W. Ainsworth - Rookwood
"Exactly six feet, sir."
"Well, that's a good guess. Curse that ugly rascal, Tim; he's never brought the whisky. But I'll be even with him to-morrow. Couldn't you just see to the prisoner for ten minutes, Mr. Coates?"
"Not ten seconds. I shall report you, if you stir from your post."
Here the door was opened, and Tim entered with the whisky.
"Arrah! by my soul, Tim, and here you are at last—uncork it, man, and give us a thimbleful—blob! there goes the stopper—here's a glass"—smacking his lips—"whist, Tim, another drop—stuff like this will never hurt a body. Mr. Coates, try it—no—I thought you'd be a man of more taste."
"I must limit you to a certain quantity," replied Coates, "or you will not be fit to keep guard—another glass must be the extent of your allowance."
"Another glass! and do you think I'll submit to any such iniquitous proposition?"
"Beg pardon, gentlemen," said Tim; "but her ladyship desires me to tell you both, that she trusts you will keep the strictest watch upon the prisoner. I have the same message also from Sir Ranulph."
"Do you hear that?" said Coates.
"And what are they all about now, Tim?" groaned Titus.
"Just starting, sir," returned Tim; "and, indeed, I must not lose my time gossiping here, for I be wanted below. You must be pleased to take care of yourselves, gentlemen, for an hour or so, for there will be only a few women-kind left in the house. The storm's just over, and the men are all lighting their torches. Oh, it's a grand sight!" And off set Tim.
"Bad luck to myself, anyhow," ejaculated Titus; "this is more than I can bear—I've had enough of this watch and ward business—if the prisoner stirs, shoot him, if you think proper—I'll be back in an hour."
"I tell you what, Mr. Tyrconnel," said Coates, coolly, taking up the pistol from the table, "I'm a man of few words, but those few are, I hope, to the purpose, and I'd have you to know, if you stir from that chair, or attempt to leave the room, dammee but I'll send a brace of bullets after you. I'm serious, I assure you." Saying which, he cocked the pistol.
By way of reply to this menace, Titus deliberately filled a stiff glass of whisky and water.
"That's your last glass," said the inexorable Coates.
To return once more to Luke. He slept uneasily for some short space, and was awakened by a sound which reached his dreaming ears, and connected itself with the visions that slumber was weaving around him. It was some moments before he could distinctly remember where he was. He would not venture to sleep again, though he felt overwhelmed by drowsiness—there was a fixed pain at his heart, as if circulation were suspended. Changing his posture, he raised himself upon one arm; he then became aware of a scratching noise, somewhat similar to the sound he had heard in his dream, and perceived a light gleaming through a crevice in the oaken partition. His attention was immediately arrested, and placing his eye close to the chink, distinctly saw a dark lantern burning; and by its light, a man filing some implement of house-breaking. The light fell before the hard features of the man, with whose countenance Luke was familiar; and although only one person came within the scope of his view, Luke could make out, from a muttered conversation that was carried on, that he had a companion. The parties were near to him, and though speaking in a low tone, Luke's quick ear caught the following:
"What keeps Jack Palmer, I wonder?" said he of the file. "We're all ready for the fakement—pops primed—and I tell you what, Rob Rust, I've made my clasp-knife as sharp as a razor, and dammee, if Lady Rookwood offers any resistance, I'll spoil her talking in future, I promise you."
Suppressed laughter, from Rust, followed this speech. That laugh made Luke's blood run cold within his veins.
"Harkee, Dick Wilder, you're a reg'lar out-and-outer, and stops at nothing, and curse me if I'd think any more of it than yourself. But Jack's as squeamish of bloodshed as young miss that cries at her cut finger. It's the safer plan. Say what you will, nothing but that will stop a woman's tongue."
"I shall make short work with her ladyship to-night, anyhow. Hist! here Jack comes."
A footstep crossed in the room, and, presently afterwards, exclamations of surprise and smothered laughter were heard from the parties.
"Bravo, Jack! famous! That disguise would deceive the devil himself."
"And now, my lads," said the newcomer, "is all right?"
"Right and tight."
"Nothing forgotten?"
"Nothing."
"Then off with your stamps, and on with your list slippers; not a word. Follow me, and for your lives, don't move a step, but as I direct you. The word must be, 'Sir Piers Rookwood calls.' We'll overhaul the swag here, when the speak is spoken over. This crack may make us all for life; and if you'll follow my directions implicitly, we'll do the trick in style. This slum must be our rendezvous, when all's over; for hark ye, my lads, I'll not budge an inch till Luke Bradley be set free. He's an old friend, and I always stick by old friends. I'd do the same for one of you if you were in the same scrape, so damn you, no flinching; besides, I owe that spider-shank'd, snivelling split-cause Coates, who stands sentry, a grudge, and I'll pay him off, as Paul did the Ephesians. You may crop his ears, or slit his tongue as you would a magpie's, or any other chattering varmint; make him sign his own testament, or treat him with a touch of your Habeas Corpus Act, if you think proper, or give him a taste of blue plumb. One thing only I stipulate, that you don't hurt that fat, mutton-headed Broganeer, whatever he may say or do; he's a devilish good fellow. And now to business."
Saying which, they noiselessly departed. But carefully as the door was closed, Luke's ear could detect the sound. His blood boiled with indignation; and he experienced what all must have felt, who have been similarly situated, with the will, but not the power, to assist another—a sensation almost approaching to torture. At this moment a distant scream burst upon his ears—another—he hesitated no longer. With all his force, he thundered at the door.
"What do you want, rascal?" cried Coates, from without.
"There are robbers in the house."
"Thank you for the information. There is one I know of already."
"Fool, they are in Lady Rookwood's room; run to her assistance."
"A likely story, and leave you here."
"Do you hear that scream?"
"Eh, what—what's that? I do hear something."
Here Luke dashed with all his force against the door. It yielded to the blow, and he stood before the astonished attorney.
"Advance a footstep, villain," exclaimed Coates, presenting both his pistols, "and I lodge a brace of balls in your head."
"Listen to me," said Luke; "the robbers are in Lady Rookwood's chamber—they will plunder the place of everything—perhaps murder her. Fly to her assistance, I will accompany you—assist you—it is your only chance."
"My only chance—your only chance. Do you take me for a greenhorn? This is a poor subterfuge; could you not have vamped up something better? Get back to your own room, or I shall make no more of shooting you than I would of snuffing that candle."
"Be advised, sir," continued Luke. "There are three of them—give me a pistol, and fear nothing."
"Give you a pistol! Ha, ha!—to be its mark myself. You are an amusing rascal, I will say."
"Sir, I tell you not a moment is to be lost. Is life nothing? Lady Rookwood may be murdered."
"I tell you, once for all, it won't do. Go back to your room, or take the consequences."
"By the powers! but it shall do, anyhow," exclaimed Titus, flinging himself upon the attorney, and holding both his arms; "you've bullied me long enough. I'm sure the lad's in the right."
Luke snatched the pistols from the hands of Coates.
"Very well, Mr. Tyrconnel; very well, sir," cried the attorney, boiling with wrath, and spluttering out his words. "Extremely well, sir; you are not perhaps aware, sir, what you have done; but you will repent this, sir—repent, I say—repent was my word, Mr. Tyrconnel."
"Repent be d—d," replied Titus. "I shall never repent a good-natured action."
"Follow me," cried Luke; "settle your disputes hereafter. Quick, or we shall be too late."
Coates bustled after him, and Titus, putting the neck of the forbidden whisky bottle to his lips, and gulping down a hasty mouthful, snatched up a rusty poker, and followed the party with more alacrity than might have been expected from so portly a personage.
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CHAPTER VI
THE APPARITION
ACCOMPANIED by her son, Lady Rookwood, on quitting the chamber of the dead, returned to her own room. She then renewed all her arguments; had recourse to passionate supplications—to violent threats; but without effect. Ranulph maintained profound silence. Passion, as it ever doth, defeated its own ends; and Lady Rookwood, seeing the ill effect her anger would probably produce, gradually softened the asperity of her manner, and suffered him to depart.
Left to herself, and to the communings of her own troubled spirit, her fortitude, in a measure, forsook her, under the pressure of the difficulties by which she was environed. There was no plan she could devise—no scheme adopt, unattended with peril. She must act alone—with promptitude, and secrecy. To win her son over was her chief desire, and that, at all hazards, she was resolved to do. But how? She knew of only one point on which he was vulnerable—his love for Eleanor Mowbray. By raising doubts in his mind, and placing fresh difficulties in his path, she might compel him to acquiesce in her machinations, as a necessary means of accomplishing his own object. This she hoped to effect. Still there was a depth of resolution in the placid stream of Ranulph's character, which she had often noticed with apprehension. Aware of his firmness, she dreaded lost his sense of justice should be stronger than his passion.
As she wove these webs of darkness, fear, hitherto unknown, took possession of her soul. She listened to the howling of the wind—to the vibration of the rafters—to the thunder's roar, and to the hissing rain; till she, who never trembled at the thought of danger, became filled with vague uneasiness. Lights were ordered; and when her old attendant returned, Lady Rookwood fixed a look so wistful upon her, that Agnes ventured to address her.
"Bless you, my lady," said the ancient handmaiden, trembling, "you look very pale, and no wonder. I feel sick at heart, too. Oh! I shall be glad when they return from the church, and happier still when the morning dawns. I can't sleep a wink—can't close my eyes, but I think of him."
"Of him?"
"Of Sir Piers, my lady; for though he's dead, I don't think he's gone."
"How?"
"Why, my lady, the corruptible part of him's gone, sure enough. But the incorruptible, as Doctor Small calls it—the sperrit, my lady. It might be my fancy, your ladyship; but as I'm standing here, when I went back into the room just now for the lights, as I hope to live, I thought I saw Sir Piers in the room."
"You are crazed, Agnes."
"No, my lady, I'm not crazed; it was mere fancy, no doubt. Oh, it's a blessed thing to live with an easy conscience—a thrice blessed thing to die with an easy one, and that's what I never shall, I'm afeard. Poor Sir Piers! I'd mumble a prayer for him, if I durst."
"Leave me," said Lady Rookwood, impatiently.
And Agnes quitted the room.
"What if the dead can return?" thought Lady Rookwood.
"All men doubt it, yet all men believe it. I would not believe it, were there not a creeping horror that overmasters me, when I think of the state beyond the grave—that intermediate state, for such it must be, betwixt heaven or hell, when the body lieth mouldering in the ground, and the soul survives, to wander, unconfined, until the hour of doom. And doth the soul survive when disenthralled? Is it dependent on the body? Does it perish with the body? These are doubts I cannot resolve. But if I deemed there was no future state, this hand should at once liberate me from my own weaknesses—my fears—my life. There is but one path to acquire that knowledge, which once taken can never be retraced.
"I am content to live—while living, to be feared—it may be hated; when dead, to be contemned—yet still remembered. Ha! what sound was that? A stifled scream! Agnes!—without there! She is full of fears. I am not free from them myself, but I will shake them off. This will divert their channel," continued she, drawing from her bosom the marriage certificate. "This will arouse the torpid current of my blood—'Piers Rookwood to Susan Bradley.' And by whom was it solemnised? The name is Checkley—Richard Checkley. Ha! I bethink me—a Papist priest—a recusant—who was for some time an inmate of the hall. I have heard of this man—he was afterwards imprisoned, but escaped—he is either dead, or in a foreign land. No witnesses—'tis well! Methinks Sir Piers Rookwood did well to preserve this. It shall light his funeral pyre. Would he could now behold me, as I consume it!"
She held the paper in the direction of the candle; but, ere it could touch the flame, it dropped from her hand. As if her horrible wish had been granted, before her stood the figure of her husband! Lady Rookwood started not. No sign of trepidation or alarm, save the sudden stiffening of her form was betrayed. Her bosom ceased to palpitate—her respiration stopped—her eyes were fixed upon the apparition.
The figure appeared to regard her sternly. It was at some little distance, within the shade cast by the lofty bedstead. Still she could distinctly discern it. There was no ocular deception; it was attired in the costume Sir Piers was wont to wear—a hunting dress. All that her son had told her rushed to her recollection. The phantom advanced. Its countenance was pale, and wore a gloomy frown.
"What would you destroy?" demanded the apparition, in a hollow tone.
"The evidence of—"
"What?"
"Your marriage."
"With yourself, accursed woman?"
"With Susan Bradley."
"Blood and thunder!" shouted the figure, in an altered tone. "Married to her! then Luke is legitimate, and heir to this estate!" Whereupon the apparition rushed to the table, and laid a very substantial grasp upon the document. "A marriage certificate!" ejaculated the spectre; "here's a piece of luck! It ain't often in our lottery life we draw a prize like this. One way or the other, it must turn up a few cool thousands."
"Restore that paper, villain," exclaimed Lady Rookwood, recovering all the audacity natural to her character, the instant she discovered the earthly nature of the intruder; "restore it, or, by Heaven, you shall rue your temerity."
"Softly, softly," replied the pseudo-phantom, with one hand pushing back the lady, while the other conveyed the precious document to the custody of his nether man—"softly," said he, giving the buckskin pocket a slap—"two words to that, my lady. I know its value as well as yourself, and must make my market. The highest offer has me, your ladyship; he's but a poor auctioneer that knocks down his ware when only one bidder is present. Luke Bradley, or, as I find he now is, Sir Luke Rookwood, may come down more handsomely."
