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.
