LITMIR.BIZ

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It was a small green plain, smooth as a well-shorn lawn, kept ever verdant — save in the spots where the frequent fires had scorched its surface — by the flowing stream that rushed past it, and surrounded by an amphitheatre of wooded hills. Here might be seen the canvas tent with its patches of varied coloring; the rude-fashioned hut of primitive construction; the kettle slung

      Between two poles, upon a stick transverse;

      the tethered beasts of burden, the horses, asses, dogs, carts, caravans, wains, blocks, and other movables and immovables belonging to the wandering tribe. Glimmering through the trees, at the extremity of the plain, appeared the ivy-mantled walls of Davenham Priory. Though much had gone to decay, enough remained to recall the pristine state of this once majestic pile, and the long, though broken line of Saxon arches, that still marked the cloister wall; the piers that yet supported the dormitory; the enormous horse-shoe arch that spanned the court; and, above all, the great marigold, or circular window, which terminated the chapel, and which, though now despoiled of its painted honors, retained, like the skeleton leaf, its fibrous intricacies entire — all eloquently spoke of the glories of the past, while they awakened reverence and admiration for the still enduring beauty of the present.

      Towards these ruins Sybil conducted the party.

      “Do you dwell therein?” asked Peter, pointing towards the priory.

      “That is my dwelling,” said Sybil.

      “It is one I should covet more than a modern mansion,” returned the sexton.

      “I love those old walls better than any house that was ever fashioned,” replied Sybil.

      As they entered the Prior’s Close, as it was called, several swarthy figures made their appearance from the tents. Many a greeting was bestowed upon Luke, in the wild jargon of the tribe. At length an uncouth dwarfish figure, with a shock head of black hair, hopped towards them. He seemed to acknowledge Luke as his master.

      “What ho! Grasshopper,” said Luke, “take these horses, and see that they lack neither dressing nor provender.”

      “And hark ye, Grasshopper,” added Turpin; “I give you a special charge about this mare. Neither dress nor feed her till I see both done myself. Just walk her for ten minutes, and if you have a glass of ale in the place, let her sip it.”

      “Your bidding shall be done,” chirped the human insect, as he fluttered away with his charges.

      A motley assemblage 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 passed. 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 spacious 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 sexton, with a ghastly smile.

      “We will see what that kettle contains,” said Luke.

      “Handassah — 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 appetites 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 appetites.”

      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 Dick 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 Dick 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, Dick, caution. Suppose I shift yon brick from the wall, and place this precious document 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 shift for herself, though she can do that on a pinch.”

      Soliloquizing thus, he arose and walked towards the door.

      * * * * *

24. Brown’s Pastorals.

      CHAPTER 3

       SYBIL

       Table of Contents

       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 titles at her feet, and bid her wear them with him; when, with ennobled 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 sunshine 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

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