The Works of William Harrison Ainsworth

by William Harrison Ainsworth

  “I will not,” said Luke, eagerly grasping the certificate; “but she never may be mine.”

  “You have her oath?”

  “I have.”

  “What more is needed?”

  “Her hand.”

  “That will follow.”

  “It shall follow,” replied Sir Luke, wildly. “You are right. She is my affianced bride — affianced before hell, if not before heaven. I have sealed the contract with blood — with Sybil’s blood — and it shall be fulfilled. I have her oath — her oath — ha, ha! Though I perish in the attempt, I will wrest her from Ranulph’s grasp. She shall never be his. I would stab her first. Twice have I failed in my endeavors to bear her off. I am from Rookwood even now. To-morrow night I shall renew the attack. Will you assist me?”

  “To-morrow night!” interrupted Dick.

  “Nay, I should say to-night. A new day has already dawned,” replied Luke.

  “I will: she is at Rookwood?”

  “She languishes there at present, attended by her mother and her lover. The hall is watched and guarded. Ranulph is ever on the alert. But we will storm their garrison. I have a spy within its walls — a gipsy girl, faithful to my interests. From her I have learnt that there is a plot to wed Eleanor to Ranulph, and that the marriage is to take place privately to-morrow. This must be prevented.”

  “It must. But why not boldly appear in person at the hall, and claim her?”

  “Why not? I am a proscribed felon. A price is set upon my head. I am hunted through the country — driven to concealment, and dare not show myself for fear of capture. What could I do now? They would load me with fetters, bury me in a dungeon, and wed Eleanor to Ranulph. What would my rights avail? What would her oath signify to them? No; she must be mine by force. His she shall never be. Again, I ask you, will you aid me?”

  “I have said — I will. Where is Alan Rookwood?”

  “Concealed within the hut on Thorne Waste. You know it — it was one of your haunts.”

  “I know it well,” said Dick, “and Conkey Jem, its keeper, into the bargain: he is a knowing file. I’ll join you at the hut at midnight, if all goes well. We’ll bring off the wench, in spite of them all — just the thing I like. But in case of a break-down on my part, suppose you take charge of my purse in the mean time.”

  Luke would have declined this offer.

  “Pshaw!” said Dick. “Who knows what may happen? and it’s not ill-lined either. You’ll find an odd hundred or so in that silken bag — it’s not often your highwayman gives away a purse. Take it, man — we’ll settle all to-night; and if I don’t come, keep it — it will help you to your bride. And now off with you to the hut, for you are only hindering me. Adieu! My love to old Alan. We’ll do the trick to-night. Away with you to the hut. Keep yourself snug there till midnight, and we’ll ride over to Rookwood.”

  “At midnight,” replied Sir Luke, wheeling off, “I shall expect you.”

  “‘Ware hawks!” hallooed Dick.

  But Luke had vanished. In another instant Dick was scouring the plain as rapidly as ever. In the mean time, as Dick has casually alluded to the hawks, it may not be amiss to inquire how they had flown throughout the night, and whether they were still in chase of their quarry.

  With the exception of Titus, who was completely done up at Grantham, “having got,” as he said, “a complete bellyful of it,” they were still on the wing, and resolved sooner or later to pounce upon their prey, pursuing the same system as heretofore in regard to the post-horses. Major Mowbray and Paterson took the lead, but the irascible and invincible attorney was not far in their rear, his wrath having been by no means allayed by the fatigue he had undergone. At Bawtrey they held a council of war for a few minutes, being doubtful which course he had taken. Their incertitude was relieved by a foot traveller, who had heard Dick’s loud halloo on passing the boundary of Nottinghamshire, and had seen him take the lower road. They struck, therefore, into the path at Thorne at a hazard, and were soon satisfied they were right. Furiously did they now spur on. They reached Selby, changed horses at the inn in front of the venerable cathedral church, and learnt from the postboy that a toilworn horseman, on a jaded steed, had ridden through the town about five minutes before them, and could not be more than a quarter of a mile in advance. “His horse was so dead beat,” said the lad, “that I’m sure he cannot have got far; and, if you look sharp, I’ll be bound you’ll overtake him before he reaches Cawood Ferry.”

  Mr. Coates was transported. “We’ll lodge him snug in York Castle before an hour, Paterson,” cried he, rubbing his hands.

  “I hope so, sir,” said the chief constable, “but I begin to have some qualms.”

  “Now, gentlemen,” shouted the postboy, “come along. I’ll soon bring you to him.”

  CHAPTER XII. — CAWOOD FERRY

  The sight renewed my courser’s feet,

  A moment, staggering feebly fleet,

  A moment, with a faint low neigh,

  He answered, and then fell.

  With gasps and glazing eyes he lay,

  And reeking limbs immovable, —

  His first, and last career was done.

  — Mazeppa.

  THE sun had just o’ertopped the “high eastern hill,” as Turpin reached the Ferry of Cawood, and his beams were reflected upon the deep and sluggish waters of the Ouse. Wearily had he dragged his course thither — wearily and slow. The powers of his gallant steed were spent, and he could scarcely keep her from sinking. It was now midway ‘twixt the hours of five and six. Nine miles only lay before him, and that thought again revived him. He reached the water’s edge, and hailed the ferryboat, which was then on the other side of the river. At that instant a loud shout smote his ear; it was the halloo of his pursuers. Despair was in his look. He shouted to the boatman, and bade him pull fast. The man obeyed; but he had to breast a strong stream, and had a lazy bark and heavy sculls to contend with. He had scarcely left the shore when, another shout was raised from the pursuers. The tramp of their steeds grew louder and louder.

  The boat had scarcely reached the middle of the stream. His captors were at hand. Quietly did he walk down the bank, and as cautiously enter the water. There was a plunge, and steed and rider were swimming down the river.

  Major Mowbray was at the brink of the stream. He hesitated an instant, and stemmed the tide. Seized, as it were, by a mania for equestrian distinction, Mr. Coates braved the torrent. Not so Paterson. He very coolly took out his bulldogs, and, watching Turpin, cast up in his own mind the pros and cons of shooting him as he was crossing. “I could certainly hit him,” thought, or said, the constable; “but what of that? A dead highwayman is worth nothing — alive, he weighs 300l. I won’t shoot him, but I’ll make a pretence.” And he fired accordingly.

  The shot skimmed over the water, but did not, as it was intended, do much mischief. It, however, occasioned a mishap, which had nearly proved fatal to our aquatic attorney. Alarmed at the report of the pistol, in the nervous agitation of the moment Coates drew in his rein so tightly that his steed instantly sank. A moment or two afterwards he rose, shaking his ears, and floundering heavily towards the shore; and such was the chilling effect of this sudden immersion, that Mr. Coates now thought much more of saving himself than of capturing Turpin. Dick, meanwhile, had reached the opposite bank, and, refreshed by her bath, Bess scrambled up the sides of the stream, and speedily regained the road. “I shall do it yet,” shouted Dick; “that stream has saved her. Hark away, lass! Hark away!”

  Bess heard the cheering cry, and she answered to the call. She roused all her energies; strained every sinew, and put forth all her remaining strength. Once more, on wings of swiftness, she bore him away from his pursuers, and Major Mowbray, who had now gained the shore, and made certain of securing him, beheld him spring, like a wounded hare, from beneath his very hand.

  “It cannot hold out,” said the major; “it is but an expiring flash; that gallant steed must soon drop.”

  �
�She be regularly booked, that’s certain,” said the postboy.

  “We shall find her on the road.”

  Contrary to all expectation, however, Bess held on, and set pursuit at defiance. Her pace was swift as when she started. But it was unconscious and mechanical action. It wanted the ease, the lightness, the life of her former riding. She seemed screwed up to a task which she must execute. There was no flogging, no gory heel; but the heart was throbbing, tugging at the sides within. Her spirit spurred her onwards. Her eye was glazing; her chest heaving; her flank quivering; her crest again fallen. Yet she held on. “She is dying!” said Dick. “I feel it — —” No, she held on.

  Fulford is past. The towers and pinnacles of York burst upon him in all the freshness, the beauty, and the glory of a bright, clear, autumnal morn. The ancient city seemed to smile a welcome — a greeting. The noble Minster and its serene and massive pinnacles, crocketed, lantern-like, and beautiful; St. Mary’s lofty spire, All-Hallows Tower, the massive mouldering walls of the adjacent postern, the grim castle, and Clifford’s neighboring keep — all beamed upon him, like a bright-eyed face, that laughs out openly.

  “It is done — it is won,” cried Dick. “Hurrah! hurrah!” And the sunny air was cleft with his shouts.

  Bess was not insensible to her master’s exultation. She neighed feebly in answer to his call, and reeled forwards. It was a piteous sight to see her, — to mark her staring, protruding eyeball, — her shaking flanks; but, while life and limb held together, she held on.

  Another mile is past. York is near.

  “Hurrah!” shouted Dick; but his voice was hushed. Bess tottered — fell. There was a dreadful gasp — a parting moan — a snort; her eye gazed, for an instant, upon her master, with a dying glare; then grew glassy, rayless, fixed. A shiver ran through her frame. Her heart had burst.

  Dick’s eyes were blinded, as with rain. His triumph, though achieved, was forgotten — his own safety was disregarded. He stood weeping and swearing, like one beside himself.

  “And art thou gone, Bess?” cried he, in a voice of agony, lifting up his courser’s head, and kissing her lips, covered with blood-flecked foam. “Gone, gone! and I have killed the best steed that was ever crossed! And for what?” added Dick, beating his brow with his clenched hand— “for what? for what?”

  At this moment the deep bell of the Minster clock tolled out the hour of six.

  “I am answered,” gasped Dick; “it was to hear those strokes.”

  Turpin was roused from the state of stupefaction into which he had fallen by a smart slap on the shoulder. Recalled to himself by the blow, he started at once to his feet, while his hands sought his pistols: but he was spared the necessity of using them, by discovering in the intruder the bearded visage of the gipsy Balthazar. The patrico was habited in mendicant weeds, and sustained a large wallet upon his shoulders.

  “So it’s all over with the best mare in England, I see,” said Balthazar; “I can guess how it has happened — you are pursued?”

  “I am,” said Dick, roughly.

  “Your pursuers are at hand?”

  “Within a few hundred yards.”

  “Then, why stay here? Fly while you can.”

  “Never — never,” cried Turpin; “I’ll fight it out here by Bess’s side. Poor lass! I’ve killed her — but she has done it — ha, ha! — we have won — what?” And his utterance was again choked.

  “Hark! I hear the tramp of horse, and shouts,” cried the patrico. “Take this wallet. You will find a change of dress within it. Dart into that thick copse — save yourself.”

  “But Bess — I cannot leave her,” exclaimed Dick, with an agonizing look at his horse.

  “And what did Bess die for, but to save you?” rejoined the patrico.

  “True, true,” said Dick; “but take care of her, don’t let those dogs of hell meddle with her carcase.”

  “Away,” cried the patrico, “leave Bess to me.”

  Possessing himself of the wallet, Dick disappeared in the adjoining copse.

  He had not been gone many seconds when Major Mowbray rode up.

  “Who is this?” exclaimed the Major, flinging himself from his horse, and seizing the patrico; “this is not Turpin.”

  “Certainly not,” replied Balthazar, coolly. “I am not exactly the figure for a highwayman.”

  “Where is he? What has become of him?” asked Coates, in despair, as he and Paterson joined the major.

  “Escaped, I fear,” replied the major. “Have you seen any one, fellow?” added he, addressing the patrico.

  “I have seen no one,” replied Balthazar. “I am only this instant arrived. This dead horse lying in the road attracted my attention.”

  “Ha!” exclaimed Paterson, leaping from his steed, “this may be Turpin after all. He has as many disguises as the devil himself, and may have carried that goat’s hair in his pocket.” Saying which, he seized the patrico by the beard, and shook it with as little reverence as the Gaul handled the hirsute chin of the Roman senator.

  “The devil! hands off,” roared Balthazar. “By Salamon, I won’t stand such usage. Do you think a beard like mine is the growth of a few minutes? Hands off! I say.”

  “Regularly done!” said Paterson, removing his hold of the patrico’s chin, and looking as blank as a cartridge.

  “Ay,” exclaimed Coates; “all owing to this worthless piece of carrion. If it were not that I hope to see him dangling from those walls” — pointing towards the Castle— “I should wish her master were by her side now. To the dogs with her.” And he was about to spurn the breathless carcase of poor Bess, when a sudden blow, dealt by the patrico’s staff, felled him to the ground.

  “I’ll teach you to molest me,” said Balthazar, about to attack Paterson.

  “Come, come,” said the discomfited chief constable, “no more of this. It’s plain we’re in the wrong box. Every bone in my body aches sufficiently without the aid of your cudgel, old fellow. Come, Mr. Coates, take my arm, and let’s be moving. We’ve had an infernal long ride for nothing.”

  “Not so,” replied Coates; “I’ve paid pretty dearly for it. However, let us see if we can get any breakfast at the Bowling-green, yonder; though I’ve already had my morning draught,” added the facetious man of law, looking at his dripping apparel.

  “Poor Black Bess!” said Major Mowbray, wistfully regarding the body of the mare, as it lay stretched at his feet. “Thou deservedst a better fate, and a better master. In thee, Dick Turpin has lost his best friend. His exploits will, henceforth, want the coloring of romance, which thy unfailing energies threw over them. Light lie the ground over thee, thou matchless mare!”

  To the Bowling-green the party proceeded, leaving the patrico in undisturbed possession of the lifeless body of Black Bess. Major Mowbray ordered a substantial repast to be prepared with all possible expedition.

  A countryman, in a smock-frock, was busily engaged at his morning’s meal.

  “To see that fellow bolt down his breakfast, one would think he had fasted for a month,” said Coates; “see the wholesome effects of an honest, industrious life, Paterson. I envy him his appetite — I should fall to with more zest were Dick Turpin in his place.”

  The countryman looked up. He was an odd-looking fellow, with a terrible squint, and a strange, contorted countenance.

  “An ugly dog!” exclaimed Paterson: “what a devil of a twist he has got!”

  “What’s that you says about Dick Taarpin, measter?” asked the countryman, with his mouth half full of bread.

  “Have you seen aught of him?” asked Coates.

  “Not I,” mumbled the rustic; “but I hears aw the folks hereabouts talk on him. They say as how he sets all the lawyers and constables at defiance, and laughs in his sleeve at their efforts to cotch him — ha, ha! He gets over more ground in a day than they do in a week — ho, ho!”

  “That’s all over now,” said Coates, peevishly. “He has cut his own throat — ridden his famous mare to dea
th.”

  The countryman almost choked himself, in the attempt to bolt a huge mouthful. “Ay — indeed, measter! How happened that?” asked he, so soon as he recovered speech.

  “The fool rode her from London to York last night,” returned Coates; “such a feat was never performed before. What horse could be expected to live through such work as that?”

  “Ah, he were a foo’ to attempt that,” observed the countryman; “but you followed belike?”

  “We did.”

  “And took him arter all, I reckon?” asked the rustic, squinting more horribly than ever.

  “No,” returned Coates, “I can’t say we did; but we’ll have him yet. I’m pretty sure he can’t be far off. We may be nearer him than we imagine.”

  “May be so, measter,” returned the countryman; “but might I be so bold as to ax how many horses you used i’ the chase — some half-dozen, maybe?”

  “Half a dozen!” growled Paterson; “we had twenty at the least.”

  “And I ONE!” mentally ejaculated Turpin, for he was the countryman.

  BOOK V. — THE OATH

  It was an ill oath better broke than kept —

  The laws of nature, and of nations, do

  Dispense with matters of divinity

  In such a case.

  — Tateham.

  CHAPTER I. — THE HUT ON THORNE WASTE

  Hind. Are all our horses and our arms in safety?