When it was known that Lady de Lannoy had come to Lannoy there was a
prompt rush of such callers as the county afforded. Stephen, however,
did not wish to see anyone just at present. Partly to avoid the chance
meeting with strangers, and partly because she enjoyed and benefited by
the exercise, she was much away from home every day. Sometimes, attended
only by a groom, she rode long distances north or south along the coast;
or up over the ridge behind the castle and far inland along the shaded
roads through the woods; or over bleak wind-swept stretches of moorland.
Sometimes she would walk, all alone, far down to the sea-road, and would
sit for hours on the shore or high up on some little rocky headland where
she could enjoy the luxury of solitude.
Now and again in her journeyings she made friends, most of them humble
ones. She was so great a lady in her station that she could be familiar
without seeming to condescend. The fishermen of the little ports to
north and south came to know her, and to look gladly for her coming.
Their goodwives had for her always a willing curtsy and a ready smile. As
for the children, they looked on her with admiration and love, tempered
with awe. She was so gentle with them, so ready to share their pleasures
and interests, that after a while they came to regard her as some strange
embodiment of Fairydom and Dreamland. Many a little heart was made glad
by the arrival of some item of delight from the Castle; and the hearts of
the sick seemed never to hope, or their eyes to look, in vain.
One friend she made who became very dear and of great import. Often she
had looked up at the old windmill on the crest of the ridge and wondered
who inhabited it; for that some one lived in it, or close by, was shown
at times by the drifting smoke. One day she made up her mind to go and
see for herself. She had a fancy not to ask anyone about it. The place
was a little item of mystery; and as such to be treasured and exploited,
and in due course explored. The mill itself was picturesque, and the
detail at closer acquaintance sustained the far-off impression. The
roadway forked on the near side of the mill, reuniting again the further
side, so that the place made a sort of island--mill, out-offices and
garden. As the mill was on the very top of the ridge the garden which
lay seawards was sheltered by the building from the west, and from the
east by a thick hedge of thorn and privet, which quite hid it from the
roadway. Stephen took the lower road. Finding no entrance save a locked
wooden door she followed round to the western side, where the business
side of the mill had been. It was all still now and silent, and that it
had long fallen into disuse was shown by the grey faded look of
everything. Grass, green and luxuriant, grew untrodden between the
cobble-stones with which the yard was paved. There was a sort of old-
world quietude about everything which greatly appealed to Stephen.
Stephen dismounted and walked round the yard admiring everything. She
did not feel as if intruding; for the gateway was wide open.
A low door in the base of the mill tower opened, and a maid appeared, a
demure pretty little thing of sixteen or seventeen years, dressed in a
prim strait dress and an old-fashioned Puritan cap. Seeing a stranger,
she made an ejaculation and drew back hastily. Stephen called out to
her:
'Don't be afraid, little girl! Will you kindly tell me who lives here?'
The answer came with some hesitation:
'Sister Ruth.'
'And who is Sister Ruth?' The question came instinctively and without
premeditation. The maid, embarrassed, held hard to the half-open door
and shifted from foot to foot uneasily.
'I don't know!' she said at last. 'Only Sister Ruth, I suppose!' It was
manifest that the matter had never afforded her anything in the nature of
a problem. There was an embarrassing silence. Stephen did not wish to
seem, or even to be, prying; but her curiosity was aroused. What manner
of woman was this who lived so manifestly alone, and who had but a
Christian name! Stephen, however, had all her life been accustomed to
dominance, and at Normanstand and Norwood had made many acquaintances
amongst her poorer neighbours. She was just about to ask if she might
see Sister Ruth, when behind the maid in the dark of the low passage-way
appeared the tall, slim figure of a silver woman. Truly a silver woman!
The first flash of Stephen's thought was correct. White-haired, white-
faced, white-capped, white-kerchiefed; in a plain-cut dress of light-grey
silk, without adornment of any kind. The whole ensemble was as a piece
of old silver. The lines of her face were very dignified, very sweet,
very beautiful. Stephen felt at once that she was in the presence of no
common woman. She looked an admiration which all her Quaker garments
could not forbid the other to feel. She was not the first to speak; in
such a noble presence the dignity of Stephen's youth imperatively
demanded silence, if not humility. So she waited. The Silver Lady, for
so Stephen ever after held her in her mind, said quietly, but with
manifest welcome:
'Didst thou wish to see me? Wilt thou come in?' Stephen answered
frankly:
'I should like to come in; if you will not think me rude. The fact is, I
was struck when riding by with the beautiful situation of the mill. I
thought it was only an old mill till I saw the garden hedges; and I came
round to ask if I might go in.' The Silver Lady came forward at a pace
that by itself expressed warmth as she said heartily:
'Indeed thou mayest. Stay! it is tea-time. Let us put thy horse in one
of the sheds; there is no man here at present to do it. Then thou shalt
come with me and see my beautiful view!' She was about to take the horse
herself, but Stephen forestalled her with a quick: 'No, no! pray let me.
I am quite accustomed.' She led the horse to a shed, and having looped
the rein over a hook, patted him and ran back. The Silver Lady gave her
a hand, and they entered the dark passage together.
Stephen was thinking if she ought to begin by telling her name. But the
Haroun al Raschid feeling for adventure incognito is an innate principle
of the sons of men. It was seldom indeed that her life had afforded her
such an opportunity.
The Silver Lady on her own part also wished for silence, as she looked
for the effect on her companion when the glory of the view should break
upon her. When they had climbed the winding stone stair, which led up
some twenty feet, there was a low wide landing with the remains of the
main shaft of the mill machinery running through it. From one side rose
a stone stair curving with the outer wall of the mill tower and guarded
by a heavy iron rail. A dozen steps there were, and then a landing a
couple of yards square; then a deep doorway cut in the thickness of the
wall, round which the winding stair continued.
The Silver Lady, who had led the way, threw open the door, and motioned
to her guest to enter. Stephen stood for a few moments, surprised as
well as delighted, for the room before her as not like anything which she
had ever seen or thought of.
It was a section of almost the whole tower, and was of considerable size,
for the machinery and even the inner shaft had been removed. East and
south and west the wall had been partially cut away so that great wide
windows nearly the full height of the room showed the magnificent
panorama. In the depths of the ample windows were little cloistered
nooks where one might with a feeling of super-solitude be away from and
above the world.
The room was beautifully furnished and everywhere were flowers, with
leaves and sprays and branches where possible.
Even from where she stood in the doorway Stephen had a bird's-eye view of
the whole countryside; not only of the coast, with which she was already
familiar, and on which her windows at the Castle looked, but to the south
and west, which the hill rising steep behind the castle and to southward
shut out.
The Silver Lady could not but notice her guest's genuine admiration.
'Thou likest my room and my view. There is no use asking thee, I see
thou dost!' Stephen answered with a little gasp.
'I think it is the quaintest and most beautiful place I have ever seen!'
'I am so glad thou likest it. I have lived here for nearly forty years;
and they have been years of unutterable peace and earthly happiness! And
now, thou wilt have some tea!'
Stephen left the mill that afternoon with a warmth of heart that she had
been a stranger to for many a day. The two women had accepted each other
simply. 'I am called Ruth,' said the Silver Lady. 'And I am Stephen,'
said the Countess de Lannoy in reply. And that was all; neither had any
clue to the other's identity. Stephen felt that some story lay behind
that calm, sweet personality; much sorrow goes to the making of fearless
quietude. The Quaker lady moved so little out of her own environment
that she did not even suspect the identity of her visitor. All that she
knew of change was a notice from the solicitor to the estate that, as the
headship had lapsed into another branch of the possessing family, she
must be prepared, if necessary, to vacate her tenancy, which was one 'at
will.'
It was not long before Stephen availed herself of the permission to come
again. This time she made up her mind to tell who she was, lest the
concealment of her identity might lead to awkwardness. At that meeting
friendship became union.
The natures of the two women expanded to each other; and after a very few
meetings there was established between them a rare confidence. Even the
personal austerity of Quakerdom, or the state and estate of the peeress,
could not come between. Their friendship seemed to be for the life of
one. To the other it would be a memory.
The Silver Lady never left the chosen routine of her own life. Whatever
was the reason of her giving up the world, she kept it to herself; and
Stephen respected her reticence as much as she did her confidence.
It had become a habit, early in their friendship, for Stephen to ride or
walk over to the windmill in the dusk of the evening when she felt
especially lonely. On one such occasion she pushed open the outer door,
which was never shut, and took her way up the stone stair. She knew she
would find her friend seated in the window with hands folded on lap,
looking out into the silent dusk with that absorbed understanding of
things which is holier than reverence, and spiritually more active than
conscious prayer.
She tapped the door lightly, and stepped into the room.
With a glad exclamation, which coming through her habitual sedateness
showed how much she loved the young girl, Sister Ruth started to her
feet. There was something of such truth in the note she had sounded,
that the lonely girl's heart went out to her in abandoned fulness. She
held out her arms; and, as she came close to the other, fell rather than
sank at her feet. The elder woman recognised, and knew. She made no
effort to restrain her; but sinking back into her own seat laid the
girl's head in her lap, and held her hands close against her breast.
'Tell me,' she whispered. 'Won't you tell me, dear child, what troubles
you? Tell me! dear. It may bring peace!'
'Oh, I am miserable, miserable, miserable!' moaned Stephen in a low voice
whose despair made the other's heart grow cold. The Silver Lady knew
that here golden silence was the best of help; holding close the other's
hands, she waited. Stephen's breast began to heave; with an impulsive
motion she drew away her hands and put them before her burning face,
which she pressed lower still on the other's lap. Sister Ruth knew that
the trouble, whatever it was, was about to find a voice. And then came
in a low shuddering whisper a voice muffled in the folds of the dress:
'I killed a man!'
In all her life the Silver Lady had never been so startled or so shocked.
She had grown so to love the bright, brilliant young girl that the
whispered confession cut through the silence of the dusk as a shriek of
murder goes through the silent gloom of night. Her hands flew wide from
her breast, and the convulsive shudder which shook her all in an instant
woke Stephen through all her own deep emotion to the instinct of
protection of the other. The girl looked up, shaking her head, and said
with a sadness which stilled all the other's fear:
'Ah! Don't be frightened! It is not murder that I tell you of. Perhaps
if it were, the thought would be easier to bear! He would have been hurt
less if it had been only his body that I slew. Well I know now that his
life would have been freely given if I wished it; if it had been for my
good. But it was the best of him that I killed; his soul. His noble,
loving, trusting, unselfish soul. The bravest and truest soul that ever
had place in a man's breast! . . . ' Her speaking ended with a sob; her
body sank lower.
Sister Ruth's heart began to beat more freely. She understood now, and
all the womanhood, all the wifehood, motherhood suppressed for a
lifetime, awoke to the woman's need. Gently she stroked the beautiful
head that lay so meekly on her lap; and as the girl sobbed with but
little appearance of abatement, she said to her softly:
'Tell me, dear child. Tell me all about it! See! we are alone together.
Thou and I; and God! In God's dusk; with only the silent land and sea
before us! Won't thou trust me, dear one, and speak!'
And then, as the shadows fell, and far-off lights at sea began to twinkle
over the waste of waters, Stephen found voice and told without reserve
the secret of her shame and her remorse.
At last, when her broken voice had trailed away into gentle catchings of
the breath, the older woman, knowing that the time come for comfort, took
her in her strong arms, holding her face wet against her own, their tears
mingling.
'Cry on, dear heart!' she said as she kissed her. 'Cry on! It will do
thee good!' She was startled once again as the other seemed for an
instant to grow rigid in her arms, and raising her hands cried out in a
burst of almost hysterical passion:
'Cry! cry! Oh my God! my God!' Then becoming conscious of her wet face
she seemed to become in an instant all limp, and sank on her knees again.
There was so different a note in her voice that the other's heart leaped
as she heard her say:
'God be thanked for these tears! Oh, thank God! Thank God!' Looking up
she saw through the gloom the surprise in her companion's eyes and
answered their query in words:
'Oh! you don't know! You can't know what it is to me! I have not cried
since last I saw him pass from me in the wood!'
* * * * *
That time of confession seemed to have in some way cleared, purified and
satisfied Stephen's soul. Life was now easier to bear. She was able to
adapt herself, justifiably to the needs of her position; and all around
her and dependent on her began to realise that amongst them was a
controlling force, far-reaching sympathy, and a dominant resolution that
made for good.
She began to shake off the gloom of her sorrows and to take her place in
her new high station. Friends there were in many, and quondam lovers by
the score. Lovers of all sorts. Fortune-hunters there were be sure, not
a few. But no need was there for baseness when the lady herself was so
desirable; so young, so fair, so lovable. That she was of great estate
and 'richly left' made all things possible to any man who had sufficient
acquisitiveness, or a good conceit of himself. In a wide circle of
country were many true-lovers who would have done aught to win her
praise.
And so in the East the passing of the two years of silence and gloom
seemed to be the winning of something brighter to follow.