The conversation turned at last to the legends belonging to a certain family; and one circumstance was mentioned so nearly resembling, in many particulars, the murder of Sir Thomas Overbury, that the Lady Ellinor, scarcely doubting that some slight suspicion of her parents' crimes had reached the ears of the Lady Anne, determined to change the subject at once. She proposed to her fair friends that they should ramble together through the apartments of the castle; and she called for the old housekeeper, who had lived in the family from her childhood, to go along with them, and asked her to describe to them the person and manners of Queen Elizabeth, when she had visited at the castle, and slept in the state apartment; always since called, The Queen's Bedchamber.
Led by their talkative guide, the careless, laughing party wandered from one chamber to another, listening to her anecdotes, and the descriptions she gave of persons and things in former days. She had known many of the originals of the stately portraits in the picture gallery; and she could tell the names, and the exploits of those warriors in the family, whose coats of mail and glittering weapons adorned the armoury. "And now," said the Lady Ellinor, "what else is there to be seen? Not that I mean to trouble you any longer with our questions, good Margaret, but give me this key, this key so seldom used," pointing to a large, strangely shaped key, that hung among a bunch at the old housekeeper's side. "There!" she added, disengaging it herself from the ring, "I have taken it, and will return it very safely. I assure you. This key," she said, turning to her young companions, "unlocks a gallery at the end of the eastern wing, which is always locked up, because the room is full of curious and rare treasures, that were brought by my father's brother from many foreign lands."
They enter.—"This may be a charming place," said one of the youngest and liveliest of the party, "but see, the rain has passed away, and the sun has at last burst out from the clouds. How brightly he shines, even through these dull and dusty windows!" She gave but a passing glance to the treasures around her, and hastened to a half open door at the end of the gallery. Some of her companions followed her to a broad landing place, at the top of a flight of marble stairs. They were absent but a few minutes, and they returned with smiles of delight, and glad, eager voices, declaring that they had unbolted a door at the bottom of the staircase, and found themselves in the most beautiful part of the gardens. "Come!" said the young and sprightly girl, "do not loiter here; leave these rare and beautiful things until it rains again, and come forth at once with me into the sweet, fresh air."
The Lady Ellinor and her friend the Lady Anne were sitting side by side, at the same table, and looking over the same volume—a folio of Norman chronicles, embellished with many quaint and coloured pictures. They both lifted up their faces from the book, as their merry companions again addressed them. "Nay, do not look up, but rise up!" said the laughing maiden, and drawing away the volume from before them, she shut it up instantly, and laid it on another table; throwing down a branch of jessamine in its place.
"Yes, yes, you are right, my merry Barbara," replied the Lady Ellinor, and she rose up as she spoke, "we have been prisoners all the day against our will, why should we now be confined when the smile of Nature bids us forth to share her joy. Come, come! my sweet Anne, you are not wont to be the last," turning to her friend, who lingered behind. "Oh!" cried Lady Anne, "I am coming, I will soon be the first amongst you, I only wait a moment to bind up my troublesome hair." As she spoke, her eyes rested upon a little volume, which lay upon the broad sill of the casement. The wind fluttered in the pages, and blew them over and over; and half curiously, half carelessly, she looked again, and yet again. The word murder caught her eye; her feelings were still in a state of excitement from the tales and legends to which she had just been listening. Resting her head upon her hand, she leaned over the volume; and stood motionless, absorbed by the interest of the tale which she read, forgetful of her young companions—of all but the appalling story then before her.
But these feelings were soon lost in astonishment, and horror so confounding, that for awhile she lost all power of moving, or even of thinking. Still her eyes were fixed upon the words which had pierced her heart:—she could not force them away. Again and again, struck with shame and horror, she shrunk away;—again and again, she found herself forced by doubt, by positive disbelief, to search the terrible pages. At last she had read enough—quite, quite enough to be assured, not that her father—her mother, had been suspected, but that by the law of the land they had been convicted, and condemned to death as foul, adulterous murderers;—the murderers of Sir Thomas Overbury!
The Lady Ellinor returned alone into the gallery, "You little truant!" she cried, "why so long? you said you would soon be with the foremost. I thought you must have escaped me, and have sought you through half the garden, and you are here all the while!"
No voice replied: not a sound was heard; and the Lady Ellinor had already returned to the door of the gallery to seek her friend elsewhere, when something fell heavily to the ground.
She flew back; and in one of the receding windows, she found the Lady Anne lying senseless in a deep swoon. Throwing herself on the ground beside her, she raised her tenderly in her arms, and not without some difficulty, restored her to herself. Then laying her head upon her bosom, she whispered kind words. "You are ill, I fear, my own Anne, who has been here? What have you seen? How so changed in this short time? I left you well and smiling, and now—nay, my dear, dear friend, do not turn from me, and look so utterly wretched. Do not you see me! What can be the matter!" The Lady Anne looked up in her friend's face with so piteous and desolate a look, that she began to fear her reason was affected.
"Have I lost your confidence? Am I no longer loved?" said the Lady Ellinor. "Can you sit heart-broken there, and will not allow me to comfort you? Still no answer! Shall I go? Shall I leave you, my love? Do you wish me absent?" continued she in a trembling voice, the tears flowing over her face, as she rose up. Her motion to depart aroused the Lady Anne. "Ellinor! my Ellinor!" she cried, and throwing herself forward, she stretched forth her arms. In another moment she was weeping on the bosom of her friend. She wept for a long time without restraint, for the Lady Ellinor said nothing, but drew her nearer and nearer to her bosom, and tenderly pressed the hand that was clasped in hers.