“Fool!” exclaimed Luke, “talk thus to one who heeds you.” And as he spoke he hurled Turpin backwards with so much force that, staggering a few yards, the highwayman fell to the ground.
The priest stood like one stunned with surprise at Luke’s sudden appearance and subsequent daring action.
Luke, meanwhile, approached Eleanor. He gazed upon her with curiosity mixed with admiration, for his heart told him she was very fair. A deathlike paleness had spread over her cheeks; yet still, despite the want of color, she looked exquisitely beautiful, and her large blue eyes eloquently thanked her deliverer for her rescue. The words she wanted were supplied by Mrs. Mowbray, who thanked him in appropriate terms, when they were interrupted by Turpin, who had by this time picked himself up, and was drawing near them. His countenance wore a fierce expression.
“I tell you what,” said he, “Luke Bradley, or Luke Rookwood, or whatever else you may call yourself, you have taken a damned unfair advantage of me in this matter, and deserve nothing better at my hands than that I should call you to instant account for it — and curse me, if I don’t too.”
“Luke Bradley!” interrupted Mrs. Mowbray —“are you that individual?”
“I have been so called, madam,” replied Luke.
“Father Ambrose, is this the person of whom you spoke?” eagerly asked the lady.
“So I conclude,” returned the priest, evasively.
“Did he not call you Luke Rookwood?” eagerly demanded Eleanor. “Is that also your name?”
“Rookwood is my name, fair cousin,” replied Luke, “if I may venture to call you so.”
“And Ranulph Rookwood is ——”
“My brother.”
“I never heard he had a brother,” rejoined Eleanor, with some agitation. “How can that be?”
“I am his brother, nevertheless,” replied Luke, moodily —“his ELDER BROTHER!”
Eleanor turned to her mother and the priest with a look of imploring anguish; she saw a confirmation of the truth of this statement in their glances. No contradiction was offered by either to his statement; both, indeed, appeared in some mysterious manner prepared for it. This, then, was the dreaded secret. This was the cause of her brother’s sudden departure. The truth flashed with lightning swiftness across her brain.
Chagrined and mortified, Luke remarked that glance of inquiry. His pride was hurt at the preference thus naturally shown towards his brother. He had been struck, deeply struck, with her beauty. He acknowledged the truth of Peter’s words. Eleanor’s loveliness was without parallel. He had seen naught so fair, and the instant he beheld her, he felt that for her alone could he cancel his vows to Sybil. The spirit of rivalry and jealousy was instantly aroused by Eleanor’s exclamations.
“His elder brother!” echoed Eleanor, dwelling upon his words, and addressing Luke —“then you must be — but no, you are not, you cannot be — it is Ranulph’s title — it is not yours — you are not ——”
“I am Sir Luke Rookwood,” replied Luke, proudly.
Ere the words were uttered Eleanor had fainted.
“Assistance is at hand, madam, if you will accept it, and follow me,” said Luke, raising the insensible girl in his arms, and bearing her down the hill towards the encampment, whither he was followed by Mrs. Mowbray and the priest, between whom, during the hurried dialogue we have detailed, very significant glances had been exchanged. Turpin, who, as it may be supposed, had not been an incurious observer of the scene passing, burst into his usual loud laugh on seeing Luke bear away his lovely burden.
“Cousin! Ha, ha!” said he. “So the wench is his cousin. Damme, I half suspect he has fallen in love with his new-found cousin; and if so, Miss Sybil, or I’m mistaken, will look as yellow as a guinea. If that little Spanish devil gets it into her pretty jealous pate that he is about to bring home a new mistress, we shall have a tragedy-scene in the twinkling of a bed-post. However, I shan’t lose sight of Sir Luke until I have settled my accounts with him. Hark ye, boy,” continued he, addressing the postilion; “remain where you are; you won’t be wanted yet awhile, I imagine. There’s a guinea for you, to drink Dick Turpin’s health.”
Upon which he mounted his mare, and walked her easily down the hill.
“And so that be Dick Turpin, folks talk so much about,” soliloquized the lad, looking curiously after him; “well, he’s as civil-speaking a chap as need be, blow my boots if he ain’t! and if I’d had a notion it were he, I’d have pulled up at first call, without more ado. Nothing like experience — I shall know better another time,” added he, pocketing the douceur.
Rushing swiftly down the hill, Luke tarried at the river’s brink, to sprinkle some of the cool element upon the pale brow of Eleanor. As he held her in his arms, thoughts which he fain would have stifled in their birth took possession of his heart. “Would she were mine!” murmured he. “Yet no! the wish is unworthy.” But that wish returned unbidden.
Eleanor opened her eyes. She was still too weak to walk without support, and Luke, raising her once more in his arms, and motioning Mrs. Mowbray to follow, crossed the brook by means of stepping-stones, and conducted his charge along a bypath towards the priory, so as to avoid meeting with the crew assembled upon the green.
They had gained one of the roofless halls, when he encountered Balthazar. Astonished at the sight of the party, the patrico was about to address the priest as an acquaintance, when his more orthodox brother raised his finger to his lips, in token of caution. The action passed unobserved.
“Hie thee to Sybil,” said Luke to the patrico. “Bid her haste hither. Say that this maiden — that Miss Mowbray is here, and requires her aid. Fly! I will bear her to the refectory.”
As Balthazar passed the priest, he pointed with a significant glance towards a chasm in the wall, which seemed to be an opening to some subterraneous chamber. The father again made a gesture of silence, and Balthazar hastened upon his mission.
Luke led them to the refectory. He brought a chair for Eleanor’s support; but so far from reviving, after such attention as could be afforded her, she appeared to become weaker. He was about to issue forth in search of Sybil, when to his surprise he found the door fastened.
“You cannot pass this way,” said a voice, which Luke instantly recognized as that of the knight of Malta.
“Not pass!” echoed Luke. “What does this mean?”
“Our orders are from the queen,” returned the knight.
At this instant the low tone of a muffled bell was heard.
“Ha!” exclaimed Luke; “some danger is at hand.”
His heart smote him as he thought of Sybil, and he looked anxiously towards Eleanor.
Balthazar rushed into the room.
“Where is Sybil?” cried Luke. “Will she not come?”
“She will be here anon,” answered the patrico.
“I will seek her myself, then,” said Luke. “The door by which you entered is free.”
“It is not free,” replied Balthazar. “Remain where you are.”
“Who will prevent my going forth?” demanded Luke, sternly.
“I will,” said Barbara Lovel, as she suddenly appeared in the doorway. “You stir not, excepting at my pleasure. Where is the maiden?” continued she, looking around with a grim smile of satisfaction at the consternation produced by her appearance. “Ha! I see; she faints. Here is a cordial that shall revive her. Mrs. Mowbray, you are welcome to the gipsies’ dwelling — you and your daughter. And you, Sir Luke Rookwood, I congratulate you upon your accession of dignity.” Turning to