Passion, as it ever doth,
defeated its own ends; and Lady Rookwood, seeing the ill effect her
anger would probably produce, gradually softened the asperity of her
manner, and suffered him to depart.

Left to herself, and to the communings of her own troubled spirit, her
fortitude, in a measure, forsook her, under the pressure of the
difficulties by which she was environed. There was no plan she could
devise--no scheme adopt, unattended with peril. She must act alone--with
promptitude and secrecy. To win her son over was her chief desire, and
that, at all hazards, she was resolved to do. But how? She knew of only
one point on which he was vulnerable--his love for Eleanor Mowbray. By
raising doubts in his mind, and placing fresh difficulties in his path,
she might compel him to acquiesce in her machinations, as a necessary
means of accomplishing his own object. This she hoped to effect. Still
there was a depth of resolution in the placid stream of Ranulph's
character which she had often noticed with apprehension. Aware of his
firmness, she dreaded lest his sense of justice should be stronger than
his passion.

As she wove these webs of darkness, fear, hitherto unknown, took
possession of her soul. She listened to the howling of the wind--to the
vibration of the rafters--to the thunder's roar, and to the hissing
rain--till she, who never trembled at the thought of danger, became
filled with vague uneasiness. Lights were ordered; and when her old
attendant returned. Lady Rookwood fixed a look so wistful upon her, that
Agnes ventured to address her.

"Bless you, my lady," said the ancient handmaiden, trembling, "you look
very pale, and no wonder. I feel sick at heart, too. Oh! I shall be glad
when they return from the church, and happier still when the morning
dawns. I can't sleep a wink--can't close my eyes, but I think of him."

"Of _him_?"

"Of Sir Piers, my lady; for though he's dead, I don't think he's gone."

"How?"

"Why, my lady, the corruptible part of him's gone, sure enough. But the
incorruptible, as Dr. Small calls it--the sperrit, my lady. It might be
my fancy, your ladyship; but as I'm standing here, when I went back into
the room just now for the lights, as I hope to live, I thought I saw Sir
Piers in the room."

"You are crazed, Agnes."

"No, my lady, I'm not crazed; it was mere fancy, no doubt. Oh, it's a
blessed thing to live with an easy conscience--a thrice blessed thing to
_die_ with an easy