And still of a winter's night, they say, when the wind is in the trees,
When the moon is a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas,
When the road is a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor,
A highwayman comes riding—
Riding—riding—
A highwayman comes riding, up to the old inn-door.
– Alfred Noyes, "The Highwayman," 1906
1
It is a truth seldom acknowledged, that those things which one should not want, are the very things one wants the most.
Yet as often as this principle may lead to error and ruin, it may on occasion lead to that object without which any happiness is impossible. I will leave it to the reader to judge which outcome the following tale illustrates.
The first time I saw the highwayman, his hand was upon my breast and his tongue was in my mouth. He had demanded my necklace at the point of a pistol, yet I had hesitated to hand the precious treasure over, protesting that it had been my poor departed mother's, one of the few objects I had by which to remember her. The highwayman only laughed, then spoke in a voice that attempted gruffness more than achieving it, like a boy straining for the tones of manhood: "Then I'll have it, with interest."
I don't quite know how he managed it, what with leaning into the carriage door and keeping one hand on his pistol. With his other, he lifted the crêpe he wore to disguise his face and placed his lips on my own, just as I gave a gasp of surprise. His tongue entered my parted lips and began exploring within in a most lascivious manner. I couldn't help noticing he was remarkably clean-shaven, with none of that scratchy, three-days' growth of beard one associates with a ruffian. Too, he must have been quite fastidious in his toilette, as a scent of rosewater assailed my senses.
While his tongue was busy in its explorations, his free hand was at my breast, having its pleasure there. Such a feeling came over me as I can hardly describe: a warmth flooding through my limbs as my heart beat faster – if that were possible – and my breath coming rapidly. Leaving off with his kissing and groping, his hand went to the back of my neck and deftly undid the clasp of the necklace. While he performed this operation, his eyes remained fixed on my own, alive with a gleeful light, as though robbing carriages and molesting their occupants was the most exalting occupation in the world. And something more: those eyes saw deep into me, as if they knew with a certainty the feelings those lips and that roving hand had caused.
"It's been a pleasure doing business with you, your ladyship," the highwayman said as he pocketed the treasure, then turned his attention on my companions: Mrs. Simmons, who had once been my governess and now served as a lady's companion; and Lord Anthony Cranford, Viscount Burnside, whom my father hoped would soon ask for my hand in marriage. Contrary to the style the highwayman had given me, I was not of the nobility, for Father was Vicar of Leighton Parish, of which Anthony's father, Earl Highdown, was the patron. Indeed, the carriage in which we rode belonged to his Lordship; Father had taken it as a sign of Anthony's deepening affection for me when that young man had offered to escort us on a shopping excursion to Exeter. As doubtful as I was about that motive – for Anthony claimed also to have business in town – I had been happy to accept this offer from one I considered a friend.
Feeling Anthony's and Mrs. Simmons' attention directed at me, rather than on the pistol now aimed at Anthony's chest, I became distraught. My cheeks felt flushed, and not only with that natural embarrassment prompted by the highwayman's shocking behavior. I had long been taught that an ability to master one's feelings, keeping them well hidden behind a mask of composed equanimity, was the truest mark of gentility and good breeding. Now, however, all my efforts at self-mastery seemed futile. To avoid my demeanour being misconstrued – or, to be more accurate, to avoid it being construed correctly – I feigned to faint, collapsing sideways onto the unoccupied seat next to my own. With eyes half closed, I attended to the events that followed as well as I was able.
Mrs. Simmons made to rush to my side, but the highwayman waved her back with the pistol. "Your charge is in perfect health, ma'am, she's just never been properly kissed ere now. Your Lordship, if you will be so kind as to hand over your purse and that gold ring, sparing us the stories of what an important family heirloom it is."
"I'll see you hanged for this!" Anthony exclaimed as he brought the purse forward.
"A sentiment one hears all too often in this trade, I'm afraid," the highwayman responded with an exaggerated sigh. "Fortunately it has yet to come to pass. Now, ma'am, those packages beneath your seat."
Tossing the packages to his waiting associates – yards of good silk and a new set of silver spoons, for Father and Mrs. Simmons hoped to entertain Lord Highdown and his son in grander fashion than we had done in the past – the rogue made his farewell:
"Ladies, gentleman, we thank you for your kind patronage, and may you have a safe journey home." A moment later, the thunder of hooves carried the outlaws away.
Instantly Mrs. Simmons was at my side, assessing the effects of the highwayman's assault on my person. "Miss Elizabeth, are you well? Can you speak?" She chafed my wrists as she spoke.
I made a show of regaining my senses, opening my eyes to see Mrs. Simmons and Anthony staring at me with the gravest concern. "That was quite a shock," I said, my hand to my breast, as if to calm my beating heart.
"We should get you home as quickly as may be so you can rest," Anthony said, rapping with his walking stick on the roof of the carriage. I accepted their attentions, and then when the talk turned to the state of the roads and the advisability of arming the footmen, I went over the strange events in my mind, not at all sure that rest was what I most needed at the moment.
