Rookwood

'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 it is fitting; 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 intrusted to my care by his father. I have brought him up with you. I have affianced you together; and I shall live to see you united. He is now Sir Luke. He is your husband.'

'Do not deceive yourself, mother,' said Sybil, with a fearful earnestness. 'He is not yet Sir Luke Rookwood; would he had no claim to be so! The fortune that has hitherto been so propitious may yet desert him. Bethink you of a prophecy you uttered.'

'A prophecy? Ha!'

And with slow enunciation Sybil pronounced the mystic words which she had heard repeated by the sexton.

As she spoke, a gloom, like that of a thundercloud, began to gather over the brow of the old gipsy. The orbs of her sunken eyes expanded, and wrath supplied her frame with vigour. She arose.

'Who told you that?' cried Barbara.

'Luke's grandsire, Peter Bradley.'

'How learnt he it?' said Barbara. 'It was to one who hath long been in his grave I told it; so long ago, it had passed from my memory. 'Tis strange! old Sir Reginald had a brother, I know. But there is no other of the house.'

'There is a cousin, Eleanor Mowbray.'

'Ha! I see; a daughter of that Eleanor Rookwood who fled from her father's roof. Fool, fool. Am I caught in my own toils? These words were words of truth and power, and compel the future and 'the will be' as with chains of brass. They must be fulfilled, yet not by Ranulph. He shall never wed Eleanor.'

'Whom then shall she wed?'

'His elder brother.'

'Mother!' shrieked Sybil. 'Do you say so? Oh! recall your words.'

'I may not; it is spoken. Luke shall wed her.'

'Oh God, support me!' exclaimed Sybil.

'Silly wench, be firm. It must be as I say. He shall wed her—yet shall he wed her not. The nuptial torch shall be quenched as soon as lighted; the curse of the avenger shall fall—yet not on thee.'

'Mother,' said Sybil, 'if sin must fall upon some innocent head, let it be on mine—not upon hers. I love him. I would gladly die for him. She is young—unoffending—perhaps happy. Oh! do not let her perish.'

'Peace I say!' cried Barbara, 'and mark me. This is your birthday. Eighteen summers have flown over your young head—eighty winters have sown their snows on mine. You have yet to learn. Years have brought wrinkles—they have brought wisdom likewise. To struggle with Fate, I tell you, is to wrestle with Omnipotence. We may foresee, but not avert our destiny. What will be, shall be. This is your eighteenth birthday, Sybil: it is a day of fate to you; in it occurs your planetary hour—an hour of good or ill, according to your actions. I have cast your horoscope. I have watched your natal star; it is under the baneful influence of Scorpion, and fiery Saturn sheds his lurid glance upon it. Let me see your hand. The line of life is drawn out distinct and clear—it runs —ha! what means that intersection? Beware—beware, my Sybil. Act as I tell you, and you are safe. I will make another trial, by the crystal bowl. Attend.'