Part 33 (1/2)
”Your bidding shall be done,” chirped the human insect, as he fluttered away with his charges.
A motley a.s.semblage of tawny-skinned varlets, dark-eyed women and children, whose dusky limbs betrayed their lineage, in strange costume, and of wild deportment, checked the path, muttering welcome upon welcome into the ear of Luke as he pa.s.sed. As it was evident he was in no mood for converse, Sybil, who seemed to exercise considerable authority over the crew, with a word dispersed them, and they herded back to their respective habitations.
A low door admitted Luke and his companions into what had once been the garden, in which some old moss-encrusted apple and walnut-trees were still standing, bearing a look of antiquity almost as venerable as that of the adjoining fabric.
Another open door gave them entrance to a s.p.a.cious chamber, formerly the eating-room or refectory of the holy brotherhood, and a goodly room it had been, though now its slender lanceolated windows were stuffed with hay to keep out the air. Large holes told where huge oaken rafters had once crossed the roof, and a yawning aperture marked the place where a cheering fire had formerly blazed. As regarded this latter spot, the good old custom was not, even now, totally abrogated. An iron plate, covered with crackling wood, sustained a ponderous black caldron, the rich steam from which gratefully affected the olfactory organs of the highwayman.
”That augurs well,” said he, rubbing his hands.
”Still hungering after the fleshpots of Egypt,” said the s.e.xton, with a ghastly smile.
”We will see what that kettle contains,” said Luke.
”Handa.s.sah--Grace!” exclaimed Sybil, calling.
Her summons was answered by two maidens, habited not unbecomingly, in gipsy gear.
”Bring the best our larder can furnish,” said Sybil, ”and use despatch.
You have appet.i.tes to provide for, sharpened by a long ride in the open air.”
”And by a night's fasting,” said Luke, ”and solitary confinement to boot.”
”And a night of business,” added Turpin--”and plaguy perplexing business into the bargain.”
”And the night of a funeral too,” doled Peter; ”and that funeral a father's. Let us have breakfast speedily, by all means. We have rare appet.i.tes.”
An old oaken table--it might have been the self-same upon which the holy friars had broken their morning fast--stood in the middle of the room.
The ample board soon groaned beneath the weight of the savory caldron, the unctuous contents of which proved to be a couple of dismembered pheasants, an equal proportion of poultry, great gouts of ham, mushrooms, onions, and other piquant condiments, so satisfactory to d.i.c.k Turpin, that, upon tasting a mouthful, he absolutely shed tears of delight. The dish was indeed the triumph of gipsy cookery; and so sedulously did d.i.c.k apply himself to his mess, and so complete was his abstraction, that he perceived not he was left alone. It was only when about to wash down the last drumstick of the last fowl with a can of excellent ale that he made this discovery.
”What! all gone? And Peter Bradley, too? What the devil does this mean?”
mused he. ”I must not muddle my brain with any more Pharaoh, though I have feasted like a king of Egypt. That will never do. Caution, d.i.c.k, caution. Suppose I s.h.i.+ft yon brick from the wall, and place this precious doc.u.ment beneath it. Pshaw! Luke would never play me false. And now for Bess! Bless her black skin! she'll wonder where I've been so long. It's not my way to leave her to s.h.i.+ft for herself, though she can do that on a pinch.”
Soliloquizing thus, he arose and walked towards the door.
_CHAPTER III_
_SYBIL_
The wiving vine, that round the friendly elm Twines her soft limbs, and weaves a leafy mantle For her supporting lover, dares not venture To mix her humble boughs with the embraces Of the more lofty cedar.
GLAPTHORNE: _Albertus Wallenstein_.
Beneath a moldering wall, whither they had strayed, to be free from interruption, and upon a carpet of the greenest moss, sat Sybil and her lover.
With eager curiosity she listened to his tale. He recounted all that had befallen him since his departure. He told her of the awful revelations of the tomb; of the ring that, like a talisman, had conjured up a thousand brilliant prospects; of his subsequent perils; his escapes; his rencontre with Lady Rookwood; his visit to his father's body; and his meeting with his brother. All this she heard with a cheek now flushed with expectation, now made pale with apprehension; with palpitating bosom, and suppressed breath. But when taking a softer tone, love, affection, happiness inspired the theme, and Luke sought to paint the bliss that should be theirs in his new estate; when he would throw his fortune into her lap, his t.i.tles at her feet, and bid her wear them with him; when, with enn.o.bled hand and unchanged heart, he would fulfil the troth plighted in his outcast days; in lieu of tender, grateful acquiescence, the features of Sybil became overcast, the soft smile faded away, and, as spring suns.h.i.+ne is succeeded by the sudden shower, the light that dwelt in her sunny orbs grew dim with tears.
”Why--why is this, dear Sybil?” said Luke, gazing upon her in astonishment, not unmingled with displeasure. ”To what am I to attribute these tears? You do not, surely, regret my good fortune?”