Zounds!” cried Coates; “If I had a similar opportunity, it should be neck or nothing. Either he or I should reach the scragging-post first. I’d take him, dead or alive.”

  “You take Turpin?” cried Jack, with a sneer.

  “I’d engage to do it,” replied Coates. “I’ll bet you a hundred guineas I take him, if I ever have the same chance.”

  “Done!” exclaimed Jack, rapping the table at the same time, so that the glasses danced upon it.

  “That’s right,” cried Titus. “I’ll go you halves.”

  “What’s the matter — what’s the matter?” exclaimed Small, awakened from his doze.

  “Only a trifling bet about a highwayman,” replied Titus.

  “A highwayman!” echoed Small. “Eh! what? there are none in the house, I hope.”

  “I hope not,” answered Coates. “But this gentleman has taken up the defence of the notorious Dick Turpin in so singular a manner, that — —”

  “Quod factu foedum est, idem est et Dictu Turpe,” returned Small. “The less said about that rascal the better.”

  “So I think,” replied Jack. “The fact is as you say, sir — were Dick here, he would, I am sure, take the freedom to hide ‘em.”

  Further discourse was cut short by the sudden opening of the door, followed by the abrupt entrance of a tall, slender young man, who hastily advanced towards the table, around which the company were seated. His appearance excited the utmost astonishment in the whole group: curiosity was exhibited in every countenance — the magnum remained poised midway in the hand of Palmer — Dr. Small scorched his thumb in the bowl of his pipe; and Mr. Coates was almost choked, by swallowing an inordinate whiff of vapor.

  “Young Sir Ranulph!” ejaculated he, as soon as the syncope would permit him.

  “Sir Ranulph here?” echoed Palmer, rising.

  “Angels and ministers!” exclaimed Small.

  “Odsbodikins!” cried Titus, with a theatrical start; “this is more than I expected.”

  “Gentlemen,” said Ranulph, “do not let my unexpected arrival here discompose you. Dr. Small, you will excuse the manner of my greeting; and you, Mr. Coates. One of the present party, I believe, was my father’s medical attendant, Dr. Tyrconnel.”

  “I had that honor,” replied the Irishman, bowing profoundly— “I am Dr. Tyrconnel, Sir Ranulph, at your service.”

  “When, and at what hour, did my father breathe his last, sir?” inquired Ranulph.

  “Poor Sir Piers,” answered Titus, again bowing, “departed this life on Thursday last.”

  “The hour? — the precise minute?” asked Ranulph, eagerly.

  “Troth, Sir Ranulph, as nearly as I can recollect, it might be a few minutes before midnight.”

  “The very hour!” exclaimed Ranulph, striding towards the window. His steps were arrested as his eye fell upon the attire of his father, which, as we have before noticed, hung at that end of the room. A slight shudder passed over his frame. There was a momentary pause, during which Ranulph continued gazing intently at the apparel. “The very dress, too!” muttered he; then turning to the assembly, who were watching his movements with surprise; “Doctor,” said he, addressing Small, “I have something for your private ear. Gentlemen, will you spare us the room for a few minutes?”

  “On my conscience,” said Tyrconnel to Jack Palmer, as they quitted the sanctum, “a mighty fine boy is this young Sir Ranulph! — and a chip of the ould block! — he’ll be as good a fellow as his father.”

  “No doubt,” replied Palmer, shutting the door. “But what the devil brought him back, just in the nick of it?”

  CHAPTER X. — RANULPH ROOKWOOD

  Fer. Yes, Francisco,

  He hath left his curse upon me.

  Fran. How?

  Fer. His curse I dost comprehend what that word carries?

  Shot from a father’s angry breath? Unless

  I tear poor Felisarda from my heart,

  He hath pronounced me heir to all his curses.

  Shirley: The Brothers.

  “THERE is nothing, I trust, my dear young friend, and quondam pupil,” said Dr. Small, as the door was closed, “that weighs upon your mind, beyond the sorrow naturally incident to an affliction, severe as the present. Forgive my apprehensions if I am wrong. You know the affectionate interest I have ever felt for you — an interest which, I assure you, is nowise diminished, and which will excuse my urging you to unburden your mind to me; assuring yourself, that whatever may be your disclosure, you will have my sincere sympathy and commiseration. I may be better able to advise with you, should counsel be necessary, than others, from my knowledge of your character and temperament. I would not anticipate evil, and am, perhaps, unnecessarily apprehensive. But I own, I am startled at the incoherence of your expressions,
coupled with your sudden and almost mysterious appearance at this distressing conjuncture. Answer me: has your return been the result of mere accident? is it to be considered one of those singular circumstances which almost look like fate, and baffle our comprehension? or were you nearer home than we expected, and received the news of your father’s demise through some channel unknown to us? Satisfy my curiosity, I beg of you, upon this point.”

  “Your curiosity, my dear sir,” replied Ranulph, gravely and sadly, “will not be decreased, when I tell you, that my return has neither been the work of chance, — for I came, fully anticipating the dread event, which I find realized, — nor has it been occasioned by any intelligence derived from yourself, or others. It was only, indeed, upon my arrival here that I received full confirmation of my apprehensions. I had another, a more terrible summons to return.”

  “What summons? you perplex me!” exclaimed Small, gazing with some misgiving into the face of his young friend.

  “I am myself perplexed — sorely perplexed,” returned Ranulph. “I have much to relate; but I pray you bear with me to the end. I have that on my mind which, like guilt, must be revealed.”

  “Speak, then, fearlessly to me,” said Small, affectionately pressing Ranulph’s hand, “and assure yourself, beforehand, of my sympathy.”

  “It will be necessary,” said Ranulph, “to preface my narrative by some slight allusion to certain painful events — and yet I know not why I should call them painful, excepting in their consequences — which influenced my conduct in my final interview between my father and myself — an interview which occasioned my departure for the Continent — and which was of a character so dreadful, that I would not even revert to it, were it not a necessary preliminary to the circumstance I am about to detail.

  “When I left Oxford, I passed a few weeks alone, in London. A college friend, whom I accidentally met, introduced me, during a promenade in St. James’s Park, to some acquaintances of his own, who were taking an airing in the Mall at the same time — a family whose name was Mowbray, consisting of a widow lady, her son, and daughter. This introduction was made in compliance with my own request. I had been struck by the singular beauty of the younger lady, whose countenance had a peculiar and inexpressible charm to me, from its marked resemblance to the portrait of the Lady Eleanor Rookwood, whose charms and unhappy fate I have so often dwelt upon and deplored. The picture is there,” continued Ranulph, pointing to it: “look at it, and you have the fair creature I speak of before you; the color of the hair — the tenderness of the eyes. No — the expression is not so sad, except when —— but no matter! I recognized her features at once.

  “It struck me, that upon the mention of my name, the party betrayed some surprise, especially the elder lady. For my own part, I was so attracted by the beauty of the daughter, the effect of which upon me seemed rather the fulfilment of a predestined event, originating in the strange fascination which the family portrait had wrought in my heart, than the operation of what is called ‘love at first sight,’ that I was insensible to the agitation of the mother. In vain I endeavored to rally myself; my efforts at conversation were fruitless; I could not talk — all I could do was silently to yield to the soft witchery of those tender eyes; my admiration increasing each instant that I gazed upon them.

  “I accompanied them home. Attracted as by some irresistible spell, I could not tear myself away; so that, although I fancied I could perceive symptoms of displeasure in the looks of both the mother and the son, yet, regardless of consequences, I ventured, uninvited, to enter the house. In order to shake off the restraint which I felt my society imposed, I found it absolutely necessary to divest myself of bashfulness, and to exert such conversational powers as I possessed. I succeeded so well that the discourse soon became lively and animated; and what chiefly delighted me was, that she, for whose sake I had committed my present rudeness, became radiant with smiles. I had been all eagerness to seek for some explanation of the resemblance to which I have just alluded, and the fitting moment had, I conceived, arrived. I called attention to a peculiar expression in the features of Miss Mowbray, and then instanced the likeness that subsisted between her and my ancestress. ‘It is the more singular,’ I said, turning to her mother, ‘because there could have been no affinity, that I am aware of, between them, and yet the likeness is really surprising.’— ‘It is not so singular as you imagine,’ answered Mrs. Mowbray; ‘there is a close affinity. That Lady Rookwood was my mother. Eleanor Mowbray does resemble her ill-fated ancestress.’

  “Words cannot paint my astonishment. I gazed at Mrs. Mowbray, considering whether I had not misconstrued her speech — whether I had not so shaped the sounds as to suit my own quick and passionate conceptions. But no! I read in her calm, collected countenance — in the downcast glance, and sudden sadness of Eleanor, as well as in the changed and haughty demeanor of the brother, that I had heard her rightly. Eleanor Mowbray was my cousin — the descendant of that hapless creature whose image I had almost worshipped.

  “Recovering from my surprise, I addressed Mrs. Mowbray, endeavoring to excuse my ignorance of our relationship, on the plea that I had not been given to understand that such had been the name of the gentleman she had espoused. ‘Nor was it,’ answered she, ‘the name he bore at Rookwood; circumstances forbade it then. From the hour I quitted that house until this moment, excepting one interview with my — with Sir Reginald Rookwood — I have seen none of my family — have held no communication with them. My brothers have been strangers to me; the very name of Rookwood has been unheard, unknown; nor would you have been admitted here, had not accident occasioned it.’ I ventured now to interrupt her, and to express a hope that she would suffer an acquaintance to be kept up, which had so fortunately commenced, and which might most probably bring about an entire reconciliation between the families. I was so earnest in my expostulations, my whole soul being in them, that she inclined a more friendly ear to me. Eleanor, too, smiled encouragement. Love lent me eloquence; and at length, as a token of my success, and her own relenting, Mrs. Mowbray held forth her hand: I clasped it eagerly. It was the happiest moment of my life.

  “I will not trouble you with any lengthened description of Eleanor Mowbray. I hope, at some period or other, you may still be enabled to see her, and judge for yourself; for though adverse circumstances have hitherto conspired to separate us, the time for a renewal of our acquaintance is approaching, I trust, for I am not yet altogether without hope. But this much I may be allowed to say, that her rare endowments of person were only equalled by the graces of her mind.

  “Educated abroad, she had all the vivacity of our livelier neighbors, combined with every solid qualification which we claim as more essentially our own. Her light and frolic manner was French, certainly; but her gentle, sincere heart was as surely English. The foreign accent that dwelt upon her tongue communicated an inexpressible charm, even to the language which she spoke.

  “I will not dwell too long upon this theme. I feel ashamed of my own prolixity. And yet I am sure you will pardon it. Ah, those bright brief days! too quickly were they fled! I could expatiate upon each minute — recall each word — revive each look. It may not be. I must hasten on. Darker themes await me.

  “My love made rapid progress — I became each hour more enamored of my new-found cousin. My whole time was passed near her; indeed, I could scarcely exist in absence from her side. Short, however, was destined to be my indulgence in this blissful state. One happy week was its extent. I received a peremptory summons from my father to return home.

  “Immediately upon commencing this acquaintance, I had written to my father, explaining every particular attending it. This I should have done of my own free will, but I was urged to it by Mrs. Mowbray. Unaccustomed to disguise, I had expatiated upon the beauty of Eleanor, and in such terms, I fear, that I excited some uneasiness in his breast. His letter was laconic. He made no allusion to the subject upon which I had expatiated when writing to him. He commanded me to return.<
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  “The bitter hour was at hand. I could not hesitate to comply. Without my father’s sanction, I was assured Mrs. Mowbray would not permit any continuance of my acquaintance. Of Eleanor’s inclinations I fancied I had some assurance; but without her mother’s consent, to whose will she was devoted, I felt, had I even been inclined to urge it, that my suit was hopeless. The letter which I had received from my father made me more than doubt whether I should not find him utterly adverse to my wishes. Agonized, therefore, with a thousand apprehensions, I presented myself on the morning of my departure. It was then I made the declaration of my passion to Eleanor; it was then that every hope was confirmed, every apprehension realized. I received from her lips a confirmation of my fondest wishes; yet were those hopes blighted in the bud, when I heard, at the same time, that their consummation was dependent on the will of two others, whose assenting voices, she feared, could never be obtained. From Mrs. Mowbray I received a more decided reply. All her haughtiness was aroused. Her farewell words assured me, that it was indifferent to her whether we met again as relatives or as strangers. Then was it that the native tenderness of Eleanor displayed itself, in an outbreak of feeling peculiar to a heart keenly sympathetic as hers. She saw my suffering — the reserve natural to her sex gave way — she flung herself into my arms — and so we parted.

  “With a heavy foreboding I returned to Rookwood, and, oppressed with the gloomiest anticipations, endeavored to prepare myself for the worst. I arrived. My reception was such as I had calculated upon; and, to increase my distress, my parents had been at variance. I will not pain you and myself with any recital of their disagreement. My mother had espoused my cause, chiefly, I fear, with the view of thwarting my poor father’s inclinations. He was in a terrible mood, exasperated by the fiery stimulants he had swallowed, which had not indeed, drowned his reason, but roused and inflamed every dormant emotion to violence. He was as one insane. It was evening when I arrived. I would willingly have postponed the interview till the morrow. It could not be. He insisted upon seeing me.