“Who placed her in your path?” asked the sexton. “Did you not lend a helping hand to create that obstacle yourself?”
“I did,” replied Barbara. “Would you know wherefore? I will tell you. I had a double motive for it. There is a curse upon the house of Rookwood, that kills the first fair bride each generation leads to the altar. Have you never heard of it?”
“I have! And did that idle legend sway you?”
“And do you call it idle? You! Well — I had another motive — a prophecy.”
“By yourself uttered,” replied Peter.
“Even so,” replied Barbara. “The prophecy is fulfilled. The stray rook is found. The rook hath with rook mated. Luke hath wedded Eleanor. He will hold possession of his lands. The prophecy is fulfilled.”
“But how?” asked Peter; “will your art tell you how and why he shall now hold possession? Can you tell me that?”
“My art goes not so far. I have predicted the event. It has come to pass. I am satisfied. He has wedded her. Be it mine to free him from that yoke.” And Barbara laughed exultingly.
The sexton approached the old crone, and laid his hand with violence upon her shoulder.
“Hear me,” cried he, “and I will tell you that which your juggling art refuses to reveal. Eleanor Mowbray is heir to the lands of Rookwood! The estates are hers! They were bequeathed to her by her grandsire, Sir Reginald.”
“She was unborn when he died,” cried Mrs. Mowbray.
“True,” replied Peter; “but the lands were left to your issue female, should such issue be born.”
“And did Sir Piers, my brother, know of this? did he see this will,” asked Mrs. Mowbray, with trembling impatience.
“He did; and withheld the knowledge of it from you and yours.”
“Ah! why knew I not this before? Why did you not tell me ere that was done which cannot be undone? I have sacrificed my child.”
“Because it did not chime with my purposes to tell you,” replied Peter, coldly.
“It is false — it is false,” cried Mrs. Mowbray, her anger and vexation getting the better of her fears. “I will not believe it. Who are you, that pretend to know the secrets of our house?”
“One of that house,” replied the sexton.
“Your name?”
“Would you know my name?” answered Peter, sternly. “The time is come when I will no longer conceal it. I am Alan Rookwood.”
“My father’s brother!” exclaimed Mrs. Mowbray.
“Ay, Alan Rookwood. The sworn enemy of your father — of you — of all of ye: your fate — your destiny — your curse. I am that Alan Rookwood whose name you breathed in the vault. I am he, the avenger — the avenged. I saw your father die. I heard his groans — his groans! — ha, ha! I saw his sons die: one fell in battle — I was with him there. The other expired in his bed. I was with Sir Piers when he breathed his last, and listened to his death agonies. ’Twas I who counselled him to keep the lands from you and from your child, and he withheld them. One only amongst the race, whose name I have cast off, have I loved; and him — because,” added he, with something like emotion— “because he was my daughter’s child — Luke Rookwood. And even he shall minister to my vengeance. He will be your curse — your daughter’s curse — for he loves her not. Yet he is her husband, and hath her land; — ha, ha!” And he laughed till he became convulsed with the paroxysm of fiendish exultation.
“Mine ears are stunned,” cried Mrs. Mowbray.
“The bride is mine; relinquish her to me,” said Barbara. “Advance and seize her, my children.”
Alan Rookwood — for so we shall henceforth denominate the sexton — suddenly grew calm: he raised the whistle to his lips, and blew a call so loud and shrill, that those who were advancing hung back irresolute.
There was a rush at the door of the vault. The sentinels were struck down; and with pistols in each hand, and followed by two assistants, Dick Turpin sprang into the thick of the crew.
“Here we are,” cried he, “ready for action. Where is Sir Luke Rookwood? where my churchyard pal, Peter?”
“Here,” cried the sexton and Luke simultaneously.
“Then stand aside,” cried Dick, pushing in the direction of the sounds, and bearing down all opposition. “Have a care there — these triggers are ticklish. Friend or foe, he who touches me shall have a bullet in his gizzard. Here I am, pal Peter; and here are my two chums, Rust and Wilder. Cut the whid.”
“Have we license to pass scathless now?” asked the sexton; “or shall we make good our way?”
“You shall not pass,” cried Barbara, furiously. “Think you to rob me of my prey? What, cowards! do you hesitate? Ha!”
“Kindle the torches,” cried several voices. “We fight not in the dark.”
A pistol was flashed. The torch again blazed. Its light fell upon a tumultuous group.
“Seize the bride,” cried Barbara.
“Hold!” exclaimed a voice from the altar. The voice was that of Sybil.
Her hand was clasped in that of Luke. Eleanor had fainted in the arms of the gipsy girl Handassah.
“Are you my bride?” ejaculated Luke, in dismay.
“Behold the ring upon my finger! Your own hand placed it there.”
“Betrayed!” screamed Alan, in a voice of anguish. “My schemes annihilated — myself undone — my enemies triumphant — lost! lost! All is destroyed — all!”
“Joy! joy!” exclaimed Mrs. Mowbray: “my child is saved.”
“And mine destroyed,” groaned Barbara. “I have sworn by the cross to slay the bride — and Sybil is that bride.”
CHAPTER XII. — ALAN ROOKWOOD
The wolf shall find her grave, and scrape it up;
Not to devour the corse, but to discover
The horrid murther.
Webster.
“BRAVO! CAPITAL!” cried Turpin, laughing loud and long as an Olympian deity; “has this simple wench outwitted you all; turned the tables upon the whole gang of plotters, eh? Excellent! ha, ha, ha! The next time you wed, Sir Luke, let me advise you not to choose a wife in the dark. A man should have all his senses about him on these occasions. Make love when the liquor’s in; marry when it’s out, and, above all, with your eyes open. This beats cock-fighting — ha, ha, ha! — you must excuse me; but, upon my soul, I can’t help it.” And his laughter seemed inextinguishable.
“Take your men without,” whispered Alan Rookwood; “keep watch as before, and let the discharge of a pistol bespeak the approach of danger as agreed upon; much yet remains to be done here.”
“How so?” asked Dick; “it seems to me the job’s entirely settled — if not to your satisfaction. I’m always ready to oblige my friend, Sir Luke; but curse me if I’d lend my help to any underhand work. Steer clear of foul play, or Dick Turpin holds no hand with you. As to that poor wench, if you mean her any harm, curse me if I will — —”
“No harm is intended her,” replied Alan. “I applaud your magnanimity,” added he, sarcastically; “such sentiments are, it must be owned, in excellent keeping with your conduct.”
“In keeping or not,” replied Turpin, gravely, “cold-blooded murder is altogether out of my line, and I wash my hands of it. A shot or two in self defence is another matter; and when — —”
“A truce to this,” interrupted Alan; “the girl is safe. Will you mount guard again?”
“If that be the case, certainly,” replied Dick. “I shall be glad to get back to Bess. I couldn’t bring her with me into this black hole. A couple of shots will tell you ’tis Ranulph Rookwood. But mind, no harm to the gipsy girl — to Lady Rookwood, I should say. She’s a jewel, take my word for it, which Sir Luke must be mad to throw away.” And calling his companions, he departed.
Alan Rookwood bent his steps towards the gipsy queen. Dark thoughts gathered quickly o’er his brow. He smiled as he drew nigh to Barbara — a smile it was
That wrinkled up his skin even to the hair.
Barbara looked at him
at first with distrust; but as he developed his secret purposes, that smile became reflected upon her own features. Their conference took place apart. We willingly leave them to return to the altar.
Mrs. Mowbray and the priest were still there. Both were occupied in ineffectual endeavors to restore Eleanor to consciousness. She recovered from her swoon; but it was evident her senses still wandered; and vainly did Mrs. Mowbray lavish her tenderest caresses upon her child. Eleanor returned them not.
Luke, meanwhile, had given vent to the wildest fury. He shook away Sybil’s grasp; he dashed her from him; he regarded her with withering glances; he loaded her with reproaches. She bore his violence with meekest submission; she looked imploringly — but she replied not to his taunts. Again she clung to the hem of his garment when cast aside. Luke appeared unmoved; what passed within we pause not to examine. He grew calmer; his calmness was more terrible to Sybil than his previous wrath had been.
“You are my wife,” said he; “what then? By fraud, by stratagem, you have obtained that title, and, perforce, must keep it. But the title onlyshall you retain. No rights of wife shall ever be yours. It will be in your power to call yourself Lady Rookwood — you will be so in name — in nothing else.”
“I shall not bear it long,” murmured Sybil.
Luke laughed scornfully, “So you said before,” replied he; “and yet I see not why you are likely to abandon it. The event will show. Thus far you have deceived me, and I place no further faith in your assertions. My hand was yours; you refused it. When I would give it to another, you grasp it clandestinely. Am I to believe you now? The wind will change — the vane veer with it.”
“It will not veer from you,” she meekly answered.
“Why did you step between me and my bride?”
“To save her life; to lay down mine for hers.”
“An idle subterfuge. You know well that you run no risk of being called upon to do so. Your life is in no danger. The sacrifice was unnecessary. I could have dispensed with your assistance; my own arm would have sufficed to protect Eleanor.”
“Your single arm would not have prevailed against numbers: they would have killed you likewise.”
“Tush!” said Luke, fiercely. “Not only have you snatched from me my bride, you have robbed me of my fair estates, of all, save of my barren title, and that, even that, you have tarnished.”
“True, true,” sighed Sybil. “I knew not that the lands were hers, else had I never done it.”
“False, false,” cried Luke; “false as the rest. They will be Ranulph’s. She will be Ranulph’s. I shall still be an outcast, while Ranulph will riot in my halls — will press her to his bosom. Cling not to me. Hence! or I will spurn you from me. I am undone, undone by you, accursed one.”
“Oh, curse me not! your words cut deep enough.”
“Would they could kill you,” cried Luke, with savage bitterness. “You have placed a bar between me and my prospects, which nothing can now remove — nothing but — ha!” and his countenance assumed a deadly hue and fearful expression. “By Heaven, you almost rouse the fell spirit which it is said dwells within the breast of my devoted race. I feel as if I could stab thee.”
“No, no!” shrieked Sybil; “for mercy’s sake, for your own sake, do not stab me. It is not too late. I will repair my wrong!”
“Ever deceiving! you would again delude me. You cannot repair it. One way alone remains, and that — —”
“I will pursue,” responded Sybil, sadly, but firmly.
“Never!” cried Luke; “you shall not. Ha!” exclaimed he, as he found his arms suddenly pinioned behind him. “What new treachery is this? By whose orders am I thus fettered?”
“By mine,” said Alan Rookwood, stepping forward.
“By yours?” echoed Luke. “And wherefore? Release me.”
“Be patient,” replied Alan. “You will hear all anon. In the meantime you must be content to remain my prisoner. Quit not your hold,” added he, addressing the gipsies, who kept charge of Luke.
“Their lives shall answer for their obedience,” said Barbara.
Upon a further signal from Alan, Eleanor was torn from her mother’s arms, and a bandage passed so suddenly over Mrs. Mowbray’s face, that, before she could raise a cry of alarm, all possibility of utterance was effectually prevented. The priest alone was left at liberty.
Barbara snatched the hand of Eleanor. She dragged her to Sybil.
“You are Lady Rookwood,” whispered she; “but she has your domains. I give her to you.”
“She is the only bar between thy husband and his rights,” whispered Alan Rookwood, in a tone of horrible irony; “it is not too late to repair your wrong.”
“Away, tempter!” cried Sybil, horror-stricken. “I know you well. Yet,” continued she, in an altered tone, “I will risk all for him. I have done him wrong. One mode of atonement remains; and, horrible though it be, I will embrace it. Let me not pause. Give her to me.” And she seized upon the unresisting hand of Eleanor.
“Do you need my aid?” asked Barbara.
“No,” replied Sybil; “let none approach us. A clapping of hands will let you know when all is over.” And she dragged her passive victim deeper into the vault.
“Sybil, Sybil!” cried Luke, struggling with frantic violence to liberate himself; “hurt her not. I was rash. I was mad. I am calmer now. She hears me not — she will not turn. God of heaven! she will murder her. It will be done while I speak. I am the cause of all. Release me, villains! Would that I had died ere I had seen this day.”
At a signal from the sexton, Luke also was blindfolded. He ceased to struggle. But his laboring breast told of the strife within.
“Miscreants!” exclaimed the priest, who had hitherto witnessed the proceedings in horror. “Why do not these rocks fall in, and crush you and your iniquities? Save her! oh, save her! Have you no pity for the innocent?”
“Such pity have we,” replied Alan Rookwood, “as you showed my daughter. She was as innocent as Eleanor Mowbray, and yet you did not pity her.”
“Heaven is my witness,” exclaimed the priest, “that I never injured her.”
“Take not Heaven’s name in vain,” cried Alan. “Who stood by while it was doing? Whose firmer hand lent aid to the murderer’s trembling efforts? Whose pressure stifled her thrilling screams, and choked her cries for mercy? Yours — yours; and now you prate to me of pity — you, the slayer of the sleeping and the innocent!”
“’Tis false!” exclaimed the priest, in extremity of terror.
“False!” echoed Alan. “I had Sir Piers’s own confession. He told me all. You had designs upon Sir Piers, which his wife opposed; you hated her; you were in the confidence of both — how did you keep that confidence? He told me how, by awakening a spirit of jealousy and pride, that o’ermastered all his better feelings. False! He told me of your hellish machinations; your Jesuitical plots; your schemes. He was too weak, too feeble an instrument to serve you. You left him, but not before she had left him. False! ha, I have that shall instantly convict you. The corpse is here, within this cell. Who brought it hither?”
The priest was silent: he seemed confounded by Alan’s violence.
“I will answer that question,” said Barbara. “It was brought hither by that false priest. His agent, Balthazar, has betrayed him. It was brought hither to prevent the discovery of Sir Luke Rookwood’s legitimacy. He meant to make his own terms about it. It has come hither to proclaim his guilt — to be a fearful witness against him.” Then, turning to Checkley, she added, “You have called Heaven to witness your innocence: you shall attest it by oath upon that body; and should aught indicate your guilt, I will hang you as I would a dog, and clear off one long score with justice. Do you shrink from this?”
“No,” replied the priest, in a voice hollow and broken. “Bring me to the body.”
“Seize each an arm,” said Barbara, addressing Zoroaster and the knight of Malta, “and lead him to the corse.”
“I will
administer the oath,” said Alan Rookwood, sternly.
“No, not you,” stammered the priest.
“And wherefore not?” asked Alan. “If you are innocent, you need fear nothing from her.”
“I fear nothing from the dead,” replied Checkley; “lead on.”
We will now return to Sybil. She was alone with her victim. They were near the mouth of the cell which had been Prior Cyprian’s flinty dormitory, and were almost involved in darkness. A broken stream of light glanced through the pillars. Eleanor had not spoken. She suffered herself to be dragged thither without resistance, scarcely conscious, it would seem, of her danger. Sybil gazed upon her for some minutes with sorrow and surprise. “She comprehends not her perilous situation,” murmured Sybil. “She knows not that she stands upon the brink of the grave. Oh! would that she could pray. Shall I, her murderess, pray for her? My prayers would not be heard. And yet, to kill her unshriven will be a twofold crime. Let me not look on her. My hand trembles. I can scarce grasp the dagger. Let me think on all he has said. I have wronged him. I am his bane, his curse! I have robbed him of all: there is but one remedy— ’tis this! — Oh, God! she recovers. I cannot do it now.”
It was a fearful moment for Eleanor’s revival, when the bright steel flashed before her eyes. Terror at once restored her. She cast herself at Sybil’s feet.
“Spare, spare me!” cried she. “Oh! what a dream I have had. And to waken thus, with the dagger’s point at my breast. You will not kill me — you, gentle maid, who promised to preserve me. Ah, no, I am sure you will not.”
“Appeal no more to me,” said Sybil, fiercely. “Make your peace with Heaven. Your minutes are numbered.”
“I cannot pray,” said Eleanor, “while you are near me.”
“Will you pray if I retire and leave you?”
“No, no. I dare not — cannot,” shrieked Eleanor, in extremity of terror. “Oh! do not leave me, or let me go.”
“If you stir,” said Sybil, “I stab you to the heart.”
The Works of William Harrison Ainsworth Page 49
