The Works of William Harrison Ainsworth

by William Harrison Ainsworth

  ONE FOOT IN THE STIRRUP

  OR TURPIN’S FIRST FLING

  Cum esset proposita fuga Turpi(n)s. — Cicero.

  “One foot in the stirrup, one hand in the rein,

  And the noose be my portion, or freedom I’ll gain!

  Oh! give me a seat in my saddle once more,

  And these bloodhounds shall find that the chase is not o’er!”

  Thus muttered Dick Turpin, who found, while he slept,

  That the Philistines old on his slumbers had crept;

  Had entrapped him as puss on her form you’d ensnare,

  And that gone were his snappers — and gone was his mare.

  Hilloah!

  How Dick had been captured is readily told,

  The pursuit had been hot, though the night had been cold,

  So at daybreak, exhausted, he sought brief repose

  Mid the thick of a corn-field, away from his foes.

  But in vain was his caution — in vain did his steed,

  Ever watchful and wakeful in moments of need,

  With lip and with hoof on her master’s cheek press —

  He slept on, nor heeded the warning of Bess.

  Hilloah!

  “Zounds! gem’men!” cried Turpin, “you’ve found me at fault,

  And the highflying highwayman’s come to a halt;

  You have turned up a trump — for I weigh well my weight, —

  And the forty is yours, though the halter’s my fate.

  Well, come on’t what will, you shall own when all’s past,

  That Dick Turpin, the Dauntless, was game to the last.

  But, before we go further, I’ll hold you a bet,

  That one foot in my stirrup you won’t let me set.

  Hilloah!

  “A hundred to one is the odds I will stand,

  A hundred to one is the odds you command;

  Here’s a handful of goldfinches ready to fly!

  May I venture a foot in my stirrup to try?”

  As he carelessly spoke, Dick directed a glance

  At his courser, and motioned her slyly askance: —

  You might tell by the singular toss of her head,

  And the prick of her ears, that his meaning she read.

  Hilloah!

  With derision at first was Dick’s wager received,

  And his error at starting as yet unretrieved;

  But when from his pocket the shiners he drew,

  And offered to “make up the hundred to two,”

  There were havers in plenty, and each whispered each,

  The same thing, though varied in figure of speech,

  “Let the fool act his folly — the stirrup of Bess!

  He has put his foot in it already, we guess!”

  Hilloah!

  Bess was brought to her master — Dick steadfastly gazed

  At the eye of his mare, then his foot quick upraised;

  His toe touched the stirrup, his hand grasped the rein —

  He was safe on the back of his courser again!

  As the clarion, fray-sounding and shrill, was the neigh

  Of Black Bess, as she answered his cry “Hark-away!”

  “Beset me, ye bloodhounds! in rear and in van;

  My foot’s in the stirrup and catch me who can!”

  Hilloah!

  There was riding and gibing mid rabble and rout,

  And the old woods re-echoed the Philistines’ shout!

  There was hurling and whirling o’er brake and o’er brier,

  But the course of Dick Turpin was swift as Heaven’s fire.

  Whipping, spurring, and straining would nothing avail,

  Dick laughed at their curses, and scoffed at their wail;

  “My foot’s in the stirrup!” — thus rang his last cry;

  “Bess has answered my call; now her mettle we’ll try!”

  Hilloah!

  Uproarious applause followed Jack’s song, when the joviality of the mourners was interrupted by a summons to attend in the state-room. Silence was at once completely restored; and, in the best order they could assume, they followed their leader, Peter Bradley. Jack Palmer was amongst the last to enter, and remained a not incurious spectator of a by no means common scene.

  Preparations had been made to give due solemnity to the ceremonial. The leaden coffin was fastened down, and enclosed in an outer case of oak, upon the lid of which stood a richly-chased massive silver flagon, filled with burnt claret, called the grace-cup. All the lights were removed, save two lofty wax flambeaux, which were placed to the back, and threw a lurid glare upon the group immediately about the body, consisting of Ranulph Rookwood and some other friends of the deceased. Dr. Small stood in front of the bier; and, under the directions of Peter Bradley, the tenantry and household were formed into a wide half-moon across the chamber. There was a hush of expectation, as Dr. Small looked gravely round; and even Jack Palmer, who was as little likely as any man to yield to an impression of the kind, felt himself moved by the scene.

  The very orthodox Small, as is well known to our readers, held everything savoring of the superstitions of the Scarlet Woman in supreme abomination; and, entertaining such opinions, it can scarcely be supposed that a funeral oration would find much favor in his eyes, accompanied, as it was, with the accessories of censer, candle, and cup; all evidently derived from that period when, under the three-crowned pontiff’s sway, the shaven priest pronounced his benediction o’er the dead, and released the penitent’s soul from purgatorial flames, while he heavily mulcted the price of his redemption from the possessions of his successor. Small resented the idea of treading in such steps, as an insult to himself and his cloth. Was he, the intolerant of Papistry, to tolerate this? Was he, who could not endure the odor of Catholicism, to have his nostrils thus polluted — his garments thus defiled by actual contact with it? It was not to be thought of: and he had formally signified his declination to Mr. Coates, when a little conversation with that gentleman, and certain weighty considerations therein held forth — the advowson of the church of Rookwood residing with the family — and represented by him, as well as the placing in juxtaposition of penalties to be incurred by refusal, that the scruples of Small gave way; and, with the best grace he could muster, very reluctantly promised compliance.

  With these feelings, it will be readily conceived that the doctor was not in the best possible frame of mind for the delivery of his exhortation. His spirit had been ruffled by a variety of petty annoyances, amongst the greatest of which was the condition to which the good cheer had reduced his clerk, Zachariah Trundletext, whose reeling eye, pendulous position, and open mouth proclaimed him absolutely incapable of office. Zachariah was, in consequence, dismissed, and Small commenced his discourse unsupported. But as our recording it would not probably conduce to the amusement of our readers, whatever it might to their edification, we shall pass it over with very brief mention. Suffice it to say, that the oration was so thickly interstrewn with lengthy quotations from the fathers, — Chrysostomus, Hieronymus, Ambrosius, Basilius, Bernardus, and the rest, with whose recondite Latinity, notwithstanding the clashing of their opinions with his own, the doctor was intimately acquainted, and which he moreover delighted to quote, — that his auditors were absolutely mystified and perplexed, and probably not without design. Countenances of such amazement were turned towards him, that Small, who had a keen sense of the ludicrous, could scarcely forbear smiling as he proceeded; and if we could suspect so grave a personage of waggery, we should almost think that, by way of retaliation, he had palmed some abstruse, monkish epicedium upon his astounded auditors.

  The oration concluded, biscuits and confectionery were, according to old observance, handed to such of the tenantry as chose to partake of them. The serving of the grace-cup, which ought to have formed part of the duties of Zachariah, had he been capable of office, fell to the share of the sexton. The bowl was kissed, first by Ranulph, with lips that trembled with emotion, and afterward by his surrou
nding friends; but no drop was tasted — a circumstance which did not escape Peter’s observation. Proceeding to the tenantry, the first in order happened to be Farmer Toft. Peter presented the cup, and as Toft was about to drain a deep draught of the wine, Peter whispered in his ear, “Take my advice for once, Friend Toft, and don’t let a bubble of the liquid pass your lips. For every drop of the wine you drain, Sir Piers will have one sin the less, and you a load the heavier on your conscience. Didst never hear of sin-swallowing? For what else was this custom adopted? Seest thou not the cup’s brim hath not yet been moistened? Well, as you will — ha, ha!” And the sexton passed onwards.

  His work being nearly completed, he looked around for Jack Palmer, whom he had remarked during the oration, but could nowhere discover him. Peter was about to place the flagon, now almost drained of its contents, upon its former resting-place, when Small took it from his hands.

  “In poculi fundo residuum non relinque, admonisheth Pythagoras,” said he, returning the empty cup to the sexton.

  “My task here is ended,” muttered Peter, “but not elsewhere. Foul weather or fine, thunder or rain, I must to the church.”

  Bequeathing his final instructions to certain of the household who were to form part of the procession, in case it set out, he opened the hall door, and, the pelting shower dashing heavily in his face, took his way up the avenue, screaming, as he strode along, the following congenial rhymes:

  EPHIALTES

  I ride alone — I ride by night

  Through the moonless air on a courser white!

  Over the dreaming earth I fly,

  Here and there — at my fantasy!

  My frame is withered, my visage old,

  My locks are frore, and my bones ice cold.

  The wolf will howl as I pass his lair,

  The ban-dog moan, and the screech-owl stare.

  For breath, at my coming, the sleeper strains,

  And the freezing current forsakes his veins!

  Vainly for pity the wretch may sue —

  Merciless Mara no prayers subdue!

  To his couch I flit —

  On his breast I sit!

  Astride! astride! astride!

  And one charm alone

  — A hollow stone! —

  Can scare me from his side!

  A thousand antic shapes I take;

  The stoutest heart at my touch will quake.

  The miser dreams of a bag of gold,

  Or a ponderous chest on his bosom rolled.

  The drunkard groans ‘neath a cask of wine;

  The reveller swelts ‘neath a weighty chine.

  The recreant turns, by his foes assailed,

  To flee! — but his feet to the ground are nailed.

  The goatherd dreams of his mountain-tops,

  And, dizzily reeling, downward drops.

  The murderer feels at his throat a knife,

  And gasps, as his victim gasped, for life!

  The thief recoils from the scorching brand;

  The mariner drowns in sight of land!

  Thus sinful man have I power to fray,

  Torture, and rack, but not to slay!

  But ever the couch of purity,

  With shuddering glance, I hurry by.

  Then mount! away!

  To horse! I say,

  To horse! astride! astride!

  The fire-drake shoots —

  The screech-owl hoots —

  As through the air I glide!

  CHAPTER III. — THE CHURCHYARD

  Methought I walked, about the mid of night,

  Into a churchyard.

  — Webster: The White Devil.

  LIGHTS streamed through the chancel window as the sexton entered the churchyard, darkly defining all the ramified tracery of the noble Gothic arch, and illumining the gorgeous dyes of its richly-stained glass, profusely decorated with the armorial bearings of the founder of the fane, and the many alliances of his descendants. The sheen of their blazonry gleamed bright in the darkness, as if to herald to his last home another of the line whose achievements it displayed. Glowing colorings, checkered like rainbow tints, were shed upon the broken leaves of the adjoining yew-trees, and upon the rounded grassy tombs.

  Opening the gate, as he looked in that direction, Peter became aware of a dark figure, enveloped in a large black cloak, and covered with a slouched hat, standing at some distance, between the window and the tree, and so intervening as to receive the full influence of the stream of radiance which served to dilate its almost superhuman stature. The sexton stopped. The figure remained stationary. There was something singular both in the costume and situation of the person. Peter’s curiosity was speedily aroused, and, familiar with every inch of the churchyard, he determined to take the nearest cut, and to ascertain to whom the mysterious cloak and hat belonged. Making his way over the undulating graves, and instinctively rounding the headstones that intercepted his path, he quickly drew near the object of his inquiry. From the moveless posture it maintained, the figure appeared to be unconscious of Peter’s approach. To his eyes it seemed to expand as he advanced. He was now almost close upon it, when his progress was arrested by a violent grasp laid on his shoulder. He started, and uttered an exclamation of alarm. At this moment a vivid flash of lightning illumined the whole churchyard, and Peter then thought he beheld, at some distance from him, two other figures, bearing upon their shoulders a huge chest, or, it might be, a coffin. The garb of these figures, so far as it could be discerned through the drenching rain, was fantastical in the extreme. The foremost seemed to have a long white beard descending to his girdle. Little leisure, however, was allowed Peter for observation. The vision no sooner met his glance than it disappeared, and nothing was seen but the glimmering tombstones — nothing heard but the whistling wind and the heavily-descending shower. He rubbed his eyes. The muffled figure had vanished, and not a trace could be discovered of the mysterious coffin-bearers, if such they were.

  “What have I seen?” mentally ejaculated Peter: “is this sorcery or treachery, or both? No body-snatchers would visit this place on a night like this, when the whole neighborhood is aroused. Can it be a vision I have seen? Pshaw! shall I juggle myself as I deceive these hinds? It was no bearded demon that I beheld, but the gipsy patrico, Balthazar. I knew him at once. But what meant that muffled figure; and whose arm could it have been that griped my shoulder? Ha! what if Lady Rookwood should have given orders for the removal of Susan’s body? No, no; that cannot be. Besides, I have the keys of the vault; and there are hundreds now in the church who would permit no such desecration. I am perplexed to think what it can mean. But I will to the vault.” Saying which, he hastened to the church porch, and after wringing the wet from his clothes, as a water-dog might shake the moisture from his curly hide, and doffing his broad felt hat, he entered the holy edifice. The interior seemed one blaze of light to the sexton, in his sudden transition from outer darkness. Some few persons were assembled, probably such as were engaged in the preparations; but there was one group which immediately caught his attention.

  Near the communion-table stood three persons, habited in deep mourning, apparently occupied in examining the various monumental carvings that enriched the walls. Peter’s office led him to that part of the church. About to descend into the vaults, to make the last preparations for the reception of the dead, with lantern in hand, keys, and a crowbar, he approached the party. Little attention was paid to the sexton’s proceedings, till the harsh grating of the lock attracted their notice.

  Peter started as he beheld the face of one of the three, and relaxing his hold upon the key, the strong bolt shot back in the lock. There was a whisper amongst the party. A light step was heard advancing towards him; and ere the sexton could sufficiently recover his surprise, or force open the door, a female figure stood by his side.

  The keen, inquiring stare which Peter bestowed upon the countenance of the young lady so much abashed her, that she hesitated in her purpose of addressing him
, and hastily retired.

  “She here!” muttered Peter; “nay, then, I must no longer withhold the dreaded secret from Luke, or Ranulph may, indeed, wrest his possessions from him.”

  Reinforced by her companions, an elderly lady and a tall, handsome man, whose bearing and deportment bespoke him to be a soldier, the fair stranger again ventured towards Peter.

  “You are the sexton,” said she, addressing him in a voice sweet and musical.

  “I am,” returned Peter. It was harmony succeeded by dissonance.

  “You, perhaps, can tell us, then,” said the elderly lady, “whether the funeral is likely to take place to-night? We thought it possible that the storm might altogether prevent it.”

  “The storm is over, as nearly as maybe,” replied Peter. “The body will soon be on its way. I am but now arrived from the hall.”

  “Indeed!” exclaimed the lady. “None of the family will be present, I suppose. Who is the chief mourner?”

  “Young Sir Ranulph,” answered the sexton. “There will be more of the family than were expected.”

  “Is Sir Ranulph returned?” asked the young lady, with great agitation of manner. “I thought he was abroad — that he was not expected. Are you sure you are rightly informed?”

  “I parted with him at the hall not ten minutes since,” replied Peter. “He returned from France to-night most unexpectedly.”

  “Oh, mother!” exclaimed the younger lady, “that this should be — that I should meet him here. Why did we come? — let us depart.”

  “Impossible!” replied her mother; “the storm forbids it. This man’s information is so strange, I scarce can credit it. Are you sure you have asserted the truth?” said she, addressing Peter.

  “I am not accustomed to be doubted,” answered he. “Other things as strange have happened at the hall.”

  “What mean you?” asked the gentleman, noticing this last remark.

  “You would not need to ask the question of me, had you been there, amongst the other guests,” retorted Peter. “Odd things, I tell you, have been done there this night, and stranger things may occur before the morning.”