“But,” returned Mrs. Mowbray, with hesitation, “though I might wish for — though I might sanction this, Eleanor is betrothed to Ranulph — she loves him.”
“Think not of her, if you are satisfied. She cannot judge so well for herself as you can for her. She is a child, and knows not what she loves. Her affection will soon be Luke’s. He is a noble youth — the image of his grandfather, your father, Sir Reginald; and if your daughter be betrothed to any one, ’twas to the heir of Rookwood. That was an essential part of the contract. Why should the marriage not take place at once, and here?”
“Here! How were that possible?”
“You are within sacred walls. I will take you where an altar stands. There is no lack of holy priest to join their hands together. Your companion, Father Ambrose, as you call him, will do the office fittingly. He has essayed his clerkly skill already on others of your house.”
“To what do you allude, mysterious woman?” asked Mrs. Mowbray, with anxiety.
“To Sir Piers and Susan Bradley,” returned Barbara. “That priest united them.”
“Indeed! He never told me this.”
“He dared not do so; he had an oath which bound him to concealment. The time is coming when greater mysteries will be revealed.”
“’Tis strange I should not have heard of this before,” said Mrs. Mowbray, musingly; “and yet I might have guessed as much from his obscure hints respecting Ranulph. I see it all now. I see the gulf into which I might have been plunged; but I am warned in time. Father Ambrose,” continued she, to the priest, who was pacing the chamber at some little distance from them, “is it true that my brother was wedded by you to Susan Bradley?”
Ere the priest could reply the sexton presented himself.
“Ha, the very father of the girl!” said Mrs. Mowbray, “whom I met within our family vault, and who was so strangely moved when I spoke to him of Alan Rookwood. Is he here likewise?”
“Alan Rookwood!” echoed Barbara, upon whom a light seemed suddenly to break; “ha! what said he of him?”
“Ill-boding raven,” interposed Peter, fiercely, “be content with what thou knowest of the living, and trouble not the repose of the dead. Let them rest in their infamy.”
“The dead!” echoed Barbara, with a chuckling laugh; “ha! ha! he is dead, then; and what became of his fair wife — his brother’s minion? ’Twas a foul deed, I grant, and yet there was expiation. Blood flowed — blood ——”
“Silence, thou night hag!” thundered Peter, “or I will have thee burned at the stake for the sorcery thou practisest. Beware,” added he, in a deep tone —“I am thy friend.”
Barbara’s withered countenance exhibited for an instant the deepest indignation at the sexton’s threat. The malediction trembled on her tongue; she raised her staff to smite him, but she checked the action. In the same tone, and with a sharp, suspicious look, she replied, “My friend, sayest thou? See that it prove so, or beware of me.”
And, with a malignant scowl, the gipsy queen slowly shuffled towards her satellites, who were stationed at the door.
CHAPTER 8
THE PARTING
No marriage I esteem it, where the friends Force love upon their children; where the virgin Is not so truly given as betrayed. I would not have betrothed people — for I can by no means call them lovers — make Their rites no wedlock, but a sacrifice.
Combat of Love and Friendship.
Eleanor Mowbray had witnessed her mother’s withdrawal from her side with much uneasiness, and was with difficulty prevented by Sybil from breaking upon her conference with the gipsy queen. Barbara’s dark eye was fixed upon them during the whole of the interview, and communicated an indefinite sense of dread to Eleanor.
“Who — who is that old woman?” asked Eleanor, under her breath. “Never, even in my wildest dreams, have I seen aught so terrible. Why does she look so at us? She terrifies me; and yet she cannot mean me ill, or my mother — we have never injured her?”
“Alas!” sighed Sybil.
“You sigh!” exclaimed Eleanor, in alarm. “Is there any real danger, then? Help us to avoid it. Quick, warn my mother; she seems agitated. Oh, let me go to her.”
“Hush!” whispered Sybil, maintaining an unmoved demeanor under the lynx-like gaze of Barbara. “Stir not, as you value your life; you know not where you are, or what may befall you. Your safety depends upon your composure. Your life is not in danger; but what is dearer than life, your love, is threatened with a fatal blow. There is a dark design to wed you to another.”
“Heavens!” ejaculated Eleanor, “and to whom?”
“To Sir Luke Rookwood.”
“I would die sooner! Marry him? They shall kill me ere they force me to it!”
“Could you not love him?”
“Love him! I have only seen him within this hour. I knew not of his existence. He rescued me from peril. I would thank him. I would love him, if I could, for Ranulph’s sake; and yet for Ranulph’s sake I hate him.”
“Speak not of him thus to me,” said Sybil, angrily. “If you love him not, I love him. Oh! forgive me, lady; pardon my impatience — my heart is breaking, yet it has not ceased to beat for him. You say you will die sooner than consent to this forced union. Your faith shall not be so cruelly attested. If there must be a victim, I will be the sacrifice. God grant I may be the only one. Be happy! as happy as I am wretched. You shall see what the love of a gipsy can do.”
As she spoke, Sybil burst into a flood of passionate tears. Eleanor regarded her with the deepest commiseration; but the feeling was transient; for Barbara, now advancing, exclaimed: “Hence to your mother. The bridegroom is waiting: to your mother, girl!” And she motioned Eleanor fiercely away. “What means this?” continued the old gipsy. “What have you said to that girl? Did I not caution you against speech with her? and you have dared to disobey me. You, my grandchild — the daughter of my Agatha, with whom my slightest wish was law. I abandon you! I curse you!”
“Oh, curse me not!” cried Sybil. “Add not to my despair.”
“Then follow my advice implicitly. Cast off this weakness; all is in readiness. Luke shall descend into the vaulted chapel, the ceremony shall there take place — there also shall Eleanor die— and there again shall you be wedded. Take this phial, place it within the folds of your girdle. When all is over, I will tell you how to use it. Are you prepared? Shall we set out?”
“I am prepared,” replied Sybil, in accents hollow as despair; “but let me speak with Luke before we go.”
“Be brief, then — each moment is precious. Keep a guard upon your tongue. I will to Mrs. Mowbray. You have placed the phial in safety. A drop will free you from your troubles.”
“’Tis in that hope I guard it,” replied Sybil, as she departed in the direction of Luke. Barbara watched her join him, and then turned shortly towards Mrs. Mowbray and her daughter.
“You are ill, dear Luke,” said Sybil, who had silently approached her faithless lover; “very ill.”
“Ill!” echoed Luke, breaking into frantic laughter. “Ill! Ha, ha! — upon my wedding-day. No, I am well — well. Your eyes are jaundiced by jealousy.”
“Luke, dear Luke, laugh not thus. It terrifies me. I shall think you insane.