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No marriage I esteem it, where the friends Force love upon their children; where the virgin Is not so truly given as betrayed. I would not have betrothed people — for I can by no means call them lovers — make Their rites no wedlock, but a sacrifice.

Combat of Love and Friendship.

Eleanor Mowbray had witnessed her mother’s withdrawal from her side with much uneasiness, and was with difficulty prevented by Sybil from breaking upon her conference with the gipsy queen. Barbara’s dark eye was fixed upon them during the whole of the interview, and communicated an indefinite sense of dread to Eleanor.

“Who — who is that old woman?” asked Eleanor, under her breath. “Never, even in my wildest dreams, have I seen aught so terrible. Why does she look so at us? She terrifies me; and yet she cannot mean me ill, or my mother — we have never injured her?”

“Alas!” sighed Sybil.

“You sigh!” exclaimed Eleanor, in alarm. “Is there any real danger, then? Help us to avoid it. Quick, warn my mother; she seems agitated. Oh, let me go to her.”

“Hush!” whispered Sybil, maintaining an unmoved demeanor under the lynx-like gaze of Barbara. “Stir not, as you value your life; you know not where you are, or what may befall you. Your safety depends upon your composure. Your life is not in danger; but what is dearer than life, your love, is threatened with a fatal blow. There is a dark design to wed you to another.”

“Heavens!” ejaculated Eleanor, “and to whom?”

“To Sir Luke Rookwood.”

“I would die sooner! Marry him? They shall kill me ere they force me to it!”

“Could you not love him?”

“Love him! I have only seen him within this hour. I knew not of his existence. He rescued me from peril. I would thank him. I would love him, if I could, for Ranulph’s sake; and yet for Ranulph’s sake I hate him.”

“Speak not of him thus to me,” said Sybil, angrily. “If you love him not, I love him. Oh! forgive me, lady; pardon my impatience — my heart is breaking, yet it has not ceased to beat for him. You say you will die sooner than consent to this forced union. Your faith shall not be so cruelly attested. If there must be a victim, I will be the sacrifice. God grant I may be the only one. Be happy! as happy as I am wretched. You shall see what the love of a gipsy can do.”

As she spoke, Sybil burst into a flood of passionate tears. Eleanor regarded her with the deepest commiseration; but the feeling was transient; for Barbara, now advancing, exclaimed: “Hence to your mother. The bridegroom is waiting: to your mother, girl!” And she motioned Eleanor fiercely away. “What means this?” continued the old gipsy. “What have you said to that girl? Did I not caution you against speech with her? and you have dared to disobey me. You, my grandchild — the daughter of my Agatha, with whom my slightest wish was law. I abandon you! I curse you!”

“Oh, curse me not!” cried Sybil. “Add not to my despair.”

“Then follow my advice implicitly. Cast off this weakness; all is in readiness. Luke shall descend into the vaulted chapel, the ceremony shall there take place — there also shall Eleanor die— and there again shall you be wedded. Take this phial, place it within the folds of your girdle. When all is over, I will tell you how to use it. Are you prepared? Shall we set out?”

“I am prepared,” replied Sybil, in accents hollow as despair; “but let me speak with Luke before we go.”

“Be brief, then — each moment is precious. Keep a guard upon your tongue. I will to Mrs. Mowbray. You have placed the phial in safety. A drop will free you from your troubles.”

“’Tis in that hope I guard it,” replied Sybil, as she departed in the direction of Luke. Barbara watched her join him, and then turned shortly towards Mrs. Mowbray and her daughter.

“You are ill, dear Luke,” said Sybil, who had silently approached her faithless lover; “very ill.”

“Ill!” 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.