“Save me! save me!” cried Eleanor, addressing the newcomer.
“Damnation!” said the highwayman. “What has brought you here? one would think you were turned assistant to all distressed damsels. Quit your hold, or, by God above us, you will repent it.”
“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 death-like paleness had spread over her cheeks; yet still, despite the want of colour, 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 enquiry. 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 nought 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, 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 sha’n’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.”
Page: 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29 30 31 32 33 34 35 36 37 38 39 40 41 42 43 44 45 46 47 48 49 50 51 52 53 54 55 56 57 58 59 60 61 62 63 64 65 66 67 68 69 70 71 72 73 74 75 76 77 78 79 80 81 82 83 84 85 86 87 88 89 90 91 92 93 94 95 96 97 98 99 100 101 102 103 104 105 106 107 108 109 110 111 112 113 114 115 116 117 118 119 120 121 122 123 124 125 126 127 128 129 130 131 132 133 134 135 136 137 138 139 140 141 142 143