The wiving vine, that round the friendly elmTwines her soft limbs, and weaves a leafy mantleFor her supporting lover, dares not ventureTo mix her humble boughs with the embracesOf the more lofty cedar.Glapthorne:Albertus Wallenstein.
The wiving vine, that round the friendly elmTwines her soft limbs, and weaves a leafy mantleFor her supporting lover, dares not ventureTo mix her humble boughs with the embracesOf the more lofty cedar.
The wiving vine, that round the friendly elmTwines her soft limbs, and weaves a leafy mantleFor her supporting lover, dares not ventureTo mix her humble boughs with the embracesOf the more lofty cedar.
Glapthorne:Albertus Wallenstein.
Beneath a moldering wall, whither they had strayed, to be free from interruption, and upon a carpet of the greenest moss, sat Sybil and her lover.
With eager curiosity she listened to his tale. He recounted all that had befallen him since his departure. He told her of the awful revelations of the tomb; of the ring that, like a talisman, had conjured up a thousand brilliant prospects; of his subsequent perils; his escapes; his rencontre with Lady Rookwood; his visit to his father's body; and his meeting with his brother. All this she heard with a cheek now flushed with expectation, now made pale with apprehension; with palpitating bosom, and suppressed breath. But when taking a softer tone, love, affection, happiness inspired the theme, and Luke sought to paint the bliss that should be theirs in his new estate; when he would throw his fortune into her lap, his titles at her feet, and bid her wear them with him; when, with ennobled hand and unchanged heart, he would fulfil the troth plighted in his outcast days; in lieu of tender, grateful acquiescence, the features of Sybil became overcast, the soft smile faded away, and, as spring sunshine is succeeded by the sudden shower, the light that dwelt in her sunny orbs grew dim with tears.
"Why—why is this, dear Sybil?" said Luke, gazing upon her in astonishment, not unmingled with displeasure. "To what am I to attribute these tears? You do not, surely, regret my good fortune?"
"Not on your own account, dear Luke," returned she, sadly. "The tears I shed were for myself—the first, the only tears that I have ever shed for such cause; and," added she, raising her head like a flower surcharged with moisture, "they shall be the last."
"This is inexplicable, dear Sybil. Why should you lament for yourself, if not for me? Does not the sunshine of prosperity that now shines upon me gild you with the same beam? Did I not even now affirm that the day that saw me enter the hall of my forefathers should dawn upon our espousals?"
"True; but the sun that shines upon you, to me wears a threatening aspect. The day of those espousals will never dawn. You cannot make me the Lady of Rookwood."
"What do I hear?" exclaimed Luke, surprised at this avowal of his mistress, sadly and deliberately delivered. "Not wed you! And wherefore not? Is it the rank I have acquired, or hope to acquire, that displeases you? Speak, that I may waste no further time in thus pursuing the shadows of happiness, while the reality fleets from me."
"Andarethey shadows; andisthis the reality, dear Luke? Question your secret soul, and you will find it otherwise. You could not forego your triumph; it is not likely. You have dwelt too much upon the proud title which will be yours to yield it to another, when it may be won so easily. And, above all, when your mother's reputation, and your own stained name, may be cleared by one word, breathed aloud, would you fail to utter it? No, dear Luke, I read your heart; you would not."
"And if I couldnotforego this, wherefore is it that you refuse to be a sharer in my triumph? Why will you render my honors valueless when I have acquired them? You love me not."
"Not love you, Luke?"
"Approve it, then."
"I do approve it. Bear witness the sacrifice I am about to make of all my hopes, at the shrine of my idolatry to you. Bear witness the agony of this hour. Bear witness the horror of the avowal, that I never can be yours. As Luke Bradley, I would joyfully—oh, how joyfully!—have been your bride. As Sir Luke Rookwood"—and she shuddered as she pronounced the name—"I never can be so."
"Then, by Heaven! Luke Bradley will I remain. But wherefore—wherefore not as Sir Luke Rookwood?"
"Because," replied Sybil, with reluctance—"because I am no longer your equal. The gipsy's low-born daughter is no mate for Sir Luke Rookwood. Love cannot blind me, dear Luke. It cannot make me other than I am; it cannot exalt me in my own esteem, nor in that of the world, with which you, alas! too soon will mingle, and which will regard even me as—no matter what!—it shall not scorn me as your bride. I will not bring shame and reproach upon you. Oh! if for me, dear Luke, the proud ones of the earth were to treat you with contumely, this heart would break with agony. For myself, I have pride sufficient—perchance too much. Perchance 'tis pride that actuates me now. I know not. But for you I am all weakness. As you were heretofore, I would have been to you the tenderest and truest wife that ever breathed; as you are now——"
"Hear me, Sybil."
"Hearmeout, dear Luke. One other motive there is that determines my present conduct, which, were all else surmounted, would in itself suffice. Ask me not what that is. I cannot explain it. For your own sake; I implore you, be satisfied with my refusal."
"What a destiny is mine!" exclaimed Luke, striking his forehead with his clenched hand. "No choice is left me. Either way I destroy my own happiness. On the one handstands love—on the other, ambition; yet neither will conjoin."
"Pursue, then, ambition," said Sybil, energetically, "if youcanhesitate. Forget that I have ever existed; forget you have ever loved; forget that such a passion dwells within the human heart, and you may still be happy, though you are great."
"And do you deem," replied Luke, with frantic impatience, "that Icanaccomplish this; that Icanforget that I have loved you; that Icanforget you? Cost what it will, the effort shall be made. Yet by our former love, I charge you tell me what has wrought this change in you! Why do younowrefuse me?"
"I have said you are Sir Luke Rookwood," returned Sybil, with painful emotion. "Does that name import nothing?"
"Imports it aught of ill?"
"To me, everything of ill. It is a fated house. Its line are all predestined."
"To what?" demanded Luke.
"Tomurder!" replied Sybil, with solemn emphasis. "To the murder of their wives. Forgive me, Luke, if I have dared to utter this. Yourself compelled me to it."
Amazement, horror, wrath, kept Luke silent for a few moments. Starting to his feet, he cried:
"And can you suspect me of a crime so foul? Think you, because I shall assume the name, that I shall put on the nature likewise of my race? Do you believe me capable of aught so horrible?"
"Oh, no, I believe it not. I am sure you would not do it. Your soul would reject with horror such a deed. But if Fate should guide your hand, if the avenging spirit of your murdered ancestress should point to the steel, you could not shun it then."
"In Heaven's name! to what do you allude?"
"To a tradition of your house," replied Sybil. "Listen tome, and you shall hear the legend." And with a pathos that produced a thrilling effect upon Luke, she sang the following ballad:
THE LEGEND OF THE LADY OF ROOKWOOD
Grim Ranulph home hath at midnight come, from the long wars of the Roses,And the squire, who waits at his ancient gates, a secret dark discloses;To that varlet's words no response accords his lord, but his visage sternGrows ghastly white in the wan moonlight, and his eyes like the lean wolf's burn.To his lady's bower, at that lonesome hour, unannounced, is Sir Ranulph gone;Through the dim corridor, through the hidden door, he glides—she is all alone!Full of holy zeal doth his young dame kneel at the meek Madonna's feet,Her hands are pressed on her gentle breast, and upturned is her aspect sweet.Beats Ranulph's heart with a joyful start, as he looks on her guiltless face;And the raging fire of his jealous ire is subdued by the words of grace;His own name shares her murmured prayers—more freely can he breathe;But ah! that look! Why doth he pluck his poniard from its sheath?On a footstool thrown, lies a costly gown of saye and of minevere—A mantle fair for the dainty wear of a migniard cavalier,—And on it flung, to a bracelet hung, a picture meets his eye;"By my father's head!" grim Ranulph said, "false wife, thy end draws nigh."From off its chain hath the fierce knight ta'en that fond and fatal pledge;His dark eyes blaze, no word he says, thrice gleams his dagger's edge!Her blood it drinks, and, as she sinks, his victim hears his cry:"For kiss impure of paramour, adult'ress, dost thou die!"Silent he stood, with hands embrued in gore, and glance of flame,As thus her plaint, in accents faint, made his ill-fated dame:"Kind Heaven can tell, that all too well, I've loved thee, cruel lord;But now with hate commensurate, assassin, thou'rt abhorred."I've loved thee long, through doubt and wrong; I've loved thee and no other;And my love was pure for my paramour, for alas! he was my brother!The Red, Red Rose, onthybanner glows, onhispennon gleams the White,And the bitter feud, that ye both have rued, forbids ye to unite."My bower he sought, what time he thought thy jealous vassals slept,Of joy we dreamed, and never deemed that watch those vassals kept;An hour flew by, too speedily!—that picture was his boon:Ah! little thrift to me that gift: he left me all too soon!"Wo worth the hour! dark fates did lower, when our hands were first united,For my heart's firm truth, 'mid tears and ruth, with death hast thou requited:In prayer sincere, full many a year of my wretched life I've spent;But to hell's control would I give my soul to work thy chastisement!"These wild words said, low drooped her head, and Ranulph's life-blood froze,For the earth did gape, as an awful shape from out its depths arose:"Thy prayer is heard, Hell hath concurred," cried the fiend, "thy soul is mine!Like fate may dread each dame shall wed with Ranulph or his line!"Within the tomb to await her doom is that hapless lady sleeping,And another bride by Ranulph's side through the livelong night is weeping.Thisdame declines—a third repines, and fades, like the rest, away;Her lot she rues, whom a Rookwood woos—cursed is her Wedding Day!
Grim Ranulph home hath at midnight come, from the long wars of the Roses,And the squire, who waits at his ancient gates, a secret dark discloses;To that varlet's words no response accords his lord, but his visage sternGrows ghastly white in the wan moonlight, and his eyes like the lean wolf's burn.To his lady's bower, at that lonesome hour, unannounced, is Sir Ranulph gone;Through the dim corridor, through the hidden door, he glides—she is all alone!Full of holy zeal doth his young dame kneel at the meek Madonna's feet,Her hands are pressed on her gentle breast, and upturned is her aspect sweet.Beats Ranulph's heart with a joyful start, as he looks on her guiltless face;And the raging fire of his jealous ire is subdued by the words of grace;His own name shares her murmured prayers—more freely can he breathe;But ah! that look! Why doth he pluck his poniard from its sheath?On a footstool thrown, lies a costly gown of saye and of minevere—A mantle fair for the dainty wear of a migniard cavalier,—And on it flung, to a bracelet hung, a picture meets his eye;"By my father's head!" grim Ranulph said, "false wife, thy end draws nigh."From off its chain hath the fierce knight ta'en that fond and fatal pledge;His dark eyes blaze, no word he says, thrice gleams his dagger's edge!Her blood it drinks, and, as she sinks, his victim hears his cry:"For kiss impure of paramour, adult'ress, dost thou die!"Silent he stood, with hands embrued in gore, and glance of flame,As thus her plaint, in accents faint, made his ill-fated dame:"Kind Heaven can tell, that all too well, I've loved thee, cruel lord;But now with hate commensurate, assassin, thou'rt abhorred."I've loved thee long, through doubt and wrong; I've loved thee and no other;And my love was pure for my paramour, for alas! he was my brother!The Red, Red Rose, onthybanner glows, onhispennon gleams the White,And the bitter feud, that ye both have rued, forbids ye to unite."My bower he sought, what time he thought thy jealous vassals slept,Of joy we dreamed, and never deemed that watch those vassals kept;An hour flew by, too speedily!—that picture was his boon:Ah! little thrift to me that gift: he left me all too soon!"Wo worth the hour! dark fates did lower, when our hands were first united,For my heart's firm truth, 'mid tears and ruth, with death hast thou requited:In prayer sincere, full many a year of my wretched life I've spent;But to hell's control would I give my soul to work thy chastisement!"These wild words said, low drooped her head, and Ranulph's life-blood froze,For the earth did gape, as an awful shape from out its depths arose:"Thy prayer is heard, Hell hath concurred," cried the fiend, "thy soul is mine!Like fate may dread each dame shall wed with Ranulph or his line!"Within the tomb to await her doom is that hapless lady sleeping,And another bride by Ranulph's side through the livelong night is weeping.Thisdame declines—a third repines, and fades, like the rest, away;Her lot she rues, whom a Rookwood woos—cursed is her Wedding Day!
Grim Ranulph home hath at midnight come, from the long wars of the Roses,And the squire, who waits at his ancient gates, a secret dark discloses;To that varlet's words no response accords his lord, but his visage sternGrows ghastly white in the wan moonlight, and his eyes like the lean wolf's burn.
To his lady's bower, at that lonesome hour, unannounced, is Sir Ranulph gone;Through the dim corridor, through the hidden door, he glides—she is all alone!Full of holy zeal doth his young dame kneel at the meek Madonna's feet,Her hands are pressed on her gentle breast, and upturned is her aspect sweet.
Beats Ranulph's heart with a joyful start, as he looks on her guiltless face;And the raging fire of his jealous ire is subdued by the words of grace;His own name shares her murmured prayers—more freely can he breathe;But ah! that look! Why doth he pluck his poniard from its sheath?
On a footstool thrown, lies a costly gown of saye and of minevere—A mantle fair for the dainty wear of a migniard cavalier,—And on it flung, to a bracelet hung, a picture meets his eye;"By my father's head!" grim Ranulph said, "false wife, thy end draws nigh."
From off its chain hath the fierce knight ta'en that fond and fatal pledge;His dark eyes blaze, no word he says, thrice gleams his dagger's edge!Her blood it drinks, and, as she sinks, his victim hears his cry:"For kiss impure of paramour, adult'ress, dost thou die!"
Silent he stood, with hands embrued in gore, and glance of flame,As thus her plaint, in accents faint, made his ill-fated dame:"Kind Heaven can tell, that all too well, I've loved thee, cruel lord;But now with hate commensurate, assassin, thou'rt abhorred.
"I've loved thee long, through doubt and wrong; I've loved thee and no other;And my love was pure for my paramour, for alas! he was my brother!The Red, Red Rose, onthybanner glows, onhispennon gleams the White,And the bitter feud, that ye both have rued, forbids ye to unite.
"My bower he sought, what time he thought thy jealous vassals slept,Of joy we dreamed, and never deemed that watch those vassals kept;An hour flew by, too speedily!—that picture was his boon:Ah! little thrift to me that gift: he left me all too soon!
"Wo worth the hour! dark fates did lower, when our hands were first united,For my heart's firm truth, 'mid tears and ruth, with death hast thou requited:In prayer sincere, full many a year of my wretched life I've spent;But to hell's control would I give my soul to work thy chastisement!"
These wild words said, low drooped her head, and Ranulph's life-blood froze,For the earth did gape, as an awful shape from out its depths arose:"Thy prayer is heard, Hell hath concurred," cried the fiend, "thy soul is mine!Like fate may dread each dame shall wed with Ranulph or his line!"
Within the tomb to await her doom is that hapless lady sleeping,And another bride by Ranulph's side through the livelong night is weeping.Thisdame declines—a third repines, and fades, like the rest, away;Her lot she rues, whom a Rookwood woos—cursed is her Wedding Day!
"And this is the legend of my ancestress?" said Luke, as Sybil's strains were ended.
"It is," replied she.
"An idle tale," observed Luke, moodily.
"Not so," answered Sybil. "Has not the curse of blood clung to all your line? Has it not attached to your father—to Sir Reginald—Sir Ralph—Sir Ranulph—to all? Which of them has escaped it? And when I tell you this, dear Luke; when I find you bear the name of this accursed race, can youwonder if I shudder at adding to the list of the victims of that ruthless spirit, and that I tremble for you? I would dieforyou willingly—but not by your hand. I would not that my blood, which I would now pour out for you as freely as water, should rise up in judgment against you. For myself I have no tears—foryou, a thousand. My mother, upon her death-bed, told me I should never be yours. I believed her not, for I was happy then. She said that we never should be united; or, if united——?"
"What, in Heaven's name?"
"That you would be my destroyer. How could I credit her words then? How can I doubt them now, when I find you are a Rookwood? And think not, dear Luke, that I am ruled by selfish fears in this resolution. To renounce you may cost me my life; but the deed will be my own. You may call me superstitious, credulous: I have been nurtured in credulity. It is the faith of my fathers. There are those, methinks, who have an insight into futurity; and such boding words have been spoken, that, be they true or false, I will not risk their fulfilment in my person. I may be credulous; I may be weak; I may be erring; but I am steadfast in this. Bid me perish at your feet, and I will do it. I will not be your Fate. I will not be the wretched instrument of your perdition. I will love, worship, watch, serve, perish for you—but I'll not wed you."
Exhausted by the vehemence of her emotion, she would have sunk upon the ground, had not Luke caught her in his arms. Pressing her to his bosom, he renewed his passionate protestations. Every argument was unavailing. Sybil appeared inflexible.
"You love me as you have ever loved me?" said she, at length.
"A thousand-fold more fervently," replied Luke; "put it to the test."
"How if I dare to do so? Consider well: I may ask too much."
"Name it. If it be not to surrender you, by my mother's body I will obey you."
"I would propose an oath."
"Ha!"
"A solemn, binding oath, that; if you wed me not, you will not wed another. Ha! do you start? Have I appalled you?"
"I start? I will take it. Hear me—by——"
"Hold!" exclaimed a voice behind them. "Do not forswear yourself." And immediately afterwards the sexton made his appearance. There was a malignant smile upon his countenance. The lovers started at the ominous interruption.
"Begone!" cried Luke.
"Take not that oath," said Peter, "and I leave you. Remember the counsel I gave you on our way hither."
"What counsel did he give you, Luke?" inquired Sybil, eagerly, of her lover.
"We spoke of you, fond girl," replied Peter. "I cautioned him against the match. I knew not your sentiments, or I had spared myself the trouble. You have judged wisely. Were he to wed you, ill would come of it. But hemustwed another."
"Must!" cried Sybil, her eyes absolutely emitting sparkles of indignation from their night-like depths; and, unsheathing as she spoke the short poniard which she wore at her girdle, she rushed towards Peter, raising her hand to strike.
"Mustwed another! And dare you counsel this?"
"Put up your dagger, fair maiden," said Peter, calmly. "Had I been younger, your eyes might have had more terrors for me than your weapon; as it is, I am proof against both. You would not strike an old man like myself, and of your lover's kin?"
Sybil's uplifted hand fell to her side.
"'Tis true," continued the sexton, "I dared to give him this advice; and when you have heard me out, you will not, Iam persuaded, think me so unreasonable as, at first, I may appear to be. I have been an unseen listener to your converse; not that I desire to pry into your secrets—far from it; I overheard you by accident. I applaud your resolution; but if you are inclined to sacrifice all for your lover's weal, do not let the work be incomplete. Bind him not by oaths which he will regard as spiders' webs, to be burst through at pleasure. You see, as well as I do, that he is bent on being lord of Rookwood; and, in truth, to an aspiring mind, such a desire is natural, is praiseworthy. It will be pleasant, as well as honorable, to efface the stain cast upon his birth. It will be an act of filial duty in him to restore his mother's good name; and I, her father, laud his anxiety on that score; though, to speak truth, fair maid, I am not so rigid as your nice moralists in my view of human nature, and can allow a latitude to love which their nicer scruples will not admit. It will be a proud thing to triumph over his implacable foe; and this he may accomplish——"
"Without marriage," interrupted Sybil, angrily.
"True," returned Peter; "yet not maintain it. May win it, but not wear it. You have said truly, the house of Rookwood is a fated house; and it hath been said likewise, that if he wed not one of his own kindred—that if Rook mate not with Rook, his possessions shall pass away from his hands. Listen to this prophetic quatrain:
When the stray Rook shall perch on the topmost bough,There shall be clamor and screeching, I trow;But of right to, and rule of the ancient nest,The Rook that with Rook mates shall hold him possest.
When the stray Rook shall perch on the topmost bough,There shall be clamor and screeching, I trow;But of right to, and rule of the ancient nest,The Rook that with Rook mates shall hold him possest.
When the stray Rook shall perch on the topmost bough,There shall be clamor and screeching, I trow;But of right to, and rule of the ancient nest,The Rook that with Rook mates shall hold him possest.
You hear what these quaint rhymes say. Luke is, doubtless, the stray rook, and a fledgeling hath flown hither from a distant country. He must take her to his mate, or relinquish her and 'the ancient nest' to his brother. For my own part, I disregardsuch sayings. I have little faith in prophecy and divination. I know not what Eleanor Mowbray, for so she is called, can have to do with the tenure of the estates of Rookwood. But if Luke Rookwood, after he has lorded it for awhile in splendor, be cast forth again in rags and wretchedness, let him not blame his grandsire for his own want of caution."
"Luke, I implore you, tell me," said Sybil, who had listened, horror-stricken, to the sexton, shuddering, as it were, beneath the chilly influence of his malevolent glance, "is this true? Does your fate depend upon Eleanor Mowbray? Who is she? What has she to do with Rookwood? Have you seen her? Do you love her?"
"I have never seen her," replied Luke.
"Thank Heaven for that!" cried Sybil. "Then you love her not?"
"How were that possible?" returned Luke. "Do I not say I have not seen her?"
"Who is she, then?"
"This old man tells me she is my cousin. She is betrothed to my brother Ranulph."
"How?" ejaculated Sybil. "And would you snatch his betrothed from your brother's arms? Would you do him this grievous wrong? Is it not enough that you must wrest from him that which he has long deemed his own? And if he has falsely deemed it so, it will not make his loss the less bitter. If you do thus wrong your brother, do not look for happiness; do not look for respect; for neither will be your portion. Even this stony-hearted old man shrinks aghast at such a deed. His snake-like eyes are buried on the ground. See, I have moved evenhim."
And in truth Peter did appear, for an instant, strangely moved.
"'Tis nothing," returned he, mastering his emotion by a strong effort. "What is all this to me? I never had a brother. I never had aught—wife, child, or relative, that loved me.And I love not the world, nor the things of the world, nor those that inhabit the world. But I know what sways the world and its inhabitants; and that is,SELF! AND SELF-INTEREST!Let Luke reflect on this. The key to Rookwood is Eleanor Mowbray. The hand that grasps hers, grasps those lands; thus saith the prophecy."
"It is a lying prophecy."
"It was uttered by one of your race."
"By whom?"
"By Barbara Lovel," said Peter, with a sneer of triumph.
"Ha!"
"Heed him not," exclaimed Luke, as Sybil recoiled at this intelligence. "I am yours."
"Not mine! not mine!" shrieked she; "but, oh! nothers!"
"Whither go you?" cried Luke, as Sybil, half bewildered, tore herself from him.
"To Barbara Lovel."
"I will go with you."
"No! let me go alone. I have much to ask her; yet tarry not with this old man, dear Luke, or close your ears to his crafty talk. Avoid him. Oh, I am sick at heart. Follow me not; I implore you, follow me not."
And with distracted air she darted amongst the mouldering cloisters, leaving Luke stupefied with anguish and surprise. The sexton maintained a stern and stoical composure.
"She is a woman, after all," muttered he; "all her high-flown resolves melt like snow in the sunshine at the thought of a rival. I congratulate you, grandson Luke; you are free from your fetters."
"Free!" echoed Luke. "Quit my sight; I loathe to look upon you. You have broken the truest heart that ever beat in woman's bosom."
"Tut, tut," returned Peter; "it is not broken yet. Wait till we hear what old Barbara has got to say; and, meanwhile,we must arrange with Dick Turpin the price of that certificate. The knave knows its value well. Come, be a man. This is worse than womanish."
And at length he succeeded, half by force and half by persuasion, in dragging Luke away with him.
Los Gitanos son encantadores, adivinos, magos, chyromanticos, que dicen por las rayas de las manos lo Futuro, que ellos llaman Buenaventura, y generalmente son dados à toda supersticion.Doctor Sancho de Moncada.Discurso sobre Espulsion de los Gitanos.
Los Gitanos son encantadores, adivinos, magos, chyromanticos, que dicen por las rayas de las manos lo Futuro, que ellos llaman Buenaventura, y generalmente son dados à toda supersticion.
Doctor Sancho de Moncada.Discurso sobre Espulsion de los Gitanos.
Like a dove escaped from the talons of the falcon, Sybil fled from the clutches of the sexton. Her brain was in a whirl, her blood on fire. She had no distinct perception of external objects; no definite notion of what she herself was about to do, and glided more like a flitting spirit than a living woman along the ruined ambulatory. Her hair had fallen in disorder over her face. She stayed not to adjust it, but tossed aside the blinding locks with frantic impatience. She felt as one may feel who tries to strain his nerves, shattered by illness, to the endurance of some dreadful, yet necessary pain.
Sybil loved her granddame, old Barbara; but it was with a love tempered by fear. Barbara was not a person to inspire esteem or to claim affection. She was regarded by the wild tribe which she ruled as their queen-elect, with some such feeling of inexplicable awe as is entertained by the African slave for the Obeah woman. They acknowledged her power, unhesitatingly obeyed her commands, and shrank with terrorfrom her anathema, which was indeed seldom pronounced; but when uttered, was considered as doom. Her tribe she looked upon as her flock, and stretched her maternal hand over all, ready alike to cherish or chastise; and having already survived a generation, that which succeeded, having from infancy imbibed a superstitious veneration for the "cunning woman," as she was called, the sentiment could never be wholly effaced. Winding her way, she knew not how, through roofless halls, over disjointed fragments of fallen pillars, Sybil reached a flight of steps. A door, studded with iron nails, stayed her progress; it was an old, strong oaken frame, surmounted by a Gothic arch, in the keystone of which leered one of those grotesque demoniacal faces with which the fathers of the church delighted to adorn their shrines. Sybil looked up—her glance encountered the fantastical visage. It recalled the features of the sexton, and seemed to mock her—to revile her. Her fortitude at once deserted her. Her fingers were upon the handle of the door. She hesitated: she even drew back, with the intention of departing, for she felt then that she dared not face Barbara. It was too late—she had moved the handle. A deep voice from within called to her by name. She dared not disobey that call—she entered.
The room in which Sybil found herself was the only entire apartment now existing in the priory. It had survived the ravages of time; it had escaped the devastation of man, whose ravages outstrip those of time. Octagonal, lofty, yet narrow, you saw at once that it formed the interior of a turret. It was lighted by a small oriel window, commanding a lovely view of the scenery around, and paneled with oak, richly wrought in ribs and groins; and from overhead depended a molded ceiling of honeycomb plaster-work. This room had something, even now, in the days of its desecration, of monastic beauty about it. Where the odor of sanctity had breathed forth, the fumes of idolatry prevailed; but imagination, ever on the wing, flew back to that period—and a tradition to that effect warrantedthe supposition—when, perchance, it had been the sanctuary and the privacy of the prior's self.
Wrapped in a cloak composed of the skins of various animals, upon a low pallet, covered with stained scarlet cloth, sat Barbara. Around her head was coiffed, in folds like those of an Asiatic turban, a rich, though faded shawl, and her waist was encircled with the magic zodiacal zone—proper to the sorceress—theMago Cineoof the Cingara—whence the name Zingaro, according to Moncada—which Barbara had brought from Spain. From her ears depended long golden drops, of curious antique fashioning; and upon her withered fingers, which looked like a coil of lizards, were hooped a multitude of silver rings, of the purest and simplest manufacture. They seemed almost of massive unwrought metal. Her skin was yellow as the body of a toad; corrugated as its back. She might have been steeped in saffron from her finger tips, the nails of which were of the same hue, to such portions of her neck as were visible, and which was puckered up like the throat of a turtle. To look at her, one might have thought the embalmer had experimented her art upon herself. So dead, so bloodless, so blackened seemed the flesh, where flesh remained, leather could scarce be tougher than her skin. She seemed like an animated mummy. A frame so tanned, appeared calculated to endure for ages; and, perhaps, might have done so. But, alas! the soul cannot be embalmed. No oil can re-illumine that precious lamp! And that Barbara's vital spark was fast waning, was evident from her heavy, blood-shot eyes, once of a swimming black, and lengthy as a witch's, which were now sinister and sunken.
The atmosphere of the room was as strongly impregnated as a museum with volatile odors, emitted from the stores of drugs with which the shelves were loaded, as well as from various stuffed specimens of birds and wild animals. Barbara's only living companion was a monstrous owl, which, perched over the old gipsy's head, hissed a token of recognition asSybil advanced. From a hook, placed in the plaster roof, was suspended a globe of crystal glass, about the size and shape of a large gourd, filled with a pure pellucid liquid, in which a small snake, the Egyptian aspic, described perpetual gyrations.
Dim were the eyes of Barbara, yet not altogether sightless. The troubled demeanor of her grandchild struck her as she entered. She felt the hot drops upon her hand as Sybil stooped to kiss it; she heard her vainly-stifled sobs.
"What ails you, child?" said Barbara, in a voice that rattled in her throat, and hollow as the articulation of a phantom. "Have you heard tidings of Luke Bradley? Has any ill befallen him? I said you would either hear of him or see him this morning. He is not returned, I see. What have you heard?"
"Heisreturned," replied Sybil, faintly; "and no ill hath happened to him."
"Heisreturned, and you are here," echoed Barbara. "No ill hath happened tohim, thou sayest—am I to understand there is—toyou?"
Sybil answered not. She could not answer.
"I see, I see," said Barbara, more gently, her head and hand shaking with paralytic affection: "a quarrel, a lover's quarrel. Old as I am, I have not forgotten my feelings as a girl. What woman ever does, if she be woman? and you, like your poor mother, are a true-hearted wench. She loved her husband, as a husband should be loved, Sybil; and though she loved me well, she loved him better, as was right. Ah! it was a bitter day when she left me for Spain; for though, to one of our wandering race, all countries are alike, yet the soil of our birth is dear to us, and the presence of our kindred dearer. Well, well, I will not think of that. She is gone. Nay, take it not so to heart, wench. Luke has a hasty temper. 'Tis not the first time I have told you so. He will not bear rebuke, and you have questioned him too shrewdly touching his absence. Is it not so? Heed it not. Trust me, you will havehim seek your forgiveness ere the shadows shorten 'neath the noontide sun."
"Alas! alas!" said Sybil, sadly, "this is no lover's 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 it shall 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 honor 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 itisfitting; 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?"
"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 entrusted 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 thunder-cloud, began to gather over the brow of the old gipsy. The orbs of her sunken eyes expanded, and wrath supplied her frame with vigor. 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? Those 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.Youhave 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 eighteenthbirthday, 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 baleful 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 bases 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.
Barbara arose. She struck the globe with her staff. The pure lymph became instantly tinged with crimson, as if blood had been commingled with it. The little serpent could be seen within, coiled up and knotted, as in the struggles of death.
"Again I say, beware!" ejaculated Barbara, solemnly. "This is ominous of ill."
Sybil had sunk, from faintness, on the pallet. A knock was heard at the door.
"Who is without?" cried Barbara.
"'Tis I, Balthazar," replied a voice.
"Thou mayest enter," answered Barbara; and an old man with a long beard, white as snow, reaching to his girdle, and a costume which might be said to resemble the raiment of aJewish high priest, made his appearance. This venerable personage was no other than the patrico, or hierophant of the Canting Crew.
"I come to tell you that there are strangers—ladies—within the priory," said the patrico, gravely. "I have searched for you in vain," continued he, addressing Sybil; "the younger of them seems to need your assistance."
"Whence come they?" exclaimed Barbara.
"They have ridden, I understand, from Rookwood," answered the patrico. "They were on their way to Davenham, when they were prevented."
"From Rookwood?" echoed Sybil. "Their names—did you hear their names?"
"Mowbray is the name of both; they are a mother and a daughter; the younger is called——"
"Eleanor?" asked Sybil, with an acute foreboding of calamity.
"Eleanor is the name, assuredly," replied the patrico, somewhat surprised. "I heard the elder, whom I guess to be her mother, so address her."
"Gracious God! She here!" exclaimed Sybil.
"Here! Eleanor Mowbray here," cried Barbara; "within my power. Not a moment is to be lost. Balthazar, hasten round the tents—not a man must leave his place—above all, Luke Bradley. See that these Mowbrays are detained within the abbey. Let the bell be sounded. Quick, quick; leave this wench to me; she is not well. I have much to do. Away with thee, man, and let me know when thou hast done it." And as Balthazar departed on his mission, with a glance of triumph in her eyes, Barbara exclaimed, "Soh, no sooner hath the thought possessed me, than the means of accomplishment appear. It shall be done at once. I will tie the knot. I will untie, and then retie it. This weak wench must be nerved to the task," added she, regarding the senseless form of Sybil. "Here is that will stimulate her," opening the cupboard,and taking a small phial; "this will fortify her; and this," continued she, with a ghastly smile, laying her hand upon another vessel, "this shall remove her rival when all is fulfilled; this liquid shall constrain her lover to be her titled, landed husband. Ha, ha!"
Beggar.Concert, sir! we have musicians, too, among us. True, merry beggars, indeed, that, being within the reach of the lash for singing libellous songs at London, were fain to fly into one cover, and here they sing all our poets' ditties. They can sing anything, most tunably, sir, but psalms. What they may do hereafter, under a triple tree, is much expected; but they live very civilly and genteelly among us.Spring.But what is here—that solemn old fellow, that neither speaks of himself, or any for him?Beggar.O, sir, the rarest man of all: he is a prophet. See how he holds up his prognosticating nose. He is divining now.Spring.How, a prophet?Beggar.Yes, sir; a cunning man, and a fortune-teller; a very ancient stroller all the world over, and has travelled with gipsies: and is a patrico.The Merry Beggars.
Beggar.Concert, sir! we have musicians, too, among us. True, merry beggars, indeed, that, being within the reach of the lash for singing libellous songs at London, were fain to fly into one cover, and here they sing all our poets' ditties. They can sing anything, most tunably, sir, but psalms. What they may do hereafter, under a triple tree, is much expected; but they live very civilly and genteelly among us.
Spring.But what is here—that solemn old fellow, that neither speaks of himself, or any for him?
Beggar.O, sir, the rarest man of all: he is a prophet. See how he holds up his prognosticating nose. He is divining now.
Spring.How, a prophet?
Beggar.Yes, sir; a cunning man, and a fortune-teller; a very ancient stroller all the world over, and has travelled with gipsies: and is a patrico.
The Merry Beggars.
In consequence of some few words which the sexton let fall in the presence of the attendants, during breakfast, more perhaps by design than accident, it was speedily rumored throughout the camp that the redoubted Richard Turpin was for the time its inmate. This intelligence produced some such sensation as is experienced by the inhabitants of a petty town on the sudden arrival of a prince of the blood, a commander-in-chief, or other illustrious and distinguished personage, whose fame has been vaunted abroad amongst his fellowmen by Rumor, "and her thousand tongues;" and who, like our highwayman, has rendered himself sufficiently notorious to bean object of admiration and emulation amongst his contemporaries.
All started up at the news. The upright man, the chief of the crew, arose from his chair, donned his gown of state, a very ancient brocade dressing-gown, filched, most probably, from the wardrobe of some strolling player, grasped his baton of office, a stout oaken truncheon, and sallied forth. The ruffler, who found his representative in a very magnificently equipped, and by no means ill-favored knave, whose chin was decorated with a beard as lengthy and as black as Sultan Mahmoud's, together with the dexterous hooker, issued forth from the hovel which they termed their boozing ken, eager to catch a glimpse of the prince of the high-tobygloaks. The limping palliard tore the bandages from his mock wounds, shouldered his crutch, and trudged hastily after them. The whip-jack unbuckled his strap, threw away his timber leg, and "leapt exulting, like the bounding roe." "With such a sail in sight," he said, "he must heave to, like the rest." The dummerar, whose tongue had been cut out by the Algerines, suddenly found the use of it, and made the welkin ring with his shouts. Wonderful were the miracles Dick's advent wrought. The lame became suddenly active, the blind saw, the dumb spoke; nay, if truth must be told, absolutely gave utterance to "most vernacular execrations." Morts, autem morts, walking morts, dells, doxies, kinching morts, and their coes, with all the shades and grades of the Canting Crew, were assembled. There were, to use the words of Brome—