“You mean me no treachery?” returned Luke.
Jack made no answer, but uncocking his pistols, deposited them within his pockets.
“Shoot him as he advances,” whispered Coates; “he is in your power now.”
“Scoundrel!” replied Luke, “do you think me as base as yourself?”
“Hush, hush! for God’s sake don’t expose me,” said Coates.
Lady Rookwood had apparently listened to this singular conference with sullen composure, though in reality she was racked with anxiety as to its results; and, now apprehending that Palmer was about to make an immediate disclosure to Luke, she accosted him as he passed her.
“Unbind me!” cried she, “and what you wish shall be yours — money — jewels — —”
“Ha! may I depend?”
“I pledge my word.”
Palmer untied the cord, and Lady Rookwood, approaching a table whereon stood the escritoire, touched a spring, and a secret drawer flew open.
“You do this of your own free will?” asked Luke. “Speak, if it be otherwise.”
“I do,” returned the lady, hastily.
Palmer’s eyes glistened at the treasures exposed to his view.
“They are jewels of countless price. Take them, and rid me,” she added in a whisper, “of him.”
“Luke Bradley?”
“Ay.”
“Give them to me.”
“They are yours freely on those terms.”
“You hear that, Luke,” cried he, aloud; “you hear it, Titus; this is no robbery. Mr. Coates— ‘Know all men by these presents’ — I call you to witness, Lady Rookwood gives me these pretty things.”
“I do,” returned she; adding, in a whisper, “on the terms which I proposed.”
“Must it be done at once?”
“Without an instant’s delay.”
“Before your own eyes?”
“I fear not to look on. Each moment is precious. He is off his guard now. You do it, you know, in self-defence.”
“And you?”
“For the same cause.”
“Yet he came here to aid you?”
“What of that?”
“He would have risked his life for yours?”
“I cannot pay back the obligation. He must die!”
“The document?”
“Will be useless then.”
“Will not that suffice; why aim at life?”
“You trifle with me. You fear to do it.”
“Fear!”
“About it, then; you shall have more gold.”
“I will about it,” cried Jack, throwing the casket to Wilder, and seizing Lady Rookwood’s hands. “I am no Italian bravo, madam — no assassin — no remorseless cut-throat. What are you — devil or woman — who ask me to do this? Luke Bradley, I say.”
“Would you betray me?” cried Lady Rookwood.
“You have betrayed yourself, madam. Nay, nay, Luke, hands off. See, Lady Rookwood, how you would treat a friend. This strange fellow would blow out my brains for laying a finger upon your ladyship.”
“I will suffer no injury to be done to her,” said Luke; “release her.”
“Your ladyship hears him,” said Jack. “And you, Luke, shall learn the value set upon your generosity. You will not have her injured. This instant she has proposed, nay, paid for your assassination.”
“How?” exclaimed Luke, recoiling.
“A lie, as black as hell,” cried Lady Rookwood.
“A truth, as clear as heaven,” retained Jack. “I will speedily convince you of the fact.” Then, turning to Lady Rookwood, he whispered, “Shall I give him the marriage document?”
“Beware!” said Lady Rookwood.
“Do I avouch the truth, then?”
She was silent.
“I am answered,” said Luke.
“Then leave her to her fate,” cried Jack.
“No,” replied Luke; “she is still a woman, and I will not abandon her to ruffianly violence. Set her free.”
“You are a fool,” said Jack.
“Hurrah, hurrah!” vociferated Coates, who had rushed to the window. “Rescue, rescue! they are returning from the church; I see the torchlight in the avenue; we are saved!”
“Hell and the devil!” cried Jack; “not an instant is to be lost. Alive, lads; bring off all the plunder you can; be handy!”
“Lady Rookwood, I bid you farewell,” said Luke, in a tone in which scorn and sorrow were blended. “We shall meet again.”
“We have not parted yet,” returned she; “will you let this man pass? A thousand pounds for his life.”
“Upon the nail?” asked Rust.
“By the living God, if any of you attempt to touch him, I will blow his brains out upon the spot, be he friend or foe,” cried Jack. “Luke Bradley, we shall meet again. You shall hear from me.”
“Lady Rookwood,” said Luke, as he departed, “I shall not forget this night.”
“Is all ready?” asked Palmer of his comrades.
“All.”
“Then budge.”
“Stay!” cried Lady Rookwood, in a whisper to him. “What will purchase that document?”
“Hem!”
“A thousand pounds?”
“Double it.”
“It shall be doubled.”
“I will turn it over.”
“Resolve me now.”
“You shall hear from me.”
“In what manner?”
“I will find speedy means.”
“Your name is Palmer?”
“Palmer is the name he goes by, your ladyship,” replied Coates, “but it is the fashion with these rascals to have an alias.”
“Ha! ha!” said Jack, thrusting the ramrod into his pistol-barrel, “are you there, Mr. Coates? Pay your wager, sir.”
“What wager?”
“The hundred we bet that you would take me if ever you had the chance.”
“Take you! — it was Dick Turpin I betted to take.”
“I am DICK TURPIN — that’s my alias!” replied Jack.
“Dick Turpin! then I’ll have a snap at you at all hazards,” cried Coates, springing suddenly towards him.
“And I at you,” said Turpin, discharging his pistol right in the face of the rash attorney; “there’s a quittance in full.”
BOOK III. — THE GIPSY
Lay a garland on my hearse
Of the dismal yew;
Maidens, willow branches bear,
Say I died true.
My love was false, but I was firm
From my hour of birth;
Upon my buried body lie
Lightly, gentle earth.
— Beaumont and Fletcher.
CHAPTER I. — A MORNING RIDE
I had a sister, who among the race
Of gipsies was the fairest. Fair she was
In gentle blood, and gesture to her beauty.
— Brome.
ON quitting Lady Rookwood’s chamber, Luke speeded along the gloomy corridor, descended the spiral stairs, and, swiftly traversing sundry other dark passages, issued from a door at the back of the house. Day was just beginning to break. His first object had been to furnish himself with means to expedite his flight; and, perceiving no one in the yard, he directed his hasty steps towards the stable. The door was fortunately unfastened; and, entering, he found a strong roan horse, which he knew, from description, had been his father’s favorite hunter, and to the use of which he now considered himself fully entitled. The animal roused himself as he approached, shook his glossy coat, and neighed, as if he recognized the footsteps and voice.
“Thou art mistaken, old fellow,” said Luke; “I am not he thou thinkest; nevertheless, I am glad thy instinct would have it so. If thou bearest my father’s son as thou hast borne thy old master, o’er many a field for many a day, he need not fear the best mounted of his pursuers. Soho! come hither, Rook.”
The noble steed turned at the call. Luke hastily saddled him, vau
lted upon his back, and, disregarding every impediment in the shape of fence or ditch, shaped his course across the field towards the sexton’s cottage, which he reached just as its owner was in the act of unlocking his door. Peter testified his delight and surprise at the escape of his grandson, by a greeting of chuckling laughter.
“How? — escaped!” exclaimed he. “Who has delivered you from the hands of the Moabites? Ha, ha! But why do I ask? Who could it have been but Jack Palmer?”
“My own hands have set me free,” returned Luke. “I am indebted to no man for liberty; still less to him. But I cannot tarry here; each moment is precious. I came to request you to accompany me to the gipsy encampment. Will you go, or not?”
“And mount behind you?” replied Peter; “I like not the manner of conveyance.”
“Farewell, then.” And Luke turned to depart.
“Stay; that is Sir Piers’s horse, old Rook. I care not if I do ride him.”
“Quick, then; mount.”
“I will not delay you a moment,” rejoined the sexton, opening his door, and throwing his implements into the cottage. “Back, Mole; back, sir,” cried he, as the dog rushed out to greet him. “Bring your steed nigh this stone, grandson Luke — there — a little nearer — all’s right.” And away they galloped.
The sexton’s first inquiries were directed to ascertain how Luke had accomplished his escape; and, having satisfied himself in this particular, he was content to remain silent; musing, it might be, on the incidents detailed to him.
The road Luke chose was a rough, unfrequented lane, that skirted, for nearly a mile, the moss-grown palings of the park. It then diverged to the right, and seemed to bear towards a range of hills rising in the distance. High hedges impeded the view on either hand; but there were occasional gaps, affording glimpses of the tract of country through which he was riding. Meadows were seen steaming with heavy dews, intersected by a deep channelled stream, whose course was marked by a hanging cloud of vapor, as well as by a row of melancholy pollard-willows, that stood like stripped, shivering urchins by the river side. Other fields succeeded, yellow with golden grain, or bright with flowering clover — the autumnal crop — colored with every shade, from the light green of the turnip to the darker verdure of the bean, the various products of the teeming land. The whole was backed by round drowsy masses of trees.
Luke spoke not, nor abated his furious course, till the road began to climb a steep ascent. He then drew in the rein, and from the heights of the acclivity surveyed the plain over which he had passed.
It was a rich agricultural district, with little picturesque beauty, but much of true English endearing loveliness to recommend it. Such a quiet, pleasing landscape, in short, as one views, at such a season of the year, from every eminence in every county of our merry isle. The picture was made up of a tract of land filled with corn ripe for the sickle, or studded with sheaves of the same golden produce, enlivened with green meadows, so deeply luxuriant as to claim the scythe for the second time; each divided from the other by thick hedgerows, the uniformity of which was broken ever and anon by some towering elm, tall poplar, or wide-branching oak. Many old farmhouses, with their broad barns and crowded haystacks — forming little villages in themselves — ornamented the landscape at different points, and by their substantial look evidenced the fertility of the soil, and the thriving condition of its inhabitants. Some three miles distant might be seen the scattered hamlet of Rookwood; the dark russet thatch of its houses scarcely perceptible amidst the embrowned foliage of the surrounding timber. The site of the village was, however, pointed out by the square tower of the antique church, that crested the summit of the adjoining hill; and although the hall was entirely hidden from view, Luke readily traced out its locality amidst the depths of the dark grove in which it was embosomed.
This goodly prospect had other claims to attention in Luke’s eyes besides its agricultural or pictorial merit. It was, or he deemed it was, his own. Far as his eye ranged, yea, even beyond the line of vision, the estates of Rookwood extended.
“Do you see that house below us in the valley?” asked Peter of his companion.
“I do,” replied Luke; “a snug old house — a model of a farm. Everything looks comfortable and well to do about it. There are a dozen lusty haystacks, or thereabouts; and the great barn, with its roof yellowed like gold, looks built for a granary; and there are stables, kine-houses, orchards, dovecots, and fishponds, and an old circular garden, with wall-fruit in abundance. He should be a happy man, and a wealthy one, who dwells therein.”
“He dwells therein no longer,” returned Peter; “he died last night.”
“How know you that? None are stirring in the house as yet.”
“The owner of that house, Simon Toft,” replied Peter, “was last night struck by a thunderbolt. He was one of the coffin-bearers at your father’s funeral. They are sleeping within the house, you say. ’Tis well. Let them sleep on — they will awaken too soon, wake when they may — ha, ha!”
“Peace!” cried Luke; “you blight everything — even this smiling landscape you would turn to gloom. Does not this morn awaken a happier train of thoughts within your mind? With me it makes amends for want of sleep, effaces resentment, and banishes every black misgiving. ’Tis a joyous thing thus to scour the country at earliest dawn; to catch all the spirit and freshness of the morning; to be abroad before the lazy world is half awake; to make the most of a brief existence; and to have spent a day of keen enjoyment, almost before the day begins with some. I like to anticipate the rising of the glorious luminary; to watch every line of light changing, as at this moment, from shuddering gray to blushing rose! See how the heavens are dyed! Who would exchange yon gorgeous spectacle,” continued he, pointing towards the east, and again urging his horse to full speed down the hill, endangering the sexton’s seat, and threatening to impale him upon the crupper of the saddle— “who would exchange that sight, and the exhilarating feeling of this fresh morn, for a couch of eiderdown, and a headache in reversion?”
“I for one,” returned the sexton, sharply, “would willingly exchange it for that, or any other couch, provided it rid me of this accursed crupper, which galls me sorely. Moderate your pace, grandson Luke, or I must throw myself off the horse in self-defence.”
Luke slackened his charger’s pace, in compliance with the sexton’s wish.
“Ah! well,” continued Peter, restored in a measure to comfort; “now I can contemplate the sunrise, which you laud, somewhat at mine ease. ’Tis a fine sight, I doubt not, to the eyes of youth; and, to the sanguine soul of him upon whom life itself is dawning, is, I dare say, inspiriting: but when the heyday of existence is past; when the blood flows sluggishly in the veins; when one has known the desolating storms which the brightest sunrise has preceded, the seared heart refuses to trust its false glitter; and, like the experienced sailor, sees oft in the brightest skies a forecast of the tempest. To such a one, there can be no new dawn of the heart; no sun can gild its cold and cheerless horizon; no breeze can revive pulses that have long since ceased to throb with any chance emotion. I am too old to feel freshness in this nipping air. It chills me more than the damps of night, to which I am accustomed. Night — midnight! is my season of delight. Nature is instinct then with secrets dark and dread. There is a language which he who sleepeth not, but will wake, and watch, may haply learn. Strange organs of speech hath the invisible world; strange language doth it talk; strange communion hold with him who would pry into its mysteries. It talks by bat and owl — by the grave-worm, and by each crawling thing — by the dust of graves, as well as by those that rot therein — but ever doth it discourse by night, and specially when the moon is at the full. ’Tis the lore I have then learned that makes that season dear to me. Like your cat, mine eye expands in darkness. I blink at the sunshine, like your owl.”
“Cease this forbidding strain,” returned Luke; “it sounds as harshly as your own screech-owl’s cry. Let your thoughts take a more sprightly turn, mo
re in unison with my own and the fair aspect of nature.”
“Shall I direct them to the gipsies’ camp, then?” said Peter, with a sneer. “Do your own thoughts tend thither?”
“You are not altogether in the wrong,” replied Luke. “I wasthinking of the gipsies’ camp, and of one who dwells amongst its tents.”
“I knew it,” replied Peter. “Did you hope to deceive me by attributing all your joyousness of heart to the dawn? Your thoughts have been wandering all this while upon one who hath, I will engage, a pair of sloe-black eyes, an olive skin, and yet withal a clear one— ‘black, yet comely, as the tents of Kedar, as the curtains of Solomon’ — a mesh of jetty hair, that hath entangled you in its network — ripe lips, and a cunning tongue — one of the plagues of Egypt. — Ha, ha!”
“You have guessed shrewdly,” replied Luke; “I care not to own that my thoughts were so occupied.”
“I was assured of it,” replied the sexton. “And what may be the name of her towards whom your imagination was straying?”
“Sibila Perez,” replied Luke. “Her father was a Spanish Gitano. She is known amongst her people by her mother’s name of Lovel.”
“She is beautiful, of course?”
“Ay, very beautiful! — but no matter! You shall judge of her charms anon.”
“I will take your word for them,” returned the sexton; “and you love her?”
“Passionately.”
“You are not married?” asked Peter, hastily.
“Not as yet,” replied Luke; “but my faith is plighted.”
“Heaven be praised! The mischief is not then irreparable. I would have you married — though not to a gipsy girl.”
“And whom would you select?”
“One before whom Sybil’s beauty would pale as stars at day’s approach.”
“There lives not such a one.”
“Trust me there does. Eleanor Mowbray is lovely beyond parallel. I was merely speculating upon a possibility when I wished her yours — it is scarcely likely she would cast her eyes upon you.”
“I shall not heed her neglect. Graced with my title, I doubt not, were it my pleasure to seek a bride amongst those of gentle blood, I should not find all indifferent to my suit.”
The Works of William Harrison Ainsworth Page 36
