The young Sir Reginald had attended Charles, in the character of page, during his exile; and if he could not requite the devotion of the son, by absolutely reinstating the fallen fortunes of the father, the monarch could at least accord him the fostering influence of his favor and countenance; and bestow upon him certain lucrative situations in his household, as an earnest of his good-will. And thus much he did. Remarkable for his personal attractions in youth, it is not to be wondered at that we should find the name of Reginald Rookwood recorded in the scandalous chronicles of the day, as belonging to a cavalier of infinite address and discretion, matchless wit, and marvellous pleasantry; and eminent beyond his peers for his successes with some of the most distinguished beauties who ornamented that brilliant and voluptuous court.
A career of elegant dissipation ended in matrimony. His first match was unpropitious. Foiled in his attempts upon the chastity of a lady of great beauty and high honor, he was rash enough to marry her; rash, we say, for from that fatal hour all became as darkness; the curtain fell upon the comedy of his life, to rise to tragic horrors. When, passion subsided, repentance awoke, and he became anxious for deliverance from the fetters he had so heedlessly imposed on himself, and on his unfortunate dame.
The hapless lady of Sir Reginald was a fair and fragile creature, floating on the eddying current of existence, and hurried in destruction as the summer gossamer is swept away by the rude breeze, and lost forever. So beautiful, so gentle was she, that if,
Sorrow had not made
Sorrow more beautiful than Beauty’s self,
it would have been difficult to say whether the charm of softness and sweetness was more to be admired than her faultless personal attractions. But when a tinge of melancholy came, saddening and shading the once smooth and smiling brow; when tears dimmed the blue beauty of those deep and tender eyes; when hot, hectic flushes supplied the place of healthful bloom, and despair took possession of her heart, then was it seen what was the charm of Lady Rookwood, if charm that could be called which was a saddening sight to see, and melted the beholder’s soul within him. All acknowledged, that exquisite as she had been before, the sad, sweet lady was now more exquisite still.
Seven moons had waned and flown — seven bitter, tearful moons — and each day Lady Rookwood’s situation claimed more soothing attention at the hand of her lord. About this time his wife’s brother, whom he hated, returned from the Dutch wars. Struck with his sister’s altered appearance, he readily divined the cause; indeed, all tongues were eager to proclaim it to him. Passionately attached to her, Lionel Vavasour implored an explanation of the cause of his sister’s griefs. The bewildered lady answered evasively, attributing her woe-begone looks to any other cause than her husband’s cruelty; and pressing her brother, as he valued her peace, her affection, never to allude to the subject again. The fiery youth departed. He next sought out his brother-in-law, and taxed him sharply with his inhumanity, adding threats to his upbraidings. Sir Reginald listened silently and calmly. When the other had finished, with a sarcastic obeisance, he replied: “Sir, I am much beholden for the trouble you have taken in your sister’s behalf. But when she entrusted herself to my keeping, she relinquished, I conceive, all claim on your guardianship: however, I thank you for the trouble you have taken; but, for your own sake, I would venture to caution you against a repetition of interference like the present.”
“And I, sir, caution you. See that you give heed to my words, or, by the heaven above us! I will enforce attention to them.”
“You will find me, sir, as prompt at all times to defend my conduct, as I am unalterable in my purposes. Your sister is my wife. What more would you have? Were she a harlot, you should have her back and welcome. The tool is virtuous. Devise some scheme, and take her with you hence — so you rid me of her I am content.”
“Rookwood, you are a villain.” And Vavasour spat upon his brother’s cheek.
Sir Reginald’s eyes blazed. His sword started from its scabbard. “Defend yourself!” he exclaimed, furiously attacking Vavasour. Pass after pass was exchanged. Fierce thrusts were made and parried. Feint and appeal, the most desperate and dexterous, were resorted to. Their swords glanced like lightning flashes. In the struggle, the blades became entangled. There was a moment’s cessation. Each glanced at the other with deadly, inextinguishable hate. Both were admirable masters of the art of defence. Both were so brimful of wrath as to be regardless of consequences. They tore back their weapons. Vavasour’s blade shivered. He was at the mercy of his adversary — an adversary who knew no mercy. Sir Reginald passed his rapier through his brother’s body. The hilt struck against his ribs.
Sir Reginald’s ire was kindled, not extinguished, by the deed he had done. Like the tiger, he had tasted blood — like the tiger, he thirsted for more. He sought his home. He was greeted by his wife. Terrified by his looks, she yet summoned courage sufficient to approach him. She embraced his arm — she clasped his hand. Sir Reginald smiled. His smile was cutting as his dagger’s edge.
“What ails you, sweetheart?” said he.
“I know not; your smile frightens me.”
“My smile frightens you — fool! be thankful that I frown not.”
“Oh! do not frown. Be gentle, my Reginald, as you were when first I knew you. Smile not so coldly, but as you did then, that I may, for one instant, dream you love me.”
“Silly wench! There — I do smile.”
“That smile freezes me. Oh, Reginald, could you but know what I have endured this morning, on your account. My brother Lionel has been here.”
“Indeed!”
“Nay, look not so. He insisted on knowing the reason of my altered appearance.”
“And no doubt you made him acquainted with the cause. You told him your version of the story.”
“Not a word, as I hope to live.”
“A lie!”
“By my truth, no.”
“A lie, I say. He avouched it to me himself.”
“Impossible! He could not — would not disobey me.”
Sir Reginald laughed bitterly.
“He would not, I am sure, give utterance to any scandal,” continued Lady Rookwood. “You say this but to try me, do you not? — ha! what is this? Your hand is bloody. You have not harmed him? Whose blood is this?”
“Your brother spat upon my check. I have washed out the stain,” replied Sir Reginald, coldly.
“Then it is his blood!” shrieked Lady Rookwood, pressing her hand shuddering before her eyes. “Is he dead?”
Sir Reginald turned away.
“Stay,” she cried, exerting her feeble strength to retain him, and becoming white as ashes, “abide and hear me. You have killed me, I feel, by your cruelty. I am sinking fast — dying. I, who loved you, only you; yes, one besides — my brother, and you have slain him. Your hands are dripping in his blood, and I have kissed them — have clasped them! And now,” continued she, with an energy that shook Sir Reginald, “I hate you — I renounce you — forever! May my dying words ring in your ears on your death-bed, for that hour will come. You cannot shun that. Then think of him! think of me!”
“Away!”