The Works of William Harrison Ainsworth

by William Harrison Ainsworth

  One guest alone remains, and him we shall briefly dismiss. The reader, we imagine, will scarcely need to be told who was the owner of those keen gray eyes; those exuberant red whiskers; that airy azure frock. It was

  Our brave co-partner of the roads.

  Skilful surveyor of highways and hedges;

  in a word — Dick Turpin!

  Dick had been called upon to act as president of the board, and an excellent president he made, sedulously devoting himself to the due administration of the punch-bowl. Not a rummer was allowed to stand empty for an instant. Toast, sentiment, and anacreontic song, succeeded each other at speedy intervals; but there was no speechifying — no politics. He left church and state to take care of themselves. Whatever his politics might be, Dick never allowed them to interfere with his pleasures. His maxim was to make the most of the passing moment; the dum vivimus vivamus was never out of his mind; a precautionary measure which we recommend to the adoption of all gentlemen of the like, or any other precarious profession.

  Notwithstanding all Dick’s efforts to promote conviviality, seconded by the excellence of the beverage itself, conversation, somehow or other, began to flag; from being general it became particular. Tom King, who was no punch-bibber, especially at that time of day, fell into a deep reverie; your gamesters often do so; while the Magus, who had smoked himself drowsy, was composing himself to a doze. Turpin seized this opportunity of addressing a few words on matters of business to Jerry Juniper, or, as he now chose to be called, Count Conyers.

  “My dear count,” said Dick, in a low and confidential tone, “you are aware that my errand to town is accomplished. I have smashed Lawyer Coates’s screen, pocketed the dimmock — here ’tis,” continued he, parenthetically, slapping his pockets,— “and done t’other trick in prime twig for Tom King. With a cool thousand in hand, I might, if I chose, rest awhile on my oars. But a quiet life don’t suit me. I must be moving. So I shall start to Yorkshire to-night.”

  “Indeed!” said the soi-disant count, in a languid tone— “so soon?”

  “I have nothing to detain me,” replied Dick. “And, to tell you the truth, I want to see how matters stand with Sir Luke Rookwood. I should be sorry if he went to the wall for want of any assistance I can render him.”

  “True,” returned the count; “one would regret such an occurrence, certainly. But I fear your assistance may arrive a little too late. He is pretty well done up, I should imagine, by this time.”

  “That remains to be seen,” said Turpin. “His case is a bad one, to be sure, but I trust not utterly hopeless. With all his impetuosity and pride, I like the fellow, and will help him, if I can. It will be a difficult game to set him on his legs, but I think it may be done. That underground marriage was sheer madness, and turned out as ill as such a scheme might have been expected to do. Poor Sybil! if I could pipe an eye for anything, it should be for her. I can’t get her out of my head. Give me a pinch of snuff. Such thoughts unman one. As to the priest, that’s a totally different affair. If he strangled his daughter, old Alan did right to take the law into his own hands, and throttle him in return. I’d have done the same thing myself; and, being a proscribed Jesuit, returned, as I understand, without the king’s license for so doing, why Father Checkley’s murder — if it must be so called, I can’t abide hard terms — won’t lie very heavy at Alan’s door. That, however, has nothing to do with Sir Luke. He was neither accessory nor principal. Still he will be in danger, at least from Lady Rookwood. The whole county of York, I make no doubt, is up in arms by this time.”

  “Then why go thither?” asked the count, somewhat ironically; “for my part, I’ve a strange fancy for keeping out of harm’s way as long as possible.”

  “Every man to his taste,” returned Turpin; “I love to confront danger. Run away! pshaw! always meet your foe.”

  “True,” replied the count, “half-way! but you go the whole distance. What prudent man would beard the lion in his den?”

  “I never was a prudent man,” rejoined Dick, smiling; “I have no superfluous caution about me. Come what will, I shall try to find out this Luke Rookwood, and offer him my purse, such as it is, and it is now better lined than usual; a hand free to act as he lists; and a head which, imprudent though it be, can often think better for others than for its own master.”

  “Vastly fine!” exclaimed the count, with an ill-disguised sneer. “I hope you don’t forget that the marriage certificate which you hold is perfectly valueless now. The estates, you are aware — —”

  “Are no longer Sir Luke’s. I see what you are driving at, count,” returned Dick, coldly. “But he will need it to establish his claim to the title, and he shall have it. While he was Sir Luke, with ten thousand a year, I drove a hard bargain, and would have stood out for the last stiver. Now that he is one of ‘us’, a mere Knight of the Road, he shall have it and welcome.”

  “Perhaps Lady Rookwood, or Mrs. Mowbray, might be inclined to treat,” maliciously insinuated the count; “the title may be worth something to Ranulph.”

  “It is worth more to Luke; and if it were not, he gets it. Are you satisfied?”

  “Perfectly,” replied the count, with affected bonhomie; “and I will now let you into a secret respecting Miss Mowbray, from which you may gather something for your guidance in this matter; and if the word of a woman is at all to be trusted, though individually I cannot say I have much faith in it, Sir Luke’s planetary hour is not yet completely overcast.”

  “That’s exactly what I wish to know, my dear fellow,” said Turpin, eagerly. “You have already told me you were witness to a singular interview between Miss Mowbray and Sir Luke after my departure from the priory. If I mistook you not, the whole business will hinge upon that. What occurred? Let me have every particular. The whole history and mystery.”

  “You shall have it with pleasure,” said the count; “and I hope it may tend to your benefit. After I had quitted the scene of action at the priory, and at your desire left the Rookwood party masters of the field, I fled with the rest of the crew towards the rocks. There we held a council of war for a short time. Some were for returning to the fight; but this was negatived entirely, and in the end it was agreed that those who had wives, daughters, and sisters, should join them as speedily as possible at their retreat in the Grange. As I happened to have none of these attractive ties, and had only a troublesome mistress, who I thought could take care of herself, I did not care to follow them, but struck deeper into the wood, and made my way, guided by destiny, I suppose, towards the cave.”

  “The cave!” cried Dick, rubbing his hands; “I delight in a cave. Tom King and I once had a cave of our own at Epping, and I’ll have another one of these fine days. A cave is as proper to a high-tobyman as a castle to a baron. Pray go on.”

  “The cave I speak of,” continued the count, “was seldom used, except upon great emergencies, by any of the Stop Hole Abbey crew. It was a sort of retiring den of our old lioness Barbara, and, like all belonging to her, respected by her dupes. However, the cave is a good cave for all that; is well concealed by brushwood, and comfortably lighted from a crevice in the rock above; it lies near the brink of the stream, amongst the woods just above the waterfall, and is somewhat difficult of approach.”

  “I know something of the situation,” said Turpin.

  “Well,” returned the count, “not to lose time, into this den I crept, and, expecting to find it vacant, you may imagine my surprise on discovering that it was already occupied, and that Sir Luke Rookwood, his granddad, old Alan, Miss Mowbray, and, worst of all, the very person I wished most to avoid, my old flame Handassah, constituted the party. Fortunately, they did not perceive my entrance, and I took especial care not to introduce myself. Retreat, however, was for the moment impracticable, and I was compelled to be a listener. I cannot tell what had passed between the parties before my arrival, but I heard Miss Mowbray implore Sir Luke to conduct her to her mother. He seemed half inclined to comply with her entreaties;
but old Alan shook his head. It was then Handassah put in a word; the minx was ever ready at that. ‘Fear not,’ said she, ‘that she will wed Sir Ranulph. Deliver her to her friends, I beseech you, Sir Luke, and woo her honorably. She will accept you.’ Sir Luke stared incredulously, and grim old Alan smiled. ‘She has sworn to be yours,’ continued Handassah; ‘sworn it by every hope of heaven, and the oath has been sealed by blood — by Sybil’s blood.’— ‘Does she speak the truth?’ asked Sir Luke, trembling with agitation. Miss Mowbray answered not. ‘You will not deny it, lady,’ said Handassah. ‘I heard that oath proposed. I saw it registered. You cannot deny it.’— ‘I do not,’ replied Miss Mowbray, with much anguish of manner; ‘if he claim me, I am his.’— ‘And he will claim you,’ said Alan Rookwood, triumphantly. ‘He has your oath, no matter how extorted — you must fulfil your vow.’— ‘I am prepared to do so,’ said Eleanor. ‘But if you would not utterly destroy me, let this maid conduct me to my mother, to my friends.’— ‘To Ranulph?’ asked Sir Luke, bitterly.— ‘No, no,’ returned Miss Mowbray, in accents of deepest despair, ‘to my mother — I wish not to behold him again.’— ‘Be it so,’ cried Sir Luke; ‘but remember, in love or hate, you are mine; I shall claim the fulfilment of your oath. Farewell. Handassah will lead you to your mother.’ Miss Mowbray bowed her head, but returned no answer, while, followed by old Alan, Sir Luke departed from the cavern.”

  “Whither went they?” demanded Turpin.

  “That I know not,” replied Jerry. “I was about to follow, when I was prevented by the abrupt entrance of another party. Scarcely, I think, could the two Rookwoods have made good their retreat, when shouts were heard without, and young Ranulph and Major Mowbray forced their way, sword in hand, into the cave. Here was a situation — for me, I mean — to the young lady, I make no doubt, it was pleasant enough. But my neck was in jeopardy. However, you know I am not deficient in strength, and, upon the present occasion, I made the best use of the agility with which nature has endowed me. Amidst the joyous confusion — the sobbings, and embracings, and congratulations that ensued — I contrived, like a wild cat, to climb the rocky sides of the cave, and concealed myself behind a jutting fragment of stone. It was well I did so, for scarcely was I hidden, when in came old Barbara, followed by Mrs. Mowbray, and a dozen others.”

  “Barbara!” ejaculated Dick. “Was she a prisoner?”

  “No,” replied Jerry; “the old hell-cat is too deep for that. She had betrayed Sir Luke, and hoped they would seize him and his granddad. But the birds were flown.”

  “I’m glad she was baulked,” said Dick. “Was any search made after them?”

  “Can’t say,” replied Jerry. “I could only indistinctly catch the sounds of their voices from my lofty retreat. Before they left the cavern, I made out that Mrs. Mowbray resolved to go to Rookwood, and to take her daughter thither — a proceeding to which the latter demurred.”

  “To Rookwood,” said Dick, musingly. “Will she keep her oath, I wonder?”

  “That’s more than I can say,” said Jerry, sipping his punch. “’Tis a deceitful sex!”

  “’Tis a deceitful sex, indeed,” echoed Dick, tossing off a tumbler. “For one Sybil we meet with twenty Handassahs, eh, count?”

  “Twenty! — say rather a hundred,” replied Jerry. “’Tis a vile sex.”

  CHAPTER II. — TOM KING

  Grimm. How gloriously the sun sets to-night.

  Moor. When I was a boy, my favorite thought was, that I should live and die like yonder glorious orb. It was a boyish thought.

  Grimm. True, captain.

  — The Robbers.

  “PEACE, base calumniators,” exclaimed Tom King, aroused from his toothpick reverie by these aspersions of the best part of creation. “Peace, I say. None shall dare abuse that dear devoted sex in the hearing of their champion, without pricking a lance with him in their behalf. What do you, either of you, who abuse woman in that wholesale style, know of her? Nothing — less than nothing; and yet you venture, upon your paltry experience, to lift up your voices and decry the sex. Now I do know her; and upon my own experience avouch, that, as a sex, woman, compared with man, is as an angel to a devil. As a sex, woman is faithful, loving, self-sacrificing. We ’tis that make her otherwise; we, selfish, exacting, neglectful men; we teach her indifference, and then blame her apt scholarship. We spoil our own hand, and then blame the cards. No abuse of women in my hearing. Give me a glass of grog, Dick. ‘The sex! — three times three!’ — and here’s a song for you into the bargain.” Saying which, in a mellow, plaintive tone, Tom gave the following:

  PLEDGE OF THE HIGHWAYMAN

  Come, fill up a bumper to Eve’s fairest daughters,

  Who have lavished their smiles on the brave and the free;

  Toast the sweethearts of Dudley, Hind, Wilmot, and Waters,

  Whate’er their attraction, whate’er their degree.

  Pledge! pledge in a bumper, each kind-hearted maiden,

  Whose bright eyes were dimmed at the highwayman’s fall;

  Who stood by the gallows with sorrow o’erladen,

  Bemoaning the fate of the gallant Du-Val!

  Here’s to each lovely lass chance of war bringeth near one,

  Whom, with manner impassioned, we tenderly stop;

  And to whom, like the lover addressing his dear one,

  In terms of entreaty the question we pop.

  How oft, in such case, rosy lips have proved sweeter

  Than the rosiest book, bright eyes saved a bright ring;

  While that one other kiss has brought off a repeater,

  And a bead as a favor — the favorite string.

  With our hearts ready rifled, each pocket we rifle,

  With the pure flame of chivalry stirring our breasts;

  Life’s risk for our mistress’s praise is a trifle;

  And each purse as a trophy our homage attests.

  Then toss off your glasses to all girls of spirit,

  Ne’er with names, or with number, your memories vex;

  Our toast, boys, embraces each woman of merit,

  And, for fear of omission, we’ll drink the whole sex.

  “Well,” replied Dick, replenishing King’s rummer, while he laughed heartily at his ditty, “I shan’t refuse your toast, though my heart don’t respond to your sentiments. Ah, Tom! the sex you praise so much will, I fear, prove your undoing. Do as you please, but curse me if ever I pin my life to a petticoat. I’d as soon think of neglecting the four cautions.”

  “The four cautions,” said King; “what are they?”

  “Did you never hear them?” replied Dick. “Attend, then, and be edified.”

  THE FOUR CAUTIONS

  Pay attention to these cautions four,

  And through life you will need little more,

  Should you dole out your days to threescore

  Beware of a pistol before!

  Before! before!

  Beware of a pistol before!

  And when backward his ears are inclined,

  And his tail with his ham is combined,

  Caution two you will bear in your mind:

  Beware of a prancer behind!

  Behind! behind!

  Beware of a prancer behind!

  Thirdly, when in the park you may ride,

  On your best bit of blood, sir, astride,

  Chatting gay to your old friend’s young bride:

  Beware of a coach at the side!

  At the side! at the side!

  Beware of a coach at the side!

  Lastly, whether in purple or gray,

  Canter, ranter, grave, solemn, or gay,

  Whate’er he may do or may say,

  Beware of a priest every way!

  Every way! every way!

  Beware of a priest every way!

  “Well,” said Tom King, “all you can sing or say don’t alter my good opinion of the women. Not a secret have I from the girl of my heart. She could have sold me over and over again if she had
chosen, but my sweet Sue is not the wench to do that.”

  “It is not too late,” said Dick. “Your Delilah may yet hand you over to the Philistines.”

  “Then I shall die in a good cause,” said King; “but

  The Tyburn Tree

  Has no terrors for me,

  Let better men swing — I’m at liberty.

  “I shall never come to the scragging-post, unless you turn topsman, Dick Turpin. My nativity has been cast, and the stars have declared I am to die by the hand of my best friend — and that’s you — eh? Dick?”

  “It sounds like it,” replied Turpin; “but I advise you not to become too intimate with Jack Ketch. He may prove your best friend, after all.”

  “Why, faith, that’s true,” replied King, laughing; “and if I must ride backwards up Holborn Hill, I’ll do the thing in style, and honest Jack Ketch shall never want his dues. A man should always die game. We none of us know how soon our turn may come; but come when it will, I shall never flinch from it.

  As the highwayman’s life is the fullest of zest,

  So the highwayman’s death is the briefest and best;

  He dies not as other men die, by degrees,

  But at once! without flinching — and quite at his ease!

  as the song you are so fond of says. When I die it will not be of consumption. And if the surgeon’s knife must come near me, it will be after death. There’s some comfort in that reflection, at all events.”