"You need fear no relapse in your daughter; I will answer for that,"
said the old gipsy to Mrs. Mowbray; "Sybil will tend her. Quit not the maiden"s side," continued she, addressing her grandchild, adding, in a whisper, "Be cautious--alarm her not--mine eye will be upon you--drop not a word."
So saying, she shuffled to a little distance with Mrs. Mowbray, keeping Sybil in view, and watching every motion, as the panther watches the gambols of a fawn.
"Know you who speaks to you?" said the old crone, in the peculiar low and confidential tone a.s.sumed by her tribe to strangers. "Have you forgotten the name of Barbara Lovel?"
"I have no distinct remembrance of it," returned Mrs. Mowbray.
"Think again," said Barbara; "and though years are flown, you may perchance recall the black gipsy woman, who, when you were surrounded with gay gallants, with dancing plumes, perused your palm, and whispered in your ear the favored suitor"s name. Bide with me a moment, madam,"
said Barbara, seeing that Mrs. Mowbray shrank from the recollection thus conjured up; "I am old--very old; I have survived the shows of flattery, and being vested with a power over my people, am apt, perchance, to take too much upon myself with others." The old gipsy paused here, and then, a.s.suming a more familiar tone, exclaimed, "The estates of Rookwood are ample----"
"Woman, what mean you?"
"They should have been yours, lady, and would have been, but for that marriage. You would have beseemed them bravely. Sir Reginald was wilful, and erased the daughter"s name to subst.i.tute that of his son. Pity it is that so fair a creature as Miss Mowbray should lack the dower her beauty and her birth ent.i.tle her to expect. Pity that Ranulph Rookwood should lose his t.i.tle, at the moment when he deemed it was dropping into his possession. Pity that those broad lands should pa.s.s away from you and your children, as they will do, if Ranulph and Eleanor are united."
"They never shall be united," replied Mrs. Mowbray, hastily.
""Twere indeed to wed your child to beggary," said Barbara.
Mrs. Mowbray sighed deeply.
"There is a way," continued the old crone, in a deep whisper, "by which the estates might still be hers and yours."
"Indeed!" said Mrs. Mowbray, eagerly.
"Sir Piers Rookwood had two sons."
"Ha!"
"The elder is here."
"Luke--Sir Luke. He brought us. .h.i.ther."
"He loves your daughter. I saw his gaze of pa.s.sion just now. I am old now, but I have some skill in lovers" glances. Why not wed her to him? I read hands--read hearts, you know. They were born for each other. Now, madam, do you understand me?"
"But," returned Mrs. Mowbray, with hesitation, "though I might wish for--though I might sanction this, Eleanor is betrothed to Ranulph--she loves him."
"Think not of _her_, if _you_ are satisfied. She cannot judge so well for herself as you can for her. She is a child, and knows not what she loves. Her affection will soon be Luke"s. He is a n.o.ble youth--the image of his grandfather, your father, Sir Reginald; and if your daughter be betrothed to any one, "twas to the heir of Rookwood. That was an essential part of the contract. Why should the marriage not take place at once, and here?"
"Here! How were that possible?"
"You are within sacred walls. I will take you where an altar stands.
There is no lack of holy priest to join their hands together. Your companion, Father Ambrose, as you call him, will do the office fittingly. He has essayed his clerkly skill already on others of your house."
"To what do you allude, mysterious woman?" asked Mrs. Mowbray, with anxiety.
"To Sir Piers and Susan Bradley," returned Barbara. "That priest united them."
"Indeed! He never told me this."
"He dared not do so; he had an oath which bound him to concealment. The time is coming when greater mysteries will be revealed."
""Tis strange I should not have heard of this before," said Mrs.
Mowbray, musingly; "and yet I might have guessed as much from his obscure hints respecting Ranulph. I see it all now. I see the gulf into which I might have been plunged; but I am warned in time. Father Ambrose," continued she, to the priest, who was pacing the chamber at some little distance from them, "is it true that my brother was wedded by you to Susan Bradley?"
Ere the priest could reply the s.e.xton presented himself.
"Ha, the very father of the girl!" said Mrs. Mowbray, "whom I met within our family vault, and who was so strangely moved when I spoke to him of Alan Rookwood. Is he here likewise?"
"Alan Rookwood!" echoed Barbara, upon whom a light seemed suddenly to break; "ha! what said he of him?"
"Ill-boding raven," interposed Peter, fiercely, "be content with what thou knowest of the living, and trouble not the repose of the dead. Let them rest in their infamy."
"The dead!" echoed Barbara, with a chuckling laugh; "ha! ha! he is dead, then; and what became of his fair wife--his brother"s minion? "Twas a foul deed, I grant, and yet there was expiation. Blood flowed--blood----"
"Silence, thou night hag!" thundered Peter, "or I will have thee burned at the stake for the sorcery thou practisest. Beware," added he, in a deep tone--"I am thy friend."
Barbara"s withered countenance exhibited for an instant the deepest indignation at the s.e.xton"s threat. The malediction trembled on her tongue; she raised her staff to smite him, but she checked the action.
In the same tone, and with a sharp, suspicious look, she replied, "My _friend_, sayest thou? See that it prove so, or beware of _me_."
And, with a malignant scowl, the gipsy queen slowly shuffled towards her satellites, who were stationed at the door.
_CHAPTER VIII_
_THE PARTING_
No marriage I esteem it, where the friends Force love upon their children; where the virgin Is not so truly given as betrayed.
I would not have betrothed people--for I can by no means call them lovers--make Their rites no wedlock, but a sacrifice.
_Combat of Love and Friendship._
Eleanor Mowbray had witnessed her mother"s withdrawal from her side with much uneasiness, and was with difficulty prevented by Sybil from breaking upon her conference with the gipsy queen. Barbara"s dark eye was fixed upon them during the whole of the interview, and communicated an indefinite sense of dread to Eleanor.
"Who--who is that old woman?" asked Eleanor, under her breath. "Never, even in my wildest dreams, have I seen aught so terrible. Why does she look so at us? She terrifies me; and yet she cannot mean me ill, or my mother--we have never injured her?"
"Alas!" sighed Sybil.
"You sigh!" exclaimed Eleanor, in alarm. "Is there any real danger, then? Help us to avoid it. Quick, warn my mother; she seems agitated.
Oh, let me go to her."
"Hush!" whispered Sybil, maintaining an unmoved demeanor under the lynx-like gaze of Barbara. "Stir not, as you value your life; you know not where you are, or what may befall you. Your safety depends upon your composure. Your life is not in danger; but what is dearer than life, your love, is threatened with a fatal blow. There is a dark design to wed you to another."
"Heavens!" e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed Eleanor, "and to whom?"