the next day. The sheriff having notice of his mother’s boasting that no rope could hang her son — and pursuant to the judge’s desire — provided two ropes, but Delany broke them one after the other! The sheriff was then in a rage, and went for three bed-cords, which he plaited threefold together, and they did his business! Yet the sheriff was afraid he was not dead; and in a passion, to make trial, stabbed him with his sword in the soles of his feet, and at last cut the rope. After he was cut down, his body was carried into the courthouse, where it remained in the coffin for two days, standing up, till the judge and all the spectators were fully satisfied that he was stiff and dead, and then permission was given to his friends to remove the corpse and bury it.”-History of the Rapparees.
21. Highwaymen, as contradistinguished from footpads.
22. Since Mr. Coates here avows himself the writer of this diatribe against Sir Robert Walpole, attacked under the guise of Turpin in the Common Sense of July 30, 1737, it is useless to inquire further into its authorship. And it remains only to refer the reader to the Gents. Mag., vol. vii. p. 438, for the article above quoted; and for a reply to it from the Daily Gazetteer contained in p. 499 of the same volume.
CHAPTER 10
RANULPH ROOKWOOD
Fer. Yes, Francisco, He hath left his curse upon me.
Fran. How?
Fer. His curse I dost comprehend what that word carries? Shot from a father’s angry breath? Unless I tear poor Felisarda from my heart, He hath pronounced me heir to all his curses.
Shirley: The Brothers.
“There is nothing, I trust, my dear young friend, and quondam pupil,” said Dr. Small, as the door was closed, “that weighs upon your mind, beyond the sorrow naturally incident to an affliction, severe as the present. Forgive my apprehensions if I am wrong. You know the affectionate interest I have ever felt for you — an interest which, I assure you, is nowise diminished, and which will excuse my urging you to unburden your mind to me; assuring yourself, that whatever may be your disclosure, you will have my sincere sympathy and commiseration. I may be better able to advise with you, should counsel be necessary, than others, from my knowledge of your character and temperament. I would not anticipate evil, and am, perhaps, unnecessarily apprehensive. But I own, I am startled at the incoherence of your expressions, coupled with your sudden and almost mysterious appearance at this distressing conjuncture. Answer me: has your return been the result of mere accident? is it to be considered one of those singular circumstances which almost look like fate, and baffle our comprehension? or were you nearer home than we expected, and received the news of your father’s demise through some channel unknown to us? Satisfy my curiosity, I beg of you, upon this point.”
“Your curiosity, my dear sir,” replied Ranulph, gravely and sadly, “will not be decreased, when I tell you, that my return has neither been the work of chance — for I came, fully anticipating the dread event, which I find realized — nor has it been occasioned by any intelligence derived from yourself, or others. It was only, indeed, upon my arrival here that I received full confirmation of my apprehensions. I had another, a more terrible summons to return.”
“What summons? you perplex me!” exclaimed Small, gazing with some misgiving into the face of his young friend.
“I am myself perplexed — sorely perplexed,” returned Ranulph. “I have much to relate; but I pray you bear with me to the end. I have that on my mind which, like guilt, must be revealed.”
“Speak, then, fearlessly to me,” said Small, affectionately pressing Ranulph’s hand, “and assure yourself, beforehand, of my sympathy.”
“It will be necessary,” said Ranulph, “to preface my narrative by some slight allusion to certain painful events — and yet I know not why I should call them painful, excepting in their consequences — which influenced my conduct in my final interview between my father and myself — an interview which occasioned my departure for the Continent — and which was of a character so dreadful, that I would not even revert to it, were it not a necessary preliminary to the circumstance I am about to detail.
“When I left Oxford, I passed a few weeks alone, in London. A college friend, whom I accidentally met, introduced me, during a promenade in St. James’s Park, to some acquaintances of his own, who were taking an airing in the Mall at the same time — a family whose name was Mowbray, consisting of a widow lady, her son, and daughter. This introduction was made in compliance with my own request. I had been struck by the singular beauty of the younger lady, whose countenance had a peculiar and inexpressible charm to me, from its marked resemblance to the portrait of the Lady Eleanor Rookwood, whose charms and unhappy fate I have so often dwelt upon and deplored. The picture is there,” continued Ranulph, pointing to it: “look at it, and you have the fair creature I speak of before you; the color of the hair — the tenderness of the eyes. No — the expression is not so sad, except when —— but no matter! I recognized her features at once.
“It struck me, that upon the mention of my name, the party betrayed some surprise, especially the elder lady. For my own part, I was so attracted by the beauty of the daughter, the effect of which upon me seemed rather the fulfilment of a predestined event, originating in the strange fascination which the family portrait had wrought in my heart, than the operation of what is called ‘love at first sight,’ that I was insensible to the agitation of the mother. In vain I endeavored to rally myself; my efforts at conversation were fruitless; I could not talk — all I could do was silently to yield to the soft witchery of those tender eyes; my admiration increasing each instant that I gazed upon them.
“I accompanied them home. Attracted as by some irresistible spell, I could not tear myself away; so that, although I fancied I could perceive symptoms of displeasure in the looks of both the mother and the son, yet, regardless of consequences, I ventured, uninvited, to enter the house. In order to shake off the restraint which I felt my society imposed, I found it absolutely necessary to divest myself of bashfulness, and to exert such conversational powers as I possessed. I succeeded so well that the discourse soon became lively and animated; and what chiefly delighted me was, that she, for whose sake I had committed my present rudeness, became radiant with smiles. I had been all eagerness to seek for some explanation of the resemblance to which I have just alluded, and the fitting moment had, I conceived, arrived. I called attention to a peculiar expression in the features of Miss Mowbray, and then instanced the likeness that subsisted between her and my ancestress. ‘It is the more singular,’ I said, turning to her mother, ‘because there could have been no affinity, that I am aware of, between them, and yet the likeness is really surprising.’—‘It is not so singular as you imagine,’ answered Mrs. Mowbray; ‘there is a close affinity. That Lady Rookwood was my mother. Eleanor Mowbray does resemble her ill-fated ancestress.’
“Words cannot paint my astonishment. I gazed at Mrs. Mowbray, considering whether I had not misconstrued her speech — whether I had not so shaped the sounds as to suit my own quick and passionate conceptions. But no! I read in her calm, collected countenance — in the downcast glance, and sudden sadness of Eleanor, as well as in the changed and haughty demeanor of the brother, that I had heard her rightly. Eleanor Mowbray was my cousin — the descendant of that hapless creature whose image I had almost worshipped.
“Recovering from my surprise, I addressed Mrs. Mowbray, endeavoring to excuse my ignorance of our relationship, on
