“God knows,” said the faithful bower-maiden, “I would hold my hand out to catch drops of molten lead, rather than endure your tears; and yet, my sweet mistress, I would rather at present see you grieved than angry. This ancient lady hath, it would seem, but acted according to some old superstitious rite of her family, which is in part yours. Her name is respectable, both from her conduct and possessions; and hard pressed as you are by the Normans, with whom your kinswoman, the Prioress, is sure to take part. I was in hope you might have had some shelter and countenance from the Lady of Baldringham.”
“Never, Rose, never,” answered Eveline; “you know not — you cannot fuess what she has made me suffer — exposing me to witchcraft and fiends. Thyself said it, and said it truly — the Saxons are still half Pagans, void of Christianity, as of nurture and kindliness.”
“Ay, but,” replied Rose, “I spoke then to dissuade you from a danger now that the danger is passed and over, I may judge of it otherwise.”
“Speak not for them, Rose,” replied Eveline, angrily; “no innocent victim was ever offered up at the altar of a fiend with more indifference than my father’s kinswoman delivered up me — me, an orphan, bereaved of my natural and powerful support. I hate her cruelty — I hate her house — I hate the thought of all that has happened here — of all, Rose, except thy matchless faith and fearless attachment. Go, bid our train saddle directly — I will be gone instantly — I will not attire myself” she added, rejecting the assistance she had at first required —“I will have no ceremony — tarry for no leave-taking.”
In the hurried and agitated manner of her mistress, Rose recognized with anxiety another mood of the same irritable and excited temperament, which had before discharged itself in tears and fits. But perceiving, at the same time, that remonstrance was in vain, she gave the necessary orders for collecting their company, saddling, and preparing for departure; hoping, that as her mistress removed to a farther distance from the scene where her mind had received so severe a shock, her equanimity might, by degrees, be restored.
Dame Gillian, accordingly, was busied with arranging the packages of her lady, and all the rest of Lady Eveline’s retinue in preparing for instant departure, when, preceded by her steward, who acted also as a sort of gentleman-usher, leaning upon her confidential Berwine, and followed by two or three more of the most distinguished of her household, with looks of displeasure on her ancient yet lofty brow, the Lady Ermengarde entered the apartment.
Eveline, with a trembling and hurried hand, a burning cheek, and other signs of agitation, was herself busied about the arrangement of some baggage, when her relation made her appearance. At once, to Rose’s great surprise, she exerted a strong command over herself, and, repressing every external appearance of disorder, she advanced to meet her relation, with a calm and haughty stateliness equal to her own.
“I come to give you good morning, our niece,” said Ermengarde, haughtily indeed, yet with more deference than she seemed at first to have intended, so much did the bearing of Eveline impose respect upon her;—“I find that you have been pleased to shift that chamber which was assigned you, in conformity with the ancient custom of this household, and betake yourself to the apartment of a menial.”
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