Rookwood

'We will see what that kettle contains,' said Luke.

'Handassah—Grace!' exclaimed Sybil, calling.

Her summons was answered by two maidens, habited, not unbecomingly, in gipsy gear.

'Bring the best our larder can furnish,' said Sybil, 'and use despatch. You have appetites to provide for, sharpened by a long ride in the open air.'

'And by a night's fasting,' said Luke, 'and solitary confinement to boot.'

'And a night of business,' added Turpin—'and plaguing, perplexing business into the bargain.'

'And the night of a funeral, too,' doled Peter; 'and that funeral a father's. Let us have breakfast speedily, by all means. We have rare appetites.'

An old oaken table (it might have been the self-same upon which the holy friars had broken their morning fast) stood in the middle of the room. The ample board soon groaned beneath the weight of the savoury caldron, the unctuous contents of which proved to be a couple of dismembered pheasants an equal proportion of poultry, great gouts of ham, mushrooms, onions, and other piquant condiments, so satisfactory to Dick Turpin, that, upon tasting a mouthful, he absolutely shed tears of delight. The dish was indeed the triumph of gipsy cookery; and so sedulously did Dick apply himself to his mess, and so complete was his abstraction, that he perceived not that he was left alone. It was only when about to wash down the last drumstick of the last fowl with a can of excellent ale that he made this discovery.

'What! all gone? And Peter Bradley, too? What the devil does this mean?' mused he. 'I must not muddle my brain with any more Pharaoh, though I have feasted like a King of Egypt. That will never do. Caution, Dick, caution. Suppose I shift yon brick from the wall, and place this precious document beneath it. Pshaw! Luke would never play me false. And now for Bess! Bless her black skin! she'll wonder where I've been so long. It's not my way to leave her to shift for herself, though she can do that on a pinch.'

Soliloquising thus, he arose and walked towards the door.

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'By Heaven! It is the fiend himself upon a black horse.'

CHAPTER III

SYBIL

BENEATH a mouldering wall, whither they had strayed, to be free from interruption, and upon a carpet of the greenest moss, sat Sybil and her lover.

With eager curiosity she listened to his tale. He recounted all that had befallen him since his departure. He told her of the awful revelations of the tomb; of the ring that, like a talisman, had conjured up a thousand brilliant prospects; of his subsequent perils; his escapes; his rencontre with Lady Rookwood; his visit to his father's body; and his meeting with his brother. All this she heard with a cheek now flushed with expectation, now made pale with apprehension; with palpitating bosom, and suppressed breath. But when taking a softer tone, love, affection, happiness, inspired the theme, and Luke sought to paint the bliss that should be theirs in his new estate; when he would throw his fortune into her lap, his titles at her feet, and bid her wear them with him; when, with ennobled hand and unchanged heart, he would fulfil the troth plighted in his outcast days; in lieu of tender, grateful acquiescence, the features of Sybil became overcast, the soft smile faded away, and, as spring sunshine is succeeded by the sudden shower, the light that dwelt in her sunny orbs grew dim with tears.

'Why—why is this, dear Sybil?' said Luke, gazing upon her in astonishment, not unmingled with displeasure. 'To what am I to attribute these tears? You do not, surely, regret my good fortune?'

'Not on your own account, dear Luke,' returned she, sadly. 'The tears I shed were for myself—the first, the only tears that I have ever shed for such cause; and,' added she, raising her head like a flower surcharged with moisture, 'they shall be the last.'

'This is inexplicable, dear Sybil. Why should you lament for yourself, if not for me? Does not the sunshine of prosperity that now shines upon me gild you with the same beam? Did I not even now affirm that the day that saw me enter the hall of my forefathers should dawn upon our espousals?'

'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