The nuptial torch shall be quenched as soon as lighted; the curse of the avenger shall fall — yet not on thee.”
“Mother,” said Sybil, “if sin must fall upon some innocent head, let it be on mine — not upon hers. I love him, I would gladly die for him. She is young — unoffending — perhaps happy. Oh! do not let her perish.”
“Peace, I say!” cried Barbara, “and mark me. This is your birthday. Eighteen summers have flown over your young head — eighty winters have sown their snows on mine. You have yet to learn. Years have brought wrinkles — they have brought wisdom likewise. To struggle with Fate, I tell you, is to wrestle with Omnipotence. We may foresee, but not avert our destiny. What will be, shall be. This is your eighteenth birthday, Sybil: it is a day of fate to you; in it occurs your planetary hour — an hour of good or ill, according to your actions. I have cast your horoscope. I have watched your natal star; it is under the baleful influence of Scorpion, and fiery Saturn sheds his lurid glance upon it. Let me see your hand. The line of life is drawn out distinct and clear — it runs — ha! what means that intersection? Beware — beware, my Sybil. Act as I tell you, and you are safe. I will make another trial, by the crystal bowl. Attend.”
Muttering some strange words, sounding like a spell, Barbara, with the bifurcate hazel staff which she used as a divining-rod, described a circle upon the floor. Within this circle she drew other lines, from angle to angle, forming seven triangles, the bases of which constituted the sides of a septilateral figure. This figure she studied intently for a few moments. She then raised her wand and touched the owl with it. The bird unfolded its wings, and arose in flight; then slowly circled round the pendulous globe. Each time it drew nearer, until at length it touched the glassy bowl with its flapping pinions.
“Enough!” ejaculated Barbara. And at another motion from her rod the bird stayed its flight and returned to its perch.
Sybil and Barbara Lovel
Barbara arose. She struck the globe with her staff. The pure lymph became instantly tinged with crimson, as if blood had been commingled with it. The little serpent could be seen within, coiled up and knotted, as in the struggles of death.
“Again I say, beware!” ejaculated Barbara, solemnly. “This is ominous of ill.”
Sybil had sunk, from faintness, on the pallet. A knock was heard at the door.
“Who is without?” cried Barbara.
“’Tis I, Balthazar,” replied a voice.
“Thou mayest enter,” answered Barbara; and an old man with a long beard, white as snow, reaching to his girdle, and a costume which might be said to resemble the raiment of a Jewish high priest, made his appearance. This venerable personage was no other than the patrico, or hierophant of the Canting Crew.
“I come to tell you that there are strangers — ladies — within the priory,” said the patrico, gravely. “I have searched for you in vain,” continued he, addressing Sybil; “the younger of them seems to need your assistance.”
“Whence come they?” exclaimed Barbara.
“They have ridden, I understand, from Rookwood,” answered the patrico. “They were on their way to Davenham, when they were prevented.”
“From Rookwood?” echoed Sybil. “Their names — did you hear their names?”
“Mowbray is the name of both; they are a mother and a daughter; the younger is called ——”
“Eleanor?” asked Sybil, with an acute foreboding of calamity.
“Eleanor is the name, assuredly,” replied the patrico, somewhat surprised. “I heard the elder, whom I guess to be her mother, so address her.”
“Gracious God! She here!” exclaimed Sybil.
“Here! Eleanor Mowbray here,” cried Barbara; “within my power. Not a moment is to be lost. Balthazar, hasten round the tents — not a man must leave his place — above all, Luke Bradley. See that these Mowbrays are detained within the abbey. Let the bell be sounded. Quick, quick; leave this wench to me; she is not well. I have much to do. Away with thee, man, and let me know when thou hast done it.” And as Balthazar departed on his mission, with a glance of triumph in her eyes, Barbara exclaimed, “Soh, no sooner hath the thought possessed me, than the means of accomplishment appear. It shall be done at once. I will tie the knot. I will untie, and then retie it. This weak wench must be nerved to the task,” added she, regarding the senseless form of Sybil. “Here is that will stimulate her,” opening the cupboard, and taking a small phial; “this will fortify her; and this,” continued she, with a ghastly smile, laying her hand upon another vessel, “this shall remove her rival when all is fulfilled; this liquid shall constrain her lover to be her titled, landed husband. Ha, ha!”
CHAPTER 5
THE INAUGURATION
Beggar. Concert, sir! we have musicians, too, among us. True, merry beggars, indeed, that, being within the reach of the lash for singing libellous songs at London, were fain to fly into one cover, and here they sing all our poets’ ditties. They can sing anything, most tunably, sir, but psalms. What they may do hereafter, under a triple tree, is much expected; but they live very civilly and genteelly among us.
Spring. But what is here — that solemn old fellow, that neither speaks of himself, or any for him?
Beggar. O, sir, the rarest man of all: he is a prophet. See how he holds up his prognosticating nose. He is divining now.
Spring. How, a prophet?
Beggar. Yes, sir; a cunning man, and a fortune-teller; a very ancient stroller all the world over, and has travelled with gipsies: and is a patrico.
The Merry Beggars.
In consequence of some few words which the sexton let fall in the presence of the attendants, during breakfast, more perhaps by design than accident, it was speedily rumored throughout the camp that the redoubted Richard Turpin was for the time its inmate. This intelligence produced some such sensation as is experienced by the inhabitants of a petty town on the sudden arrival of a prince of the blood, a commander-in-chief, or other illustrious and distinguished personage, whose fame has been vaunted abroad amongst his fellowmen by Rumor, “and her thousand tongues;” and who, like our highwayman, has rendered himself sufficiently notorious to be an object of admiration and emulation amongst his contemporaries.
All started up at the news. The upright man, the chief of the crew, arose from his chair, donned his gown of state, a very ancient brocade dressing-gown, filched, most probably, from the wardrobe of some strolling player, grasped his baton of office, a stout oaken truncheon, and sallied forth. The ruffler, who found his representative in a very magnificently equipped, and by no means ill-favored knave, whose chin was decorated with a beard as lengthy and as black as Sultan Mahmoud’s, together with the dexterous hooker, issued forth from the hovel which they termed their boozing ken, eager to catch a glimpse of the prince of the high-tobygloaks. The limping palliard tore the bandages from his mock wounds, shouldered his crutch, and trudged hastily after them. The
