In one of those large antique rooms, belonging to the suite of apartments constituting the eastern wing of Rookwood Place — upon the same night as that in which the events just detailed took place, and it might be about the same time, sat Eleanor, and her new attendant, the gipsy Handassah. The eyes of the former were fixed, with a mixture of tenderness and pity, upon the lineaments of another lovely female countenance, bearing a striking resemblance to her own, though evidently, from its attire, and bygone costume, not intended for her, depicted upon a tablet, and placed upon a raised frame. It was nigh the witching hour of night. The room was sombre and dusky, partially dismantled of its once flowing arras, and the lights set upon the table feebly illumined its dreary extent. Tradition marked it out as the chamber in which many of the hapless dames of Rookwood had expired; and hence Superstition claimed it as her peculiar domain. The room was reputed to be haunted, and had for a long space shared the fate of haunted rooms — complete desertion. It was now tenanted by one too young, too pure, to fear aught unearthly. Eleanor seemed, nevertheless, affected by the profound melancholy of the picture upon which she gazed. At length, Handassah observed her start, and avert her eye shudderingly from the picture.
“Take it hence,” exclaimed Eleanor; “I have looked at that image of my ancestors, till it has seemed endowed with life — till its eyes have appeared to return my gaze, and weep. Remove it, Handassah.”
Handassah silently withdrew the tablet, placing it against the wall of the chamber.
“Not there — not there,” cried Eleanor; “turn it with its face to the wall. I cannot bear those eyes. And now come hither, girl — draw nearer — for I know not what of sudden dread has crossed me. This was her room, Handassah — the chamber of my ancestress — of all the Ladies Rookwood — where they say —— Ha! did you not hear a noise? — a rustle in the tapestry — a footstep near the wall? Why, you look as startled as I look, wench; stay by me — I will not have you stir from my side —’twas mere fancy.”
“No doubt, lady,” said Handassah, with her eyes fixed upon the arras.
“Hist!” exclaimed Eleanor, “there ’tis again.”
“’Tis nothing,” replied Handassah. But her looks belied her words.
“Well, I will command myself,” said Eleanor, endeavoring to regain her calmness; “but the thoughts of the Lady Eleanor — for she was an Eleanor like to me, Handassah — and ah! even more ill-fated and unhappy — have brought a whole train of melancholy fancies into my mind. I cannot banish them: nay, though painful to me, I recur to these images of dread with a species of fascination, as if in their fate I contemplated mine own. Not one, who hath wedded a Rookwood, but hath rued it.”
“Yet you will wed one,” said Handassah.
“He is not like the rest,” said Eleanor.
“How know you that, lady?” asked Handassah. “His time may not yet be come. See what to-morrow will bring forth.”
“You are averse to my marriage with Ranulph, Handassah.”
“I was Sybil’s handmaid ere I was yours, lady. I bear in mind a solemn compact with the dead, which this marriage will violate. You are plighted by oath to another, if he should demand your hand.”
“But he has not demanded it.”
“Would you accept him were he to do so?” asked Handassah, suddenly.
“I meant not that,” replied Eleanor. “My oath is annulled.”
“Say not so, lady,” cried Handassah —”’twas not for this that Sybil spared your life. I love you, but I loved Sybil, and I would see her dying behests complied with.”
“It may not be, Handassah,” replied Eleanor. “Why, from a phantom sense of honor, am I to sacrifice my whole existence to one who neither can love me, nor whom I myself could love? Am I to wed this man because, in her blind idolatry of him, Sybil enforced an oath upon me which I had no power to resist, and which was mentally cancelled while taken? Recall not the horrors of that dreadful cell — urge not the subject more. ’Tis in the hope that I may be freed for ever from this persecution that I have consented thus early to wed with Ranulph. This will set Luke’s fancied claims at rest for ever.”
Handassah answered not, but bent her head, as if in acquiescence.
Steps were now heard near the door, and a servant ushered in Dr. Small and Mrs. Mowbray.
“I am come to take leave of you for the night, my dear young lady,” said the doctor; “but before I start for the Vicarage, I have a word or two to say, in addition to the advice you were so obliging as to receive from me this morning. Suppose you allow your attendant to retire for a few minutes. What I have got to say concerns yourself solely. Your mother will bear us company. There,” continued the doctor, as Handassah was dismissed —“I am glad that dark-faced gipsy has taken her departure. I can’t say I like her sharp suspicious manner, and the first exercise I should make at my powers, were I to be your husband, should be to discharge the handmaiden. To the point of my visit. We are alone, I think. This is a queer old house, Miss Mowbray; and this is the queerest part of it. Walls have ears, they say; and there are so many holes and corners in this mansion, that one ought never to talk secrets above one’s breath.”
“I am yet to learn, sir,” said Eleanor, “that there is any secret to be communicated.”
“Why, not much, I own,” replied the doctor; “at least what has occurred is no secret in the house by this time. What do you think has happened?”
“It is impossible for me to conjecture. Nothing to Ranulph, I hope.”
“Nothing of consequence, I trust — though he is part concerned with it.”
“What is it?” asked Eleanor.
“Pray satisfy her curiosity, doctor,” interposed Mrs. Mowbray.
“Well, then,” said Small, rather more gravely, “the fact of the matter stands thus:— Lady Rookwood, who, as you know, was not the meekest wife in the world, now turns out by no means the gentlest mother, and has within this hour found out that she has some objection to your union with her son.”
“You alarm me, doctor.”
“Don’t alarm yourself at all. It will be got over without difficulty, and only requires a little management. Ranulph is with her now, and I doubt not will arrange all to her satisfaction.”
“What was her objection?” asked Eleanor; “was it any one founded upon my obligation to Luke — my oath?”
“Tut, tut! dismiss that subject from your mind entirely,” said the doctor. “That oath is no more binding on your conscience than would have been the ties of marriage had you been wedded by yon recusant Romish priest, Father Checkley, upon whose guilty head the Lord be merciful! Bestow not a thought upon it. My anxiety, together with that of your mother, is to see you now, as speedily as may be, wedded to Ranulph, and then that idle question is set at rest for ever; and therefore, even if such a thing were to occur as that Lady Rookwood should not yield her consent to your marriage, as that consent is totally unnecessary, we must go through the ceremonial without it.”
“The grounds of Lady Rookwood’s objections ——” said Mrs. Mowbray.
“Ay,
