“My bower he sought, what time he thought thy jealous vassals slept,
Of joy we dreamed, and never deemed that watch those vassals kept;
An hour flew by, too speedily! — that picture was his boon:
Ah! little thrift to me that gift: he left me all too soon!
“Wo worth the hour! dark fates did lower, when our hands were first united,
For my heart’s firm truth, ‘mid tears and ruth, with death hast thou requited:
In prayer sincere, full many a year of my wretched life I’ve spent;
But to hell’s control would I give my soul to work thy chastisement!”
These wild words said, low drooped her head, and Ranulph’s life-blood froze,
For the earth did gape, as an awful shape from out its depths arose:
“Thy prayer is heard, Hell hath concurred,” cried the fiend, “thy soul is mine!
Like fate may dread each dame shall wed with Ranulph or his line!”
Within the tomb to await her doom is that hapless lady sleeping,
And another bride by Ranulph’s side through the livelong night is weeping.
This dame declines — a third repines, and fades, like the rest, away; Her lot she rues, whom a Rookwood woos —cursed is her Wedding Day!
“And this is the legend of my ancestress?” said Luke, as Sybil’s strains were ended.
“It is,” replied she.
“An idle tale,” observed Luke, moodily.
“Not so,” answered Sybil. “Has not the curse of blood clung to all your line? Has it not attached to your father — to Sir Reginald — Sir Ralph — Sir Ranulph — to all? Which of them has escaped it? And when I tell you this, dear Luke; when I find you bear the name of this accursed race, can you wonder if I shudder at adding to the list of the victims of that ruthless spirit, and that I tremble for you? I would die for you willingly — but not by your hand. I would not that my blood, which I would now pour out for you as freely as water, should rise up in judgment against you. For myself I have no tears — for you, a thousand. My mother, upon her death-bed, told me I should never be yours. I believed her not, for I was happy then. She said that we never should be united; or, if united ——?”
“What, in Heaven’s name?”
“That you would be my destroyer. How could I credit her words then? How can I doubt them now, when I find you are a Rookwood? And think not, dear Luke, that I am ruled by selfish fears in this resolution. To renounce you may cost me my life; but the deed will be my own. You may call me superstitious, credulous: I have been nurtured in credulity. It is the faith of my fathers. There are those, methinks, who have an insight into futurity; and such boding words have been spoken, that, be they true or false, I will not risk their fulfilment in my person. I may be credulous; I may be weak; I may be erring; but I am steadfast in this. Bid me perish at your feet, and I will do it. I will not be your Fate. I will not be the wretched instrument of your perdition. I will love, worship, watch, serve, perish for you — but I’ll not wed you.”
Exhausted by the vehemence of her emotion, she would have sunk upon the ground, had not Luke caught her in his arms. Pressing her to his bosom, he renewed his passionate protestations. Every argument was unavailing. Sybil appeared inflexible.
“You love me as you have ever loved me?” said she, at length.
“A thousand-fold more fervently,” replied Luke; “put it to the test.”
“How if I dare to do so? Consider well: I may ask too much.”
“Name it. If it be not to surrender you, by my mother’s body I will obey you.”
“I would propose an oath.”
“Ha!”
“A solemn, binding oath, that; if you wed me not, you will not wed another. Ha! do you start? Have I appalled you?”
“I start? I will take it. Hear me — by ——”
“Hold!” exclaimed a voice behind them. “Do not forswear yourself.” And immediately afterwards the sexton made his appearance. There was a malignant smile upon his countenance. The lovers started at the ominous interruption.
“Begone!” cried Luke.
“Take not that oath,” said Peter, “and I leave you. Remember the counsel I gave you on our way hither.”
“What counsel did he give you, Luke?” inquired Sybil, eagerly, of her lover.
“We spoke of you, fond girl,” replied Peter. “I cautioned him against the match. I knew not your sentiments, or I had spared myself the trouble. You have judged wisely. Were he to wed you, ill would come of it. But he must wed another.”
“Must!“ cried Sybil, her eyes absolutely emitting sparkles of indignation from their night-like depths; and, unsheathing as she spoke the short poniard which she wore at her girdle, she rushed towards Peter, raising her hand to strike.
“Must wed another! And dare you counsel this?”
“Put up your dagger, fair maiden,” said Peter, calmly. “Had I been younger, your eyes might have had more terrors for me than your weapon; as it is, I am proof against both. You would not strike an old man like myself, and of your lover’s kin?”
Sybil’s uplifted hand fell to her side.
“’Tis true,” continued the sexton, “I dared to give him this advice; and when you have heard me out, you will not, I am persuaded, think me so unreasonable as, at first, I may appear to be. I have been an unseen listener to your converse; not that I desire to pry into your secrets — far from it; I overheard you by accident. I applaud your resolution; but if you are inclined to sacrifice all for your lover’s weal, do not let the work be incomplete. Bind him not by oaths which he will regard as spiders’ webs, to be burst through at pleasure. You see, as well as I do, that he is bent on being lord of Rookwood; and, in truth, to an aspiring mind, such a desire is natural, is praiseworthy. It will be pleasant, as well as honorable, to efface the stain cast upon his birth. It will be an act of filial duty in him to restore his mother’s good name; and I, her father, laud his anxiety on that score; though, to speak truth, fair maid, I am not so rigid as your nice moralists in my view of human nature, and can allow a latitude to love which their nicer scruples will not admit. It will be a proud thing to triumph over his implacable foe; and this he may accomplish ——”
“Without marriage,” interrupted Sybil, angrily.
“True,” returned Peter; “yet not maintain it. May win it, but not wear it. You have said truly, the house of Rookwood is a fated house; and it hath been said likewise, that if he wed not one of his own kindred — that if Rook mate not with Rook, his possessions shall pass away from his hands. Listen to this prophetic quatrain:
When the stray Rook shall perch on the topmost bough, There shall be clamor and screeching, I trow; But of right to, and rule of the ancient nest, The Rook that with Rook mates shall hold him possest.
You hear what these quaint rhymes say. Luke is, doubtless, the stray rook, and a fledgeling hath flown hither from a distant country. He must take her to his mate, or relinquish her and ‘the ancient nest’ to his brother. For my own part, I disregard such sayings. I have little faith in prophecy and divination. I know not what Eleanor Mowbray, for so she is called, can have to do with the tenure of the estates of Rookwood. But if Luke Rookwood, after he has lorded it for awhile in splendor, be cast forth again in rags and wretchedness, let him not blame his grandsire for his own want of caution.”
“Luke, I implore you, tell me,” said Sybil, who had listened, horror-stricken, to the sexton, shuddering, as it were, beneath the chilly