have said you are Sir Luke Rookwood,” returned Sybil, with painful emotion. “Does that name import nothing?”
“Imports it aught of ill?”
“To me, everything of ill. It is a fated house. Its line are all predestined.”
“To what?” demanded Luke.
“To murder!” replied Sybil, with solemn emphasis. “To the murder of their wives. Forgive me, Luke, if I have dared to utter this. Yourself compelled me to it.”
Amazement, horror, wrath, kept Luke silent for a few moments. Starting to his feet, he cried:
“And can you suspect me of a crime so foul? Think you, because I shall assume the name, that I shall put on the nature likewise of my race? Do you believe me capable of aught so horrible?”
“Oh, no, I believe it not. I am sure you would not do it. Your soul would reject with horror such a deed. But if Fate should guide your hand, if the avenging spirit of your murdered ancestress should point to the steel, you could not shun it then.”
“In Heaven’s name! to what do you allude?”
“To a tradition of your house,” replied Sybil. “Listen to me, and you shall hear the legend.” And with a pathos that produced a thrilling effect upon Luke, she sang the following ballad:
THE LEGEND OF THE LADY OF ROOKWOOD
Grim Ranulph home hath at midnight come, from the long wars of the Roses,
And the squire, who waits at his ancient gates, a secret dark discloses;
To that varlet’s words no response accords his lord, but his visage stern
Grows ghastly white in the wan moonlight, and his eyes like the lean wolf’s burn.
To his lady’s bower, at that lonesome hour, unannounced, is Sir Ranulph gone;
Through the dim corridor, through the hidden door, he glides — she is all alone!
Full of holy zeal doth his young dame kneel at the meek Madonna’s feet,
Her hands are pressed on her gentle breast, and upturned is her aspect sweet.
Beats Ranulph’s heart with a joyful start, as he looks on her guiltless face;
And the raging fire of his jealous ire is subdued by the words of grace;
His own name shares her murmured prayers — more freely can he breathe;
But ah! that look! Why doth he pluck his poniard from its sheath?
On a footstool thrown, lies a costly gown of saye and of minevere
— A mantle fair for the dainty wear of a migniard cavalier —
And on it flung, to a bracelet hung, a picture meets his eye;
“By my father’s head!” grim Ranulph said, “false wife, thy end draws nigh.”
From off its chain hath the fierce knight ta’en that fond and fatal pledge;
His dark eyes blaze, no word he says, thrice gleams his dagger’s edge!
Her blood it drinks, and, as she sinks, his victim hears his cry:
“For kiss impure of paramour, adult’ress, dost thou die!”
Silent he stood, with hands embrued in gore, and glance of flame,
As thus her plaint, in accents faint, made his ill-fated dame:
“Kind Heaven can tell, that all too well, I’ve loved thee, cruel lord;
But now with hate commensurate, assassin, thou’rt abhorred.
“I’ve loved thee long, through doubt and wrong; I’ve loved thee and no other;
And my love was pure for my paramour, for alas! he was my brother!
The Red, Red Rose, on thy banner glows, on his pennon gleams the White, And the bitter feud, that ye both have rued, forbids ye to unite.
“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
