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!
CHAPTER 4
THE DOWER OF SYBIL
Card. Now art thou come? Thou look’st ghastly; There sits in thy face some great determination, Mixed with some fear.
Bos. Thus it lightens into action: I am come to kill thee.
Duchess of Malfy.
Ranulph Rookwood was for some moments so much stunned by the ghastly fate of Agnes, connected, as it appeared to be, with a supernatural summons similar to that which he imagined he had himself received, that he was incapable of stirring from the spot, or removing his gaze from the rigid features of the corpse, which, even in death, wore the strong impress of horror and despair. Through life he knew that Agnes, his own nurse, had been his mother’s constant and faithful attendant; the unhesitating agent of her schemes, and it was to be feared, from the remorse she had exhibited, the participator of her crimes; and Ranulph felt, he knew not why, that in having witnessed her terrible end, he beheld the ultimate condition of his own parent. Conquering, not without great effort, the horror which had riveted him to the spot, he turned to look towards Eleanor. She had sunk upon a chair, a silent witness of the scene, Mrs. Mowbray and Dr. Small having, upon the first alarm given by Agnes respecting Lady Rookwood’s departure from the house quitted the room to ascertain the truth of her statement. Ranulph immediately flew to Eleanor.
“Ranulph,” said she, though almost overcome by her
