"She came to Court at last, my Lord Duke," said his Grace of Marlborough. "She came at last—as I felt sure 'twas Fate she should."
'Twas at Camylott he said this, where he had come in those days which darkened about him when, royal favour lost, the acclamations of a fickle1 public stilled, its clamour of applause almost forgot and denied by itself, his glory as statesman, commander, warrior2 seemed to sink beneath the horizon like a sunset in a winter sky. His splendid frame shattered by the stroke of illness, his heart bereaved3, his great mind dulled and saddened, there were few friends faithful to him, but my Lord Duke of Osmonde, who had never sought his favour or required his protection, who had often held views differing from his own and hidden none of them, was among the few in whose company he found solace4 and pleasure.
"I see you as I was," he would say. "Nay5, rather as I might have been had Nature given me a thing she gave to you and withheld6 from John Churchill. You were the finer creature and less disturbed by poor worldly dreams."
So more than once he came to be guest at Camylott, and would be moved to pleasure by the happiness and fulness of life in the very air of the place, by the joyousness7 of the tall, handsome children, by the spirit and sweet majesty8 of the tall beauty their mother, by the loveliness of the country and the cheerful air of well-being9 among the villagers and tenantry. But most of all he gave thought to the look which dwelt in the eyes of my Lord Duke and the woman who was so surely mate and companion as well as wife to him. When, though 'twas even at the simplest moment, each looked at the other, 'twas a heavenly thing plain to see.
Upon one of their wedding-days he was at Camylott with them. 'Twas but a short time before the quiet death of Mistress Anne, and was the tenth anniversary of their Graces' union.
At Camylott they always spent their anniversary, though upon their other domains10 the rejoicings which made Camylott happy were also held. These festivities were gay and rustic11, including the pealing13 of church bells, the lighting14 of bonfires, rural games, and feastings; but they were most noted15 for a feature her Grace herself had invented before she had yet been twelve months a wife, and 'twas a pretty fancy, too, as well as a kind thought.
She had talked of it first to her husband one summer afternoon as they walked together in the gold glow of sunset through Camylott Woods. 'Twas one of many happy hours shared with her which he remembered to his life's end, and could always call up in his mind the deep amber16 light filtering through the trees, the thick green growth of the ferns and the scent17 of them, the moss18 under foot and on the huge fallen trunk they at last sate19 down upon.
"To every man, woman, and child we rule over," she said, "on that day we will give a wedding gift. As the year passes we will discover what each longs for most, and that thing we will give. So on that heavenly day each one shall have his heart's desire—in memory," she added, with soft solemnity.
And he echoed her.
"In memory!" For neither at that time nor at any other did either of them forget those hours they had lived apart and how Fate had seemed to work them ill, and how they had been desolate20 and hungered.
So on each morning of the wedding-day, while the bells were ringing a peal12, the flag flying from the Tower, the park prepared for games and feasting, a crowd of ruddy countenances21, clean smocks, petticoats, and red cloaks flocked on the terrace from which the gifts were given.
'Twas from his invalid-chair within the library window that the once great Commander sate and saw this sight; her Grace standing22 by her husband at a long table, giving each gift with her own hand and saying a few words to each recipient23 with a bright freedom 'twas worth any man's while to see.
The looker-on remembered the histories he had heard of the handsome hoyden24 whose male attire25 had been the Gloucestershire scandal, the Court beauty who in the midst of her triumphs had chosen to play gentle consort26 to an old husband, the Duchess who shone in the great world like the sun and who yet doffed27 her brocades and jewels to don serge and canvas and labour in Rag Yard and Slaughter28 Alley29 to rescue thieves and beggars and watch the mothers of their hapless children in their throes. Ay, and more yet, to sit in the black condemned-cell at Newgate and hold the hand and pour courage into the soul of a shuddering30 wretch31 who in the cold grey of morning would dangle32 from a gallows33 tree.
"'Tis a strange nature," he thought, "and has ever been so. It has passed through some strange hours and some dark ones. Yet to behold34 her——"
There had come to her side a young couple, the woman with a child in her arms courtesying blushingly, her youthful husband grinning and pulling his forelock.
Her Grace took the infant and cuddled and kissed it, while its father and mother glowed with delight.
"Tis a fine boy, Betty," she said. "'Tis bigger than the last one, Tom. His christening finery is in the package here, and I will stand sponsor as before."
"Mother," said young John at her elbow, "may I not stand sponsor, too?"
She laughed and pulled his long love-locks.
"Ay, my lord Marquess," she answered, "if his parents are willing to take such a young one."
Mistress Anne sate by their guest, he holding her in great favour. As the people came for their gifts she told him their names and stories. Through weakness she walked about but little in these days, and the failing soldier liked her company, so she often sate near him in her lounging-chair and with gentle artfulness lured35 him into reminiscences of his past campaigns. She was very frail36 to-day, and in her white robe, and with her large eyes which seemed to have outgrown37 her face, she looked like the wraith38 of a woman rather than a creature of flesh and blood.
"Those two her Grace rescued," she said, as Betty and Tom Beck retired39; "the one from woe40, the other from cruel wickedness. He had betrayed the poor child and deserted41 her, and 'twas her Grace who touched his heart and woke manhood in it, and made them happy man and wife."
Then came an old woman leading a girl and boy, both fair and blooming and with blue eyes and fair curling locks.
"Are they both well and both happy, dame42?" the Duchess asked. "Yes, that they are, I see. And I know they are both good."
She took the girl's face in both hands and smiled into it as she might have smiled at a flower, and then kissed her tenderly. She gave her a little new gown and a pretty huswife stocked with implements43 to make it. She put her hand on the boy's shoulder and looked at him as his mother would have looked had she been tender of him.
"For you, Robin," she said, "there are books. I know 'tis books and learning you long for, and you shall have them. His Grace's Chaplain has promised me to teach you."
The boy clasped the books under his arm, hugging them against his breast, and when her Grace turned to the next newcomer he seized a fold of her robe and kissed it.
"Those two she rescued also," answered Mistress Anne in a low voice. "She found them in a thieves' haunt being trained as pickpockets45. They are the cast-off offspring of a gentleman who lived an evil life."
"Was she told his name?"
"Yes," Mistress Anne said, lower still; "'twas a gentleman who was—lost. Sir John Oxon."
The mystery of this gentleman's disappearance46 was a thing forgotten, but Mistress Anne's hearer recalled it, and that the man had left an evil reputation, and that 'twas said that in the first bloom of his youth he had been among the worshippers of the Gloucestershire beauty, and there passed through the old Duke's mind a vague wonder as to whether the Duchess remembered girlish sentiments the hoyden had lived through and forgot.
It seemed the man's name being once drawn47 from the past was not to be allowed to rest, for later in the day he heard of him again, and curiously48 indeed.
There came in the afternoon from town a sturdy, loud-voiced country gentleman, with a red, honest face and a good-humoured eye, and he was so received by the family—by his Grace, who shook him warmly by the hand, by the Duchess, who gave him both hers to kiss, and by the young ones, who cried out in rejoicing over him—that their distinguished49 guest perceived him to be an old friend who was, as it were, an old comrade.
And so it proved, for 'twas soon revealed to him by the gentleman himself (whose name was Sir Christopher Crowell, and whose estate lay on the borders of Warwickshire and Gloucestershire) that he had been one of the boon50 companions of her Grace's father, Sir Jeoffry Wildairs, and he had known her from the time she was five years old, and had been first made the comrade and plaything of a band of the worst rioters in three counties.
"Ay!" he cried, exultantly51, for he seemed always exultant52 when he spoke53 of her Grace, who was plainly his idol54. "At seven she would toss off her ale, and sing and swear as wickedly as any man among us, and had great black eyes that flashed fire when we crossed her, and her hair hung below her waist, and she was the most beauteous child-devil and the most lawless, that man or woman ever clapt eyes on. And to behold her now! to behold her now!" And then he motioned towards the little Anne, who was flashing-eyed, and long-limbed, and a brown beauty. "'Tis my Lady Anne who is most like her," he said; "but Lord! she hath been treated fair by Fortune, and loved and cherished, and is a young queen already."
Later, when the night had fallen and was thick with stars, and the festal lights were twinkling like other stars among the trees of the park, and from the happy crowds at play there floated the sounds of laughter and joyful56 voices, their Graces and their guests sate or walked upon the terrace amid the night-scents of flowers and watched the merriment going on below them and talked together.
"Ay," broke forth57 old Sir Christopher, "you two happy folk light joyful fires, and make joyful hearts wheresoever you go."
'Twas at this moment two of the other country guests—they being old Gloucestershire comrades also—stayed their sauntering before her Grace to speak to her.
"Eldershawe and me have just been saying," broke forth one of them, chuckling58, "how this bringeth back old times, though 'tis little like them. We three were of the birthnight party—Eldershawe, Chris, and me. Thou dost not forget old friends, Clo, and would not, wert thou ten times a Duchess."
"Nay, not I," answered her Grace. "Not I."
"There be not many of us left," said Sir Christopher, ruefully. "Thy poor old Dad is under sod, and others with him. Two necks were broke in hunting, the others died of years or drink."
"Lord, yes," cried out the other; "Jack61 Oxon! Jack, who came among us all curls and essences and brocades and lace. Thou'st not forgot Jack Oxon, Clo, for the fellow was wild in love with thee."
"No, I have not forgotten Sir John," she answered, and turned aside a little to break a rose from a bush near her and hold it to her face.
"Nay, that she hath not," cried Sir Christopher, "that I can swear to. I saw the boy and girl to-day, Clo, and, Lord! how they are like to him."
"Yes, they are like him," she answered, gravely.
"The two thou show'dst me playing 'neath the trees?" said Eldershawe. "Ay, they are like enough."
"And but for her Grace would have been brought up a hang-dog thief and a poor drab, with all their beauty," went on Sir Christopher. "Ecod, thou hast done well, Clo, the task 'twas thy whim62 to take upon thyself."
"What generous deed was that?" asked my lord Duke of Osmonde, drawing near.
"The task of undoing63 the wrongs a villain64 had done, if 'twere so there could be undoing of them," answered the old fellow. "A woman rich as I," said she, "should set herself some good work to do. This shall be mine—to live John Oxon's life again and make it bring forth good instead of evil."
Her Grace sate motionless and so did Mistress Anne, who had sunk back in her chair, and in the starlit darkness had grown more white, and was breathing faint and quickly. In the park below the people laughed as merry-makers will, in gay bursts, and half a dozen voices broke forth into a snatch of song. 'Twas a good background for Sir Christopher, who was well launched upon a subject that he loved and had not often chance to hold forth upon, as her Grace was not fond of touching65 upon it.
"Ten years hath she followed his wicked footsteps and I have followed with her," he rambled66 on. "I am not squeamish, Lord knoweth! and have no reason to be; but had I known, when I began to aid in the searching, what mire67 I should have to wade68 through, ecod! I think I should have said, 'Let ill alone.'"
"But you did not, old friend," said the Duchess's rich, low voice; "you did not."
Lady Betty and her swains had sauntered near and joined the circle, attracted by the subject which waked in them a new interest in an old mystery.
"You have been her Grace's almoner, Sir Christopher," said her ladyship. "That accounts for the stories I have heard of your charities. They were her Grace's good deeds, not your own."
"She knew I would sweep the kennel69 for her on hands and knees if she would have me," said Sir Chris, "and at the first of it she knew not the ill quarters of the town as I did, and bade me make search for her and ask questions. But 'twas not long before she found her way herself and learned that a tall, strong beauty can do more to reach hearts than a red-faced old man can. Lord, how they love and fear her! And among the honest folk Jack Oxon wronged—poor tradesmen he ruined by his trickery, and simple working-folk who lost their all through him—they would kiss the dust her shoe hath trod. His debts she hath paid, his victims she hath rescued, the wounds he dealt she hath healed and made sound flesh, and for ten years she hath done it!"
Her Grace rose to her feet, the rose uplifted in a listening gesture. From the park below there floated up the lilting music of a dance, a light, unrustic measure played by their own musicians.
"The dancing begins," she said. "Hark! the dancing begins."
Mistress Anne put out her hand and caught at her sister's dress and held a fold of its richness in her trembling hand, though her Grace was not aware of what she did.
My Lady Betty Tantillion held up her hand as the Duchess, a moment since, had held the rose.
"And I," said Lord Charles.
Lady Betty broke into a shiver.
"Why," she cried, "how strange—at just this moment. We danced to it at the ball at Dunstanwolde House the very night 'twas made known Sir John Oxon had disappeared."
"Yes," she said, "'tis the very tune."
She stood among them—my lord Duke remembered it later—the centre figure of a sort of circle, some sitting, some standing—his Grace of Marlborough, Mistress Anne, Osmonde himself, the country gentlemen, my Lady Betty and her swains, and others who drew near. She was the centre, standing in the starlight, her rose held in her hand.
"Lord, 'twas a strange thing," said Sir Christopher, thoughtfully, "that a man could disappear like that and leave no trace—no trace."
"Has—all enquiry—ceased?" her Grace asked, quietly.
"There was not much even at first, save from his creditors," said Lord Charles, with a laugh.
"Ay, but 'twas strange," said old Sir Christopher. "I've thought and thought what could have come of him. Why, Clo, thou wast the one who saw him last. What dost thou think?"
In the park below there was a sudden sweet swelling74 of the music: the dancers had joined in with their voices.
"Yes," said the Duchess, "'twas I who saw him last." And for a few seconds all paused to listen to the melody in the air. But Sir Christopher came back to his theme.
"What sort of humour was the man in?" he asked. "Did he complain of 's lot?"
Her Grace hesitated a second, as one who thought, and then shook her head.
"No," she answered, and no other word.
"Did he speak of taking a journey?" said Lady Betty.
And the Duchess shook her head slow again, and answered as before, "No."
"Was he dressed for travel?" asked Lord Charles, he being likely to think first of the meaning of a man's dress.
"No," said her Grace.
And then my lord Duke drew near behind her, and spoke over her shoulder.
"Did he bid you any farewell?" he said.
She had not known he was so close, and gave a great start and dropped her rose upon the terrace. Before she answered, she stooped herself and picked it up.
"No," she said, very low. "No; none."
"Then," his Grace said, "I will tell you what I think."
"You!" said my Lady Betty. "Has your Grace thought?"
"Often," he answered. "Who has not, at some time? I—knew more of the man than many. More than once his life touched mine."
"Yours!" they cried.
He waved his hand with the gesture of a man who would sweep away some memory.
"Yes," he said; "once I saw the end of a poor soul he had maddened, and 'twas a cruel thing." He turned his face towards his wife.
"The morning that he left your Grace," he said, "'tis my thought he went not far."
"Not far?" the party exclaimed, but the Duchess joined not in the chorus.
"Between Dunstanwolde House and his lodgings," he went on, "lie some of the worst haunts in London. He was well known there, and not by friends but by enemies. Perchance some tortured creature who owed him a bitter debt may have lain in wait and paid it."
The Duchess turned and gazed at him with large eyes.
"There were men," he answered, gravely—"husbands, fathers, and brothers—there were women he had driven to despair and madness, who might well have struck him down."
"You mean," said her Grace, almost in a whisper, "you mean that he—was murdered?"
"Nay," he replied, "not murdered—struck a frenzied77 blow and killed, and it might have been by one driven mad with anguish78 and unknowing what he did."
Her Grace caught her breath.
"As 'twas with the poor man I told you of," she broke forth as if in eagerness, "the one who died on Tyburn Tree?"
"Yes," was his answer.
"Perhaps—you are right," she said, and passed her hand across her brow; "perhaps—you—are right."
"But there was found no trace," Sir Christopher cried out; "no trace."
"Ah!" said my lord Duke, slowly, "that is the mystery. A dead man's body is not easy hid."
The Duchess broke forth laughing—almost wildly. The whole group started at the sound.
"Nay, nay!" she cried. "What dark things do we talk of! Sir Christopher, Sir Christopher, 'twas you who set us on. A dead man's body is not easy hid!"
"'Tis enough to make a woman shudder," cried Lady Betty, hysterically79.
"Yes," said her Grace. "See, I am shuddering—I, who am built of Wildairs iron and steel." And she held out her hands to them—her white hands—and indeed they were trembling like leaves.
The evil thing they had spoke of had surely sunk deep into her soul and troubled it, though she had so laughed and lightly changed the subject of their talk, for in the night she had an awful dream, and her lord, wakened from deep slumber—as he had been once before—started up to behold her standing in the middle of the chamber—a tall white figure with its arms outflung as if in wild despair, while she cried out in frenzy80 to the darkness.
"I have killed thee—I have killed thee," she wailed81, "though I meant it not—even hell itself doth know. Thou art a dead man—and this is the worst of all!"
"'Tis a dream," he cried aloud to her and clutched her in his warm, strong arms. "'Tis a dream—a dream! Awake!—Awake!—Awake!"
"A dream!—a dream!—a dream!" she cried. "And 'tis you awake me! You—Gerald—Gerald!—And I have been ten years—ten years your wife!"
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1
fickle
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| adj.(爱情或友谊上)易变的，不坚定的 | |
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warrior
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| n.勇士，武士，斗士 | |
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bereaved
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| adj.刚刚丧失亲人的v.使失去（希望、生命等）( bereave的过去式和过去分词)；（尤指死亡）使丧失（亲人、朋友等）；使孤寂；抢走（财物） | |
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solace
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| n.安慰；v.使快乐；vt.安慰(物)，缓和 | |
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nay
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| adv.不；n.反对票，投反对票者 | |
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withheld
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| withhold过去式及过去分词 | |
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joyousness
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| 快乐，使人喜悦 | |
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majesty
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| n.雄伟，壮丽，庄严，威严；最高权威，王权 | |
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well-being
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| n.安康，安乐，幸福 | |
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domains
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| n.范围( domain的名词复数 )；领域；版图；地产 | |
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rustic
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| adj.乡村的，有乡村特色的；n.乡下人，乡巴佬 | |
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peal
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| n.钟声；v.鸣响 | |
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pealing
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| v.（使）（钟等）鸣响，（雷等）发出隆隆声( peal的现在分词 ) | |
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lighting
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| n.照明，光线的明暗，舞台灯光 | |
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noted
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| adj.著名的，知名的 | |
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amber
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| n.琥珀；琥珀色；adj.琥珀制的 | |
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scent
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| n.气味，香味，香水，线索，嗅觉；v.嗅，发觉 | |
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moss
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| n.苔，藓，地衣 | |
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sate
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desolate
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| adj.荒凉的，荒芜的；孤独的，凄凉的；v.使荒芜，使孤寂 | |
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countenances
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standing
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recipient
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| a.接受的,感受性强的 n.接受者,感受者,容器 | |
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hoyden
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| n.野丫头，淘气姑娘 | |
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attire
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consort
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doffed
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| v.脱去，（尤指）脱帽( doff的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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slaughter
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| n.屠杀，屠宰；vt.屠杀，宰杀 | |
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alley
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| n.小巷，胡同；小径，小路 | |
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shuddering
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| v.战栗( shudder的现在分词 )；发抖；（机器、车辆等）突然震动；颤动 | |
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wretch
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| n.可怜的人，不幸的人；卑鄙的人 | |
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dangle
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gallows
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behold
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lured
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| 吸引，引诱（lure的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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frail
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| adj.身体虚弱的；易损坏的 | |
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outgrown
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| 长[发展] 得超过（某物）的范围( outgrow的过去分词 )； 长[发展]得不能再要（某物）； 长得比…快； 生长速度超过 | |
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wraith
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| n.幽灵；骨瘦如柴的人 | |
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retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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woe
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| n.悲哀，苦痛，不幸，困难；int.用来表达悲伤或惊慌 | |
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deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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dame
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| n.女士 | |
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implements
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| n.工具( implement的名词复数 )；家具；手段；[法律]履行（契约等）v.实现( implement的第三人称单数 )；执行；贯彻；使生效 | |
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rustics
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| n.有农村或村民特色的( rustic的名词复数 )；粗野的；不雅的；用粗糙的木材或树枝制作的 | |
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pickpockets
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| n.扒手( pickpocket的名词复数 ) | |
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disappearance
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| n.消失，消散，失踪 | |
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drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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curiously
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| adv.有求知欲地；好问地；奇特地 | |
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distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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boon
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| n.恩赐，恩物，恩惠 | |
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exultantly
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| adv.狂欢地，欢欣鼓舞地 | |
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exultant
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| adj.欢腾的，狂欢的，大喜的 | |
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53
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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54
idol
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| n.偶像，红人，宠儿 | |
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tune
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| n.调子；和谐，协调；v.调音，调节，调整 | |
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joyful
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| adj.欢乐的，令人欢欣的 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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58
chuckling
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| 轻声地笑( chuckle的现在分词 ) | |
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naught
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| n.无，零 [=nought] | |
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kinsman
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| n.男亲属 | |
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jack
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| n.插座，千斤顶，男人；v.抬起，提醒，扛举；n.（Jake）杰克 | |
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whim
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| n.一时的兴致，突然的念头；奇想，幻想 | |
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undoing
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| n.毁灭的原因，祸根；破坏，毁灭 | |
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villain
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| n.反派演员，反面人物；恶棍；问题的起因 | |
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touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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rambled
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| （无目的地）漫游( ramble的过去式和过去分词 )； （喻）漫谈； 扯淡； 长篇大论 | |
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67
mire
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| n.泥沼，泥泞；v.使...陷于泥泞，使...陷入困境 | |
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wade
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| v.跋涉，涉水；n.跋涉 | |
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kennel
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| n.狗舍，狗窝 | |
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nervously
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| adv.神情激动地，不安地 | |
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harry
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| vt.掠夺，蹂躏，使苦恼 | |
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poised
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| a.摆好姿势不动的 | |
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bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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swelling
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| n.肿胀 | |
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swelled
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| 增强( swell的过去式和过去分词 )； 肿胀； （使）凸出； 充满（激情） | |
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hoarsely
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| adv.嘶哑地 | |
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77
frenzied
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| a.激怒的；疯狂的 | |
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78
anguish
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| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
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hysterically
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| ad. 歇斯底里地 | |
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80
frenzy
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| n.疯狂，狂热，极度的激动 | |
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81
wailed
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| v.哭叫，哀号( wail的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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82
sobbing
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| <主方>Ⅰ adj.湿透的 | |
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83
sob
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| n.空间轨道的轰炸机；呜咽，哭泣 | |
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