_THE DUCHESS OF PENARVON_
Penarvon Castle was a great pile of grey building situated on the
commanding promontory of land that jutted out into the sea and formed
the division between the two bays of St. Bride and St. Erme.
St. Bride’s Bay lay to the south of the castle, and was a small and
insignificant inlet, not deep enough to afford anchorage for vessels of
any size, and avoided on account of the dangers of the jagged reef on
its southern boundary, which went by the name of “Smuggler’s Reef.” The
little bay, however, was a favourite spot for boats and small craft,
as its waters were generally smooth, save when a direct west wind was
blowing, and the smooth sand of its beach made landing safe and easy.
A little hamlet of fisher-folk (and smugglers) nestled beneath the
overhanging cliffs, which broke up just at this point and became merged
in the green slopes of the downs behind. Smuggled goods landed in the
bay could be transported thence without any great difficulty, and not
a fisherman in the place but did not have his own private smuggling
venture whenever fortune favoured, and his own clientèle amongst the
neighbouring farmers and gentlemen, who were glad to purchase what he
brought and ask no questions.
The castle faced due west, and on its north side lay the wider and
larger bay of St. Erme; but the character of the coast along this
bay was not such as to tempt either boats or larger vessels, for the
cliffs ran sheer down into the sea and presented a frowning iron-bound
aspect, and the shelter of the bay was sometimes too dearly purchased
by vessels running before the gale; for if they once struck upon one of
the many sunken rocks with which its bottom was diversified, they were
almost bound to go to pieces without hope of rescue.
The castle was a turreted building of quadrangular construction, and
in one lofty turret on all stormy nights a brilliant light was always
burning, which had at last become as a beacon to passing vessels,
showing them where they were, and warning them especially of those
twin and much dreaded rocks called the “Bull’s Horns,” which lay just
beneath the castle walls, forming the northern boundary to St. Bride’s
Bay, and between which lay a shifting expanse of quicksand, out of
which no vessel ever emerged if once she had run upon it.
Upon this eve of the festival of Christmas, late though the hour was,
there were lights shining from many windows of the great pile of grey
stone--lights that the stranger would believe to portend some festivity
going on within those walls, but which in reality indicated something
altogether different.
The two doctors summoned in haste earlier in the day had at last
taken their leave with hushed steps and grave faces. All that human
skill could avail had been done, and done in vain. Throughout the
castle it was known that the fiat had gone forth that the gentle
mistress whom all loved lay dying--that she would hardly see the dawn
of the Christmas morning; and there was hardly a dry eye amongst the
assembled household, gathered together to talk in whispers of the sad
intelligence, and to listen breathlessly for any sound proceeding from
the part of the house where the dying woman lay.
The pealing of the bell of the outer door caused a commotion in their
midst, till the butler, who rose to answer the summons, remarked that
it was most likely one of the two parsons come to see the Duchess. The
Duke had sent a message to both when the death sentence had gone forth,
and this was probably the response.
He went to the door, and sure enough there walked in, with hushed
step and awed face, the Rev. Job Tremodart, resident clergyman of St.
Bride’s, whose parsonage stood not half-a-mile away.
He was a tall, loose-limbed, lantern-jawed man, with a plain but
benevolent countenance, an awkward manner, and a very decided
inclination to slip into the native dialect in conversation. He entered
with a nervous air, and seemed reluctant to follow the servant up the
great staircase to the floor above.
“May be I shan’t be wanted,” he whispered, trying to detain the man.
“Du yu know if her Grace has asked for me?”
“It was his Grace that sent word for you to be told, sir, you and Mr.
St. Aubyn, of her Grace’s condition,” answered the man respectfully.
“His Grace is in the little parlour here when he is not in the room. I
will let him know you are here.”
“Has Mr. St. Aubyn come too?” asked Mr. Tremodart, a look of relief
crossing his face; “he will du her Grace more gude than I.”
“He is not here yet, sir,” answered the butler, and then stood aside
and motioned to the clergyman to go on, for at the top of the staircase
stood a tall rigid figure, and Mr. Tremodart found himself shaking
hands with the Duke almost before he had had time to realise the
situation.
“The Duchess will be glad to see you,” was the only word spoken by the
stricken husband; and whether he would or no, the hapless pastor was
compelled to follow his noble host.
The Duke was tall and very spare in figure, and seemed to have grown
more so during the past week of anxiety and watching. His hair, which
had hitherto been dark streaked with silver, seemed all at once to
have silvered over almost entirely. His face was finely cut, and the
features gave the impression of having been carved out of a piece of
ivory. The eyebrows were very bushy and were still dark, and the eyes
beneath were a steely blue and of a peculiarly penetrating quality.
The thin-lipped mouth was indicative of an iron will, and the whole
countenance was one to inspire something of awe and dread. At the
present moment it was difficult to imagine that a smile could ever
soften it--difficult, at least, until the Duke approached the side of
his wife’s bed, and then the change which imperceptibly stole over it
showed that beneath a hard and even harsh exterior--too deep perhaps
for outward expression--lay a power of love and tenderness such as only
a strong nature can truly know.
“My love,” said the Duke very quietly, “Mr. Tremodart is here.”
“I shall be glad to see Mr. Tremodart,” spoke a soft voice from the
bed; and in response to a sign from the Duke, the clergyman (visibly
quaking) passed round the great screen which shut off the bed from the
rest of the room, and found himself face to face with the dying woman.
It was a scene not to be forgotten by any who looked upon it. The
Duchess lay back upon a pile of snowy pillows, the peculiar pallor of
approaching death lying like a shadow across her beautiful face. And
yet, save for this never-to-be-mistaken shadow, there was nothing of
death in her aspect. Few and far between as Mr. Tremodart’s pastoral
visits had been (for he was always fearful of intruding upon the great
folks at the castle), he had many times seen the Duchess look more worn
and ill than she did now. The lines of pain, which had deepened so
much of late in her face, had all been smoothed away. Something of the
undefinable aspect of youth had come back to the expression, and the
soft dark eyes were full of a liquid brightness which it was somehow
difficult for him to meet. It was as though the brightness had been
absorbed from an unseen source. There was a great awe in his eyes as he
approached and touched the feeble hand for a moment extended to him.
On her knees beside the bed, grasping the other hand of the dying
woman, was a young girl whose face could not at this moment be seen,
for it was pillowed in the bed-clothes, whilst the slight figure was
shivering and heaving with suppressed emotion. All that could be seen
besides the slim graceful form was a mass of rippling loosened hair
that looked dark in shadow, but lighted up with gleams of ruddy gold
where the light touched it. Mr. Tremodart gave a compassionate glance
at the weeping girl. It needed no word to explain the terrible loss
which was coming upon her.
“My journey is just done, sir,” said the Duchess, with a swift glance
from the face of her husband to that of the clergyman. “The call home
has come at last. Will you speak some word of peace to me before I go?
Let me hear the message that my Lord sends to me. Give me some promise
of His to lead me on my way.”
The voice was very low, but clearly audible in the deep stillness. Poor
Mr. Tremodart twisted his great hands together and felt as though an
angel from heaven had asked counsel of him.
“O my dear lady!” he burst out at last, “you know those promises far
better than I do. You have no need of any poor words of mine. Your
life has ever been a blameless one. It is you who should teach me. God
knows I need it. But you, if you are going before His judgment throne,
can scarcely have a sin upon your soul. I stand mute in presence of a
holiness greater than any I ever have known.”
The eyes of the dying woman were fixed upon Mr. Tremodart’s face with
an expression he scarce understood.
“Am I to go into the presence of my God clad in the robe of my own
righteousness?” she asked with a faint smile.
“O my dear lady, how better could you go?” questioned the confused and
embarrassed clergyman. “Surely if ever there were a saint upon earth
it is yourself. Everybody in the place knows it. What can I say to you
that you do not already know?”
Still the same searching inexplicable gaze fixed upon his face--tender,
pitying, regretful. Never had the Rev. Job Tremodart felt so utterly
unworthy of his office and calling as at that moment. He had always
recognised the fact that he had “never been cut out for a parson,” as
he had phrased it. He had allowed himself to be ordained and presented
with a living in deference to his father’s wishes and the pressure of
circumstances, and he had striven after his own light to do his duty
amongst his illiterate and semi-savage flock. On the whole he had
succeeded fairly well to his satisfaction, and was as good a clergyman
as many of his brethren around. But somehow, beside the dying bed of
the Duchess of Penarvon, he stood shamed and silent, having no word to
speak to her save to remind her of her own saint-like life and her own
righteousness. Even he felt a faint qualm as he spoke those words, yet
their incongruity hardly struck him in its full force. But it was an
immense relief when a slight stir without was followed by the entrance
of another figure into the room, and he could step back and motion the
new-comer to take his place beside the bed. Even the girl raised her
head now and looked round with eyes dark-rimmed and dim with weeping.
She did not otherwise move, but she no longer kept her face hidden;
she turned it towards her mother with a hungry intensity of gaze that
was infinitely pathetic.
“You are welcome, my friend,” said the Duchess in the same soft even
tone. “I am glad to look upon your face once more. I am going down into
the valley at last. The shadow is closing round me. You have brought me
some word to take with me there?”
Mr. St. Aubyn came one step nearer and laid his hand upon the nerveless
one of the dying woman. He was an older man than his brother clergyman,
and one of very different aspect. His face was worn and hollow, as if
with thought and toil; his eyes were deep and tranquil, often full of
a dreamy brilliance, which bespoke a mind far away. His features, if
not beautiful in themselves, were redeemed by a wonderful sweetness
and depth of expression. He looked like one whose “conversation is in
heaven,” and the dying woman’s eyes sought his with quiet confidence
and joy.
“The shadow truly is there--but the rod and the staff are with all the
servants of the Lord who can trust in Him--and the brightness of the
eternal city is beyond. Truly the enemy’s power is but brief. He can
but cast a shadow betwixt us and our Saviour, and we who have the staff
of His consolation in our grasp need not fear. To depart and be with
Christ is a blessed thing. It is through the grave and gate of death
that we pass to our joyful resurrection. There is no fear, no darkness,
no shadow that can come between us and that glorious promise, ‘I am the
Resurrection and the Life.’”
The eyes of the dying woman kindled--filled suddenly with a beautiful
triumphant joy. Her lips moved, and she softly repeated the words--
“‘I am the Resurrection and the Life’--ah! that is enough--that is all
we need to think of when our peace is made.”
“Yea, verily--the Lamb of God suffered death for us to reconcile us
again to God: and He rose triumphant from the grave--the first-fruits
of them that sleep--for us to know that in the appointed day we too
may rise again and be glorified together with Him. And meantime we
rest in His peace, awaiting the day of our common perfecting. Ah! and
when the trump of the Archangel is heard, it is the blessed dead who
rise first, whilst in a moment of time the faithful living are caught
away with them to meet the Lord in the air. O blessed, blessed hope
for living and dead alike--to meet the Lord and be ever with Him!
Surely that is the promise that takes the sting from death and robs
the grave of victory. We know not the day nor the hour--that is hid in
the foreknowledge of the Divine Father; but we have the everlasting
promise--the promise which robs death of its sting, even for those who
are left behind--who are parted from our loved ones. For at any moment
the wondrous shout of the Lord may be heard as He descends from heaven
to awaken the dead and call ‘those that are His at His coming,’ and
we may be one with them in the blessed and holy first resurrection.
‘Wherefore comfort one another with these words.’”
The gaze of the clergyman as he spoke these latter words was rather
bent on the daughter than the mother, and the dying woman read the
thought in his heart and laid her own feeble hand upon her child’s
head. The girl’s tears were dry now. Her lips had parted in a smile of
wondrous vividness and hope. She clasped her hands together, and her
glance sought her mother’s face.
“O mother, my mother--if it might only be soon! O pray for me that I
lose not heart--that I may learn to live in the hope in that promise!”
“The Lord will give you help and grace so to live, my child, if you
will but trust in Him. Heaven and earth may pass away, but His word
will not pass away, and that hope is His most blessed promise. ‘We
shall not all sleep, but we shall all be changed.’ O my child, never
think to put off the making of your peace with God till the hour of
death, as some do. Remember that ‘we shall not all die.’ It is the life
eternal, not the grave and gate of death, upon which our hearts must
be fixed. Although I am called to pass through that gate, ask not, my
child, for power to die. Ask rather the gift of the everlasting life
which will be given without dying at the coming of the Lord. Ask for
that coming and kingdom to be hastened, that He will come down speedily
upon this rent and riven earth, and cause His reign of peace to begin.
Yea, pray for the outpouring of His Spirit in this time of darkness and
perplexity. Pray for that great and glorious day when mortality shall
be swallowed up of life!”
The Duchess had half risen upon her pillows as she spoke. A strange
light was in her eyes. In spite of her physical weakness, she spoke
with a power and strength that had seemed impossible a few moments
before. Was it the last expiring spark, flashing out with momentary
vividness; or was it some spiritual power within her that gave to her
this access of strength?
Those about her knew not, yet they hung upon her words with a sense of
strange wonder and awe.
To the Duke and the other clergyman this talk was absolutely
inexplicable--like words spoken in a strange language. Deeply as the
reserved and stern husband had loved his wife, there were subjects
that were never spoken of between them, owing to his resolute reserve
and reticence. Dry orthodoxy and an upright walk before men had been
characteristic of the Duke through life. The fruits of the Spirit,
showing forth in love, joy, and peace, and the yearning for light upon
the dealings of God with His children, were absolutely unknown to him;
and though he knelt with the rest when Mr. St. Aubyn offered a prayer
beside the bed of his dying wife, the words spoken fell meaningless on
his ears. He had far more sympathy with the clergyman who had called
his wife a saint, and shrunk from striving to speak any words of
promise, than with him who was speaking of things so far beyond his ken
as to appear to him idle mysticism and folly.
But the peace and joy beaming from those dying eyes told him more
eloquently than any words what it meant to her, and he bowed his head
and stifled the groan which rose to his lips as he realised that,
despite their tender love, they had yet lived so far asunder in spirit
that a great gulf already seemed to divide them.
Yet the wife would not suffer herself to be long sundered in spirit
from her husband; and when the two clergymen had silently departed,
having done all that they could, each in his own way, she summoned him
to her bedside by a glance, and brought her mind back to earth again
with something of an effort.
“My dear, dear husband,” she fondly whispered; and then the groan would
have its way, as he took her hand in his and dropped down into the seat
beside the bed which had been his for so many long hours during the
past days.
The Duchess bent her head softly towards the other side where her
daughter knelt, and said in a low voice--
“My child, I would be alone with your father a brief while. Leave me
for one short half-hour, then you shall return, and I will send you
away no more, my patient darling.”
The words of tender endearment brought a rush of tears to the girl’s
eyes, but she rose without a word, and slipped noiselessly from the
room. The mother looked after her with wistful eyes.
“Husband,” she said softly, “you will be tender with the child? You
will let her take my place with you so far as such a thing is possible.
She will try to do her duty by you and by all. You will let that duty
be a labour of love?”
“I will do what I can; but I am old to change my ways, and I do not
understand young girls. No one can take your place; you talk of
impossibilities. O Geraldine! Geraldine! it is too hard to be thus
left, old and stricken, and alone. Why must it be?--you so many, many
years younger than I. I never thought to be the one left behind. I
cannot be resigned. I cannot be willing to let you go. The Almighty is
dealing very bitterly with me!”
“Dear husband, the parting will be the shorter that you are well
stricken in years,” she answered gently, answering him according to the
measure of his understanding and feeling. “It will be but a few short
years before we meet again in the place where there is no parting.
And now, my husband, before I am taken away from you--before this new
strength, which, I believe, God has given me for a purpose, be spent--I
have a few things to say to you--a few charges to give to you. Will you
let me speak from my very heart, and forgive me if in any sort I pain
and grieve you?”
“_You_ pain or grieve me by any precious words you may speak! That
thing is impossible. Let me know all that is in your tender, noble
heart. It shall be the aim and object of the miserable residue of my
days to carry out whatever you may speak.”
The Duchess pressed his hand affectionately, and lay still for a
moment, gathering strength. Her husband gave her some of the cordial
which stood at hand, and presently she spoke again--
“My husband, we are living in troubled and anxious days. The world
around us is full of striving and upheaval. You and I remember those
awful struggles in France now dying out of men’s minds, and we have
indications, only too plainly written on the face of the earth, that
the spirit of lawlessness and anarchy thus let loose is seething and
fermenting throughout the world.”
The Duke bent his head in assent. He well knew such to be the case, but
hardly expected that to be the subject of his dying wife’s meditations.
She continued speaking with pauses in between.
“My husband, perhaps you know that ever since those terrible days, when
men began to see in that awful Revolution the first outpouring of God’s
last judgments upon the earth, godly men and women of every shade of
opinion have been earnestly and constantly praying for God’s guidance
and Spirit, that they may read the signs of the times aright, and learn
what are His purposes towards mankind, as revealed in His written Word.
I will not speak too particularly of all that has been given in answer
to this generation of prayer; but it is enough for me to tell you that
Light has come, that the long-neglected prophetic writings have been
illumined by the light of God’s Spirit to many holy men and women,
who have made them their study day by day and year by year, and that
rays of light from above have come to us, illumining the darkness, and
showing us faintly, yet clearly, God’s guiding hand in these days of
darkness and trouble. Do you follow me so far?”
“I understand your words, and am ready to believe that in these things
you have a knowledge that I cannot attain unto; but what then?”
“What I would ask of you, my husband, is patience and trust--patience
with many things that will seem strange to you, that will seem like a
subversion of all your ideas of wisdom and prudence--and trust in God’s
power to make all things work together for good, and to bring good out
of evil. We know that the latter days are coming fast upon us--that
the armies of good and evil are gathering for that last tremendous
struggle which precedes the reign of the Lord. We know that the strange
upheavals we see in the world about us are the beginnings of these
things, and that those who would be found faithful must learn to
discern between the evil and the good; for Satan can transform himself
into an angel of light, and deceive, if it were possible, the very
elect, whilst God has again and again chosen the weak and despised
things of this world to confound the strong; and it is human nature to
turn away in scorn from all such weak things, and look for strength and
salvation from the mighty and approved.”
The Duke listened with a sigh. He understood but little of all this.
Yet every word from his dying wife was precious, and engraved itself
upon his memory in indelible characters.
“There are difficult days coming upon the earth: great wrongs will be
righted, much that is pure and good will spring up; and side by side
with that much that is evil, lawless, and terrible. Dear husband, what
I would ask of you is a patient mind, patience to look at changes
without prejudice, and strive prayerfully to discern whether or not
they be of God;--also patience to hear what is said by their advocates,
and to weigh well what you hear. Let mercy ever temper justice in your
dealings with your dependents; and condemn not those who are not at
one with you without pausing to understand the nature of all they are
striving to accomplish. The evil and the good will and must grow up
together till the day of the harvest. The wheat and the tares cannot
be sorted out till the reapers are sent forth from God. But let us
strive with eyes anointed from above to distinguish in our own path
that which is good, and not cast it scornfully aside, nor rush after
what is evil because it approves itself to the great ones of the earth.
I am sure that God will lead and guide all those who truly turn to Him
in these times of darkness and perplexity. My dear, dear husband, if I
could feel sure that you would be amongst those who would thus turn to
Him now, I should pass away with a sweeter sense of trust and hope--a
brighter confidence in that most blessed meeting on the other shore.”
The white head of the husband was bowed upon the pillow. He did not
weep--the fountain of his tears lay too deep for him to find relief
thus--but a few deep breaths, like gasps, bespoke the intensity of his
emotion, and when he could articulate, he answered briefly--
“My life, I will try--I will try--so help me God!”
“He will help you, my precious husband,” she answered, with quivering
tenderness of intonation, “and you know the promise that cannot fail,
‘All things are possible to him that believeth.’”
And then from that bowed head there came the earnest cry--
“‘Lord, I believe; help Thou mine unbelief.’”
After that followed a pause of deep silence. The Duchess, exhausted
but content, lay back on her pillow with closed eyes. The Duke held
her hand between his, and fought out his battle in silence and alone.
He was passing through deeper waters than the dying woman; for her
peace was made, and she was going confidently forth to meet Him who had
bidden her to come; whilst he was fighting in doubt and helplessness
the tempestuous winds and waves, feeling every moment that they must
engulf him. And yet never had the two loving hearts beat more in
sympathy and unison. Those moments were unspeakably precious to both,
although no word passed between them.
The silence was scarcely broken as the door opened softly, and Bride
stole back to her mother’s side. She had been caught by her old nurse
meantime, and had been dosed with soup and wine, while some of the
dishevelment of her dress and hair had been removed. Her aching eyes
had been bathed, and she looked altogether strengthened and refreshed.
The dying eyes turned upon her took in this, and the Duchess smiled
with a sense of relief to think that there was one faithful woman
beneath the castle roof who would make Bride her first care.
The girl’s eyes sought her mother’s face with wistful intensity of
gaze, and at once noted a change that even that brief half-hour had
brought with it. The shadow had deepened; there was a dimness coming
over the bright eyes, the hand she touched was icy cold.
“Mother!--mother!--mother!” she cried, and sank down on her knees
beside the bed.
“My child, my little Bride. You have been a dear, dear child to me.
In days to come, if you live to have children of your own, may you be
rewarded for all the tenderness you have shown to me.”
“Mother, mother, let me die too! I cannot bear it! I cannot live
without you!”
“Dearest, you must live for your father; you must comfort each other,”
and with a last effort of strength, the dying woman brought the hands
of father and daughter together across her emaciated form, and held
them locked together so in her stiffening fingers.
When the end came they neither knew exactly. Bride was on her knees,
her face hidden, the shadow seeming to weigh her down till all was
blackness round her, and she felt sinking, sinking, sinking down into
some unknown abyss, clinging frantically to something which she took
to be her mother’s hand. The Duke, with his eyes upon his wife’s face,
saw the fluttering of the eyelids, heard a soft sigh, and then watched
the settling down upon that wan face of a look of unspeakable rest and
sweetness.
If that was death, why need death be dreaded? It was like nothing that
he had seen or imagined before. The only words which came into his mind
were those of a familiar formula never understood before--
“The peace of God that passeth all understanding.”
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