IN a quiet village in Cumberland, far retired from the great world, there stands a noble old red-brick mansion, partly in ruins, and mostly covered with ivy, which ever attracts the attention of the wayfarer who passes through that remote district. For many years Rookwood Hall--so is it called--has been in the possession of the ancient family of the Rookes; father and son have grown up beneath the shade of the grand old elms that line the majestic avenue and all but surround the mansion, and the bones of twenty generations of Rookes now lie together beneath the adjacent sod. Five years since the last of the family, Sir Whitewing Rooke, was killed as he was returning towards home on a quiet autumn evening. He was found lying under one of the tall elm-trees in the avenue, pierced with a bullet that had passed through his heart. Whether this occurred by accident or design, no one could ever tell; but there were dark suspicions afloat, and rumour said that the Rookes were not without their enemies.
Lady Rooke, the childless widow, mourned long for her husband, rarely ventured beyond the boundary of the park, but spent most of her time in endeavouring to benefit the neighbouring farmers, who had not gratitude enough even to thank her for her services.
There was one exception. Young Gamecock, the owner of a small estate adjoining Rookwood Park, was full of gratitude, and often called upon Lady Rooke to thank her for her kindness. Mr. Gamecock was an exceedingly good-looking fellow, dressed handsomely, always wore spurs, and had more manners than any other farmer within twenty miles; and, therefore, it is not to be wondered at that Lady Rooke somewhat encouraged these gratitude-visits. Her Ladyship often complained how dull and lonely she was, living without a protector in that old mansion, whose walls were covered with ghastly portraits of departed Rookes; and whose ancient casements rattled at night when the wind blew in its fitful fancies, and made the very stairs groan as it rushed up and down in its capricious impetuosity.
Young Gamecock listened to the good dame's stories, told her _he_ knew no fear, that the wind might whistle as it willed for him; and that if he owned such a mansion, that the old pictures should decorate the garrets, where the bats and sparrows held undisputed possession.