WHICH LOVED HER BEST?
They went through the silent house without another word, through the
long corridors so lately gay with the sound of laughing voices and the
lustre of perfumed silken gowns. The gloom seemed to deepen, the very
lights that should have lessened it looked ghastly.
They came to the door of my lady’s room, and there for one-half minute
Sir Ronald paused. It was as though he feared to open it. Then he made
an effort. Kenelm saw him straighten his tall figure and raise his
head as though to defy fear. With reverent touch he turned the handle
and they entered the room together. Loving hands had been busy there;
it was hung round with black velvet and lighted with innumerable wax
tapers. She had loved flowers so well in life that in death they had
gathered them round her. Vases of great, luscious white roses; clusters
of the sad passion flower; masses of carnations--all mixed with green
leaves and hawthorn branches.
In the midst of the room stood the stately bedstead, with its black
velvet hangings. Death lost its gloom there, for the quiet figure
stretched upon it was as beautiful as though sculptured from purest
marble; it was the very beauty and majesty of death without its horror.
The white hands were folded and laid on the heart that was never more
to suffer either pleasure or pain. Fragrant roses were laid on her
breast, lilies and myrtle at her feet.
But Kenelm noted none of these details--he went up to her hurriedly, as
though she had been living, and knelt down by her side. He was strong
and proud, undemonstrative as are most English gentlemen, but all this
deserted him now. He laid his head down on the folded hands and wept
aloud.
“My darling! my lost, dear love, so young to die! If I could but have
given my life for you!” His hot tears fell on the marble breast. Sir
Ronald stood with folded arms, watching him, thinking to himself:
“He loved her best of all--he loved her best!”
For some minutes the deep silence was unbroken save by the deep-drawn,
bitter sobs of the unhappy man kneeling there. When the violence of his
weeping was exhausted he rose and bent over her.
“She is beautiful in death as she was in life,” he said. “Oh, Clarice,
my darling! If I were but lying there in your place. Do you know,
Ronald, how and where I saw her last?”
The haggard, silent face was raised in its despairing quiet to him.
“It was three weeks before her wedding day, and I was mad with wounded
love and sorrow. I went over to Mount Severn--not to talk to her,
Ronald, not to try to induce her to break her faith--only to look at
her and bear away with me the memory of her sweet face forever and
forever. It is only two years last June. I walked through the grounds,
and she was sitting in the center of a group of young girls, her
bridesmaids who were to be, her fair hair catching the sunbeams, her
lovely face brighter than the morning, the love-light in her eyes; and
she was talking of you, Ronald, every word full of music, yet every
word pierced my heart with hot pain. I did not go to speak to her, but
I stood for an hour watching her face, impressing its glorious young
beauty on my mind. I said to myself that I bade her farewell, and the
thought came to my mind, ‘How will she look when I see her again?’”
Then he seemed to forget Sir Ronald was present, and he bent again over
the beautiful face.
“If you could only look at me once, only unclose those white lips and
speak to me, who loves you as I do, my lost darling.”
He took one of the roses from the folded hands and kissed it
passionately as he had kissed her lips.
“You cannot hear me, Clarice,” at last he murmured, “at least with
mortal ears; you cannot see me; but listen, my darling, I loved you
better than I loved my life; I kiss your dead lips, sweet, and I
swear that I will never kiss another woman. You are gone now where
all secrets are known; you know now how I loved you; and when I go to
the eternal land you will meet me. No love shall replace you. I will
be true to you, dead, as I was while you were living. Do you hear me,
Clarice?”
All the time he poured out this passionate torrent of words Sir Ronald
stood with bowed head and folded arms.
“I kiss those white lips again, love, and on them I swear to know no
rest, no pleasure, no repose until I have brought the man who murdered
you to answer for his crime; I swear to devote all the talent and
wealth God has given me to that purpose; I will give my days and
nights--my thoughts, time, energies--all for it; and when I have
avenged you I will come and kneel down by your grave and tell you so.”
Then he looked up at Sir Ronald.
“What are you going to do?” he asked. “What steps shall you take?”
“Everything possible has been done. I know no more that I can do.”
Kenelm Eyrle looked up at him.
“Do you mean to sleep, to eat, to rest, while the man who did that
dastardly deed lives?”
His eyes flashed fire.
“I shall do my best,” Sir Ronald said, with a heavy groan. “God help us
all. It has been a dreadful mistake, Kenelm. You loved her best.”
“She did not think so then, but she knows now. I will live to avenge
her. I ask from Heaven no greater favor than that I may bring the
murderer to justice. I shall do it, Ronald; a certain instinct tells me
so. When I do, I shall show him no mercy; he showed none to her. If
the mother who bore him knelt at my feet and asked me to have pity on
him, I would not. If the child who calls him father clung round my neck
and prayed me with tears and asked for mercy, I would show none.”
“Nor would I,” said Sir Ronald. Then Kenelm Eyrle bent down over the
dead body.
“Good-by, my love,” he said, “until eternity; good-by.”
With reverent hands he drew the white lace round her, and left her to
the deep, dreamless repose that was never more to be broken.
He went downstairs with Sir Ronald, but he did not enter the library
again.
“I am going home,” he said. “I shall not intrude any longer, Ronald.”
“You will come to-morrow?” said Sir Ronald, as Kenelm stood at the hall
door.
“Yes, I will pay her that mark of respect,” he said, “and I will live
to avenge her.”
So they parted, and Sir Ronald, going back to the old seat in the
library, remained there until morning dawned.