lady,” said Agnes, scarcely able to articulate, “shall I——”
“Hear me, Lady Rookwood,” interrupted Luke. “I repeat, I intend you no injury. My object here is solely to obtain a private conference. You can have no reason for denying me this request. I will not abuse your patience. Mine is no idle mission. Say you refuse me, and I will at once depart. I will find other means of communicating with you — less direct, and therefore less desirable. Make your election. But we must be alone — undisturbed. Summon your household — let them lay hands upon me, and I will proclaim aloud what you would gladly hide, even from yourself.”
“Leave us, Agnes,” said Lady Rookwood. “I have no fear of this man. I can deal with him myself, should I see occasion.”
“Agnes,” said Luke, in a stern, deep whisper, arresting the ancient handmaiden as she passed him, “stir not from the door till I come forth. Have you forgotten your former mistress! — my mother? Have you forgotten Barbara Lovel, and that night?”
“In Heaven’s name, hush!” replied Agnes, with a shudder.
“Let that be fresh in your memory. Move not a footstep, whatever you may hear,” added he, in the same tone as before.
“I will not — I will not.” And Agnes departed.
Luke felt some wavering in his resolution when he found himself alone with the lady, whose calm, collected, yet haughty demeanor, as she resumed her seat, prepared for his communication, could not fail to inspire him with a certain degree of awe. Not unconscious of her advantage, nor slow to profit by it, Lady Rookwood remained perfectly silent, with her eyes steadily fixed upon his face, while his embarrassment momentarily increased. Summoning, at length, courage sufficient to address her, and ashamed of his want of nerve, he thus broke forth:
“When I entered this room, you asked my name and object. As to the first, I answer to the same designation as your ladyship. I have long borne my mother’s name. I now claim my father’s. My object is, the restitution of my rights.”
“Soh! — it is as I suspected,” thought Lady Rookwood, involuntarily casting her large eyes down. “Do I hear you rightly?” exclaimed she, aloud; “your name is ——”
“Sir Luke Rookwood. As my father’s elder born; by right of his right to that title.”
If a glance could have slain him, Luke had fallen lifeless at the lady’s feet. With a smile of ineffable disdain, she replied, “I know not why I hesitate to resent this indignity, even for an instant. But I would see how far your audacity will carry you. The name you bear is Bradley?”
“In ignorance I have done so,” replied Luke. “I am the son of her whose maiden name was Bradley. She was ——”
“’Tis false — I will not hear it — she was not,” cried Lady Rookwood, her vehemence getting the master of her prudence.
“Your ladyship anticipates my meaning,” returned Luke. “Susan Bradley was the first wife of Sir Piers Rookwood.”
“His minion — his mistress if you will; nought else. Is it new to you, that a village wench, who lends herself to shame, should be beguiled by such shallow pretences? That she was so duped, I doubt not. But it is too late now to complain, and I would counsel you not to repeat your idle boast. It will serve no other purpose, trust me, than to blazon forth your own — your mother’s dishonor.”
“Lady Rookwood,” sternly answered Luke, “my mother’s fame is as free from dishonor as your own. I repeat, she was the first wife of Sir Piers; and that I, her child, am first in the inheritance; nay, sole heir to the estates and title of Rookwood, to the exclusion of your son. Ponder upon that intelligence. Men say they fear you, as a thing of ill. I fear you not. There have been days when the Rookwoods held their dames in subjection. Discern you nought of that in me?”
Once or twice during this speech Lady Rookwood’s glances had wandered towards the bell-cord, as if about to summon aid; but the intention was abandoned almost as soon as formed, probably from apprehension of the consequences of any such attempt. She was not without alarm as to the result of the interview, and was considering how she could bring it to a termination without endangering herself, and, if possible, secure the person of Luke, when the latter, turning sharply round upon her, and drawing a pistol, exclaimed —
“Follow me!”
“Whither?” asked she, in alarm.
“To the chamber of death!”
“Why there? what would you do? Villain! I will not trust my life with you. I will not follow you.”
“Hesitate not, as you value your life. Do aught to alarm the house, and I fire. Your safety depends upon yourself. I would see my father’s body ere it be laid in the grave. I will not leave you here.”
“Go,” said Lady Rookwood; “if that be all, I pledge myself you shall not be interrupted.”
“I will not take your pledge; your presence shall be my surety. By my mother’s unavenged memory, if you play me false, though all your satellites stand around you, you die upon the spot! Obey me, and you are safe. Our way leads to the room by the private staircase — we shall pass unobserved — you see I know the road. The room, by your own command, is vacant — save of the dead. We shall, therefore, be alone. This done, I depart. You will then be free to act. Disobey me, and your blood be upon your own head.”
“Lead on!” said Lady Rookwood, pressing towards the antechamber.
“The door I mean is there,” pointing to another part of the room —“that panel —”
“Ha! how know you that?”
“No matter; follow.”
Luke touched a spring, and the panel flying open, disclosed a dim recess, into which he entered; and, seizing Lady Rookwood’s hand, dragged her after him.
CHAPTER 12
THE CHAMBER OF DEATH
It is the body — I have orders given That here it should be laid.
De Montfort.
The recess upon which the panel opened had been a small oratory, and, though entirely disused, still retained its cushions and its crucifix. There were two other entrances to this place of prayer, the one communicating with a further bedchamber, the other leading to the gallery. Through the latter, after closing the aperture, without relinquishing his grasp, Luke passed.
It was growing rapidly dark, and at the brightest seasons this gloomy corridor was but imperfectly lighted from narrow, painted, and wire-protected windows that looked into the old quadrangular courtyard below; and as they issued from the oratory a dazzling flash of lightning — a storm having suddenly arisen — momentarily illumined the whole length of the passage, disclosing the retreating figure of a man, wrapped in a large sable cloak, at the other extremity of the gallery. Lady Rookwood uttered an outcry for assistance; but the man, whoever he might be, disappeared in the instantaneously succeeding gloom, leaving
