"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.