Cari.I will not die; I must not. I am contractedTo a young gentleman.Executioner.Here's your wedding-ring.Duchess of Malfy.
Cari.I will not die; I must not. I am contractedTo a young gentleman.Executioner.Here's your wedding-ring.
Cari.I will not die; I must not. I am contractedTo a young gentleman.
Executioner.Here's your wedding-ring.
Duchess of Malfy.
Slowly did the train descend; solemnly and in silence, as if the rites at which they were about to assist had been those of funereal, and not of nuptial, solemnization. Indeed, to look upon those wild and fierce faces by the ruddily-flashing torchlight, which lent to each a stern and savage expression; to see those scowling visages surrounding a bride from whose pallid cheeks every vestige of color, and almost of animation, had fled; and a bridegroom, with a countenance yet more haggard, and demeanor yet more distracted—the beholder must have imagined that the spectacle was some horrible ceremonial, practised by demons rather than human beings. The arched vault, the pillars, the torchlight, the deep shadows, and the wild figures, formed a picture worthy of Rembrandt or Salvator.
"Is Sybil within the chapel?" asked Barbara.
"I am here," returned a voice from the altar.
"Why do we tarry?" said the gipsy queen. "We are all assembled. To the altar."
"To the altar!" shrieked Eleanor. "Oh! no—no——"
"Remember my threat, and obey," muttered Barbara. "You are in my power now."
A convulsive sob was all the answer Eleanor could make.
"Our number is not complete," said the priest, who had looked in vain for the sexton. "Peter Bradley is not with us."
"Ha!" exclaimed Barbara. "Let him be sought for instantly."
"Their search need not extend beyond this spot," said Peter, stepping forward.
The knight of Malta advanced towards the altar. The torchlight reddened upon the huge stone pillars. It fell upon the shrine, and upon the ghastly countenance of Sybil, who stood beside it. Suddenly, as the light approached her, an object, hitherto hidden from view, was revealed. Sybil uttered a prolonged and fearful shriek; the knight recoiled likewise in horror; and a simultaneous cry of astonishment burst from the lips of the foremost of the group. All crowded forwards, and universal consternation prevailed amongst the assemblage. Each one gazed at his neighbor, anxious to learn the occasion of this tumult, and vague fears were communicated to those behind, from the terrified glances, which were the only answers returned by their comrades in front.
"Who has dared to bring that body here?" demanded Barbara, in a tone in which anger struggled with apprehension, pointing at the same time to the ghastly corpse of a female, with streaming hair, at the altar's feet. "Who has dared to do this, I say? Quick! remove it. What do you stare at? Cravens! is this the first time you have looked upon a corpse, that you should shrink aghast—that you tremble before it? It is a clod—ay, less than a clod. Away with it! away, I say."
"Touch it not," cried Luke, lifting a cloud of black hair from off the features; "it is my mother's body."
"My daughter!" exclaimed the sexton.
"What!" vociferated Barbara, "is that your daughter—is that the first Lady Rookwood? Are the dead arisen to do honor to these nuptials? Speak! you can, perchance, explain how she came hither."
"I know not," returned Peter, glancing fiercely at Barbara; "I may, anon, demand that question of you. How came this body here?"
"Ask of Richard Checkley," said Barbara, turning to the priest. "He can, perchance, inform you. Priest," added she, in a low voice, "this is your handiwork."
"Checkley!" screamed Peter. "Is that Richard Checkley? is that——"
"Peace!" thundered Barbara; "will none remove the body? Once more I ask you, do you fear the dead?"
A murmur arose. Balthazar alone ventured to approach the corpse.
Luke started to his feet as he advanced, his eyes glaring with tiger fury.
"Back, old man," cried he, "and dare not, any of you, to lay a sacrilegious finger on her corse, or I will stretch him that advances as lowly as lies my mother's head. When or how it came hither matters not. Here, at the altar, has it been placed, and none shall move it hence. The dead shall witness my nuptials. Fate has ordained it—myfate! o'er which the dead preside. Her ring shall link me to my bride. I knew not, when I snatched it from her death-cold finger, to what end I preserved it. I learn it now. It is here." And he held forth a ring.
"'Tis a fatal boon, that twice-used ring," cried Sybil; "such a ring my mother, on her death-bed, said should be mine. Such a ring she said should wed me——"
"Unto whom?" fiercely demanded Luke.
"Unto Death!" she solemnly rejoined.
Luke's countenance fell. He turned aside, deeply abashed, unable further to brook her gaze; while in accents of such wildly touching pathos as sank into the hearts of each who heard her—hearts, few of them framed of penetrable stuff—the despairing maiden burst into the following strain:
THE TWICE-USED RING
"Beware thy bridal day!"On her death-bed sighed my mother;"Beware, beware, I say,Death shall wed thee, and no other.Cold the hand shall grasp thee,Cold the arms shall clasp thee,Colder lips thy kiss shall smother!Beware thy bridal kiss!"Thy wedding ring shall beFrom a clay-cold finger taken;From one that, like to thee,Was by her love forsaken.For a twice-used ringIs a fatal thing;Her griefs who wore it are partaken—,Beware that fatal ring!"The altar and the graveMany steps are not asunder;Bright banners o'er thee wave,Shrouded horror lieth under.Blithe may sound the bell,Yet 'twill toll thy knell;Scathed thy chaplet by the thunder—Beware that blighted wreath!"Beware my bridal day!Dying lips my doom have spoken;Deep tones call me away;From the grave is sent a token.Cold, cold fingers bringThat ill-omen'd ring;Soon will asecondheart be broken;Thisis my bridal day.
"Beware thy bridal day!"On her death-bed sighed my mother;"Beware, beware, I say,Death shall wed thee, and no other.Cold the hand shall grasp thee,Cold the arms shall clasp thee,Colder lips thy kiss shall smother!Beware thy bridal kiss!"Thy wedding ring shall beFrom a clay-cold finger taken;From one that, like to thee,Was by her love forsaken.For a twice-used ringIs a fatal thing;Her griefs who wore it are partaken—,Beware that fatal ring!"The altar and the graveMany steps are not asunder;Bright banners o'er thee wave,Shrouded horror lieth under.Blithe may sound the bell,Yet 'twill toll thy knell;Scathed thy chaplet by the thunder—Beware that blighted wreath!"Beware my bridal day!Dying lips my doom have spoken;Deep tones call me away;From the grave is sent a token.Cold, cold fingers bringThat ill-omen'd ring;Soon will asecondheart be broken;Thisis my bridal day.
"Beware thy bridal day!"On her death-bed sighed my mother;"Beware, beware, I say,Death shall wed thee, and no other.Cold the hand shall grasp thee,Cold the arms shall clasp thee,Colder lips thy kiss shall smother!Beware thy bridal kiss!
"Thy wedding ring shall beFrom a clay-cold finger taken;From one that, like to thee,Was by her love forsaken.For a twice-used ringIs a fatal thing;Her griefs who wore it are partaken—,Beware that fatal ring!
"The altar and the graveMany steps are not asunder;Bright banners o'er thee wave,Shrouded horror lieth under.Blithe may sound the bell,Yet 'twill toll thy knell;Scathed thy chaplet by the thunder—Beware that blighted wreath!"
Beware my bridal day!Dying lips my doom have spoken;Deep tones call me away;From the grave is sent a token.Cold, cold fingers bringThat ill-omen'd ring;Soon will asecondheart be broken;Thisis my bridal day.
There was a deep, profound silence as the last melancholy cadence died away, and many a rugged heart was melted, evento tears. Eleanor, meanwhile, remained in a state of passive stupefaction, vacantly gazing at Sybil, upon whom alone her eyes were fixed, and appearing indistinctly to apprehend the meaning of her song.
"This is my bridal day," murmured she, in a low tone, when Sybil had finished. "Said not that sweet voice so? I know 'tis my bridal day. What a church you have chosen, mother! A tomb—a sepulchre—but 'tis meet for such nuptials as mine—and what wedding guests! Was that pale woman in her shroud-like dress invited here by you? Tell me that, mother."
"My God, her senses are gone!" cried Mrs. Mowbray. "Why did I venture into this horrible place?"
"Ask notwhynow, madam," rejoined the priest. "The hour for consideration is past. We must act. Let the marriage proceed, at all hazards; we will then take means to extricate ourselves from this accursed place."
"Remove that horrible object," said Mrs. Mowbray; "it fascinates the vision of my child."
"Lend me your hand, Richard Checkley," said Peter, sternly regarding the priest.
"No, no," replied the priest, shuddering; "I will not, cannot touch it. Do you alone remove it."
Peter approached Luke. The latter now offered no further opposition, and the body was taken away. The eyes of Eleanor followed it into the dark recesses of the vault; and when she could no longer distinguish the white flutter of the cereclothes, her laboring bosom seemed torn asunder with the profound sigh that burst from it, and her head declined upon her shoulder.
"Let me see that ring," said the priest, addressing Luke, who still held the wedding-ring between his fingers.
"I am not naturally superstitious," said Mrs. Mowbray; "whether my mind be affected with the horrors of this place, I know not; but I have a dread of that ring. She shall not use it."
"Where no other can be found," said the priest, with a significant and peculiar look at Mrs. Mowbray, "I see no reason why this should be rejected. I should not have suspected you, madam, of such weakness. Grant there were evil spell, or charm, attached to it, which, trust me, there isnot—as how should there be, to a harmless piece of gold?—my benediction, and aspersion with holy lymph, will have sufficient power to exorcise and expel it. To remove your fears it shall be done at once."
A cup containing water was brought, together with a plate of salt—which condiment the devil is said to abhor, and which is held to be a symbol of immortality and of eternity; in that, being itself incorruptible, it preserves all else from corruption,—and, with the customary Romish formula of prayer and exorcism, the priest thrice mingled the crystal particles with the pure fluid; after which, taking the ring in his hand with much solemnity, he sprinkled it with a few drops of the water which he had blessed; made the sign of the cross upon the golden circlet; uttered another and more potent exorcism to eradicate and expel every device of Satan, and delivered it back to Luke.
"She may wear it now in safety," said the sexton, with strong contempt. "Were the snake himself coiled round that consecrated bauble, the prayers of the devout Father Checkley would unclasp his lithest folds. But wherefore do we tarry now? Naught lies between us and the altar. The path is clear. The bridegroom grows impatient."
"And the bride?" asked Barbara.
"Is ready," replied the priest. "Madam, delay not longer. Daughter, your hand."
Eleanor gave her hand. It was clammy and cold. Supported by her mother, she moved slowly towards the altar, which was but a few steps from where they stood. She offered no resistance, but did not raise her head. Luke was by her side. Then for the first time did the enormity of the cruel, dishonorable act he was about to commit, strike him with itsfull force. He saw it in its darkest colors. It was one of those terrible moments when the headlong wheel of passion stands suddenly still.
"There is yet time," groaned he. "Oh! let me not damn myself perpetually! Let me save her; save Sybil; save myself."
They were at the altar—that wild wedding train. High over head the torch was raised. The red light flashed on bridegroom and on bride, giving to the pale features of each an almost livid look; it fell upon the gaunt aspect of the sexton, and lit up the smile of triumphant malice that played upon his face; it fell upon the fantastical habiliments of Barbara, and upon the haughty but perturbed physiognomy of Mrs. Mowbray; it fell upon the salient points of the Gothic arches; upon one molded pillar; upon the marble image of the virgin Thecla; and on the scarcely less marble countenance of Sybil who stood behind the altar, silent, statue-like, immovable. The effect of light and shade on other parts of the scene, upon the wild drapery, and harsh lineaments of many of the group, was also eminently striking.
Just as the priest was about to commence the marriage service, a yelling chorus, which the gipsies were accustomed to sing at the celebration of the nuptials of one of their own tribe, burst forth. Nothing could be more horribly discordant than their song.
WEDDING CHORUS OF GIPSIES
Scrape the catgut! pass the liquor!Let your quick feet move the quicker.Ta-ra-la!Dance and sing in jolly chorus,Bride and bridegroom are before us,And the patrico stands o'er us.Ta-ra-la!To unite their hands he's ready;For a moment, pals, be steady;Cease your quaffing,Dancing, laughing;Leave off riot,And be quiet,While 'tis doing.'Tis begun,All is over!Two areONE!The patrico has link'd 'em;Daddy Hymen's torch has blink'd 'em.Amen!To 't again!Now for quaffing,Now for laughing,Stocking-throwing,Liquor flowing;For our bridals are no bridles, and our altars never alter;From the flagon never flinch we, in the jig we never falter.No! that's notourway, forweAre staunch lads of Romany.For our wedding, then, hurrah!Hurrah! hurrah! hurrah!
Scrape the catgut! pass the liquor!Let your quick feet move the quicker.Ta-ra-la!Dance and sing in jolly chorus,Bride and bridegroom are before us,And the patrico stands o'er us.Ta-ra-la!To unite their hands he's ready;For a moment, pals, be steady;Cease your quaffing,Dancing, laughing;Leave off riot,And be quiet,While 'tis doing.'Tis begun,All is over!Two areONE!The patrico has link'd 'em;Daddy Hymen's torch has blink'd 'em.Amen!To 't again!Now for quaffing,Now for laughing,Stocking-throwing,Liquor flowing;For our bridals are no bridles, and our altars never alter;From the flagon never flinch we, in the jig we never falter.No! that's notourway, forweAre staunch lads of Romany.For our wedding, then, hurrah!Hurrah! hurrah! hurrah!
Scrape the catgut! pass the liquor!Let your quick feet move the quicker.Ta-ra-la!
Dance and sing in jolly chorus,Bride and bridegroom are before us,And the patrico stands o'er us.Ta-ra-la!
To unite their hands he's ready;For a moment, pals, be steady;Cease your quaffing,Dancing, laughing;Leave off riot,And be quiet,While 'tis doing.'Tis begun,All is over!Two areONE!The patrico has link'd 'em;Daddy Hymen's torch has blink'd 'em.Amen!To 't again!Now for quaffing,Now for laughing,Stocking-throwing,Liquor flowing;For our bridals are no bridles, and our altars never alter;From the flagon never flinch we, in the jig we never falter.No! that's notourway, forweAre staunch lads of Romany.For our wedding, then, hurrah!Hurrah! hurrah! hurrah!
This uncouth chorus ended, the marriage proceeded. Sybil had disappeared. Had she fled? No! she was by the bride. Eleanor mechanically took her place. A faint voice syllabled the responses. You could scarcely have seen Miss Mowbray's lips move. But the answers were given, and the priest was satisfied.
He took the ring, and sprinkled it once again with the holy water, in the form of the cross. He pronounced the prayer: "Benedic, Domine, annulum hunc, quem nos in tuo nomine benedicimus, ut quæ eum gestaverit, fidelitatem integram suo sponso tenens, in pace et voluntate tua permaneat atque in mutua charitate semper vivat."
He was about to return the ring to Luke, when the torch, held by the knight of Malta, was dashed to the ground bysome unseen hand, and instantly extinguished. The wild pageant vanished as suddenly as the figures cast by a magic-lantern upon a wall disappear when the glass is removed. A wild hubbub succeeded. Hoarsely above the clamor arose the voice of Barbara.
"To the door, quickly!—to the door! Let no one pass, I will find out the author of this mishap anon. Away!"
She was obeyed. Several of the crew stationed themselves at the door.
"Proceed now with the ceremony," continued Barbara. "By darkness, or by light, the match shall be completed."
The ring was then placed upon the finger of the bride; and as Luke touched it, he shuddered. It was cold as that of the corpse which he had clasped but now. The prayer was said, the blessing given, the marriage was complete.
Suddenly there issued from the darkness deep dirge-like tones, and a voice solemnly chanted a strain, which all knew to be the death-song of their race, hymned by wailing women over an expiring sister. The music seemed to float in the air.
THE SOUL-BELL
Fast the sand of life is falling,Fast her latest sigh exhaling,Fast, fast, is she dying.With death's chills her limbs are shivering,With death's gasp the lips are quivering,Fast her soul away is flying.O'er the mountain-top it fleeteth,And the skyey wonders greeteth,Singing loud as stars it meetethOn its way.Hark! the sullen Soul-bell tolling,Hollowly in echoes rolling,Seems to say—"She will ope her eyes—oh, never!Quenched their dark light—gone for ever!She is dead."
Fast the sand of life is falling,Fast her latest sigh exhaling,Fast, fast, is she dying.With death's chills her limbs are shivering,With death's gasp the lips are quivering,Fast her soul away is flying.O'er the mountain-top it fleeteth,And the skyey wonders greeteth,Singing loud as stars it meetethOn its way.Hark! the sullen Soul-bell tolling,Hollowly in echoes rolling,Seems to say—"She will ope her eyes—oh, never!Quenched their dark light—gone for ever!She is dead."
Fast the sand of life is falling,Fast her latest sigh exhaling,Fast, fast, is she dying.
With death's chills her limbs are shivering,With death's gasp the lips are quivering,Fast her soul away is flying.
O'er the mountain-top it fleeteth,And the skyey wonders greeteth,Singing loud as stars it meetethOn its way.
Hark! the sullen Soul-bell tolling,Hollowly in echoes rolling,Seems to say—
"She will ope her eyes—oh, never!Quenched their dark light—gone for ever!She is dead."
The marriage group yet lingered near the altar, awaiting, it would seem, permission from the gipsy queen to quit the cell. Luke stirred not. Clasped in his own, the cold hand of his bride detained him; and when he would have moved, her tightened grasp prevented his departure.
Mrs. Mowbray's patience was exhausted by the delay. She was not altogether free from apprehension. "Why do we linger here?" she whispered to the priest. "Do you, father, lead the way."
"The crowd is dense," replied Checkley. "They resist my effort."
"Are we prisoners here?" asked Mrs. Mowbray, in alarm.
"Let me make the attempt," cried Luke, with fiery impatience. "I will force a passage out."
"Quit not your bride," whispered Peter, "as you value her safety. Heed not aught else. She alone is in danger. Suffer her not to be withdrawn from your hand, if you would not lose her. Remain here. I will bring the matter to a speedy issue."
"Enough," replied Luke; "I stir not hence." And he drew his bride closer towards him. He stooped to imprint a kiss upon her lips. A cold shudder ran through her frame as he touched them, but she resisted not his embrace.
Peter's attempt to effect an egress was as unsuccessful as that of the priest. Presenting Excalibur at his bosom, the knight of Malta challenged him to stand.
"You cannot pass," exclaimed the knight; "our orders are peremptory."
"What am I to understand by this?" said Peter, angrily. "Why are we detained?"
"You will learn all anon," returned Barbara. "In the meantime you are my prisoners—or, if you like not the phrase, my wedding guests."
"The wedding is complete," returned the sexton; "the bride and bridegroom are impatient to depart, and we, the guests—albeit some of us may be no foes to darkness—desire not to hold our nuptial revels here."
"Sybil's wedding has not taken place," said Barbara; "you must tarry for that."
"Ha! now it comes," thought Peter. "And who, may I ask," said he, aloud, "amongst this goodly company, is to be her bridegroom?"
"The best amongst them," returned Barbara—"Sir Luke Rookwood."
"He has a bride already," replied Peter.
"She may beremoved," said Barbara, with bitter and peculiar emphasis. "Dost understand my meaning now?"
"I will not understand it," said Peter. "You cannot mean to destroy her who now stands at the altar?"
"She who now stands at the altar must make way for a successor. She who grasps the bridegroom's hand shall die. I swear it by the oath of my tribe."
"And think you, you will be allowed to execute your murderous intention with impunity?" shrieked Mrs. Mowbray, in an agony of terror. "Think you that I will stand by and see my child slaughtered before my face; that my friends will suffer it? Think you that even your own tribe will dare to execute your horrible purpose? They will not. They will side with us. Even now they murmur. What can you hope to gain by an act so wild and dreadful? What object can you have?"
"The same as your own," reiterated Barbara—"the advancement of my child. Sybil is as dear to me as Eleanor is to you. She is my child's child, the daughter of my best beloved daughter. I have sworn to marry her to Sir Luke Rookwood. The means are in my power. I will keep my vow; Iwill wed her to him. You did not hesitate to tear your daughter from the man she loved, to give her to the man she hated; and for what? For gold—for power—for rank. I have the same motive. I love my child, and she loves Sir Luke—has loved him long and truly; therefore shall she have him. What to me isyourchild, oryourfeelings, except they are subservient to my wishes? She stands in my way. I remove her."
"Who placed her in your path?" asked the sexton. "Did you not lend a helping hand to create that obstacle yourself?"
"I did," replied Barbara. "Would you know wherefore? I will tell you. I had a double motive for it. There is a curse upon the house of Rookwood, that kills the first fair bride each generation leads to the altar. Have you never heard of it?"
"I have! And did that idle legend sway you?"
"And do you call it idle?You!Well—I had another motive—a prophecy."
"By yourself uttered," replied Peter.
"Even so," replied Barbara. "The prophecy is fulfilled. The stray rook is found. The rook hath with rook mated. Luke hath wedded Eleanor. He will hold possession of his lands. The prophecy is fulfilled."
"Buthow?" 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.
"Hearme," 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 arehers! 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 issuefemale, 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," replied 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 Rookwood. The sworn enemy of your father—of you—of all of 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 heard 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 ministerto my vengeance. He will be your curse—your daughter's curse—for he loves her not. Yet he is her husband, and hath her land;—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.
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."
"Andminedestroyed," groaned Barbara. "I have sworn by the cross to slay the bride—and Sybil is that bride."
The wolf shall find her grave, and scrape it up;Not to devour the corse, but to discoverThe horrid murther.Webster.
The wolf shall find her grave, and scrape it up;Not to devour the corse, but to discoverThe horrid murther.
The wolf shall find her grave, and scrape it up;Not to devour the corse, but to discoverThe horrid murther.
Webster.
"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 pistolbespeak 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 toyoursatisfaction. I'm always ready to oblige my friend, Sir Luke; but curse me if I'd lend my help 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 quickly 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 endeavors 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 titleonlyshall 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."
"I shall not bear it long," murmured Sybil.
Luke laughed scornfully, "So you said before," replied he; "and yet I see not why you are likely to abandon it. The event will show. Thus far you have deceived me, and I place no further faith in your assertions. My hand was yours; you refused it. When I would give it to another, you grasp it clandestinely. Am I to believe you now? The wind will change—the vane veer with it."
"It will not veer from you," she meekly answered.
"Why did you step between me and my bride?"
"To save her life; to lay down mine for hers."
"An idle subterfuge. You know well that you run no risk of being called upon to do so. Your life is in no danger. The sacrifice was unnecessary. I could have dispensed withyourassistance; my own arm would have sufficed to protect Eleanor."
"Your single arm would not have prevailed against numbers: they would have killed you likewise."
"Tush!" said Luke, fiercely. "Not only have you snatched from me my bride, you have robbed me of my fair estates, of all, save of my barren title, and that, eventhat, you have tarnished."
"True, true," sighed Sybil. "I knew not that the lands were hers, else had I never done it."
"False, false," cried Luke; "false as the rest.Theywill be Ranulph's.Shewill be Ranulph's. I shall still be an outcast, while Ranulph will riot in my halls—will press her to his bosom. Cling not to me. Hence! or I will spurn you from me. I am undone, undone by you, accursed one."
"Oh, curse me not! your words cut deep enough."
"Would they could kill you," cried Luke, with savage bitterness. "You have placed a bar between me and my prospects, which nothing can now remove—nothing but—ha!" and his countenance assumed a deadly hue and fearful expression. "By Heaven, you almost rouse the fell spirit which it is said dwells within the breast of my devoted race. I feel as if I could stab thee."
"No, no!" shrieked Sybil; "for mercy's sake, for your own sake, do not stab me. It is not too late. I will repair my wrong!"
"Ever deceiving! you would again delude me. You cannot repair it. One way alone remains, and that——"
"I will pursue," responded Sybil, sadly, but firmly.
"Never!" cried Luke; "you shall not. Ha!" exclaimed he, as he found his arms suddenly pinioned behind him. "What new treachery is this? By whose orders am I thus fettered?"
"By mine," said Alan Rookwood, stepping forward.
"By yours?" echoed Luke. "And wherefore? Release me."
"Be patient," replied Alan. "You will hear all anon. In the meantime you must be content to remain my prisoner. Quit not your hold," added he, addressing the gipsies, who kept charge of Luke.
"Their lives shall answer for their obedience," said Barbara.
Upon a further signal from Alan, Eleanor was torn from her mother's arms, and a bandage passed so suddenly over Mrs. Mowbray's face, that, before she could raise a cry of alarm, all possibility of utterance was effectually prevented. The priest alone was left at liberty.
Barbara snatched the hand of Eleanor. She dragged her to Sybil.
"You are Lady Rookwood," whispered she; "but she has your domains. I give her to you."
"She is theonly barbetween thy husband and his rights," whispered Alan Rookwood, in a tone of horrible irony; "it is not too late to repair your wrong."
"Away, tempter!" cried Sybil, horror-stricken. "I know you well. Yet," continued she, in an altered tone, "I will risk all for him. I have done him wrong. One mode of atonement remains; and, horrible though it be, I will embrace it. Let me not pause. Give her to me." And she seized upon the unresisting hand of Eleanor.
"Do you need my aid?" asked Barbara.
"No," replied Sybil; "let none approach us. A clapping of hands will let you know when all is over." And she dragged her passive victim deeper into the vault.
"Sybil, Sybil!" cried Luke, struggling with frantic violence to liberate himself; "hurt her not. I was rash. I was mad. I am calmer now. She hears me not—she will not turn. God of heaven! she will murder her. It will be done while I speak. I am the cause of all. Release me, villains! Would that I had died ere I had seen this day."
At a signal from the sexton, Luke also was blindfolded. He ceased to struggle. But his laboring breast told of the strife within.
"Miscreants!" exclaimed the priest, who had hitherto witnessed the proceedings in horror. "Why do not these rocks fall in, and crush you and your iniquities? Save her! oh, save her! Have you no pity for the innocent?"
"Such pity have we," replied Alan Rookwood, "as you showed my daughter. She was as innocent as Eleanor Mowbray, and yet you did not pityher."
"Heaven is my witness," exclaimed the priest, "that I never injured her."
"Take not Heaven's name in vain," cried Alan. "Who stood by while it was doing? Whose firmer hand lent aid to the murderer's trembling efforts? Whose pressure stifled her thrilling screams, and choked her cries for mercy? Yours—yours; and now you prate to me of pity—you, the slayer of the sleeping and the innocent!"
"'Tis false!" exclaimed the priest, in extremity of terror.
"False!" echoed Alan. "I had Sir Piers's own confession. He told me all. You had designs upon Sir Piers, which his wife opposed; you hated her; you were in the confidence of both—how did you keep that confidence? He told mehow, by awakening a spirit of jealousy and pride, that o'ermastered all his better feelings. False! He told me of your hellish machinations; your Jesuitical plots; your schemes. He was too weak, too feeble an instrument to serve you. You left him, but not beforeshehad left him. False! ha, I have that shall instantly convict you. The corpse is here, within this cell. Who brought it hither?"
The priest was silent: he seemed confounded by Alan's violence.
"I will answer that question," said Barbara. "It was brought hither by that false priest. His agent, Balthazar, has betrayed him. It was brought hither to prevent the discovery of SirLuke Rookwood's legitimacy. He meant to make his own terms about it. It has come hither to proclaim his guilt—to be a fearful witness against him." Then, turning to Checkley, she added, "You have called Heaven to witness your innocence: you shall attest it by oath upon that body; and should aught indicate your guilt, I will hang you as I would a dog, and clear off one long score with justice. Do you shrink from this?"
"No," replied the priest, in a voice hollow and broken. "Bring me to the body."
"Seize each an arm," said Barbara, addressing Zoroaster and the knight of Malta, "and lead him to the corse."
"I will administer the oath," said Alan Rookwood, sternly.
"No, not you," stammered the priest.
"And wherefore not?" asked Alan. "If you are innocent, you need fear nothing from her."
"I fear nothing from thedead," replied Checkley; "lead on."
We will now return to Sybil. She was alone with her victim. They were near the mouth of the cell which had been Prior Cyprian's flinty dormitory, and were almost involved in darkness. A broken stream of light glanced through the pillars. Eleanor had not spoken. She suffered herself to be dragged thither without resistance, scarcely conscious, it would seem, of her danger. Sybil gazed upon her for some minutes with sorrow and surprise. "She comprehends not her perilous situation," murmured Sybil. "She knows not that she stands upon the brink of the grave. Oh! would that she could pray. Shall I, her murderess, pray for her? My prayers would not be heard. And yet, to kill her unshriven will be a twofold crime. Let me not look on her. My hand trembles. I can scarce grasp the dagger. Let me think on all he has said. I have wronged him. I am his bane, his curse! I have robbed him of all: there is but one remedy—'tisthis!—Oh, God! she recovers. I cannot do it now."
It was a fearful moment for Eleanor's revival, when the bright steel flashed before her eyes. Terror at once restored her. She cast herself at Sybil's feet.
"Spare, spare me!" cried she. "Oh! what a dream I have had. And to waken thus, with the dagger's point at my breast. You will not kill me—you, gentle maid, who promised to preserve me. Ah, no, I am sure you will not."
"Appeal no more to me," said Sybil, fiercely. "Make your peace with Heaven. Your minutes are numbered."
"I cannot pray," said Eleanor, "while you are near me."
"Will you pray if I retire and leave you?"
"No, no. I dare not—cannot," shrieked Eleanor, in extremity of terror. "Oh! do not leave me, or let me go."
"If you stir," said Sybil, "I stab you to the heart."
"I will not stir. I will kneel here forever. Stab me as I kneel—as I pray to you. You cannot kill me while I cling to you thus—while I kiss your hands—while I bedew them with my tears. Those tears will not sully them like my blood."
"Maiden," said Sybil, endeavoring to withdraw her hand, "let go your hold—your sand is run."
"Mercy!"
"It is in vain. Close your eyes."
"No, I will fix them on you thus—you cannot strike then. I will cling to you—embrace you. Your nature is not cruel—your soul is full of pity. It melts—those tears—you will be merciful. You cannot deliberately kill me."
"I cannot—I cannot!" said Sybil, with a passionate outburst of grief. "Take your life on one condition."
"Name it."
"That you wed Sir Luke Rookwood."
"Ah!" exclaimed Eleanor, "all rushes back upon me at that name; the whole of that fearful scene passes in review before me."
"Do you reject my proposal?"
"I dare not."
"I must have your oath. Swear by every hope of eternity that you will wed none other than him."
"By every hope, I swear it."
"Handassah, you will bear this maiden's oath in mind, and witness its fulfilment."
"I will," replied the gipsy girl, stepping forward from a recess, in which she had hitherto remained unnoticed.
"Enough. I am satisfied. Tarry with me. Stir not—scream not, whatever you may see or hear. Your life depends upon your firmness. When I am no more——"
"No more?" echoed Eleanor, in horror.
"Be calm," said Sybil. "When I am dead, clap your hands together. They will come to seek you—they will find me in your stead. Then rush to him—to Sir Luke Rookwood. He will protect you. Say to him hereafter that I died for the wrong I did him—that I died, and blessed him."
"Can you not live, and save me?" sobbed Eleanor.
"Ask it not. While I live, your life is in danger. When I am gone, none will seek to harm you. Fare you well! Remember your oath, and you, too, remember it, Handassah. Remember also—ha! that groan!"
All started, as a deep groan knelled in their ears.
"Whence comes that sound?" cried Sybil. "Hist!—a voice?"
"It is that of the priest," cried Eleanor. "Hark! he groans. They have murdered him! Kind Heaven, receive his soul!"
"Pray for me," cried Sybil: "pray fervently; avert your face; down on your knees—down—down! Farewell, Handassah!" And breaking from them, she rushed into the darkest recesses of the vault.
We must now quit this painful scene for another scarcely less painful, and return to the unfortunate priest.
Checkley had been brought before the body of Susan Rookwood. Even in the gloom, the shimmer of the white cereclothes,and the pallid features of the corpse, were ghastly enough. The torchlight made them terrible.
"Kneel!" said Alan Rookwood. The priest complied. Alan knelt beside him.
"Do you know these features?" demanded he. "Regard them well. Fix your eyes full upon them. Do you know them?"
"I do."
"Place your hand upon her breast. Does not the flesh creep and shrink beneath your touch? Now raise your hand—make the cross of your faith upon her bosom. By that faith you swear you are innocent."
"I do," returned the priest; "are you now satisfied?"
"No," replied Alan. "Let the torch be removed. Your innocence must be more deeply attested," continued he, as the light was withdrawn. "This proof will not fail. Entwine your fingers round her throat."
"Have I not done enough?"
"Your hesitation proves your guilt," said Alan.
"That proof is wanting, then?" returned the priest; "my hand is upon her throat—what more?"
"As you hope for mercy in your hour of need, swear that you never conspired against her life, or refused her mercy."
"I swear it."
"May the dead convict you of perjury if you have forsworn yourself," said Alan; "you are free. Take away your hand!"
"Ha! what is this?" exclaimed the priest. "You have put some jugglery upon me. I cannot withdraw my hand. It sticks to her throat, as though 'twere glued by blood. Tear me away. I have not force enough to liberate myself. Why do you grin at me? The corpse grins likewise. It is jugglery. I am innocent. You would take away my life. Tear me away, I say: the veins rise; they blacken; they are filling with new blood. I feel them swell; they coil like living things around my fingers. She is alive."
"And you are innocent?"
"I am—I am. Let not my ravings convict me. For Jesu's sake, release me."
"Blaspheme not, but arise. I hold you not."
"You do," groaned the priest. "Your grasp tightens round my throat; your hard and skinny fingers are there—I strangle—help!"
"Your own fears strangle you. My hand is at my side," returned Alan calmly.
"Villain, you lie. Your grasp is like a vice. The strength of a thousand devils is in your hand. Will none lend help? I never pressed so hard. Your daughter never suffered this torture—never—never. I choke—choke—oh!" And the priest rolled heavily backwards.
There was a deep groan; a convulsive rattle in the throat; and all was still.
"He is dead—strangled," cried several voices, holding down the torch. The face of the priest was blackened and contorted; his eyeballs protruded from their sockets; his tongue was nearly bitten through in the desperate efforts he had made to release himself from Alan's gripe; his hair was erect with horror. It was a ghastly sight.
A murmur arose amongst the gipsies. Barbara deemed it prudent to appease them.
"He was guilty," cried she. "He was the murderer of Susan Rookwood."
"And I,her father, have avenged her," said Alan, sternly.
The dreadful silence that followed this speech was broken by the report of a pistol. The sound, though startling, was felt almost as a relief.
"We are beset," cried Alan. "Some of you fly to reconnoitre."
"To your posts," cried Barbara.
Several of the crew flocked to the entrance.
"Unbind the prisoners," shouted Alan.
Mrs. Mowbray and Luke were accordingly set free.
Two almost simultaneous reports of a pistol were now heard.
"'Tis Ranulph Rookwood," said Alan; "that was the preconcerted signal."
"Ranulph Rookwood," echoed Eleanor, who caught the exclamation: "he comes to save me."
"Remember your oath," gasped a dying voice. "He is no longer yours."
"Alas! alas!" sobbed Eleanor, tremblingly.
A moment afterwards a faint clapping of hands reached the ears of Barbara.
"All is over," muttered she.
"Ha!" exclaimed Alan Rookwood, with a frightful look. "Is it done?"
Barbara motioned him towards the further end of the vault.