“A ring—a wedding-ring! The finger was crookened. Listen, girl. I could have told Luke the secret of his birth long ago, but the oath imposed by Sir Piers sealed fast my lips. His mother was wedded to Sir Piers; his mother was murdered by Sir Piers. Luke was intrusted to my care by his father. I have brought him up with you. I have affianced you together; and I shall live to see you united. He is now Sir Luke. He is your husband.”
“Do not deceive yourself, mother,” said Sybil, with a fearful earnestness. “He is not yet Sir Luke Rookwood; would he had no claim to be so! The fortune that has hitherto been so propitious may yet desert him. Bethink you of a prophecy you uttered.”
“A prophecy? Ha!”
And with slow enunciation Sybil pronounced the mystic words which she had heard repeated by the sexton.
As she spoke, a gloom, like that of a thundercloud, began to gather over the brow of the old gipsy. The orbs of her sunken eyes expanded, and wrath supplied her frame with vigour. She arose.
“Who told you that?” cried Barbara.
“Luke’s grandsire, Peter Bradley.”
“How learnt he it?” said Barbara. “It was to one who hath long been in his grave I told it; so long ago, it had passed from my memory. ‘Tis strange! old Sir Reginald had a brother, I know. But there is no other of the house.”
“There is a cousin, Eleanor Mowbray.”
“Ha! I see; a daughter of that Eleanor Rookwood who fled from her father’s roof. Fool, fool. Am I caught in my own toils? These words were words of truth and power, and compel the future and ‘the will be’ as with chains of brass. They must be fulfilled, yet not by Ranulph. He shall never wed Eleanor.”
“Whom then shall she wed?”
“His elder brother.”
“Mother!” shrieked Sybil. “Do you say so? Oh! recall your words.”
“I may not; it is spoken. Luke shall wed her.”
“Oh God, support me!” exclaimed Sybil.
“Silly wench, be firm. It must be as I say. He shall wed her—yet shall he wed her not. The nuptial torch shall be quenched as soon as lighted; the curse of the avenger shall fall—yet not on thee.”
“Mother,” said Sybil, “if sin must fall upon some innocent head, let it be on mine—not upon hers. I love him. I would gladly die for him. She is young—unoffending—perhaps happy. Oh! do not let her perish.”
“Peace I say!” cried Barbara, “and mark me. This is your birthday. Eighteen summers have flown over your young head—eighty winters have sown their snows on mine. You have yet to learn. Years have brought wrinkles—they have brought wisdom likewise. To struggle with Fate, I tell you, is to wrestle with Omnipotence. We may foresee, but not avert our destiny. What will be, shall be. This is your eighteenth birthday, Sybil: it is a day of fate to you; in it occurs your planetary hour—an hour of good or ill, according to your actions. I have cast your horoscope. I have watched your natal star; it is under the baneful influence of Scorpion, and fiery Saturn sheds his lurid glance upon it. Let me see your hand. The line of life is drawn out distinct and clear—it runs—ha! what means that intersection? Beware—beware, my Sybil. Act as I tell you, and you are safe. I will make another trial, by the crystal bowl. Attend.”
Muttering some strange words, sounding like a spell, Barbara, with the bifurcate hazel staff which she used as a divining-rod, described a circle upon the floor. Within this circle she drew other lines, from angle to angle, forming seven triangles, the basis of which constituted the sides of a septilateral figure. This figure she studied intently for a few moments. She then raised her wand and touched the owl with it. The bird unfolded its wings and arose in flight; then slowly circled round the pendulous globe. Each time it drew nearer, until at length it touched the glassy bowl with its flapping pinions.
“Enough!” ejaculated Barbara. And at another motion from her rod the bird stayed its flight and returned to its perch.