Well, gentlemen, 'tis a fine night for our enterprise.

 

    Hounslow.

    Dark as hell.

 

    Bagshot.

    And blows like the devil.

 

    Boniface.

    You'll have no creature to deal with but the ladies.

 

    Gibbet.

    And I can assure you, friend, there's a great deal of address, and good manners, in robbing a lady. I am the most of a gentleman, that way, that ever travelled the road.

 

    --Beaux Stratagem.

 

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 lest 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 Dr. 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, 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 solemnized? 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."

 

"What's that I hear?" 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."

 

"Who are you, ruffian, and to what end is this masquerade assumed? If for the purpose of terrifying me into compliance with the schemes of that madman, Luke Bradley, whom I presume to be your confederate, your labor is misspent--your stolen disguise has no more weight with me than his forged claims."

 

"Forged claims! Egad, he must be a clever hand to have forged that certificate. Your ladyship, however, is in error. Sir Luke Rookwood is no associate of mine; I am his late father's friend. But I have no time to bandy talk. What money have you in the house? Be alive."

 

"You are a robber, then?"

 

"Not I. I'm a tax-gatherer--a collector of Rich-Rates--ha, ha! What plate have you got? Nay, don't be alarmed--take it quietly--these things can't be helped--better make up your mind to do it without more ado--much the best plan--no screaming, it may injure your lungs, and can alarm nobody. Your maids have done as much before--it's beneath your dignity to make so much noise. So, you will not heed me? As you will." Saying which, he deliberately cut the bell-cord, and drew out a brace of pistols at the same time.

 

"Agnes!" shrieked Lady Rookwood, now seriously alarmed.

 

"I must caution your ladyship to be silent," said the robber, who, as our readers will no doubt have already conjectured, was no other than the redoubted Jack Palmer. "Agnes is already disposed of," said he, cocking a pistol. "However like your deceased 'lord and master' I may appear, you will find you have got a very different spirit from that of Sir Piers to deal with. I am naturally the politest man breathing--have been accounted the best-bred man on the road by every lady whom I have had the honor of addressing; and I should be sorry to sully my well-earned reputation by anything like rudeness. I must use a little force, of the gentlest kind. Perhaps you will permit me to hand you to a chair. Bless me! what a wrist your ladyship has got. Excuse me if I hurt you, but you are so devilish strong. What ho! 'Sir Piers Rookwood calls--'"

 

"Ready," cried a voice.

 

"That's the word," rejoined another; "ready;" and immediately two men, their features entirely hidden by a shroud of black crape, accoutred in rough attire, and each armed with pistols, rushed into the room.

 

"Lend a hand," said Jack.

 

Even in this perilous extremity Lady Rookwood's courage did not desert her. Anticipating their purpose, ere her assailants could reach her she extricated herself from Palmer's grasp, and rushed upon the foremost so unexpectedly, that, before the man could seize her, she snatched a pistol from his hand, and presented it at the group with an aspect like that of a tigress at bay--her eye wandering from one to the other, as if selecting a mark.

 

There was a pause of a few seconds, in which the men glanced at the lady, and then at their leader. Jack looked blank.

 

"Hem!" said he, coolly; "this is something new--disarmed--defied by a petticoat. Hark ye, Rob Rust, the disgrace rests with you. Clear your character, by securing her at once. What! afraid of a woman?"

 

"A woman!" repeated Rust, in a surly tone; "devilish like a woman, indeed. Few men could do what she has done. Give the word, and I fire. As to seizing her, that's more than I'll engage to do."

 

"You are a coward," cried Jack. "I will steer clear of blood--if I can help it. Come, madam, surrender, like the more sensible part of your sex, at discretion. You will find resistance of no avail." And he stepped boldly towards her.

 

Lady Rookwood pulled the trigger. The pistol flashed in the pan. She flung away the useless weapon without a word.

 

"Ha, ha!" said Jack, as he leisurely stooped to pick up the pistol, and approached her ladyship; "the bullet is not yet cast that is to be my billet. Here," said he, dealing Rust a heavy thump upon the shoulder with the butt-end of the piece, "take back your snapper, and look you prick the touchhole, or your barking-iron will never bite for you. And now, madam, I must take the liberty of again handing you to a seat. Dick Wilder, the cord--quick. It distresses me to proceed to such lengths with your ladyship--but safe bind, safe find, as Mr. Coates would say."

 

"You will not bind me, ruffian."

 

"Your ladyship is very much mistaken--I have no alternative--your ladyship's wrist is far too dexterous to be at liberty. I must furthermore request of your ladyship to be less vociferous--you interrupt business, which should be transacted with silence and deliberation."

 

Lady Rookwood's rage and vexation at this indignity were beyond all bounds. Resistance, however, was useless, and she submitted in silence. The cord was passed tightly round her arms, when it flashed upon her recollection for the first time that Coates and Tyrconnel, who were in charge of her captive in the lower corridor, might be summoned to her assistance. This idea no sooner crossed her mind than she uttered a loud and prolonged scream.

 

"'Sdeath!" cried Jack; "civility is wasted here. Give me the gag, Rob."

 

"Better slit her squeaking-pipe at once," replied Rust, drawing his clasped knife; "she'll thwart everything."

 

"The gag, I say, not that."

 

"I can't find the gag," exclaimed Wilder, savagely. "Leave Rob Rust to manage her--he'll silence her, I warrant you, while you and I rummage the room."

 

"Ay, leave her to me," said the other miscreant. "Go about your business, and take no heed. Her hands are fast--she can't scratch. I'll do it with a single gash--send her to join her lord, whom she loved so well, before he's under ground. They'll have something to see when they come home from the master's funeral--their mistress cut and dry for another. Ho, ho!"

 

"Mercy, mercy!" shrieked Lady Rookwood.

 

"Ay, ay, I'll be merciful," said Rust, brandishing his knife before her eyes. "I'll not be long about it. Leave her to me--I'll give her a taste of Sir Sydney."

 

"No, no, Rust; no bloodshed," said Jack, authoritatively; "I'll find some other way to gag the jade."

 

At this moment a noise of rapid footsteps was heard within the passage.

 

"Assistance comes," screamed Lady Rookwood. "Help! help!"

 

"To the door!" cried Jack. The words were scarcely out of his mouth before Luke dashed into the room, followed by Coates and Tyrconnel.

 

Palmer and his companions levelled their pistols at the intruders, and the lat............