Rookwood. A Romance By W. HARRISON AINSWORTH

Ere the priest could reply the sexton presented himself.

“Ha, the very father of the girl!” said Mrs. Mowbray, “whom I met within our family vault, and who was so strangely moved when I spoke to him of Alan Rookwood. Is he here likewise?”

“Alan Rookwood!” echoed Barbara, upon whom a light seemed suddenly to break; “ha! what said he of him?”

“Ill-boding raven,” interposed Peter, fiercely; “be content with what thou knowest of the living, and trouble not the repose of the dead. Let them rest in their infamy.”

“The dead!” echoed Barbara, with a chuckling laugh; “ha! ha! he is dead, then; and what became of his fair wife—his brother’s minion? ‘Twas a foul deed, I grant, and yet there was expiation. Blood flowed—blood—”

“Silence, thou night hag,” thundered Peter, “or I will have thee burned at the stake for the sorcery thou practisest. Beware,” added he, in a deep tone—”I am thy friend.”

Barbara’s withered countenance exhibited for an instant the deepest indignation at the sexton’s threat. The malediction trembled on her tongue; she raised her staff to smite him, but she checked the action. In the same tone, and with a sharp, suspicious look, she replied, “My friend, sayest thou? See that it prove so, or beware of me.”

And, with a malignant scowl, the gipsy queen slowly shuffled towards her satellites, who were stationed at the door.

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CHAPTER VIII

THE PARTING

ELEANOR MOWBRAY had witnessed her mother’s withdrawal from her side with much uneasiness, and was with difficulty prevented by Sybil from breaking upon her conference with the gipsy queen. Barbara’s dark eye was fixed upon them during the whole of the interview, and communicated an indefinite sense of dread to Eleanor.

“Who—who is that old woman?” asked Eleanor, under her breath. “Never, even in my wildest dreams, have I seen aught so terrible. Why does she look so at us? She terrifies me; and yet she cannot mean me ill, or my mother—we have never injured her.”

“Alas!” sighed Sybil.

“You sigh!” exclaimed Eleanor, in alarm. “Is there any real danger, then? Help us to avoid it. Quick, warn my mother; she seems agitated. Oh, let me go to her.”

“Hush!” whispered Sybil, maintaining an unmoved demeanour under the lynx-like gaze of Barbara. “Stir not, as you value your life; you know not where you are, or what may befall you. Your safety depends upon your composure. Your life is not in danger; but what is dearer than life, your love, is threatened with a fatal blow. There is a dark design to wed you to another.”

“Heavens!” ejaculated Eleanor, “and to whom?”

“To Sir Luke Rookwood.”

“I would die sooner! Marry him? They shall kill me ere they force me to it!”

“Could you not love him?”

“Love him! I have only seen him within this hour. I knew not of his existence. He rescued me from peril. I would thank him. I would love him, if I could, for Ranulph’s sake; and yet for Ranulph’s sake I hate him.”

“Speak not of him thus to me,” said Sybil, angrily. “If you love him not, I love him. Oh! forgive me, lady; pardon my impatience—my heart is breaking, yet it has not ceased to beat for him. You say you will die sooner than consent to this forced union. Your faith shall not be so cruelly attested. If there must be a victim, I will be the sacrifice. God grant I may be the only one. Be happy! as happy as I am wretched! You shall see what the love of a gipsy can do.”

As she spoke, Sybil burst into a flood of passionate tears. Eleanor regarded her with the deepest commiseration; but the feeling was transient; for Barbara, now advancing, exclaimed, “Hence to your mother. The bridegroom is waiting; to your mother, girl!” And she motioned Eleanor fiercely away. “What means this?” continued the old gipsy. “What have you said to that girl? Did I not caution you against speech with her? and you have dared to disobey me. You, my grandchild—the daughter of my Agatha, with whom my slightest wish was law. I abandon you! I curse you!”