W. Ainsworth - Rookwood

"Farewell."

"Not so—not so. Mercy! my God! compassionate him and me! My heart will break with agony. Luke, if you would not kill me, recall that word. Let not the guilt of my death be yours. 'Tis to save you from that remorse that I die!"

"Sybil, you have said rightly, I am not myself. I know not what demons have possession of my soul, that I can behold your agonies without remorse; that your matchless affection should awaken no return. Yet so it is. Since the fatal moment when I beheld yon maid, I have loved her."

"No more. Now I can part with you. Farewell!"

"Stay, stay! wretch that I am. Stay, Sybil! If we must part, and that it must be so I feel, let me receive your pardon, if you can bestow it. Let me clasp you once more within my arms. May you live to happier days—may you—"

"Oh, to die thus!" sobbed Sybil, disengaging herself from his embrace. "Live to happier days, said you? When have I given you reason to doubt, for an instant, the sincerity of my love, that you should insult me thus?"

"Then live with me—live for me."

"If you can love me still, I will live as your slave, your minion, your wife; aught you will have me be. You have raised me from wretchedness. Oh!" continued she, in an altered tone, "have I mistaken your meaning? Did you utter those words in false compassion for my sufferings? Speak, it is not yet too late—all may be well. My fate—my life is in your hands. If you love me yet—if you can forsake Eleanor, speak—if not, be silent."

Luke averted his head.

"Enough!" continued Sybil, in a voice of agony; "I understand. May God forgive you! Fare you well! We shall meet no more."

"Do we part for ever?" asked Luke, without daring to regard her.

"FOR EVER!" answered Sybil.

Before her lover could reply, she shot from his side, and plunging amidst the dark and dense assemblage near the door, disappeared from view. An instant after, she emerged into the open air. She stood within the roofless hall. It was filled with sunshine—with the fresh breath of morn. The ivied ruins, the grassy floor, the blue vault of heaven, seemed to greet her with a benignant smile. All was riant and rejoicing—all, save her heart. Amid such brightness, her sorrow seemed harsh and unnatural; and as she felt the glad influence of day, she was scarcely able to refrain from tears. It was terrible to leave this beautiful world, that blue sky, that sunshine, and all she loved—so young, so soon.

Entering a low arch, that yawned within the wall, she vanished like a ghost at the approach of morn.

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CHAPTER IX

THE PHILTER

TO return to Miss Mowbray. In a state of mind bordering upon distraction, Eleanor rushed to her mother, and, flinging her arms wildly round her neck, besought her to protect her. Mrs. Mowbray gazed anxiously upon the altered countenance of her daughter, but a few moments relieved her from much of her uneasiness. The expression of pain gradually subsided, and the look of vacuity was succeeded by one of frenzied excitement. A film had, for an instant or two, dimmed her eyes; they now gleamed with unnatural lustre. She smiled—the smile was singular; it was not the playful, pleasurable lighting up of the face that it used to be; but it was a smile, and the mother's heart was satisfied.

Mrs. Mowbray knew not to what circumstance she could attribute this wondrous change. She looked at the priest. He was more apt in divining the probable cause of the sudden alteration in Eleanor's manner.

"What if she has swallowed a love-powder?" said he, approaching Mrs. Mowbray, and speaking in a whisper. "I have heard of such abominable mixtures; indeed, the holy St. Jerome himself relates an instance of similar sorcery, in his life of Hilarius; and these people are said to compound them."

"It may be so," replied Mrs. Mowbray in the same tone. "I think that the peculiar softness in the eye is more than natural."

"I will at least hazard an experiment, to attest the truth or fallacy of my supposition," returned the father. "Do you see your destined bridegroom yonder?" continued he, addressing Eleanor.

She followed with her eyes in the direction which Father Ambrose pointed. She beheld Luke. We know not how to describe the sensations which now possessed her. She thought not of Ranulph; or, if she did, it was with vague indifference. Wrapped in a kind of mental trance, she yielded to the pleasurable impulse that directed her unsettled fancies towards Luke. For some moments she did not take her eyes from him. The priest and Mrs. Mowbray watched her in silence.

Nothing passed between the party till Luke joined them. Eleanor continued gazing at him, and the seeming tenderness of her glance emboldened Luke to advance towards her. The soft fire that dwelt in those orbs was, however, cold as the shining wing of the luciola.

Luke approached her; he took her hand—she withdrew it not. He kissed it. Still she withdrew it not, but gazed at him with gently-glimmering eyes.

"My daughter is yours, Sir Luke Rookwood," exclaimed Mrs. Mowbray.

"What says the maid herself?" asked Luke.

Eleanor answered not. Her eyes were still fixed on him.

"She will not refuse me her hand," said Luke.

The victim resisted not.

"To the subterranean shrine," cried Barbara. And she gave the preconcerted signal to the band.

The signal was repeated by the gipsy crew. We may here casually note, that the crew had been by no means uninterested, or silent spectators of passing events, but had, on the contrary, indulged themselves in a variety of conjectures as to their probable issue. Several bets were pendent as to whether it would be a match or not after all. Zoroaster took long odds that the match was off—offering a bean to half-a-quid (in other words, a guinea to a half-guinea) that Sybil would be the bride. His offer was taken at once by Jerry Juniper, and backed by the knight of Malta.

"Ha! there's the signal," cried the knight; "I'll trouble you for the bean."

"And I," added Jerry Juniper, "for another."

"See 'em fairly spliced first," replied Magus; "that's vot I betted."

"Vell, vell, a few minutes will settle that. Come, pals, to the autem ken. Avay. Mind and obey orders."

"Ay, ay," answered the crew.

"Here's a torch for the altar of Hymen," said the knight, flashing his torch in the eyes of the patrico as he passed him.

"For the halter of Haman, you might say," returned Balthazar, sulkily. "It's well if some of us don't swing for it."

"You don't say," rejoined the perplexed Magus, "swing! Egad, I fear it's a ticklish business. But there's no fighting shy, I fear, with Barbara present; and then there's that infernal autem-bawler; it will be so cursedly regular. If you had done the job, Balty, it would not have signified a brass farden. Luckily there will be no vitnesses to snitch upon us. There will be no one in the vault besides ourselves."

"There will be a silent and a solemn witness," returned Balthazar, "and one whom you expect not."

"Eh! Vot's that you say? a spy?"

But the patrico was gone.

"Make way there—make way, pals, for the bride and bridegroom," cried the knight of Malta, drawing Excalibur, and preparing to lead the way to the vault.

The train began to move. Eleanor leaned upon the arm of her mother. Beside them stalked Barbara, with an aspect of triumph. Luke followed with the priest. One by one the assemblage quitted the apartment.

The sexton alone lingered. "The moment is at hand," said he, musingly, "when all shall be consummated."

A few steps brought him into the court. The crowd was there still. A brief delay had taken place. The knight of Malta then entered the mouth of the vault. He held his torch so as to reveal a broken flight of steps, conducting, it would seem, to regions of perpetual night. So thought Eleanor, as she shudderingly gazed into the abyss. She hesitated; she trembled; she refused. But her mother's entreaties, and Barbara's threatening looks, induced, in the end, reluctant compliance. At length the place was empty. Peter was about to follow, when the sound of a horse's hoofs broke upon his ear. He tarried for an instant, and the mounted figure of the highwayman burst within the limits of the court.

"Ha, ha! old earthworm," cried Dick, "my Nestor of the churchyard, alone! where the devil are all the folks gone? Where's Sir Luke, and his new-found cousin, eh?"

Peter hastily explained.

"A wedding under ground? famous! the thing of all others I should like to see. I'll hang Bess to this ivy tod, and grub my way with you thither, old mole."

"You must stay here, and keep guard," returned Peter.

"May I be hanged if I do, when such fun is going on."

"Hanged, in all probability, you will be," returned Peter; "but I should not, were I you, desire to anticipate my destiny. Stay here you must, and shall—that's peremptory. You will be the gainer by it. Sir Luke will reward you nobly. I will answer for him. You can serve him most effectually. Ranulph Rookwood and Major Mowbray are expected here."

"The devil they are. But how, or why—"

"I have not time to explain. In case of a surprise, discharge a pistol; they must not enter the vault. Have you a whistle? for you must play a double part, and we may need your assistance below."

"Sir Luke may command me. Here's a pipe as shrill as the devil's own cat-call."

"If it will summon you to our assistance below, 'tis all I need. May we rely on you?"

"When did Dick Turpin desert his friends? Anywhere on this side the Styx the sound of that whistle will reach me. I'll ride about the court, and stand sentry."

"Enough," replied the sexton, as he dived under ground.

"Take care of your shins," shouted Dick. "That's a cursed ugly turn, but he's used to the dark. A surprise, eh! I'll just give a look to my snappers—flints all safe. Now I'm ready for them, come when they like." And, having made the circuit of the place, he halted near the mouth of the subterranean chapel, to be within hearing of Peter's whistle, and, throwing his right leg lazily over his saddle, proceeded coolly to light a short pipe (the luxury of the cigar being then unknown), humming the while snatches of a ballad, the theme of which was his own calling:

THE SCAMPSMAN

There is not a king, should you search the world round,

So blithe as the king of the road to be found;

His pistol's his sceptre, his saddle's his throne,

Whence he levies supplies, or enforces a loan.

Derry down.

To this monarch the highway presents a wide field,

Where each passing subject a tribute must yield;

His palace (the tavern!) receives him at night,

Where sweet lips and sound liquor crown all with delight.

Derry down.

The soldier and sailor, both robbers by trade,

Full soon on the shelf, if disabled, are laid:

The one gets a patch, and the other a peg,

But, while luck lasts, the highwayman shakes a loose leg.

Derry down.

Most fowls rise at dawn, but the owl wakes at e'en,

And a jollier bird can there nowhere be seen;

Like the owl, our snug scampsman his snooze takes by day,

And, when night draws her curtain, scuds after his prey!

Derry down.

As the highwayman's life is the fullest of zest,

So the highwayman's death is the briefest and best;

He dies not as other men die, by degrees!

But AT ONCE! without wincing, and quite at his ease!

Derry down.

And thus, for the present, we leave him. O rare Dick Turpin!