Rookwood. A Romance By W. 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 grey 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, “are you 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 choose, 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 licence 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.”