W. Ainsworth - Rookwood

"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."

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CHAPTER XII

ALAN ROOKWOOD

BRAVO! capital!" cried Turpin, laughing loud and long as an Olympian deity; "has this simple wench outwitted you all; turned the tables upon the whole gang of plotters, eh? Excellent! ha, ha, ha! The next time you wed, Sir Luke, let me advise you not to choose a wife in the dark. A man should have all his senses about him on these occasions. Make love when the liquor's in; marry when it's out, and, above all, with your eyes open. This beats cock-fighting—ha, ha, ha!—you must excuse me; but, upon my soul, I can't help it." And his laughter seemed inextinguishable.

"Take your men without," whispered Alan Rookwood; "keep watch as before, and let the discharge of a pistol bespeak the approach of danger, as agreed upon; much yet remains to be done here."

"How so?" asked Dick: "it seems to me the job's entirely settled—if not to your satisfaction. I'm always ready to oblige my friend Sir Luke; but curse me if I'll lend my hand to any underhand work. Steer clear of foul play, or Dick Turpin holds no hand with you. As to that poor wench, if you mean her any harm, curse me if I will—"

"No harm is intended her," replied Alan. "I applaud your magnanimity," added he, sarcastically; "such sentiments are, it must be owned, in excellent keeping with your conduct."

"In keeping or not," replied Turpin, gravely, "cold-blooded murder is altogether out of my line, and I wash my hands of it. A shot or two in self-defence is another matter; and when—"

"A truce to this," interrupted Alan; "the girl is safe. Will you mount guard again?"

"If that be the case, certainly," replied Dick: "I shall be glad to get back to Bess. I couldn't bring her with me into this black hole. A couple of shots will tell you 'tis Ranulph Rookwood. But mind, no harm to the gipsy girl—to Lady Rookwood, I should say. She's a jewel, take my word for it, which Sir Luke must be mad to throw away." And calling his companions, he departed.

Alan Rookwood bent his steps towards the gipsy queen. Dark thoughts gathered thickly o'er his brow. He smiled as he drew nigh to Barbara—a smile it was

That wrinkled up his skin even to the hair.

Barbara looked at him at first with distrust; but as he developed his secret purposes, that smile became reflected upon her own features. Their conference took place apart. We willingly leave them to return to the altar.

Mrs. Mowbray and the priest were still there. Both were occupied in ineffectual endeavours to restore Eleanor to consciousness. She recovered from her swoon; but it was evident her senses still wandered; and vainly did Mrs. Mowbray lavish her tenderest caresses upon her child. Eleanor returned them not.

Luke, meanwhile, had given vent to the wildest fury. He shook away Sybil's grasp; he dashed her from him; he regarded her with withering glances; he loaded her with reproaches. She bore his violence with meekest submission; she looked imploringly—but she replied not to his taunts. Again she clung to the hem of his garment when cast aside. Luke appeared unmoved; what passed within we pause not to examine. He grew calmer; his calmness was more terrible to Sybil than his previous wrath had been.

"You are my wife," said he; "what then? By fraud, by stratagem, you have obtained that title, and, perforce, must keep it. But the title only shall you retain. No rights of wife shall ever be yours. It will be in your power to call yourself Lady Rookwood—you will be so in name—in nothing else."

"I shall not bear it long," murmured Sybil.

Luke laughed scornfully. "So you said before," replied he; "and yet I see not why you are likely to abandon it. The event will show. Thus far you have deceived me, and I place no further faith in your assertions. My hand was yours; you refused it. When I would give it to another, you grasp it clandestinely. Am I to believe you now? The wind will change—the vane veer with it."

"It will not veer from you," she meekly answered.

"Why did you step between me and my bride?"

"To save her life; to lay down mine for hers."

"An idle subterfuge. You know well that you run no risk of being called upon to do so. Your life is in no danger. The sacrifice was unnecessary. I could have dispensed with your assistance: my own arm would have sufficed to protect Eleanor."

"Your single arm would not have prevailed against numbers: they would have killed you likewise."

"Tush!" said Luke, fiercely. "Not only have you snatched from me my bride, you have robbed me of my fair estates, of all, save of my barren title, and that, even that , you have tarnished."

"True, true," sighed Sybil. "I knew not that the lands were hers, else had I never done it."

"False, false," cried Luke; "false as the rest. They will be Ranulph's. She will be Ranulph's. I shall still be an outcast, while Ranulph will riot in my halls—will press her to his bosom. Cling not to me. Hence! or I will spurn you from me. I am undone, undone by you, accursed one."

"Oh, curse me not! your words cut deep enough."

"Would they could kill you," cried Luke, with savage bitterness. "You have placed a bar between me and my prospects, which nothing can now remove—nothing but—ha!" and his countenance assumed a deadly hue and fearful expression. "By Heaven, you almost rouse the fell spirit which it is said dwells within the breast of my devoted race. I feel as if I could stab thee."

"No, no," shrieked Sybil; "for mercy's sake, for your own sake, do not stab me. It is not too late. I will repair my wrong!"

"Ever deceiving! you would again delude me. You cannot repair it. One way alone remains, and that—"