Rookwood. A Romance By W. HARRISON AINSWORTH

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.”

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CHAPTER XII

ALAN ROOKWOOD

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’ll lend my hand 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 thickly 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 endeavours 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 only shall 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.”