A Lady of Quality [109]
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
"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