“True; but the sun that shines upon you, to me wears a threatening aspect. The day of those espousals will never dawn. You cannot make me the lady of Rookwood.”
“What do I hear?” exclaimed Luke, surprised at this avowal of his mistress, sadly and deliberately delivered. “Not wed you! And wherefore not? Is it the rank I have acquired, or hope to acquire, that displeases you? Speak, that I may waste no further time in thus pursuing the shadows of happiness, while the reality fleets from me.”
“And are they shadows; and is this the reality, dear Luke? Question your secret soul, and you will find it otherwise. You could not forego your triumph; it is not likely. You have dwelt too much upon the proud title which will be yours to yield it to another, when it may be won so easily. And, above all, when your mother’s reputation, and your own stained name, may be cleared by one word, breathed aloud, would you fail to utter it? No, dear Luke, I read your heart; you would not.”
“And if I could not forego this, wherefore is it that you refuse to be a sharer in my triumph? Why will you render my honours valueless when I have acquired them? You love me not.”
“Not love you, Luke?”
“Approve it, then.”
“I do approve it. Bear witness the sacrifice I am about to make of all my hopes, at the shrine of my idolatry to you. Bear witness the agony of this hour. Bear witness the horror of the avowal, that I never can be yours. As Luke Bradley, I would joyfully—oh, how joyfully!—have been your bride. As Sir Luke Rookwood”—and she shuddered as she pronounced the name—”I never can be so.”
“Then, by Heaven! Luke Bradley will I remain. But wherefore—wherefore not as Sir Luke Rookwood?”
“Because,” replied Sybil, with reluctance—”because I am no longer your equal. The gipsy’s low-born daughter is no mate for Sir Luke Rookwood. Love cannot blind me, dear Luke. It cannot make me other than I am; it cannot exalt me in my own esteem, nor in that of the world, with which you, alas! too soon will mingle, and which will regard even me as—no matter what!—it shall not scorn me as your bride. I will not bring shame and reproach upon you. Oh! if, for me, dear Luke, the proud ones of the earth were to treat you with contumely, this heart would break with agony. For myself, I have pride sufficient—perchance too much. Perchance ’tis pride that actuates me now. I know not. But for you I am all weakness. As you were heretofore, I would have been to you the tenderest and truest wife that ever breathed; as you are now—”
“Hear me, Sybil.”
“Hear me out, dear Luke. One other motive there is that determines my present conduct, which, were all else surmounted, would in itself suffice. Ask me not what that is. I cannot explain it. For your own sake, I implore you, be satisfied with my refusal.”
“What a destiny is mine!” exclaimed Luke, striking his forehead with his clenched hand. “No choice is left me. Either way I destroy my own happiness. On the one hand stands love—on the other ambition; yet neither will conjoin.”
“Pursue, then, ambition,” said Sybil, energetically, “if you can hesitate. Forget that I have ever existed; forget you have ever loved; forget that such a passion dwells within the human heart, and you may still be happy, though you are great.”
“And do you deem,” replied Luke, with frantic impatience, “that I can accomplish this; that I can forget that I have loved you; that I can forget you? Cost what it will, the effort shall be made. Yet by our former love, I charge you tell me what has wrought this change in you? Why do you now refuse me?”
“I 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.”
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