did the gloomy grandeur of the brow, the severe chiselling of the lip, the rounded beauty of the throat, and the faultless symmetry of her full form, accord with the beau ideal of antique perfection. Shaded by smooth folds of raven hair, which still maintained its jetty dye, her lofty forehead would have been displayed to the greatest advantage, had it not been at this moment knit and deformed by excess of passion, if that passion can be said to deform which only calls forth strong and vehement expression. Her figure, which wanted only height to give it dignity, was arrayed in the garb of widowhood; and if she exhibited none of the desolation of heart which such a bereavement might have been expected to awaken, she was evidently a prey to feelings scarcely less harrowing. At the particular time of which we speak, Lady Rookwood, for she it was, was occupied in the investigation of the contents of an escritoire. Examining the papers which it contained with great deliberation, she threw each aside, as soon as she had satisfied herself of its purport, until she arrived at a little package, carefully tied up with black ribbon, and sealed. This, Lady Rookwood hastily broke open, and drew forth a small miniature. It was that of a female, young and beautiful, rudely, yet faithfully, executed — faithfully, we say, for there was an air of sweetness and simplicity — and, in short, a look of reality and nature about the picture (it is seldom, indeed, that we mistake a likeness, even if we are unacquainted with the original) that attested the artist’s fidelity. The face was as radiant with smiles as a bright day with sunbeams. The portrait was set in gold, and behind it was looped a lock of the darkest and finest hair. Underneath the miniature was written, in Sir Piers’s hand, the words “Lady Rookwood.” A slip of folded paper was also attached to it.
Lady Rookwood scornfully scrutinized the features for a few moments, and then unfolded the paper, at the sight of which she started, and turned pale. “Thank God!” she cried, “this is in my possession — while I hold this, we are safe. Were it not better to destroy this evidence at once? No, no, not now— it shall not part from me. I will abide Ranulph’s return. This document will give me a power over him such as I could never otherwise obtain.” Placing the marriage certificate, for such it was, within her breast, and laying the miniature upon the table, she next proceeded, deliberately, to arrange the disordered contents of the box.
All outward traces of emotion had, ere this, become so subdued in Lady Rookwood, that although she had, only a few moments previously, exhibited the extremity of passionate indignation, she now, apparently without effort, resumed entire composure, and might have been supposed to be engaged in a matter of little interest to herself. It was a dread calm, which they who knew her would have trembled to behold. “From these letters I gather,” exclaimed she, “that their wretched offspring knows not of his fortune. So far, well. There is no channel whence he can derive information, and my first care shall be to prevent his obtaining any clue to the secret of his birth. I am directed to provide for him — ha! ha! I will provide — a grave! There will I bury him and his secret. My son’s security and my own wrong demand it. I must choose surer hands — the work must not be half-done, as heretofore. And now, I bethink me, he is in the neighborhood, connected with a gang of poachers —’tis as I could wish it.”
At this moment a knock at the chamber-door broke upon her meditations. “Agnes, is it you?” demanded Lady Rookwood.
Thus summoned, the old attendant entered the room.
“Why are my orders disobeyed?” asked the lady, in a severe tone of voice. “Did I not say, when you delivered me this package from Mr. Coates, which he himself wished to present, that I would not be disturbed?”
“You did, my lady, but ——”
“Speak out,” said Lady Rookwood, somewhat more mildly, perceiving, from Agnes’s manner, that she had something of importance to communicate. “What is it brings you hither?”
“I am sorry,” returned Agnes, “to disturb your ladyship, but — but ——”
“But what?” interrupted Lady Rookwood, impatiently.
“I could not help it, my lady — he would have me come; he said he was resolved to see your ladyship, whether you would or not.”
“Would see me, ha! is it so? I guess his errand, and its object — he has some suspicion. No, that cannot be; he would not dare to tamper with these seals. Agnes, I will not see him.”
“But he swears, my lady, that he will not leave the house without seeing you — he would have forced his way into your presence, if I had not consented to announce him.”
“Insolent!” exclaimed Lady Rookwood, with a glance of indignation; “force his way! I promise you he shall not display an equal anxiety to repeat the visit. Tell Mr. Coates I will see him.”
“Mr. Coates! Mercy on us, my lady, it’s not he. He’d never have intruded upon you unasked. No such thing. He knows his place too well. No, no; it’s not Mr. Coates ——”
“If not he, who is it?”
“Luke Bradley; your ladyship knows whom I mean.”
“He here — now? ——”
“Yes, my lady; and looking so fierce and strange, I was quite frightened to see him. He looked so like his — his ——”
“His father, you would say. Speak out.”
“No, my lady, his grandfather — old Sir Reginald. He’s the very image of him. But had not your ladyship better ring the alarm-bell? and when he comes in, I’ll run and fetch the servants — he’s dangerous, I’m sure.”
“I have no fears of him. He will see me, you say ——”
“Ay, will!” exclaimed Luke, as he threw open the door, and shut it forcibly after him, striding towards Lady Rookwood, “nor abide longer delay.”
It was an instant or two ere Lady Rookwood, thus taken by surprise, could command speech. She fixed her eyes with a look of keen and angry inquiry upon the bold intruder, who, nothing daunted, confronted her glances with a gaze as stern and steadfast as her own.
“Who are you, and what seek you?” exclaimed Lady Rookwood, after a brief pause, and, in spite of herself, her voice sounded tremulously. “What would you have, that you venture to appear before me at this season and in this fashion?”
“I might have chosen a fitter opportunity,” returned Luke, “were it needed. My business will not brook delay — you must be pleased to overlook this intrusion on your privacy, at a season of sorrow like the present. As to the fashion of my visit, you must be content to excuse it. I cannot help myself. I may amend hereafter. Who I am, you are able, I doubt not, to divine. What I seek, you shall hear, when this old woman has left the room, unless you would have a witness to a declaration that concerns you as nearly as myself.”
An indefinite feeling of apprehension had, from the first instant of Luke’s entrance crossed Lady Rookwood’s mind. She, however, answered, with some calmness:
“What you can have to say is of small moment to me — nor does it signify who may hear it. It shall not, however, be said that Lady Rookwood feared to be alone, even though she endangered her life.”
“I am no assassin,” replied Luke, “nor have sought the destruction of my deadliest foe — though ’twere but retributive justice to have done so.”
Lady Rookwood started.
“Nay, you need not fear me,” replied Luke; “my revenge will be otherwise accomplished.”
