"Sixty-nine years from this day was I born," he said, "and now "tis done."
"Nay," said she-"nay-G.o.d grant-"
"Ay," he said, "done. Would there were nine and sixty more. What a man I was at twenty. I want not to die, Clo. I want to live-to live-live, and be young," gulping, "with strong muscle and moist flesh. Sixty-nine years-and they are gone!"
He clung to her hand, and stared at her with awful eyes. Through all his life he had been but a great, strong, human carca.s.s; and he was now but the same carca.s.s worn out, and at death"s door. Of not one human thing but of himself had he ever thought, not one creature but himself had he ever loved-and now he lay at the end, harking back only to the wicked years gone by.
"None can bring them back," he shuddered. "Not even thou, Clo, who art so strong. None-none! Canst pray, Clo?" with the gasp of a craven.
"Not as chaplains do," she answered. "I believe not in a G.o.d who clamours but for praise."
"What dost believe in, then?"
"In One who will do justice, and demands that it shall be done to each thing He has made, by each who bears His image-ay, and mercy too-but justice always, for justice is mercy"s highest self."
Who knows the mysteries of the human soul-who knows the workings of the human brain? The G.o.d who is just alone. In this man"s mind, which was so near a simple beast"s in all its movings, some remote, unborn consciousness was surely reached and vaguely set astir by the clear words thus spoken.
"Clo, Clo!" he cried, "Clo, Clo!" in terror, clutching her the closer, "what dost thou mean? In all my nine and sixty years-" and rolled his head in agony.
In all his nine and sixty years he had shown justice to no man, mercy to no woman, since he had thought of none but Jeoffry Wildairs; and this truth somehow dimly reached his long-dulled brain and wakened there.
"Down on thy knees, Clo!" he gasped-"down on thy knees!"
It was so horrible, the look struggling in his dying face, that she went down upon her knees that moment, and so knelt, folding his shaking hands within her own against her breast.
"Thou who didst make him as he was born into Thy world," she said, "deal with that to which Thou didst give life-and death. Show him in this hour, which Thou mad"st also, that Thou art not Man who would have vengeance, but that justice which is G.o.d."
"Then-then," he gasped-"then will He d.a.m.n me!"
"He will weigh thee," she said; "and that which His own hand created will He separate from that which was thine own wilful wrong-and this, sure, He will teach thee how to expiate."
"Clo," he cried again-"thy mother-she was but a girl, and died alone-I did no justice to her!-Daphne! Daphne!" And he shook beneath the bed-clothes, shuddering to his feet, his face growing more grey and pinched.
"She loved thee once," Clorinda said. "She was a gentle soul, and would not forget. She will show thee mercy."
"Birth she went through," he muttered, "and death-alone. Birth and death! Daphne, my girl-" And his voice trailed off to nothingness, and he lay staring at s.p.a.ce, and panting.
The d.u.c.h.ess sat by him and held his hand. She moved not, though at last he seemed to fall asleep. Two hours later he began to stir. He turned his head slowly upon his pillows until his gaze rested upon her, as she sat fronting him. "Twas as though he had awakened to look at her.
"Clo!" he cried, and though his voice was but a whisper, there was both wonder and wild question in it-"Clo!"
But she moved not, her great eyes meeting his with steady gaze; and even as they so looked at each other his body stretched itself, his lids fell-and he was a dead man.
CHAPTER XXIV-The doves sate upon the window-ledge and lowly cooed and cooed
When they had had ten years of happiness, Anne died. "Twas of no violent illness, it seemed but that through these years of joy she had been gradually losing life. She had grown thinner and whiter, and her soft eyes bigger and more prayerful. "Twas in the summer, and they were at Camylott, when one sweet day she came from the flower-garden with her hands full of roses, and sitting down by her sister in her morning-room, swooned away, scattering her blossoms on her lap and at her feet.
When she came back to consciousness she looked up at the d.u.c.h.ess with a strange, far look, as if her soul had wandered back from some great distance.
"Let me be borne to bed, sister," she said. "I would lie still. I shall not get up again."
The look in her face was so unearthly and a thing so full of mystery, that her Grace"s heart stood still, for in some strange way she knew the end had come.
They bore her to her tower and laid her in her bed, when she looked once round the room and then at her sister.
""Tis a fair, peaceful room," she said. "And the prayers I have prayed in it have been answered. To-day I saw my mother, and she told me so."
"Anne! Anne!" cried her Grace, leaning over her and gazing fearfully into her face; for though her words sounded like delirium, her look had no wildness in it. And yet-"Anne, Anne! you wander, love," the d.u.c.h.ess cried.
Anne smiled a strange, sweet smile. "Perchance I do," she said. "I know not truly, but I am very happy. She said that all was over, and that I had not done wrong. She had a fair, young face, with eyes that seemed to have looked always at the stars of heaven. She said I had done no wrong."
The d.u.c.h.ess"s face laid itself down upon the pillow, a river of clear tears running down her cheeks.
"Wrong!" she said-"you! dear one-woman of Christ"s heart, if ever lived one. You were so weak and I so strong, and yet as I look back it seems that all of good that made me worthy to be wife and mother I learned from your simplicity."
Through the tower window and the ivy closing round it, the blueness of the summer sky was heavenly fair; soft, and light white clouds floated across the clearness of its sapphire. On this Anne"s eyes were fixed with an uplifted tenderness until she broke her silence.
"Soon I shall be away," she said. "Soon all will be left behind. And I would tell you that my prayers were answered-and so, sure, yours will be."
No man could tell what made the d.u.c.h.ess then fall on her knees, but she herself knew. "Twas that she saw in the exalted dying face that turned to hers concealing nothing more.
"Anne! Anne!" she cried. "Sister Anne! Mother Anne of my children! You have known-you have known all the years and kept it hid!"
She dropped her queenly head and shielded the whiteness of her face in the coverlid"s folds.
"Ay, sister," Anne said, coming a little back to earth, "and from the first. I found a letter near the sun-dial-I guessed-I loved you-and could do naught else but guard you. Many a day have I watched within the rose-garden-many a day-and night-G.o.d pardon me-and night. When I knew a letter was hid, "twas my wont to linger near, knowing that my presence would keep others away. And when you approached-or he-I slipped aside and waited beyond the rose hedge-that if I heard a step, I might make some sound of warning. Sister, I was your sentinel, and being so, knelt while on my guard, and prayed."
"My sentinel!" Clorinda cried. "And knowing all, you so guarded me night and day, and prayed G.o.d"s pity on my poor madness and girl"s frenzy!" And she gazed at her in amaze, and with humblest, burning tears.
"For my own poor self as well as for you, sister, did I pray G.o.d"s pity as I knelt," said Anne. "For long I knew it not-being so ignorant-but alas! I loved him too!-I loved him too! I have loved no man other all my days. He was unworthy any woman"s love-and I was too lowly for him to cast a glance on; but I was a woman, and G.o.d made us so."
Clorinda clutched her pallid hand.
"Dear G.o.d," she cried, "you loved him!"
Anne moved upon her pillow, drawing weakly, slowly near until her white lips were close upon her sister"s ear.
"The night," she panted-"the night you bore him-in your arms-"
Then did the other woman give a shuddering start and lift her head, staring with a frozen face.
"What! what!" she cried.
"Down the dark stairway," the panting voice went on, "to the far cellar-I kept watch again."