Rookwood

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 be removed,' 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; I will 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 is your child, or your feelings, 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.'

'But how?' 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.

'Hear me,' 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 are hers! 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 issue female, 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,' returned 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 Rockwood. The sworn enemy of your father—of you—of all 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 beard 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 minister to my vengeance. He will be your curse—your daughter's curse—for he loves her not. Yet he is her husband, and hath her lands;—ha, ha!' And he laughed till he became convulsed with the paroxysm of fiendish exultation.

'Mine ears are stunned,' cried Mrs. Mowbray.