A Lady of Quality

F >> Frances Hodgson Burnett >> A Lady of Quality


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 God."

"Then--then," he gasped--"then will He damn 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 space, and panting.

The duchess 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 duchess 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 duchess
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 duchess'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 duchess 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--God 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 God'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 God'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 God made us so."

Clorinda clutched her pallid hand.

"Dear God," 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."

"You kept watch--you?" the duchess gasped.

"Upon the stair which led to the servants' place--that I might stop them
if--if aught disturbed them, and they oped their doors--that I might send
them back, telling them--it was I."

Then stooped the duchess nearer to her, her hands clutching the coverlid,
her eyes widening.

"Anne, Anne," she cried, "you knew the awful thing that I would hide!
That too? You knew that he was _there_!"

Anne lay upon her pillow, her own eyes gazing out through the ivy-hung
window of her tower at the blue sky and the fair, fleecy clouds. A flock
of snow-white doves were flying back and forth across it, and one sate
upon the window's deep ledge and cooed. All was warm and perfumed with
summer's sweetness. There seemed naught between her and the uplifting
blueness, and naught of the earth was near but the dove's deep-throated
cooing and the laughter of her Grace's children floating upward from the
garden of flowers below.

"I lie upon the brink," she said--"upon the brink, sister, and methinks
my soul is too near to God's pure justice to fear as human things fear,
and judge as earth does. She said I did no wrong. Yes, I knew."

"And knowing," her sister cried, "you came to me _that afternoon_!"

"To stand by that which lay hidden, that I might keep the rest away.
Being a poor creature and timorous and weak--"

"Weak! weak!" the duchess cried, amid a greater flood of streaming
tears--"ay, I have dared to call you so, who have the heart of a great
lioness. Oh, sweet Anne--weak!"

"'Twas love," Anne whispered. "Your love was strong, and so was mine.
That other love was not for me. I knew that my long woman's life would
pass without it--for woman's life is long, alas! if love comes not. But
you were love's self, and I worshipped you and it; and to myself I
said--praying forgiveness on my knees--that one woman should know love if
I did not. And being so poor and imperfect a thing, what mattered if I
gave my soul for you--and love, which is so great, and rules the world.
Look at the doves, sister, look at them, flying past the heavenly
blueness--and she said I did no wrong."

Her hand was wet with tears fallen upon it, as her duchess sister knelt,
and held and kissed it, sobbing.

"You knew, poor love, you knew!" she cried.

"Ay, all of it I knew," Anne said--"his torture of you and the madness of
your horror. And when he forced himself within the Panelled Parlour that
day of fate, I knew he came to strike some deadly blow; and in such
anguish I waited in my chamber for the end, that when it came not, I
crept down, praying that somehow I might come between--and I went in the
room!"

"And there--what saw you?" quoth the duchess, shuddering. "Somewhat you
must have seen, or you could not have known."

"Ay," said Anne, "and heard!" and her chest heaved.

"Heard!" cried Clorinda. "Great God of mercy!"

"The room was empty, and I stood alone. It was so still I was afraid; it
seemed so like the silence of the grave; and then there came a sound--a
long and shuddering breath--but one--and then--"

The memory brought itself too keenly back, and she fell a-shivering.

"I heard a slipping sound, and a dead hand fell on the floor-lying
outstretched, its palm turned upwards, showing beneath the valance of the
couch."

She threw her frail arms round her sister's neck, and as Clorinda clasped
her own, breathing gaspingly, they swayed together.

"What did you then?" the duchess cried, in a wild whisper.

"I prayed God keep me sane--and knelt--and looked below. I thrust it
back--the dead hand, saying aloud, 'Swoon you must not, swoon you must
not, swoon you shall not--God help! God help!'--and I saw!--the purple
mark--his eyes upturned--his fair curls spread; and I lost strength and
fell upon my side, and for a minute lay there--knowing that shudder of
breath had been the very last expelling of his being, and his hand had
fallen by its own weight."

"O God! O God! O God!" Clorinda cried, and over and over said the word,
and over again.

"How was't--how was't?" Anne shuddered, clinging to her. "How was't
'twas done? I have so suffered, being weak--I have so prayed! God will
have mercy--but it has done me to death, this knowledge, and before I
die, I pray you tell me, that I may speak truly at God's throne."

"O God! O God! O God!" Clorinda groaned--"O God!" and having cried so,
looking up, was blanched as a thing struck with death, her eyes like a
great stag's that stands at bay.

"Stay, stay!" she cried, with a sudden shock of horror, for a new thought
had come to her which, strangely, she had not had before. "You thought I
_murdered_ him?"

Convulsive sobs heaved Anne's poor chest, tears sweeping her hollow
cheeks, her thin, soft hands clinging piteously to her sister's.

"Through all these years I have known nothing," she wept--"sister, I have
known nothing but that I found him hidden there, a dead man, whom you so
hated and so feared."

Her hands resting upon the bed's edge, Clorinda held her body upright,
such passion of wonder, love, and pitying adoring awe in her large eyes
as was a thing like to worship.

"You thought I _murdered_ him, and loved me still," she said. "You
thought I murdered him, and still you shielded me, and gave me chance to
live, and to repent, and know love's highest sweetness. You thought I
murdered him, and yet your soul had mercy. Now do I believe in God, for
only a God could make a heart so noble."

"And you--did not--" cried out Anne, and raised upon her elbow, her
breast panting, but her eyes growing wide with light as from stars from
heaven. "Oh, sister love--thanks be to Christ who died!"

The duchess rose, and stood up tall and great, her arms out-thrown.

"I think 'twas God Himself who did it," she said, "though 'twas I who
struck the blow. He drove me mad and blind, he tortured me, and thrust
to my heart's core. He taunted me with that vile thing Nature will not
let women bear, and did it in my Gerald's name, calling on him. And then
I struck with my whip, knowing nothing, not seeing, only striking, like a
goaded dying thing. He fell--he fell and lay there--and all was done!"

"But not with murderous thought--only through frenzy and a cruel chance--a
cruel, cruel chance. And of your own will blood is not upon your hand,"
Anne panted, and sank back upon her pillow.

"With deepest oaths I swear," Clorinda said, and she spoke through her
clenched teeth, "if I had not loved, if Gerald had not been my soul's
life and I his, I would have stood upright and laughed in his face at the
devil's threats. Should I have feared? You know me. Was there a thing
on earth or in heaven or hell I feared until love rent me. 'Twould but
have fired my blood, and made me mad with fury that dares all. 'Spread
it abroad!' I would have cried to him. 'Tell it to all the world, craven
and outcast, whose vileness all men know, and see how I shall bear
myself, and how I shall drive through the town with head erect. As I
bore myself when I set the rose crown on my head, so shall I bear myself
then. And you shall see what comes!' This would I have said, and held
to it, and gloried. But I knew love, and there was an anguish that I
could not endure--that my Gerald should look at me with changed eyes,
feeling that somewhat of his rightful meed was gone. And I was all
distraught and conquered. Of ending his base life I never thought, never
at my wildest, though I had thought to end my own; but when Fate struck
the blow for me, then I swore that carrion should not taint my whole life
through. It should not--should not--for 'twas Fate's self had doomed me
to my ruin. And there it lay until the night; for this I planned, that
being of such great strength for a woman, I could bear his body in my
arms to the farthest of that labyrinth of cellars I had commanded to be
cut off from the rest and closed; and so I did when all were sleeping--but
you, poor Anne--but you! And there I laid him, and there he lies
to-day--an evil thing turned to a handful of dust."

"It was not murder," whispered Anne--"no, it was not." She lifted to her
sister's gaze a quivering lip. "And yet once I had loved him--years I
had loved him," she said, whispering still. "And in a woman there is
ever somewhat that the mother creature feels"--the hand which held her
sister's shook as with an ague, and her poor lip quivered--"Sister, I--saw
him again!"

The duchess drew closer as she gasped, "Again!"

"I could not rest," the poor voice said. "He had been so base, he was so
beautiful, and so unworthy love--and he was dead,--none knowing,
untouched by any hand that even pitied him that he was so base a thing,
for that indeed is piteous when death comes and none can be repentant.
And he lay so hard, so hard upon the stones."

Her teeth were chattering, and with a breath drawn like a wild sob of
terror, the duchess threw her arm about her and drew her nearer.

"Sweet Anne," she shuddered--"sweet Anne--come back--you wander!"

"Nay, 'tis not wandering," Anne said. "'Tis true, sister. There is no
night these years gone by I have not remembered it again--and seen. In
the night after that you bore him there--I prayed until the mid-hours,
when all were sleeping fast--and then I stole down--in my bare feet, that
none could hear me--and at last I found my way in the black dark--feeling
the walls until I reached that farthest door in the stone--and then I
lighted my taper and oped it."

"Anne!" cried the duchess--"Anne, look through the tower window at the
blueness of the sky--at the blueness, Anne!" But drops of cold water had
started out and stood upon her brow.

"He lay there in his grave--it was a little black place with its stone
walls--his fair locks were tumbled," Anne went on, whispering. "The spot
was black upon his brow--and methought he had stopped mocking, and surely
looked upon some great and awful thing which asked of him a question. I
knelt, and laid his curls straight, and his hands, and tried to shut his
eyes, but close they would not, but stared at that which questioned. And
having loved him so, I kissed his poor cheek as his mother might have
done, that he might not stand outside, having carried not one tender
human thought with him. And, oh, I prayed, sister--I prayed for his poor
soul with all my own. 'If there is one noble or gentle thing he has ever
done through all his life,' I prayed, 'Jesus remember it--Christ do not
forget.' We who are human do so few things that are noble--oh, surely
one must count."

The duchess's head lay near her sister's breast, and she had fallen a-
sobbing--a-sobbing and weeping like a young broken child.

"Oh, brave and noble, pitiful, strong, fair soul!" she cried. "As Christ
loved you have loved, and He would hear your praying. Since you so
pleaded, He would find one thing to hang His mercy on."

She lifted her fair, tear-streaming face, clasping her hands as one
praying.

"And I--and I," she cried--"have I not built a temple on his grave? Have
I not tried to live a fair life, and be as Christ bade me? Have I not
loved, and pitied, and succoured those in pain? Have I not filled a
great man's days with bliss, and love, and wifely worship? Have I not
given him noble children, bred in high lovingness, and taught to love all
things God made, even the very beasts that perish, since they, too,
suffer as all do? Have I left aught undone? Oh, sister, I have so
prayed that I left naught. Even though I could not believe that there
was One who, ruling all, could yet be pitiless as He is to some, I have
prayed That--which sure it seems must be, though we comprehend it not--to
teach me faith in something greater than my poor self, and not of earth.
Say this to Christ's self when you are face to face--say this to Him, I
pray you! Anne, Anne, look not so strangely through the window at the
blueness of the sky, sweet soul, but look at me."

For Anne lay upon her pillow so smiling that 'twas a strange thing to
behold. It seemed as she were smiling at the whiteness of the doves
against the blue. A moment her sister stood up watching her, and then
she stirred, meaning to go to call one of the servants waiting outside;
but though she moved not her gaze from the tower window, Mistress Anne
faintly spoke.

"Nay--stay," she breathed. "I go--softly--stay."

Clorinda fell upon her knees again and bent her lips close to her ear.
This was death, and yet she feared it not--this was the passing of a
soul, and while it went it seemed so fair and loving a thing that she
could ask it her last question--her greatest--knowing it was so near to
God that its answer must be rest.

"Anne, Anne," she whispered, "must he know--my Gerald? Must I--must I
tell him all? If so I must, I will--upon my knees."

The doves came flying downward from the blue, and lighted on the window
stone and cooed--Anne's answer was as low as her soft breath and her
still eyes were filled with joy at that she saw but which another could
not.

"Nay," she breathed. "Tell him not. What need? Wait, and let God tell
him--who understands."

Then did her soft breath stop, and she lay still, her eyes yet open and
smiling at the blossoms, and the doves who sate upon the window-ledge and
lowly cooed and cooed.

* * * * *

'Twas her duchess sister who clad her for her last sleeping, and made her
chamber fair--the hand of no other touched her; and while 'twas done the
tower chamber was full of the golden sunshine, and the doves ceased not
to flutter about the window, and coo as if they spoke lovingly to each
other of what lay within the room.

Then the children came to look, their arms full of blossoms and flowering
sprays. They had been told only fair things of death, and knowing but
these fair things, thought of it but as the opening of a golden door.
They entered softly, as entering the chamber of a queen, and moving
tenderly, with low and gentle speech, spread all their flowers about the
bed--laying them round her head, on her breast, and in her hands, and
strewing them thick everywhere.

"She lies in a bower and smiles at us," one said. "She hath grown
beautiful like you, mother, and her face seems like a white star in the
morning."

"She loves us as she ever did," the fair child Daphne said; "she will
never cease to love us, and will be our angel. Now have we an angel of
our own."

When the duke returned, who had been absent since the day before, the
duchess led him to the tower chamber, and they stood together hand in
hand and gazed at her peace.

"Gerald," the duchess said, in her tender voice, "she smiles, does not
she?"

"Yes," was Osmonde's answer--"yes, love, as if at God, who has smiled at
herself--faithful, tender woman heart!"

The hand which he held in his clasp clung closer. The other crept to his
shoulder and lay there tremblingly.

"How faithful and how tender, my Gerald," Clorinda said, "I only know.
She is my saint--sweet Anne, whom I dared treat so lightly in my poor
wayward days. Gerald, she knows all my sins, and to-day she has carried
them in her pure hands to God and asked His mercy on them. She had none
of her own."

"And so having done, dear heart, she lies amid her flowers, and smiles,"
he said, and he drew her white hand to press it against his breast.

* * * * *

While her body slept beneath soft turf and flowers, and that which was
her self was given in God's heaven, all joys for which her earthly being
had yearned, even when unknowing how to name its longing, each year that
passed made more complete and splendid the lives of those she so had
loved. Never, 'twas said, had woman done such deeds of gentleness and
shown so sweet and generous a wisdom as the great duchess. None who were
weak were in danger if she used her strength to aid them; no man or woman
was a lost thing whom she tried to save: such tasks she set herself as no
lady had ever given herself before; but 'twas not her way to fail--her
will being so powerful, her brain so clear, her heart so purely noble.
Pauper and prince, noble and hind honoured her and her lord alike, and
all felt wonder at their happiness. It seemed that they had learned
life's meaning and the honouring of love, and this they taught to their
children, to the enriching of a long and noble line. In the ripeness of
years they passed from earth in as beauteous peace as the sun sets, and
upon a tablet above the resting-place of their ancestors there are
inscribed lines like these:--

"Here sleeps by her husband the purest and noblest lady God e'er
loved, yet the high and gentle deeds of her chaste sweet life sleep
not, but live and grow, and so will do so long as earth is earth."