Rookwood

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 a while in splendour, 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 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 hath 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 even him.'

And in truth Peter did appear, for an instant, strangely moved.

''Tis nothing,' returned he, mastering his emotion by 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! not hers!'

'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 cars 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.

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CHAPTER IV

BARBARA LOVEL

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 terror from 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