The Works of William Harrison Ainsworth

by William Harrison Ainsworth

  “Remember, to-morrow is her wedding day with Ranulph.”

  “Think you I forget it?”

  “Bear it constantly in mind. To-morrow’s dawn must see her yours or his. You have her oath. To you or to death she is affianced. If she should hesitate in her election, do not you hesitate. Woman’s will is fickle; her scruples of conscience will be readily overcome; she will not heed her vows — but let her not escape you. Cast off all your weakness. You are young, and not as I am, age-enfeebled. Be firm, and,” added he, with a look of terrible meaning, “if all else should fail — if you are surrounded — if you cannot bear her off — use this,” and he placed a dagger in Luke’s hands. “It has avenged me, ere now, on a perjured wife, it will avenge you of a forsworn mistress, and remove all obstacle to Rookwood.”

  Luke took the weapon.

  “Would you have me kill her?” demanded he.

  “Sooner than she should be Ranulph’s.”

  “Ay, aught sooner than that. But I would not murder both.”

  “Both!” echoed Alan. “I understand you not.”

  “Sybil and Eleanor,” replied Luke; “for, as surely as I live, Sybil’s death will lie at my door.”

  “How so?” asked Alan; “the poison was self-ministered.”

  “True,” replied Luke, with terrible emphasis, “but I spoke daggers. Hearken to me,” said he, hollowly whispering in his grandsire’s ears. “Methinks I am not long for this world. I have seen her since her death!”

  “Tut, tut,” replied Alan. “’Tis not for you — a man — to talk thus. A truce to these womanish fancies.”

  “Womanish or not,” returned Luke; “either my fancy has deceived me, or I beheld her, distinctly as I now behold you, within yon cave, while you were sleeping by my side.”

  “It is disordered fancy,” said Alan Rookwood. “You will live — live to inherit Rookwood — live to see them fall crushed beneath your feet. For myself, if I but see you master of Eleanor’s hand, or know that she no longer lives to bless your rival, or to mar your prospects, I care not how soon I brave my threatened doom.”

  “Of one or other you shall be resolved to-night,” said Luke, placing the dagger within his vest.

  At this moment a trampling of a horse was heard before the hovel, and in another instant a loud knocking resounded from the door. The ferryman instantly extinguished the light, motioning his companions to remain silent.

  “What, ho!” shouted a voice. “Ferry wanted.”

  “Gad zooks!” exclaimed Dick. “As I live, ’tis Major Mowbray!”

  “Major Mowbray!” echoed Alan, in amazement “What doth he here?”

  “He must be on his way from York to Rookwood, I conclude,” said Dick. “If he’s here, I’ll engage the others are not far off.”

  Scarcely were the words out of Dick’s mouth, when further clatter was heard at the door, and the tones of Coates were heard, in altissimo key, demanding admittance.

  “Let us retire into the next room,” whispered Turpin, “and then admit them by all means, Conkey. And, hark ye, manage to detain them a few seconds.”

  “I’ll do it,” said Jem. “There’s a bit of a hole you can peep through.”

  Another loud rat-tat was heard at the door, threatening to burst it from its hinges.

  “Well, I be coming,” said Jem, seeing the coast was clear, in a drowsy, yawning tone, as if just awakened from sleep. “You’ll cross the river none the faster for making so much noise.”

  With these words he unbarred the door, and Coates and Paterson, who, it appeared, were proceeding to Rookwood, entered the hovel. Major Mowbray remained on horseback at the door.

  “Can you find us a glass of brandy to keep out the fog?” said Coates, who knew something of our ferryman’s vocations. “I know you are a lad of amazing spirit.”

  “May be I can, master, if I choose. But won’t the other gemman walk in-doors likewise?”

  “No, no,” said Coates; “Major Mowbray don’t choose to dismount.”

  “Well, as you please,” said Jem. “It’ll take me a minute or two to get the punt in order for all them prads.”

  “The brandy in the first place,” said Coates. “What’s here?” added the loquacious attorney, noticing the remnants of Turpin’s repast. “But that we’re hurried, I should like a little frizzled bacon myself.”

  Jem opened the door of his dormitory with the greatest caution, though apparent indifference, and almost instantly returned with the brandy. Coates filled a glass for Paterson, and then another for himself. The ferryman left the house apparently to prepare his boat, half closing the door after him.

  “By my faith! this is the right thing, Paterson,” said the attorney. “We may be sure the strength of this was never tested by a gauger’s proof. Take another thimbleful. We’ve twelve miles and a heavy pull to go through ere we reach Rookwood. After all, we made but a poor night’s work of it, Master Constable. Cursed stupid in us to let him escape. I only wish we had such another chance. Ah, if we had him within reach now, how we would spring upon him — secure him in an instant. I should glory in the encounter. I tell you what, Paterson, if ever he is taken, I shall make a point of attending his execution, and see whether he dies game. Ha, ha! You think he’s sure to swing, Paterson, eh?”

  “Why, yes,” replied the chief constable. “I wish I was as certain of my reward as that Turpin will eventually figure at the scragging-post.”

  “Your reward!” replied Coates. “Make yourself easy on that score, my boy; you shall have your dues, depend upon it. Nay, for the matter of that, I’ll give you the money now, if you think proper.”

  “Nothing like time present,” said Paterson. “We’ll make all square at once.”

  “Well, then,” said Coates, taking out a pocket-book, “you shall have the hundred I promised. You won’t get Turpin’s reward, the three hundred pounds; but that can’t be helped. You shall have mine — always a man of my word, Paterson,” continued the attorney, counting out the money. “My father, the thief-taker, was a man of his word before me.”

  “No doubt,” said the chief constable; “I shall always be happy to serve you.”

  “And then there’s that other affair,” said the attorney, mysteriously, still occupied in doling out his bank-notes, “that Luke Bradley’s case; the fellow, I mean, who calls himself Sir Luke Rookwood — ha, ha! A rank impostor! Two fives, that makes fifty: you want another fifty, Paterson. As I was saying, we may make a good job of that — we must ferret him out. I know who will come down properly for that; and if we could only tuck him up with his brother blade, why it would be worth double. He’s all along been a thorn in my Lady Rookwood’s side; he’s an artful scoundrel.”

  “Leave him to me,” said Paterson; “I’ll have him in less than a week. What’s your charge against him?”

  “Felony, burglary, murder, every description of crime under the heavens,” said Coates. “He’s a very devil incarnate. Dick Turpin is as mild as milk compared with him. By-the-by, now I think of it, this Jem, Conkey Jem, as folks call him, may know something about him; he’s a keen file; I’ll sound him. Thirty, forty, fifty — there’s the exact amount. So much for Dick Turpin.”

  “Dick Turpin thanks you for it in person,” said Dick, suddenly snatching the whole sum from Paterson’s hands, and felling the chief constable with a blow of one of his pistols. “I wish I was as sure of escaping the gallows as I am certain that Paterson has got his reward. You stare, sir. You are once more in the hands of the Philistines. See who is at your elbow.”

  Coates, who was terrified almost out of his senses at the sight of Turpin, scarcely ventured to turn his head; but when he did so, he was perfectly horror-stricken at the threatening aspect of Luke, who held a cutlass in his hand, which he had picked up in the ferryman’s bedroom.

  “So you would condemn me for crimes I have never committed,” said Luke. “I am tempted, I own, to add the destruction of your worthless existence to their number.”

&nbs
p; “Mercy, for God’s sake, mercy!” cried Coates, throwing himself at Luke’s feet. “I meant not what I said.”

  “Hence, reptile,” said Luke, pushing him aside; “I leave you to be dealt upon by others.”

  At this juncture, the door of the hut was flung open, and in rushed Major Mowbray, sword in hand, followed by Conkey Jem.

  “There he stands, sir,” cried the latter; “upon him!”

  “What! Conkey Jem turned snitch upon his pals?” cried Dick; “I scarce believe my own ears.”

  “Make yourself scarce, Dick,” growled Jem; “the jigger’s open, and the boat loose. Leave Luke to his fate. He’s sold.”

  “Never! vile traitor,” shouted Dick; “’tis thou art sold, not he;” and, almost ere the words were spoken, a ball was lodged in the brain of the treacherous ferryman.

  Major Mowbray, meanwhile, had rushed furiously upon Luke, who met his assault with determined calmness. The strife was sharp, and threatened a speedy and fatal issue. On the Major’s side it was a desperate attack of cut and thrust, which Luke had some difficulty in parrying; but as yet no wounds were inflicted. Soldier as was the Major, Luke was not a whit inferior to him in his knowledge of the science of defence, and in the exercise of the broadsword he was perhaps the more skilful of the two: upon the present occasion his coolness stood him in admirable stead. Seeing him hard pressed, Turpin would have come to his assistance; but Luke shouted to him to stand aside, and all that Dick could do, amid the terrific clash of steel, was to kick the tables out of the way of the combatants. Luke’s aim was now slightly grazed by a cut made by the Major, which he had parried. The smart of the wound roused his ire. He attacked his adversary in his turn, with so much vigor and good will, that, driven backwards by the irresistible assault, Major Mowbray stumbled over the ferryman’s body, which happened to lie in his way; and his sword being struck from his grasp, his life became at once at his assailant’s disposal.

  Luke sheathed his sword. “Major Mowbray,” said he, sternly, “your life is in my power. I spare it for the blood that is between us — for your sister’s sake. I would not raise my hand against her brother.”

  “I disclaim your kindred with me, villain!” wrathfully exclaimed the Major. “I hold you no otherwise than as a wretched impostor, who has set up claims he cannot justify; and as to my sister, if you dare to couple her name — —” and the Major made an ineffectual attempt to raise himself, and to regain his sword, which Turpin, however, removed.

  “Dare!” echoed Luke, scornfully; “hereafter, you may learn to fear my threats, and acknowledge the extent of my daring; and in that confidence I give you life. Listen to me, sir. I am bound for Rookwood. I have private access to the house — to your sister’s chamber — her chamber — mark you that! I shall go armed — attended. This night she shall be mine. From you — from Ranulph — from Lady Rookwood, from all will I bear her off. She shall be mine, and you, before the dawn, my brother, or — —” And Luke paused.

  “What further villainy remains untold?” inquired the Major, fiercely.

  “You shall bewail your sister’s memory,” replied Luke, gloomily.

  “I embrace the latter alternative with rapture,” replied the Major— “God grant her firmness to resist you. But I tremble for her.” And the stern soldier groaned aloud in his agony.

  “Here is a cord to bind him,” said Turpin; “he must remain a prisoner here.”

  “Right,” said Alan Rookwood, “unless — but enough blood has been shed already.”

  “Ay, marry has there,” said Dick, “and I had rather not have given Conkey Jem a taste of blue plumb, had there been any other mode of silencing the snitching scoundrel, which there was not. As to the Major, he’s a gallant enemy, and shall have fair play as long as Dick Turpin stands by. Come, sir,” added he, to the Major, as he bound him hand and foot with the rope, “I’ll do it as gently as I can. You had better submit with a good grace. There’s no help for it. And now for my friend Paterson, who was so anxious to furnish me with a hempen cravat, before my neck was in order, he shall have an extra twist of the rope himself, to teach him the inconvenience of a tight neckcloth when he recovers.” Saying which, he bound Paterson in such a manner, that any attempt at liberation on the chief constable’s part would infallibly strangle him. “As to you, Mr. Coates,” said he, addressing the trembling man of law, “you shall proceed to Rookwood with us. You may yet be useful, and I’ll accommodate you with a seat behind my own saddle — a distinction I never yet conferred upon any of your tribe. Recollect the countryman at the Bowling-green at York — ha, ha! Come along, sir.” And having kicked out the turf fire, Dick prepared to depart.

  It would be vain to describe the feelings of rage and despair which agitated the major’s bosom, as he saw the party quit the hovel, accompanied by Coates. Aware as he was of their destination, after one or two desperate but ineffectual attempts to liberate himself, by which he only increased the painful constriction of his bonds, without in the slightest degree ameliorating his condition, he resigned himself, with bitterest forebodings, to his fate. There was no one even to sympathize with his sufferings. Beside him lay the gory corpse of the ferryman, and, at a little distance, the scarcely more animate frame of the chief constable. And here we must leave him, to follow, for a short space, the course of Luke and his companions.

  Concerning themselves little about their own steeds, the party took those which first offered, and embarking man and horse in the boat, soon pushed across the waters of the lutulent Don. Arrived at the opposite banks of the river, they mounted, and, guided by Luke, after half an hour’s sharp riding, arrived at the skirts of Rookwood Park. Entering this beautiful sylvan domain, they rode for some time silently among the trees, till they reached the knoll whence Luke beheld the hall on the eventful night of his discovery of his mother’s wedding ring. A few days only had elapsed, but during that brief space what storms had swept over his bosom — what ravages had they not made! He was then all ardor — all impetuosity — all independence. The future presented a bright unclouded prospect. Wealth, honors, and happiness apparently awaited him. It was still the same exquisite scene, hushed, holy, tranquil — even solemn, as upon that glorious night. The moon was out, silvering wood and water, and shining on the white walls of the tranquil mansion. Nature was calm, serene, peaceful as ever. Beneath the trees, he saw the bounding deer — upon the water, the misty wreaths of vapor — all, all was dreamy, delightful, soothing, all save his heart — there was the conflict — there the change. Was it a troubled dream, with the dark oppression of which he was struggling, or was it stern, waking, actual life? That moment’s review of his wild career was terrible. He saw to what extremes his ungovernable passions had hurried him; he saw their inevitable consequences; he saw also his own fate; but he rushed madly on.

  He swept round the park, keeping under the covert of the wood, till he arrived at the avenue leading to the mansion. The stems of the aged limes gleamed silvery white in the moonshine. Luke drew in the rein beneath one of the largest of the trees.

  “A branch has fallen,” said he, as his grandsire joined him.

  “Ha!” exclaimed Alan, “a branch from that tree?”

  “It bodes ill to Ranulph,” whispered Luke, “does it not?”

  “Perchance,” muttered Alan. “’Tis a vast bough!”

  “We meet within an hour,” said Luke, abruptly.

  “Within the tomb of our ancestry,” replied Alan; “I will await you there.”

  And as he rode away, Alan murmured to himself the following verse from one of his own ballads:

  But whether gale or calm prevail, or threatening cloud hath fled,

  By hand of Fate, predestinate, a limb that tree will shed —

  A verdant bough, untouched, I trow, by axe or tempest’s breath —

  To Rookwood’s head an omen dread of fast approaching death.

  * * *

  CHAPTER III. — HANDASSAH

  I have heard it rumored for the
se many years,

  None of our family dies but there is seen

  The shape of an old woman, which is given

  By tradition to us to have been murthered

  By her nephews for her riches. Such a figure

  One night, as the prince sat up late at ‘s book,

  Appeared to him; when, crying out for help,

  The gentleman of his chamber found his Grace

  All in a cold sweat, altered much in face

  And language, since which apparition

  He hath grown worse and worse, and much I fear

  He cannot live.

  — Duchess of Malfy.

  IN one of those large antique rooms, belonging to the suite of apartments constituting the eastern wing of Rookwood Place — upon the same night as that in which the events just detailed took place, and it might be about the same time, sat Eleanor, and her new attendant, the gipsy Handassah. The eyes of the former were fixed, with a mixture of tenderness and pity, upon the lineaments of another lovely female countenance, bearing a striking resemblance to her own, though evidently, from its attire, and bygone costume, not intended for her, depicted upon a tablet, and placed upon a raised frame. It was nigh the witching hour of night. The room was sombre and dusky, partially dismantled of its once flowing arras, and the lights set upon the table feebly illumined its dreary extent. Tradition marked it out as the chamber in which many of the hapless dames of Rookwood had expired; and hence Superstition claimed it as her peculiar domain. The room was reputed to be haunted, and had for a long space shared the fate of haunted rooms — complete desertion. It was now tenanted by one too young, too pure, to fear aught unearthly. Eleanor seemed, nevertheless, affected by the profound melancholy of the picture upon which she gazed. At length, Handassah observed her start, and avert her eye shudderingly from the picture.

  “Take it hence,” exclaimed Eleanor; “I have looked at that image of my ancestors, till it has seemed endowed with life — till its eyes have appeared to return my gaze, and weep. Remove it, Handassah.”