Part 29 (1/2)
”You kept watch-you?” the d.u.c.h.ess 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 d.u.c.h.ess 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 G.o.d'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 d.u.c.h.ess 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 pa.s.s without it-for woman's life is long, alas! if love comes not. But you were love's self, and I wors.h.i.+pped 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 d.u.c.h.ess 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 d.u.c.h.ess, 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 G.o.d 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-s.h.i.+vering.
”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 d.u.c.h.ess cried, in a wild whisper.
”I prayed G.o.d 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-G.o.d help! G.o.d 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 G.o.d! O G.o.d! O G.o.d!” 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! G.o.d 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 G.o.d's throne.”
”O G.o.d! O G.o.d! O G.o.d!” Clorinda groaned-”O G.o.d!” 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?”