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 influence of his malevolent glance, “is this true? Does your fate depend upon Eleanor Mowbray? Who is she? What has she to do with Rookwood? Have you seen her? Do you love her?”
“I have never seen her,” replied Luke.
“Thank Heaven for that!” cried Sybil. “Then you love her not?”
“How were that possible?” returned Luke. “Do I not say I have not seen her?”
“Who is she, then?”
“This old man tells me she is my cousin. She is betrothed to my brother Ranulph.”
“How?” ejaculated Sybil. “And would you snatch his betrothed from your brother’s arms? Would you do him this grievous wrong? Is it not enough that you must wrest from him that which he has long deemed his own? And if he has falsely deemed it so, it will not make his loss the less bitter. If you do thus wrong your brother, do not look for happiness; do not look for respect; for neither will be your portion. Even this stony-hearted old man shrinks aghast at such a deed. His snake-like eyes are buried on the ground. See, I have moved even him.”
And in truth Peter did appear, for an instant, strangely moved.
“’Tis nothing,” returned he, mastering his emotion by a strong effort. “What is all this to me? I never had a brother. I never had aught — wife, child, or relative, that loved me. And I love not the world, nor the things of the world, nor those that inhabit the world. But I know what sways the world and its inhabitants; and that is, SELF! AND SELF-INTEREST! Let Luke reflect on this. The key to Rookwood is Eleanor Mowbray. The hand that grasps hers, grasps those lands; thus saith the prophecy.”
“It is a lying prophecy.”
“It was uttered by one of your race.”
“By whom?”
“By Barbara Lovel,” said Peter, with a sneer of triumph.
“Ha!”
“Heed him not,” exclaimed Luke, as Sybil recoiled at this intelligence. “I am yours.”
“Not mine! not mine!” shrieked she; “but,
