The Works of William Harrison Ainsworth

by William Harrison Ainsworth

  “I will not stir. I will kneel here forever. Stab me as I kneel — as I pray to you. You cannot kill me while I cling to you thus — while I kiss your hands — while I bedew them with my tears. Those tears will not sully them like my blood.”

  “Maiden,” said Sybil, endeavoring to withdraw her hand, “let go your hold — your sand is run.”

  “Mercy!”

  “It is in vain. Close your eyes.”

  “No, I will fix them on you thus — you cannot strike then. I will cling to you — embrace you. Your nature is not cruel — your soul is full of pity. It melts — those tears — you will be merciful. You cannot deliberately kill me.”

  “I cannot — I cannot!” said Sybil, with a passionate outburst of grief. “Take your life on one condition.”

  “Name it.”

  “That you wed Sir Luke Rookwood.”

  “Ah!” exclaimed Eleanor, “all rushes back upon me at that name; the whole of that fearful scene passes in review before me.”

  “Do you reject my proposal?”

  “I dare not.”

  “I must have your oath. Swear by every hope of eternity that you will wed none other than him.”

  “By every hope, I swear it.”

  “Handassah, you will bear this maiden’s oath in mind, and witness its fulfilment.”

  “I will,” replied the gipsy girl, stepping forward from a recess, in which she had hitherto remained unnoticed.

  “Enough. I am satisfied. Tarry with me. Stir not — scream not, whatever you may see or hear. Your life depends upon your firmness. When I am no more — —”

  “No more?” echoed Eleanor, in horror.

  “Be calm,” said Sybil. “When I am dead, clap your hands together. They will come to seek you — they will find me in your stead. Then rush to him — to Sir Luke Rookwood. He will protect you. Say to him hereafter that I died for the wrong I did him — that I died, and blessed him.”

  “Can you not live, and save me?” sobbed Eleanor.

  “Ask it not. While I live, your life is in danger. When I am gone, none will seek to harm you. Fare you well! Remember your oath, and you, too, remember it, Handassah. Remember also — ha! that groan!”

  All started, as a deep groan knelled in their ears.

  “Whence comes that sound?” cried Sybil. “Hist! — a voice?”

  “It is that of the priest,” cried Eleanor. “Hark! he groans. They have murdered him! Kind Heaven, receive his soul!”

  “Pray for me,” cried Sybil: “pray fervently; avert your face; down on your knees — down — down! Farewell, Handassah!” And breaking from them, she rushed into the darkest recesses of the vault.

  We must now quit this painful scene for another scarcely less painful, and return to the unfortunate priest.

  Checkley had been brought before the body of Susan Rookwood. Even in the gloom, the shimmer of the white cereclothes, and the pallid features of the corpse, were ghastly enough. The torchlight made them terrible.

  “Kneel!” said Alan Rookwood. The priest complied. Alan knelt beside him.

  “Do you know these features?” demanded he. “Regard them well. Fix your eyes full upon them. Do you know them?”

  “I do.”

  “Place your hand upon her breast. Does not the flesh creep and shrink beneath your touch? Now raise your hand — make the cross of your faith upon her bosom. By that faith you swear you are innocent.”

  “I do,” returned the priest; “are you now satisfied?”

  “No,” replied Alan. “Let the torch be removed. Your innocence must be more deeply attested,” continued he, as the light was withdrawn. “This proof will not fail. Entwine your fingers round her throat.”

  “Have I not done enough?”

  “Your hesitation proves your guilt,” said Alan.

  “That proof is wanting, then?” returned the priest; “my hand is upon her throat — what more?”

  “As you hope for mercy in your hour of need, swear that you never conspired against her life, or refused her mercy.”

  “I swear it.”

  “May the dead convict you of perjury if you have forsworn yourself,” said Alan; “you are free. Take away your hand!”

  “Ha! what is this?” exclaimed the priest. “You have put some jugglery upon me. I cannot withdraw my hand. It sticks to her throat, as though ‘twere glued by blood. Tear me away. I have not force enough to liberate myself. Why do you grin at me? The corpse grins likewise. It is jugglery. I am innocent. You would take away my life. Tear me away, I say: the veins rise; they blacken; they are filling with new blood. I feel them swell; they coil like living things around my fingers. She is alive.”

  “And you are innocent?”

  “I am — I am. Let not my ravings convict me. For Jesu’s sake, release me.”

  “Blaspheme not, but arise. I hold you not.”

  “You do,” groaned the priest. “Your grasp tightens round my throat; your hard and skinny fingers are there — I strangle — help!”

  “Your own fears strangle you. My hand is at my side,” returned Alan calmly.

  “Villain, you lie. Your grasp is like a vice. The strength of a thousand devils is in your hand. Will none lend help? I never pressed so hard. Your daughter never suffered this torture — never — never. I choke — choke — oh!” And the priest rolled heavily backwards.

  There was a deep groan; a convulsive rattle in the throat; and all was still.

  “He is dead — strangled,” cried several voices, holding down the torch. The face of the priest was blackened and contorted; his eyeballs protruded from their sockets; his tongue was nearly bitten through in the desperate efforts he had made to release himself from Alan’s gripe; his hair was erect with horror. It was a ghastly sight.

  A murmur arose amongst the gipsies. Barbara deemed it prudent to appease them.

  “He was guilty,” cried she. “He was the murderer of Susan Rookwood.”

  “And I, her father, have avenged her,” said Alan, sternly.

  The dreadful silence that followed this speech was broken by the report of a pistol. The sound, though startling, was felt almost as a relief.

  “We are beset,” cried Alan. “Some of you fly to reconnoitre.”

  “To your posts,” cried Barbara.

  Several of the crew flocked to the entrance.

  “Unbind the prisoners,” shouted Alan.

  Mrs. Mowbray and Luke were accordingly set free.

  Two almost simultaneous reports of a pistol were now heard.

  “’Tis Ranulph Rookwood,” said Alan; “that was the preconcerted signal.”

  “Ranulph Rookwood,” echoed Eleanor, who caught the exclamation: “he comes to save me.”

  “Remember your oath,” gasped a dying voice. “He is no longer yours.”

  “Alas! alas!” sobbed Eleanor, tremblingly.

  A moment afterwards a faint clapping of hands reached the ears of Barbara.

  “All is over,” muttered she.

  “Ha!” exclaimed Alan Rookwood, with a frightful look. “Is it done?”

  Barbara motioned him towards the further end of the vault.

  * * *

  CHAPTER XIII. — MR. COATES

  Grimm. Look, captain, here comes one of the bloodhounds of justice.

  Schw. Down with him. Don’t let him utter a word.

  Moor. Silence, I will hear him.

  Schiller: The Robbers.

  GLADLY do we now exchange the dank atmosphere of Saint Cyprian’s cell, and the horrors which have detained us there so long, for balmy air, genial sunshine, and the boon companionship of Dick Turpin. Upon regaining the verdant ruins of the ancient priory, all appeared pretty much as our highwayman had left it. Dick wended towards his mare. Black Bess uttered an affectionate whinnying sound as he approached her, and yielded her sleek neck to his caresses. No Bedouin Arab ever loved his horse more tenderly than Turpin.

  “‘Twill be a hard day when thou and I part!” murmured he, affect
ionately patting her soft and silky cheeks. Bess thrust her nose into his hand, biting him playfully, as much as to say, “That day will never arrive.” Turpin, at least, understood the appeal in that sense; he was skilled in the language of the Houyhnhnms. “I would rather lose my right hand than that should happen,” sighed he; “but there’s no saying: the best of friends must part; and thou and I may be one day separated: thy destination is the knacker — mine, perhaps, the gibbet. — We are neither of us cut out for old age, that’s certain. Curse me if I can tell how it is; since I’ve been in that vault, I’ve got some queer crotchet into my head. I can’t help likening thee to that poor gipsy wench, Sybil; but may I be scragged if I’d use thee as her lover has used her. Ha!” exclaimed he, drawing a pistol with a suddenness that made his companions, Rust and Wilder, start, “we are watched. See you not how yon shadow falls from behind the wall?”

  “I do,” replied Rust.

  “The varmint shall be speedily unearthed,” said Wilder, rushing to the spot.

  In another instant the shadow manifested itself in a substantial little personage, booted, spurred, and mud-bespattered. He was brought before our highwayman, who had, meanwhile, vaulted into his saddle.

  “Mr. Coates!” cried Dick, bursting into a loud laugh at the ridiculous figure presented to his view, “or the mud deceives me.”

  “It does not deceive you, Captain Turpin,” replied the attorney; “you do, indeed, behold that twice unfortunate person.”

  “What brings you here?” asked Dick. “Ah! I see, you are come to pay me my wager.”

  “I thought you gave me a discharge for that,” rejoined Coates, unable, even in his distress, to resist the too-tempting quibble.

  “True, but it was in blank,” replied Turpin readily; “and that don’t hold good in law, you know. You have thrown away a second chance. Play or pay, all the world over. I shan’t let you off so easily this time, depend upon it. Come, post the pony, or take your measure on that sod. No more replications or rejoinders, sir, down with the dust. Fake his clies, pals. Let us see what he has about him.”

  “In the twinkling of a bed-post,” replied Rust. “We’ll turn him inside out. What’s here?” cried he, searching the attorney’s pockets. “A brace of barkers,” handing a pair of pistols to Turpin, “a haddock, stuffed with nothing, I’m thinking; one quid, two coach-wheels, half a bull, three hogs, and a kick; a d — d dicky concern, captain.”

  “Three hogs and a kick,” muttered Coates; “the knave says true enough.”

  “Is there nothing else?” demanded Dick.

  “Only an old snuffy fogle and a pewter sneezer.”

  “No reader? Try his hoxter.”

  “Here’s a pit-man, captain.”

  “Give it me. Ah! this will do,” cried Dick, examining the contents of the pocket-book. “This is a glorious windfall indeed; a bill of exchange for 500l., payable on demand, eh, Mr. Coates? Quick! indorse it, sir. Here’s pen and ink. Rascal! if you attempt to tear the bill, I’ll blow your brains out. Steady, sir, sign. Good!” added he, as Coates most reluctantly indorsed the bill. “Good! good! I’ll be off with this bill to London to-night, before you can stop it. No courier can beat Bess — ha, ha! Eh! what’s this?” continued Dick, as, unfolding another leaf of the pocket-book, he chanced upon a letter; “My Lady Rookwood’s superscription! Excuse me, Mr. Coates, I must have a peep at her ladyship’s billet-doux. All’s safe with me — man of honor. I must detain your reader a moment longer.”

  “You should take charge of yourself, then,” replied Coates, sulkily. “You appear to be my reader.”

  “Bravo!” cried Turpin. “You may jest now with impunity, Mr. Coates. You have paid dear enough for your jokes; and when should a man be allowed to be pleasant, if not at his own expense? — ha, ha! What’s this?” exclaimed he, opening the letter. “A ring, as I’m awake! and from her ladyship’s own fair finger, I’ll be sworn, for it bears her cipher, ineffaceably impressed as your image upon her heart — eh, Coates? Egad! you are a lucky dog, after all, to receive such a favor from such a lady — ha, ha! Meantime, I’ll take care of it for you,” continued Dick, slipping the ring on his little finger.

  Turpin, we have before remarked, had a turn for mimicry; and it was with an irresistible feeling of deferential awe creeping over him that Coates heard the contents of Lady Rookwood’s epistle delivered with an enunciation as peremptory and imperious as that of her ladyship’s self. The letter was hastily indited, in a clear, firm hand, and partook of its writer’s decision of character. Dick found no difficulty in deciphering it. Thus ran the missive:

  “Assured of your devotion and secrecy, I commit my own honor, and that of my son, to your charge. Time will not permit me to see you, or I would not write. But I place myself entirely in your hands. You will not dare to betray my confidence. To the point: — A Major Mowbray has just arrived here with intelligence that the body of Susan Bradley — you will know to whom I allude — has been removed from our family vault by a Romish priest and his assistants. How it came there, or why it has been removed, I know not; it is not my present purpose to inquire. Suffice it, that it now lies in a vault beneath the ruins of Davenham Priory. My son, Sir Ranulph, who has lent a credulous ear to the artful tales of the impostor who calls this woman mother, is at present engaged in arming certain of the household, and of the tenantry, to seize upon and bring away this body, as resistance is apprehended from a horde of gipsies who infest the ruins. Now, mark me. That body must not be found! Be it your business to prevent its discovery. Take the fleetest horse you can procure; spare neither whip nor spur. Haste to the priory; procure by any means, and at any expense, the assistance of the gipsies. Find out the body; conceal it, destroy it — do what you will, so my son find it not. Fear not his resentment; I will bear you harmless of the consequences with him. You will act upon my responsibility. I pledge my honor for your safety. Use all despatch, and calculate upon due requital from

  “Maud Rookwood.

  “Haste, and God speed you!”

  “God speed you!” echoed Dick, in his own voice, contemptuously. “The devil drive you! would have been a fitter postscript. And it was upon this precious errand you came, Mr. Coates?”

  “Precisely,” replied the attorney; “but I find the premises preoccupied. Fast as I have ridden, you are here before me.”

  “And what do you now propose to do?” asked Turpin.

  “Bargain with you for the body,” replied Coates, in an insinuating tone.

  “With me!” said Dick; “do you take me for a resurrection cove; for a dealer in dead stock, eh! sirrah?”

  “I take you for one sufficiently alive, in a general way, to his own interests,” returned Coates. “These gentlemen may not, perhaps, be quite so scrupulous, when they hear my proposals.”

  “Be silent, sir,” interrupted Turpin. “Hist! I hear the tramp of horses’ hoofs without. Hark! that shout.”

  “Make your own terms before they come,” said Coates. “Leave all to me. I’ll put ’em on a wrong scent.”

  “To the devil with your terms,” cried Turpin; “the signal!” And he pulled the trigger of one of Coates’s pistols, the shot of which rang in the ears of the astounded attorney as it whizzed past him. “Drag him into the mouth of the vault,” thundered Turpin: “he will be a capital cover in case of attack. Look to your sticks, and be on the alert; — away!”

  Vainly did the unfortunate attorney kick and struggle, swear and scream; his hat was pushed over his eyes; his bob-wig thrust into his mouth; and his legs tripped from under him. Thus blind, dumb, and half-suffocated, he was hurried into the entrance of the cell.

  Dick, meanwhile, dashed to the arched outlet of the ruin. He there drew in the rein, and Black Bess stood motionless as a statue.

  * * *

  CHAPTER XIV. — DICK TURPIN

  Many a fine fellow with a genius extensive enough to have effected universal reformation has been doomed to perish by the halter. But does not such a man’s r
enown extend through centuries and tens of centuries, while many a prince would be overlooked in history were it not the historian’s interest to increase the number of his pages? Nay, when the traveller sees a gibbet, does he not exclaim, “That fellow was no fool!” and lament the hardship of the times?

  — Schiller: The Robbers.

  TURPIN’S quick eye ranged over the spreading sward in front of the ancient priory, and his brow became contracted. The feeling, however, was transient. The next instant saw him the same easy, reckless being he had been before. There was a little more paleness in his cheek than usual; but his look was keener, and his knees involuntarily clasped the saddle more firmly. No other symptom of anxiety was perceptible. It would be no impeachment to Dick’s valor were it necessary to admit that a slight tremor crossed him as he scanned the formidable array of his opponents. The admission is needless. Dick himself would have been the last man to own it; nor shall we do the memory of our undaunted highwayman any such injustice. Turpin was intrepid to a fault. He was rash; apt to run into risks for the mere pleasure of getting out of them: danger was his delight, and the degree of excitement was always in proportion to the peril incurred. After the first glance, he became, to use his own expressive phrase, “as cool as a cucumber;” and continued, as long as they permitted him, like a skilful commander, calmly to calculate the numerical strength of his adversaries, and to arrange his own plan of resistance.

  This troop of horsemen, for such it was, might probably amount in the aggregate to twenty men, and presented an appearance like that of a strong muster at a rustic fox-chase, due allowance being made for the various weapons of offence; to-wit: naked sabers, firelocks, and a world of huge horse-pistols, which the present field carried along with them. This resemblance was heightened by the presence of an old huntsman and a gamekeeper or two, in scarlet and green jackets, and a few yelping hounds that had followed after them. The majority of the crew consisted of sturdy yeomen; some of whom, mounted upon wild, unbroken colts, had pretty lives of it to maintain their seats, and curvetted about in “most admired disorder;” others were seated upon more docile, but quite as provoking specimens of the cart-horse breed, whose sluggish sides, reckless alike of hobnailed heel or ash sapling, refused to obey their riders’ intimations to move; while others again, brought stiff, wrong-headed ponies to the charge — obstinate, impracticable little brutes, who seemed to prefer revolving on their own axis, and describing absurd rotatory motions, to proceeding in the direct and proper course pointed out to them. Dick could scarcely forbear laughing at these ridiculous manoeuvres; but his attention was chiefly attracted towards three individuals, who were evidently the leaders of this warlike expedition. In the thin, tall figure of the first of these he recognized Ranulph Rookwood. With the features and person of the second of the group he was not entirely unacquainted, and fancied — nor incorrectly fancied — that his military bearing, or, as he would have expressed it, “the soldier-like cut of his jib,” could belong to no other than Major Mowbray, whom he had once eased of a purse on Finchley Common. In the round, rosy countenance and robustious person of the last of the trio he discovered his ancient ally, Titus Tyrconnel.