echoed Luke, breaking into frantic laughter. “Ill! Ha, ha! — upon my wedding-day. No, I am well — well. Your eyes are jaundiced by jealousy.”
“Luke, dear Luke, laugh not thus. It terrifies me. I shall think you insane. There, you are calmer — you are more like yourself — more human. You looked just now — oh God! that I should say it of you — as if you were possessed by demons.”
“And if I were possessed, what then?”
“Horrible! hint not at it. You almost make me credit the dreadful tales I have heard, that on their wedding-day the Rookwoods are subject to the power of the ‘Evil One.’”
“Upon their wedding-day — and I look thus?”
“You do — you do. Oh! cast this frenzy from you.”
“She is mine — she is mine! I care not though fiends possess me, if it is my wedding-day, and Eleanor is my bride. And you say I look like a Rookwood. Ha, ha!”
“That wild laughter again. Luke, I implore you, hear me one word — my last ——”
“I will not bear reproaches.”
“I mean not to reproach you. I come to bless you — to forgive you — to bid you farewell. Will you not say farewell?”
“Farewell.”
“Not so — not so. Mercy! my God! compassionate him and me! My heart will break with agony. Luke, if you would not kill me, recall that word. Let not the guilt of my death be yours. ’Tis to save you from that remorse that I die!”
“Sybil, you have said rightly, I am not myself. I know not what demons have possession of my soul, that I can behold your agonies without remorse; that your matchless affection should awaken no return. Yet so it is. Since the fatal moment when I beheld yon maid, I have loved her.”
“No more. Now I can part with you. Farewell!”
“Stay, stay! wretch that I am. Stay, Sybil! If we must part — and that it must be so I feel — let me receive your pardon, if you can bestow it. Let me clasp you once more within my arms. May you live to happier days — may you ——”
“Oh, to die thus!” sobbed Sybil, disengaging herself from his embrace. “Live to happier days, said you? When have I given you reason to doubt, for an instant, the sincerity of my love, that you should insult me thus?”
“Then live with me — live for me.”
“If you can love me still, I will live as your slave, your minion, your wife; aught you will have me be. You have raised me from wretchedness. Oh!” continued she in an altered tone, “have I mistaken your meaning? Did you utter those words in false compassion for my sufferings? — Speak, it is not yet too late — all may be well. My fate — my life is in your hands. If you love me yet — if you can forsake Eleanor, speak — if not, be silent.”
Luke averted his head.
“Enough!” continued Sybil, in a voice of agony; “I understand. May God forgive you! Fare you well! We shall meet no more.”
“Do we part for ever?” asked Luke, without daring to regard her.
“For ever!“ answered Sybil.
Before her lover could reply, she shot from his side, and plunging amidst the dark and dense assemblage near the door, disappeared from view. An instant after, she emerged into the open air. She stood within the roofless hall. It was filled with sunshine — with the fresh breath of morn. The ivied ruins, the grassy floor, the blue vault of heaven, seemed to greet her with a benignant smile. All was riant and rejoicing — all, save her heart. Amid such brightness, her sorrow seemed harsh and unnatural; as she felt the glad influence of day, she was scarcely able to refrain from tears. It was terrible to leave this beautiful world, that blue sky, that sunshine, and all she loved — so young, so soon.
Entering a low arch that yawned within the wall, she vanished like a ghost at the approach of morn.
CHAPTER 9
THE PHILTER
Thou hast practised on her with foul charms — Abused her delicate youth with drugs and minerals.
Shakspeare: Othello.
To return to Eleanor Mowbray. In a state of mind bordering upon distraction, she rushed to her mother, and, flinging her arms wildly round her neck, besought her to protect her. Mrs. Mowbray gazed anxiously upon the altered countenance of her daughter, but a few moments relieved her from much of her uneasiness. — The expression of pain gradually subsided, and the look of vacuity was succeeded by one of frenzied excitement. A film had, for an instant or two, dimmed her eyes; they now gleamed with unnatural lustre. She smiled — the smile was singular; it was not the playful, pleasurable lighting up of the face that it used to be; but it was a smile, and the mother’s heart was satisfied.
Mrs. Mowbray knew not to what circumstance she could attribute this wondrous change. She looked at the priest. He was more apt in divining the probable cause of the sudden alteration in Eleanor’s manner.
“What if she has swallowed a love-powder?” said he, approaching Mrs. Mowbray, and speaking in a whisper. “I have heard of such abominable mixtures; indeed, the holy St. Jerome himself relates an instance of similar sorcery, in his life of Hilarius; and these people are said to compound them.”
“It may be so,” replied Mrs. Mowbray, in the same tone. “I think that the peculiar softness in the eye is more than natural.”
“I will at least hazard an experiment, to attest the truth or fallacy of my supposition,” returned the father. “Do you see your destined bridegroom yonder?” continued he, addressing Eleanor.
She followed with her eyes in the direction which Father Ambrose pointed. She beheld Luke. We know not how to describe the sensations which now possessed her. She thought not of Ranulph; or, if she did, it was with vague indifference. Wrapped in a kind of mental trance, she yielded to the pleasurable impulse that directed her unsettled fancies towards Luke. For some moments she did not take her eyes from him. The priest and Mrs. Mowbray watched her in silence.
Nothing passed between the party till Luke joined them. Eleanor continued gazing at him, and the seeming tenderness of her glance emboldened Luke to advance towards her. The soft fire that dwelt in those orbs was, however, cold as the shining wing of the luciola.
Luke approached her; he took her hand — she withdrew it not. He kissed it. Still she withdrew it not, but gazed at him with gently-glimmering eyes.
“My daughter is yours, Sir Luke Rookwood,” exclaimed Mrs. Mowbray.
“What says the maid herself?” asked Luke.
Eleanor answered not. Her eyes were still fixed on him.
“She will not refuse me her hand,” said Luke.
