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I have heard it rumored for these many years, None of our family dies but there is seen The shape of an old woman, which is given By tradition to us to have been murthered By her nephews for her riches. Such a figure One night, as the prince sat up late at ‘s book, Appeared to him; when, crying out for help, The gentleman of his chamber found his Grace All in a cold sweat, altered much in face And language, since which apparition He hath grown worse and worse, and much I fear He cannot live.

Duchess of Malfy.

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, the grounds of her ladyship’s objections,” interposed Small, who, when he had once got the lead, liked nobody to talk but himself, “are simply these, and exactly the sort of objections one would expect her to raise. She cannot bear the idea of abandoning the control of the house and estates to other hands. She cannot, and will not relinquish her station, as head of the establishment, which Ranulph has insisted upon as your right. I thought, when I conversed with her on this subject, that she was changed, but

Naturam expellas furcâ, tamen usque recurret.

I beg your pardon. She is, and always will be, the same.”

“Why did not Ranulph concede the point to her? I wish not to dwell here. I care not for these domains — for this mansion. They have no charms for me. I could be happy with Ranulph anywhere — happier anywhere than here.”

The kind-hearted doctor squeezed her hand in reply, brushing a tear from his eyes.

“Why did he not concede it?” said Mrs. Mowbray, proudly. “Because the choice remained not with him. It was not his to concede. This house — these lands — all — all are yours; and it were poor requital, indeed, if, after they have so long been wrongfully withheld from us, you should be a dependant on Lady Rookwood.”

“Without going quite so far as that, madam,” said the doctor, “it is but justice to your daughter that she should be put in full possession of her rights; nor should I for one instant advise, or even allow her to inhabit the same house with Lady Rookwood. Her ladyship’s peculiarities of temper are such as to preclude all possibility of happiness. At the same time, I trust by management — always by management, madam — that her ladyship’s quiet departure may be ensured. I understand that all such legal arrangements in the way of settlements as could be entered into between your daughter and her future husband are completed. I have only to regret the absence of my friend, Mr. Coates, at this momentous conjuncture. It will be a loss to him. But he inherits from his father a taste for thief-taking, which he is at present indulging, to the manifest injury of his legitimate practice. Hark! I hear Ranulph’s step in the gallery. He will tell us the result of his final interview. I came to give you advice, my dear,” added the doctor in a low tone to Eleanor; “but I find you need it not. ‘Whoso humbleth himself, shall be exalted.’ I am glad you do not split upon the rock which has stranded half your generation.”

At this moment Ranulph Rookwood entered the room, followed by Handassah, who took her station at the back of the room, unperceived by the rest of the party, whose attention was attracted by Ranulph’s agitated manner.

“What has happened?” asked Dr. Small and Mrs. Mowbray in the same breath.

Ranulph hesitated for a moment in his answer, during which space he regarded Eleanor with the deepest anxiety, and seemed revolving within himself how he could frame his reply in such way as should be least painful to her feelings; while, with instinctive apprehension of coming misfortune, Miss Mowbray eagerly seconded the inquiries of her friends.

“It is with great pain,” said he, at length, in a tone of despondency, not unmingled with displeasure, “that I am obliged to descant upon the infirmities of a parent, and to censure her conduct as severely as I may do now. I feel the impropriety of such a step, and I would willingly avoid it, could I do so in justice to my own feelings — and especially at a moment like the present — when every hope of my life is fixed upon uniting myself to you, dear Eleanor, by ties as near as my own to that parent. But the interview which I have just had with Lady Rookwood — bitter and heart-breaking as it has been — compels me to reprobate her conduct in the strongest terms, as harsh, unjust, and dishonorable; and if I could wholly throw off the son, as she avows she has thrown off the mother, I should unhesitatingly pronounce it as little short of ——”

“Dear Ranulph,” said Eleanor, palpitating with apprehension, “I never saw you so much moved.”

“Nor with so much reason,” rejoined Ranulph. “For myself, I could endure anything — but for you——”

“And does your dispute relate to me?” asked Eleanor. “Is it for my sake you have braved your mother’s displeasure? Is it because Lady Rookwood is unwilling to resign the control of this house and these lands to me, that you have parted in anger with her? Was this the cause of your quarrel?”

“It was the origin of it,” replied Ranulph.

“Mother,” said Eleanor, firmly, to Mrs. Mowbray, “go with me to Lady Rookwood’s chamber.”

“Wherefore?” demanded Mrs. Mowbray.

“Question me not, dear mother, or let me go alone.”

“Daughter, I guess your meaning,” said Mrs. Mowbray, sternly. “You would relinquish your claims in favor of Lady Rookwood. Is it not so?”

“Since you oblige me to answer you, mother,” said Eleanor, crimsoning, “I must admit that you have guessed my meaning. To Lady Rookwood, as to yourself, I would be a daughter as far as is consistent with my duty,” added she, blushing still more deeply, “but my first consideration shall be my husband. And if Lady Rookwood can be content —— But pray question me not further — accompany me to her chamber.”

“Eleanor,” interposed Ranulph, “dearest Eleanor, the sacrifice you would make is unnecessary — uncalled for. You do not know my mother. She would not, I grieve to say, appreciate the generosity of your motives. She would not give you credit for your feelings. She would only resent your visit as an intrusion.”

“My daughter comprehends you, sir,” said Mrs. Mowbray, haughtily. “I will take care that, in her own house, Miss Mowbray shall remain free from insult.”

“Mother, dear mother,” said Eleanor, “do not wilfully misunderstand him.”

“You can be little aware, madam,” said Ranulph, calmly, yet sadly, “how much I have recently endured — how much of parental anger — how much of parental malediction I have incurred, to save you and your daughter from the indignity you apprehend. As I before said, you do not know my mother; nor could it enter into any well-regulated imagination to conceive the extremities to which the violence of her passion will, when her schemes are thwarted, hurry her. The terms upon which you met together will not escape your recollection; nor shall I need to recall to your mind her haughtiness, her coldness. That coldness has since ripened into distrust; and the match which she was at first all anxiety to promote, she would now utterly set aside, were it in her power to do so. Whence this alteration in her views has arisen, I have no means of ascertaining; it is not my mother’s custom to give a reason for her actions, or her wishes: it is all-sufficient to express them. I have perceived, as the time has drawn nigh for the fulfilment of my dearest hopes, that her unwillingness has increased; until to-day, what had hitherto been confined to hints, has been openly expressed, and absolute objections raised. Such, however, is the peculiarity of her temper, that I trusted, even at the eleventh hour, I should be able to work a change. Alas! our last meeting was decisive. She commanded me to break off the match. At once, and peremptorily, I refused. Pardon me, madam, pardon me, dearest Eleanor, if I thus enter into particulars; it is absolutely necessary I should be explicit. Enraged at my opposition to her wishes, her fury became ungovernable. With appalling imprecations upon the memory of my poor father, and upon your father, madam, whose chief offence in her eyes was, it seems, the disposition of his property to Eleanor, she bade me be gone, and take her curses as my wedding portion. Beneath this roof — beneath her roof, she added — no marriage of mine should e’er take place. I might go hence, or might stay, as I thought fitting; but you and your daughter, whom she characterized as intruders, should not remain another hour within her house. To this wild raving I answered, with as much composure as I could command, that she entirely mistook her own position, and that, so far from the odium of intrusion resting with you, if applicable to any one, the term must necessarily affix itself on those who, through ignorance, had for years unjustly deprived the rightful owners of this place of their inheritance. Upon this her wrath was boundless. She disowned me as her son; disclaimed all maternal regard, and heaped upon my head a frightful malediction, at the recollection of which I still tremble. I will spare you further details of this dreadful scene. To me it is most distressing; for, however firmly resolved I may be to pursue a line of conduct which every sound principle within me dictates as the correct one, yet I cannot be insensible to the awful responsibility I shall incur in bringing down a mother’s curse upon my head, nor to the jeopardy in which her own excessive violence may place her.”

Mrs. Mowbray listened to Ranulph’s explanation in haughty displeasure; Eleanor with throbbing, tearful interest; Dr. Small, with mixed feelings of anger and astonishment.

“Lady Rookwood’s conduct,” said the doctor, “is — you must forgive me, my dear Sir Ranulph, for using strong expressions — outrageous beyond all precedent, and only excusable on the ground of insanity, to which I wish it were possible we could attribute it. There is, however, too much method in her madness to allow us to indulge any such notion; she is shrewd, dangerous, and designing; and, since she has resolved to oppose this match, she will leave no means untried to do so. I scarcely know how to advise you under the circumstances — that is, if my advice were asked.”

“Which I scarcely think it likely to be, sir,” said Mrs. Mowbray, coldly. “After what has occurred, I shall think it my duty to break off this alliance, which I have never considered to be so desirable that its rupture will occasion me an instant’s uneasiness.”

“A plague on all these Rookwoods!” muttered Small. “One would think all the pride of the Prince of Darkness were centered in their bosoms. But, madam,” continued the benevolent doctor, “have you no consideration for the feelings of your daughter, or for those of one who is no distant relation to you — your nephew? Your son, Major Mowbray, is, if I mistake not, most eager for this union to take place between his sister and his friend.”

“My children have been accustomed to yield implicit obedience to my wishes,” said Mrs. Mowbray, “and Major Mowbray, I am sure, will see the propriety of the step I am about to take. I am content, at least, to abide by his opinion.”

“Snubbed again!” mentally ejaculated the doctor, with a shrug of despair. “It is useless attempting to work upon such impracticable material.”

Ranulph remained mute, in an attitude of profound melancholy. An eloquent interchange of glances had passed between him and Eleanor, communicating to each the anxious state of the other’s feelings.

At this crisis the door was suddenly opened, and old Agnes, Lady Rookwood’s aged attendant, rushed into the room, and sank upon her knees on the floor, her limbs shaking, her teeth chattering, and every feature expressive of intense terror. Ranulph went instantly towards her to demand the cause of her alarm.

“No, let me pray,” cried Agnes, as he took her hand in the attempt to raise her; “let me pray while there is yet time — let the worthy doctor pray beside me. Pray for an overladen soul, sir; pray heartily, as you would hope for mercy yourself. Ah! little know the righteous of the terrors of those that are beyond the pale of mercy. The Lord pardon me my iniquities, and absolve her.”

“Whom do you mean?” asked Ranulph, in agitation. “You do not allude to my mother?”

“You have no longer a mother, young man,” said Agnes, solemnly.

“What!” exclaimed Ranulph, terror-stricken; “is she dead?”

“She is gone.”

“Gone! How? Whither?” exclaimed all, their amazement increasing each instant at the terror of the old woman, and the apparently terrible occasion of it.

“Speak!” exclaimed Ranulph; “but why do I loiter? my mother, perchance, is dying — let me go.”

The old woman maintained her clutching grasp, which was strong and convulsive as that of one struggling betwixt life and death. “It’s of no use, I tell you; it’s all over,” said she —“the dead are come — the dead are come — and she is gone.”

“Whither? — whither?”

“To the grave — to the tomb,” said Agnes, in a deep and hollow tone, and with a look that froze Ranulph’s soul. “Listen to me, Ranulph Rookwood, my child, my nursling — listen while I can speak. We were alone, your mother and I, after that scene between you; after the dark denunciations she had heaped upon the dead, when I heard a low and gasping kind of sob, and there I saw your mother staring wildly upon the vacancy, as if she saw that of which I dare not think.”

“What think you she beheld?” asked Ranulph, quaking with apprehension.

“That which had been your father,” returned Agnes, in a hollow tone. “Don’t doubt me, sir — you’ll find the truth of what I say anon. I am sure he was there. There was a thrilling, speechless horror in the very sight of her countenance that froze my old blood to ice — to the ice in which ’tis now — ough! ough! Well, at length she arose, with her eyes still fixed, and passed through the paneled door without a word. She is gone!”

“What madness is this?” cried Ranulph. “Let me go, woman —’tis that ruffian in disguise — she may be murdered.”

“No, no,” shrieked Agnes; “it was no disguise. She is gone, I tell you — the room was empty, all the rooms were empty — the passage was void — through the door they went together — silently, silently — ghostlike, slow. Ha! that tomb — they are there together now — he has her in his arms — see, they are here — they glide through the door — do you not see them now? Did I not speak the truth? She is dead — ha, ha!” And with a frantic and bewildering laugh the old woman fell upon her face.

Ranulph raised her from the floor; but the shock of what she had beheld had been too much for her. She was dead!