Jerry handed the highwayman a pipe, together with a tumbler of the beverage which the knight had prepared, which he pronounced excellent; and while the huge bowl was passed round to the company, a prelude of shawms announced that Peter was ready to break into song.
Accordingly, after the symphony was ended, accompanied at intervals by a single instrument, Peter began his melody, in a key so high, that the utmost exertions of the shawm-blower failed to approach its altitudes. The burden of his minstrelsy was
THE MANDRAKE
œö»{ ´s ¼¹½ º±»s¿Åù ¸µ¿w, DZ»½Àx½ ´s Ä’ @Á{Ãõ¹½
½´Áqù ³µ ¸½·Ä¿¹Ã¹ ¸µ¿¹, ´s ĵ Àq½Ä± ´{½±½Ä±¹.
Homerus.
The mandrake grows ‘neath the gallows-tree,
And rank and green are its leaves to see;
Green and rank, as the grass that waves
Over the unctuous earth of graves;
And though all around it lie bleak and bare,
Freely the mandrake flourisheth there.
Maranatha — Anathema!
Dread is the curse of mandragora!
Euthanasy!
At the foot of the gibbet the mandrake springs;
Just where the creaking carcase swings;
Some have thought it engendered
From the fat that drops from the bones of the dead;
Some have thought it a human thing;
But this is a vain imagining.
Maranatha — Anathema!
Dread is the curse of mandragora!
Euthanasy!
A charnel leaf doth the mandrake wear,
A charnel fruit doth the mandrake bear;
Yet none like the mandrake hath such great power,
Such virtue resides not in herb or flower;
Aconite, hemlock, or moonshade, I ween,
None hath a poison so subtle and keen.
Maranatha — Anathema!
Dread is the curse of mandragora!
Euthanasy!
And whether the mandrake be create
Flesh with the power incorporate,
I know not; yet, if from the earth ’tis rent,
Shrieks and groans from the root are sent;
Shrieks and groans, and a sweat like gore
Oozes and drops from the clammy core.
Maranatha — Anathema!
Dread is the curse of mandragora!
Euthanasy!
Whoso gathereth the mandrake shall surely die;
Blood for blood is his destiny.
Some who have plucked it have died with groans,
Like to the mandrake’s expiring moans;
Some have died raving, and some beside —
With penitent prayers — but all have died.
Jesu! save us by night and day!
From the terrible death of mandragora!
Euthanasy!
“A queer chant that,” said Zoroaster, coughing loudly, in token of disapprobation.
“Not much to my taste,” quoth the knight of Malta. “We like something more sprightly in Canterbury.”
“Nor to mine,” added Jerry; “don’t think it’s likely to have an encore. ‘Pon my soul, Dick, you must give us something yourself, or we shall never cry Euthanasy at the Triple Tree.”
“With all my heart,” replied Turpin. “You shall have — but what do I see, my friend Sir Luke? Devil take my tongue, Luke Bradley, I mean. What, ho! Luke — nay, nay, man, no shrinking — stand forward; I’ve a word or two to say to you. We must have a hob-a-nob glass together for old acquaintance sake. Nay, no airs, man; damme you’re not a lord yet, nor a baronet either, though I do hold your title in my pocket; never look glum at me. It won’t pay. I’m one of the Canting Crew now; no man shall sneer at me with impunity, eh, Zory? Ha, ha! here’s a glass of Nantz; we’ll have a bottle of black strap when you are master of your own. Make ready there, you gut-scrapers, you shawm-shavers; I’ll put your lungs in play for you presently. In the meantime — charge, pals, charge — a toast, a toast! Health and prosperity to Sir Luke Rookwood! I see you are surprised — this, gemmen, is Sir Luke Rookwood, somewhile Luke Bradley, heir to the house of that name, not ten miles distant from this. Say, shall we not drink a bumper to his health?”
Astonishment prevailed amongst the crew. Luke himself had been taken by surprise. When Turpin discovered him at the door of the tent, and summoned him to appear, he reluctantly complied with the request; but when, in a half-bantering vein, Dick began to rally him upon his pretensions, he would most gladly have retreated, had it been in his power. It was then too late. He felt he must stand the ordeal. Every eye was fixed upon him with a look of inquiry.
Zoroaster took his everlasting pipe from his mouth.
“This ain’t true, surely?” asked the perplexed Magus.
“He has said it,” replied Luke; “I may not deny it.”
This was sufficient. There was a wild hubbub of delight amongst the crew, for Luke was a favorite with all.
“Sir Luke Rookwood!” cried Jerry Juniper, who liked a title as much as Tommy Moore is said to dote upon a lord. “Upon my soul I sincerely congratulate you; devilish fortunate fellow. Always cursed unlucky myself. I could never find out my own father, unless it were one Monsieur des Capriolles, a French dancing-master, and he never left anything behind him that I could hear of, except a broken kit and a hempen widow. Sir Luke Rookwood, we shall do ourselves the pleasure of drinking your health and prosperity.”
Fresh bumpers and immense cheering.
Silence being in a measure restored, Zoroaster claimed Turpin’s promise of a song.
“True, true,” replied Dick; “I have not forgotten it. Stand to your bows, my hearties.”
THE GAME OF HIGH TOBY
Now Oliver puts his black nightcap on,
And every star its glim is hiding,
And forth to the heath is the scampsman gone,
His matchless cherry-black prancer riding;
Merrily over the common he flies,
Fast and free as the rush of rocket,
His crape-covered vizard drawn over his eyes,
His tol by his side, and his pops in his pocket.
CHORUS
Then who can name
So merry a game,
As the game of all games — high toby?
The traveller hears him, away! away!
Over the wide wide heath he scurries;
He heeds not the thunderbolt summons to stay,
But ever the faster and faster he hurries.
But what daisy-cutter can match that black tit?
He is caught — he must “stand and deliver;”
Then out with the dummy, and off with the bit,
Oh! the game of high toby for ever!
CHORUS
Then who can name
So merry a game,
As the game of all games — high toby?
Believe me, there is not a game, my brave boys,
To compare with the game of high toby;
No rapture can equal the tobyman’s joys,
To blue devils, blue plumbs give the go-by;
And what if, at length, boys, he come to the crap!
Even rack punch has some bitter in it,
For the mare-with-three-legs, boys, I care not a rap,
‘Twill be over in less than a minute.
GRAND CHORUS
Then hip, hurrah!
Fling care away!
Hurrah for the game of high toby!
“And now, pals,” said Dick, who began to feel the influence of these morning cups, “I vote that we adjourn. Believe me I shall always bear in mind that I am a brother of your band. Sir Luke and I must have a little chat together ere I take my leave. Adieu!”
And taking Luke by the arm, he walked out of the tent. Peter Bradley rose, and followed them.
At the door they found the dwarfish Grasshopper with Black Bess. Rewarding the urchin for his trouble, and slipping the bridle of h
is mare over his hand, Turpin continued his walk over the green. For a few minutes he seemed to be lost in rumination.
“I tell you what, Sir Luke,” said he; “I should like to do a generous thing, and make you a present of this bit of paper. But one ought not to throw away one’s luck, you know — there is a tide in the affairs of thieves, as the player coves say, which must be taken at the flood, or else —— no matter! Your old dad, Sir Piers — God help him! — had the gingerbread, that I know; he was, as we say, a regular rhino-cerical cull. You won’t feel a few thousands, especially at starting; and besides, there are two others, Rust and Wilder, who row in the same boat with me, and must therefore come in for their share of the reg’lars. All this considered, you can’t complain, I think if I ask five thousand for it. That old harridan, Lady Rookwood, offered me nearly as much.”
“I will not talk to you of fairness,” said Luke; “I will not say that document belongs of right to me. It fell by accident into your hands. Having possessed yourself of it, I blame you not that you dispose of it to the best advantage. I must, perforce, agree to your terms.”
“Oh, no,” replied Dick, “it’s quite optional; Lady Rookwood will give as much, and make no mouths about it. Soho, lass! What makes Bess prick her ears in that fashion? — Ha! carriage-wheels in the distance! that jade knows the sound as well as I do. I’ll just see what it’s like! — you will have ten minutes for reflection. Who knows if I may not have come in for a good thing here?”
At that instant the carriage passed the angle of a rock some three hundred yards distant, and was seen slowly ascending the hill-side. Eager as a hawk after his quarry, Turpin dashed after it.
In vain the sexton, whom he nearly overthrew in his career, called after him to halt. He sped like a bolt from the bow.
“May the devil break his neck!” cried Peter, as he saw him dash through the brook; “could he not let them alone?”
“This must not be,” said Luke; “know you whose carriage it is?”
“It is a shrine that holds the jewel that should be dearest in your eyes,” returned Peter; “haste, and arrest the spoiler’s hand.”
“Whom do you mean?” asked Luke.
“Eleanor Mowbray,” replied Peter. “She is there. To the rescue — away.”
“Eleanor Mowbray!” echoed Luke— “and Sybil? — —”
At this instant a pistol-shot was heard.
“Will you let murder be done, and upon your cousin?” cried Peter, with a bitter look. “You are not what I took you for.”
Luke answered not, but, swift as the hound freed from the leash, darted in the direction of the carriage.
* * *
CHAPTER VI. — ELEANOR MOWBRAY
—— Mischiefs
Are like the visits of Franciscan friars,
They never come to prey upon us single.
— Devil’s Law Case.
THE course of our tale returns now to Eleanor Mowbray. After she had parted from Ranulph Rookwood, and had watched him disappear beneath the arches of the church porch, her heart sank, and, drawing herself back within the carriage, she became a prey to the most poignant affliction. In vain she endeavored to shake off this feeling of desolation. It would not be. Despair had taken possession of her; the magic fabric of delight melted away, or only gleamed to tantalize, at an unreachable distance. A presentiment that Ranulph would never be hers had taken root in her imagination, and overshadowed all the rest.
While Eleanor pursued this train of reflection, the time insensibly wore away, until the sudden stoppage of the carriage aroused the party from their meditation. Major Mowbray perceived that the occasion of the halt was the rapid advance of a horseman, who was nearing them at full speed. The appearance of the rider was somewhat singular, and might have created some uneasiness as to the nature of his approach, had not the major immediately recognized a friend; he was, nevertheless, greatly surprised to see him, and turned to Mrs. Mowbray to inform her that Father Ambrose, to his infinite astonishment, was coming to meet them, and appeared, from his manner, to be the bearer of unwelcome tidings.
Father Ambrose was, perhaps, the only being whom Eleanor disliked. She had felt an unaccountable antipathy towards him, which she could neither extirpate nor control, during their long and close intimacy. It may be necessary to mention that her religious culture had been in accordance with the tenets of the Romish Church, in whose faith — the faith of her ancestry — her mother had continued; and that Father Ambrose, with whom she had first become acquainted during the residence of the family near Bordeaux, was her ghostly adviser and confessor. An Englishman by birth, he had been appointed pastor to the diocese in which they dwelt, and was, consequently, a frequent visitor, almost a constant inmate of the château; yet though duty and respect would have prompted her to regard the father with affection, Eleanor could never conquer the feelings of dislike and distrust which she had at first entertained towards him; a dislike which was increased by the strange control in which he seemed to hold her mother, who regarded him with a veneration approaching to infatuation. It was, therefore, with satisfaction that she bade him adieu. He had, however, followed his friends to England under a feigned name as — being a recusant Romish priest, and supposed to have been engaged in certain Jesuitical plots, his return to his own country was attended with considerable risk — , and had now remained domesticated with them for some months. That he had been in some way, in early life, connected with a branch of the house of Rookwood, Eleanor was aware — she fancied he might have been engaged in political intrigue with Sir Reginald, which would have well accorded with his ardent, ambitious temperament — , and the knowledge of this circumstance made her doubly apprehensive lest the nature of his present communication should have reference to her lover, towards whose cause the father had never been favorable, and respecting whose situation he might have made some discovery, which she feared he might use to Ranulph’s disadvantage.
Wrapped in a long black cloak, with a broad-brimmed hat drawn closely over his brows, it was impossible to distinguish further of the priest’s figure and features beyond the circumstance of his height, which was remarkable, until he had reached the carriage window, when, raising his hat, he disclosed a head that Titian might have painted, and which, arising from the dark drapery, looked not unlike the visage of some grave and saturnine Venetian. There was a venerable expanse of forehead, thinly scattered with hair, towering over black pent-house-like brows, which, in their turn, shadowed keen penetrating eyes; the temples were hollow, and blue veins might be traced beneath the sallow skin; the cheek-bones were high, and there was something in the face that spoke of self-mortification; while the thin livid lips, closely compressed, and the austere and sinister expression of his countenance, showed that his self-abasement, if he had ever practised it, had scarcely prostrated the demon of pride, whose dominion might still be traced in the lines and furrows of his haughty physiognomy. The father looked at Mrs. Mowbray, and then glanced suspiciously at Eleanor. The former appeared to understand him.
“You would say a word to me in private,” said Mrs. Mowbray; “shall I descend?”
The priest bowed assent.
“It is not to you alone that my mission extends,” said he, gravely; “you are all in part concerned; your son had better alight with you.”
“Instantly,” replied the major. “If you will give your horse in charge to the postilion, we will attend you at once.”
With a feeling of renewed apprehension, connected, she knew not why, with Ranulph, Eleanor beheld her relatives descend from the carriage; and, in the hope of gaining some clue from their gestures to the subject of their conversation, she watched their motions as narrowly as her situation permitted. From the earnest manner of the priest, and the interest his narrative seemed to excite in his hearers, it was evident that his communication was of importance.
Presently, accompanied by Father Ambrose, Mrs. Mowbray returned to the carriage, while the major, mounting the priest’s horse,
after bidding a hasty adieu to his sister, adding, with a look that belied the consolation intended to be conveyed by his words, that “all was well,” but without staying to offer her any explanation of the cause of his sudden departure, rode back the way they had just traversed, and in the direction of Rookwood. Bereft of the only person to whom she could have applied for information, though dying with curiosity and anxiety to know the meaning of this singular interview and of the sudden change of plans which she felt so intimately concerned herself, Eleanor was constrained to preserve silence, as, after their entrance into the carriage, her mother again seemed lost in painful reflection, and heeded her not; and the father, drawing from his pocket a small volume, appeared intently occupied in its perusal.
“Dear mother,” said Eleanor, at length, turning to Mrs. Mowbray, “my brother is gone — —”
“To Rookwood,” said Mrs. Mowbray, in a tone calculated to check further inquiry; but Eleanor was too anxious to notice it.
“And wherefore, mother?” said she. “May I not be informed?”
“Not as yet, my child — not as yet,” replied Mrs. Mowbray. “You will learn all sufficiently early.”
The priest raised his cat-like eyes from the book to watch the effect of this speech, and dropped them instantly as Eleanor turned towards him. She had been about to appeal to him, but having witnessed this look, she relinquished her scarce-formed purpose, and endeavored to divert her tristful thoughts by gazing through the glimmering medium of her tears upon the soothing aspect of external nature — that aspect which, in sunshine or in storm, has ever relief in store for a heart embittered by the stormy coldness of the world.
The Works of William Harrison Ainsworth Page 44