Rookwood. A Romance By W. HARRISON AINSWORTH

“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,” returned 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 Rockwood. The sworn enemy of your father—of you—of all 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 beard 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 lands;—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.