Rookwood. A Romance By W. HARRISON AINSWORTH

“Alas! alas!” said Sybil, sadly, “this is no lovers’ quarrel, which may, at once, be forgotten and forgiven—would it were so!”

“What is it then?” asked Barbara; and without waiting Sybil’s answer, she continued, with vehemence, “has he wronged you? Tell me girl, in what way? Speak, that I may avenge you, if your wrong requires revenge. Are you blood of mine, and think I will not do this for you, girl? None of the blood of Barbara Lovel were ever unrevenged. When Richard Cooper stabbed my first-born, Francis, he fled to Flanders to escape my wrath. But he did not escape it. I pursued him thither. I hunted him out; drove him back to his own country, and brought him to the gallows. It took a power of gold. What matter? Revenge is dearer than gold. And as it was with Richard Cooper, so shall it be with Luke Bradley. I will catch him, though he run. I will trip him, though he leap. I will reach him, though he flee afar. I will drag him hither by the hair of his head,” added she, with a livid smile, and clutching at the air with her hands, as if in the act of pulling some one towards her. “He shall wed you within the hour, if you will have it, or if your honour need that it should be so. My power is not departed from me. My people are yet at my command. I am still their queen, and woe to him that offendeth me!”

“Mother! mother!” cried Sybil, affrighted at the storm she had unwittingly aroused, “he has not injured me. ‘Tis I alone who am to blame, not Luke.”

“You speak in mysteries,” said Barbara.

“Sir Piers Rookwood is dead.”

“Dead!” echoed Barbara, letting fall her hazel rod. “Sir Piers dead!”

“And Luke Bradley—”

“Ha!”

“Is his successor.”

“Who told you that?” asked Barbara, with increased astonishment.

“Luke himself. All is disclosed.” And Sybil hastily recounted Luke’s adventures. “He is now Sir Luke Rookwood.”

“This is news, in truth,” said Barbara; “yet not news to weep for. You should rejoice, not lament. Well, well; I foresaw it. I shall live to see all accomplished; to see my Agatha’s child ennobled; to see her wedded; ay, to see her well wedded.”

“Dearest mother!”

“I can endow you, and I will do it. You shall bring your husband not alone beauty, you shall bring him wealth.”

“But, mother—”

“My Agatha’s daughter shall be Lady Rookwood.”

“Never! It cannot be.”

“What cannot be?”

“The match you now propose.”

“What mean you, silly wench? Ha! I perceive the meaning of those tears. The truth flashes upon me. He has discarded you.”

“No, by the Heaven of Heavens, he is still the same—unaltered in affection.”

“If so, your tears are out of place.”

“Mother, it is not fitting that I, a gipsy born, should wed with him.”

“Not fitting! Ha! and you my child! Not fitting! Get up, or I will spurn you. Not fitting! This from you to me! I tell you it is fitting; you shall have a dower as ample as that of any lady in the land. Not fitting! Do you say so, because you think that he derives himself from a proud and ancient line—ancient and proud—ha, ha! I tell you, girl, that for his one ancestor I can number twenty; for the years in which his lineage hath flourished, my race can boast centuries, and was a people—a kingdom!—ere the land in which he dwells was known. What! if by the curse of Heaven we were driven forth, the curse of hell rests upon his house.”

“I know it,” said Sybil; “a dreadful curse, which, if I wed him, will alight on me.”

“No; not on you; you shall avoid that curse. I know a means to satisfy the avenger. Leave that to me.”

“I dare not, as it never can be; yet, tell me—you saw the body of Luke’s ill-fated mother. Was she poisoned? Nay, you may speak. Sir Piers’s death releases you from your oath. How died she?”

“By strangulation,” said the old gipsy, raising her palsied hand to her throat.

“Oh!” cried Sybil, gasping with horror. “Was there a ring upon her finger when you embalmed the body?”