Читать книгу The Essential Works of William Harrison Ainsworth - William Harrison Ainsworth - Страница 63

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 meeteth

On 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 Suffer her not to be withdrawn from your hand, if you would not lose her.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 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,” 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 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 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.”

“And mine destroyed,” groaned Barbara. “I have sworn by the cross to slay the bride — and Sybil is that bride.”