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. 66 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 't is now ough! ough! Well, at length she arose, with her eyes still fixed, and passed through the panelled door, without a word. She is gone!" "What madness is this!" cried Ranulph. сс "Let me go, woman. 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 XLIX. THE DOWER OF SYBIL. Card. Now art thou come? Thou look'st ghastly; Bos. Mixed with some fear. Thus it lightens into action: 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 Doctor 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 alarm, "stay not an instant here with me. I am sure, from that poor woman's dreadful death, that something terrible has occurred-perhaps to Lady Rookwood-go to her chambertarry not, I entreat of you." "But will you, can you remain here alone with that body?" asked Ranulph. "I shall not be alone - Handassah is within call-nay, she is here. Oh, what an eve of our espousals has this been, dear Ranulph. Our whole life is a troubled volume, of which each successive leaf grows darker. Fate is opposed to us. It is useless to contend with our destiny. I fear we shall never be united." "Dismiss me not with words like those, dear Eleanor," returned Ranulph. "Fate cannot have greater woes in store for us than those by which we are now oppressed. Let us hope that we are now at that point whence all must brighten. Once possessed of you-assured of thus much happiness, I would set even fate at defiance. And you will be mine to-morrow." 66 Ranulph dear Ranulph, your suit at this moment is desperate. I dare not — cannot pledge myself. You yourself heard, even now, my mother's sentiments, and I cannot marry without her consent." the feelings of forgive me if -but I cannot tear "Your mother, like my own, regards not her children - forgive my boldness, Eleanor I linger now, when duty calts me hence myself away. Your mother may return my hopes be crushed; for even your love for me seems annihilated in her presence." 66 Ranulph, your vehemence terrifies me," rejoined Eleanor. I implore you, by the tender affection which you know I bear you, not to urge me further at this moment. Recall your firmer feelings, and obtain some mastery over yourself. I I repeat I am yours only, if I am bride of any one. But when our union can take place rests not with myself. entreat of you, leave me.” And now, "mine "You are mine," said Ranulph, with fervour; only." "Yours only!" replied Eleanor. "Be this the earnest of my happiness," exclaimed Ranulph, imprinting a long and impassioned kiss upon her lips. The lovers were startled from their embrace by a profound sigh; it proceeded from Handassah, who, unbidden, had replaced the picture of the Lady Eleanor upon its frame. The augury seemed sinister. Every one who has gazed steadfastly upon a portrait, must have noticed the peculiar and lifelike character which, under certain aspects, the eyes will assume. Seen by the imperfect light upon the table, the whole character of the countenance of the Lady Eleanor seemed changed; the features appeared to be stamped with melancholy, and the eyes to be fixed with pitying tenderness upon her descendants. Both gazed at each other and at the picture, struck with the same sentiment of undefined awe. Beside them stood the dark figure of the gipsy girl, watching, with ill-concealed satisfaction, the effect of her handiwork. Ranulph was aroused from his abstraction by hearing a loud outcry in Mrs. Mowbray's voice. Hastily committing Eleanor to the care of her attendant, he left the room. Handassah followed him to the door, closed it after him, and then locked it within side. This done, she walked back hastily towards Eleanor, exclaiming, in a tone of exultation, "You have parted with him for ever.' 66 "What mean you, girl?" cried Eleanor, alarmed at her manner. Why have you fastened the door? Open it, I command you! "Command me!" laughed Handassah, scornfully. "What if I refuse your mandate? what if, in my turn, I bid you obey me? I never owned but one mistress. If I have bowed my neck to you for a time, 't was to fulfil her dying wishes. If I have submitted to your control, it was to accomplish what I have now accomplished. Your oath! Remember your oath. The hour is come for its fulfilment." With these word, Handassah clapped her hands. A panel in the wall opened, and Luke stood suddenly before them. Silently, and with stern deliberation, he strode towards Eleanor, and seizing one of her hands, drew her forcibly towards him. Eleanor resisted not; she had not the power; neither did she scream, for so paralyzing was her terror, that for the moment it took away all power of utterance. Luke neither stirred nor spoke, but, still maintaining his hold, gazed searchingly upon her features, while Eleanor, as if spell-bound, could not withdraw her eyes from him. Nothing more terribly impressive could be conceived than Luke's whole appearance. Harassed and exhausted by the life he had recently led; deprived almost of natural rest; goaded by remorse, his frame was almost worn to the bone, while his countenance, once dark and swarthy, was now blanched and colourless as marble. This pallid and death-like hue was, in all probability, owing to the loss of blood he had sustained from the wound inflicted by Major Mowbray, with the stains of which his apparel was dyed; for, though stanched, the effusion had been sufficient to cause great faintness. His dark eyes blazed with their wonted fire nay, they looked darker and larger from his exceeding paleness, and such intense, mental, and bodily suffering was imprinted upon his countenance, that, despite its fierceness and desperation, few could have regarded him without sympathy. Real desperation has so much of agony in its character, that no one can witness it unmoved. His garb was not that, in which the reader first beheld him, but a rich, dark, simple suit of velvet, corresponding more with his real rank in life, than his former peasant's attire; but it was disordered by his recent conflict, and stained with bloody testimonials of the fray; while his long sable curls, once his pride and ornament, now hung in intertangled elf locks, like a coil of wreathed water-snakes. Even in her terror, as she dwelt upon his noble features, Eleanor could not help admitting that she beheld the undoubted descendant, and the living likeness of the handsomest and most distinguished of her house the profligate and criminal Sir Reginald. As her eye, mechanically following this train of thought, wandered for an instant to the haughty portraiture of Sir Reginald, which formed part of the family pictures, and thence to those of his unfortunate lady, she was struck with the fancy that, by some terrible fatality, the tragic horrors of by-gone days were to be again enacted in their persons, and that they were in some way strangely identified with their un |