their mother. No revels like dead men’s revels, Dick. I shall soon join ’em.”
“You will not lay violent hands upon yourself, mother?” said Dick, with difficulty mastering his terror.
“No,” replied Barbara, in an altered tone. “But I will let nature do her task. Would she could do it more quickly. Such a life as mine won’t go out without a long struggle. What have I to live for now? All are gone — she and her child! But what is this to you? You have no child; and if you had, you could not feel like a father. No matter — I rave. Listen to me. I have crawled hither to die. ’Tis five days since I beheld you, and during that time food has not passed these lips, nor aught of moisture, save Heaven’s dew, cooled this parched throat, nor shall they to the last. That time cannot be far off; and now can you not guess how I mean to die? Begone and leave me; your presence troubles me. I would breathe my last breath alone, with none to witness the parting pang.”
“I will not trouble you longer, mother,” said Dick, turning his mare; “nor will I ask your blessing.”
“My blessing!” scornfully ejaculated Barbara. “You shall have it if you will, but you will find it a curse. Stay! a thought strikes me. Whither are you going?”
“To seek Sir Luke Rookwood,” replied Dick. “Know you aught of him?”
“Sir Luke Rookwood! You seek him, and would find him?” screamed Barbara.
“I would,” said Dick.
“And you will find him,” said Barbara; “and that ere long. I shall ne’er again behold him. Would I could. I have a message for him — one of life and death. Will you convey it to him?”
“I will,” said the highwayman.
“Swear by those bones to do so,” cried Barbara, pointing with her skinny fingers to the gibbet; “that you will do my bidding.”
“I swear,” cried Dick.
“Fail not, or we will haunt thee to thy life’s end,” cried Barbara; adding, as she handed a sealed package to the highwayman, “Give this to Sir Luke — to him alone. I would have sent it to him by other hands ere this, but my people have deserted me — have pillaged my stores — have rifled me of all save this. Give this, I say, to Sir Luke, with your own hands. You have sworn it, and will obey. Give it to him, and bid him think of Sybil as he opens it. But this must not be till Eleanor is in his power; and she must be present when the seal is broken. It relates to both. Dare not to tamper with it, or my curse shall pursue you. That packet is guarded with a triple spell, which to you were fatal. Obey me, and my dying breath shall bless thee.”
“Never fear,” said Dick, taking the packet; “I’ll not disappoint you, mother, depend upon it.”
“Hence!” cried the crone; and as she watched Dick’s figure lessening upon the Waste, and at length beheld him finally disappear down the hill-side, she sank to the ground, her frail strength being entirely exhausted. “Body and soul may now part in peace,” gasped she. “All I live for is accomplished.” And ere one hour had elapsed, the night crow was perched upon her still breathing frame.
Long pondering upon this singular interview, Dick pursued his way. At length he thought fit to examine the packet with which the old gipsy had entrusted him.
“It feels like a casket,” thought he. “It can’t be gold. But then it may be jewels, though they don’t rattle, and it ain’t quite heavy enough. What can it be? I should like to know. There is some mystery, that’s certain, about it; but I will not break the seal, not I. As to her spell, that I don’t value a rush; but I’ve sworn to give it to Sir Luke, and deliver her message, and I’ll keep my word if I can. He shall have it.” So saying, he replaced it in his pocket.
CHAPTER 11
THE PHANTOM STEED
I’ll speak to thee, though hell itself should gape, And bid me hold my peace.
Hamlet.
Time presses. We may not linger in our course. We must fly on before our flying highwayman. Full forty miles shall we pass over in a breath. Two more hours have elapsed, and he still urges his headlong career, with heart resolute as ever, and purpose yet unchanged. Fair Newark, and the dashing Trent, “most loved of England’s streams,” are gathered to his laurels. Broad Notts, and its heavy paths and sweeping glades; its waste — forest no more — of Sherwood past; bold Robin Hood and his merry men, his Marian and his moonlight rides, recalled, forgotten, left behind. Hurrah! hurrah! That wild halloo, that waving arm, that enlivening shout — what means it? He is once more upon Yorkshire ground; his horse’s hoof beats once more the soil of that noble shire. So transported was Dick, that he could almost have flung himself from the saddle to kiss the dust beneath his feet. Thrice fifty miles has he run, nor has the morn yet dawned upon his labors. Hurrah! the end draws nigh; the goal is in view. Halloo! halloo! on!
Bawtrey is past. He takes the lower road by Thorne and Selby. He is skirting the waters of the deep-channelled Don.
Bess now began to manifest some slight symptoms of distress. There was a strain in the carriage of her throat, a dulness in her eye, a laxity in her ear, and a slight stagger in her gait, which Turpin noticed with apprehension. Still she went on, though not at the same gallant pace as heretofore. But, as the tired bird still battles with the blast upon the ocean, as the swimmer still stems the stream, though spent, on went she: nor did Turpin dare to check her, fearing that, if she stopped, she might lose her force, or, if she fell, she would rise no more.
It was now that gray and grimly hour ere one flicker of orange or rose has gemmed the east, and when unwearying Nature herself seems to snatch brief repose. In the roar of restless cities, this is the only time when their strife is hushed. Midnight is awake — alive; the streets ring with laughter and with rattling wheels. At the third hour, a dead, deep silence prevails; the loud-voiced streets grow dumb. They are deserted of all, save the few guardians of the night and the skulking robber. But even far removed from the haunts of men and hum of towns it is the same. “Nature’s best nurse” seems to weigh nature down, and stillness reigns throughout. Our feelings are, in a great measure, influenced by the hour. Exposed to the raw, crude atmosphere, which has neither the nipping, wholesome shrewdness of morn, nor the profound chillness of night, the frame vainly struggles against the dull, miserable sensations engendered by the damps, and at once communicates them to the spirits. Hope forsakes us. We are weary, exhausted. Our energy is dispirited. Sleep does “not weigh our eyelids down.” We stare upon the vacancy. We conjure up a thousand restless, disheartening images. We abandon projects we have formed, and which, viewed through this medium, appear fantastical, chimerical, absurd. We want rest, refreshment, energy.
We will not say that Turpin had all these misgivings. But he had to struggle hard with himself to set sleep and exhaustion at defiance.
The moon had set. The stars,
Pinnacled deep in the intense main,
had all — save one, the herald of the dawn — withdrawn their luster. A dull mist lay on the stream, and the air became piercing cold. Turpin’s chilled fingers could scarcely grasp the slackening rein, while his eyes, irritated by the keen atmosphere, hardly enabled him to distinguish surrounding objects, or even to guide his steed. It was
