The Head of the House of Coombe by Frances Hodgson Burnett (cool books to read .txt) 📕

had succeeded, but I tried to force an entrance into the wing from which the shrieks came. I was met and stopped almost by open violence. The sounds ceased. She died a week later. But the most experienced lying could not hide some things. Even royal menials may have human blood in their veins. It was known that there were hideous marks on her little dead body.”

“We heard. We heard,” whispered the Duchess.

“He killed her. But she would have died of horror if he had not struck her a blow. She began to die from the hour the marriage was forced upon her. I saw that when she was with him at Windsor.”

“You were in attendance on him,” the Duchess said after a little silence. “That was when I first knew you.”

“Yes.” She had added the last sentence gravely and his reply was as grave though his voice was still hoarse. “You were sublime goodness and wisdom. When a woman through the sheer quality of her silence saves a man from slipping over the verge of madness he does not forget. While I was sane I dared scarcely utter her name. If I had gone mad I should have raved as madmen do. For that reason I was afraid.”

“I knew. Speech was the greatest danger,” she answered him. “She was a princess of a royal house—poor little angel—and she had a husband whose vileness and violence all Europe knew. How DARED they give her to him?”

“For reasons of their own and because she was too humbly innocent and obedient to rebel.”

The Duchess did not ask questions. The sublime goodness of which he had spoken had revealed its perfection through the fact that in the long past days she had neither questioned nor commented. She had given her strong soul’s secret support to him and in his unbearable hours he had known that when he came to her for refuge, while she understood his need to the uttermost, she would speak no word even to himself.

But today though she asked no question her eyes waited upon him as it were. This was because she saw that for some unknown reason a heavy veil had rolled back from the past he had chosen to keep hidden even from himself, as it were, more than from others.

“Speech is always the most dangerous thing,” he said. “Only the silence of years piled one upon the other will bury unendurable things. Even thought must be silenced. I have lived a lifetime since—” his words began to come very slowly—as she listened she felt as if he were opening a grave and drawing from its depths long buried things, “—since the night when I met her alone in a wood in the park of the Schloss and—lost hold of myself—lost it utterly.”

The Duchess’ withered hands caught each other in a clasp which was almost like a passionate exclamation.

“There was such a night. And I was young—young—not an iron bound vieillard then. When one is young one’s anguish is the Deluge which ends the world forever. I had lain down and risen up and spent every hour in growing torture for months. I had been forced to bind myself down with bands of iron. When I found myself, without warning, face to face with her, alone in the night stillness of the wood, the bands broke. She had dared to creep out in secret to hide herself and her heartbroken terror in the silence and darkness alone. I knew it without being told. I knew and I went quite mad for the time. I was only a boy. I threw myself face downward on the earth and sobbed, embracing her young feet.”

Both of them were quite silent for a few moments before he went on.

“She was not afraid,” he said, even with something which was like a curious smile of tender pity at the memory. “Afterwards—when I stood near her, trembling—she even took my hand and held it. Once she kissed it humbly like a little child while her tears rained down. Never before was there anything as innocently heartbreaking. She was so piteously grateful for love of any kind and so heart wrung by my misery.”

He paused again and looked down at the carpet, thinking. Then he looked up at her directly.

“I need not explain to you. You will know. I was twenty-five. My heart was pounding in my side, my blood thudded through my veins. Every atom of natural generous manhood in my being was wild with fury at the brutal wrong done her exquisiteness. And she—”

“She was a young novice fresh from a convent and very pious,” the Duchess’ quiet voice put in.

“You understand,” he answered. “She knelt down and prayed for her own soul as well as mine. She thanked God that I was kind and would forgive her and go away—and only remember her in my prayers. She believed it was possible. It was not, but I kissed the hem of her white dress and left her standing alone—a little saint in a woodland shrine. That was what I thought deliriously as I staggered off. It was the next night that I heard her shrieks. Then she died.”

The Duchess knew what else had died—the high adventure of youth and joy of life in him, the brilliant spirit which had been himself and whose utter withdrawal from his being had left him as she had seen him on his return to London in those days which now seemed a memory of a past life in a world which had passed also. He had appeared before her late one afternoon and she had for a moment been afraid to look at him because she was struck to the depths of her being by a sense of seeing before her a body which had broken the link holding it to life and walked the earth, the crowded streets, the ordinary rooms where people gathered, a dead thing. Even while it moved it gazed out of dead eyes. And the years had passed and though they had been friends he had never spoken until now.

“Such a thing must be buried in a tomb covered with a heavy stone and with a seal set upon it. I am unsealing a tomb,” he said. Then after a silence he added, “I have, of cause, a reason.” She bent her head because she had known this must be the case.

“There is a thing I wish you to understand. Every woman could not.”

“I shall understand.”

“Because I know you will I need not enter into exact detail. You will not find what I say abnormal.”

There had been several pauses during his relation. Once or twice he had stopped in the middle of a sentence as if for calmer breath or to draw himself back from a past which had suddenly become again a present of torment too great to face with modern steadiness. He took breath so to speak in this manner again.

“The years pass, the agony of being young passes. One slowly becomes another man,” he resumed. “I am another man. I could not be called a creature of sentiment. I have given myself interests in existence—many of them. But the sealed tomb is under one’s feet. Not to allow oneself to acknowledge its existence consciously is one’s affair. But—the devil of chance sometimes chooses to play tricks. Such a trick was played on me.”

He glanced down at the two pictures at which she herself was looking with grave eyes. It was the photograph of Feather he took up and set a strange questioning gaze upon.

“When I saw this,” he said, “this—exquisitely smiling at me under a green tree in a sunny garden—the tomb opened under my feet, and I stood on the brink of it—twenty-five again.”

“You cannot possibly put it into words,” the Duchess said. “You need not. I know.” For he had become for the moment almost livid. Even to her who so well knew him it was a singular thing to see him hastily set down the picture and touch his forehead with his handkerchief.

She knew he was about to tell her his reason for this unsealing of the tomb. When he sat down at her table he did so. He did not use many phrases, but in making clear his reasons he also made clear to her certain facts which most persons would have ironically disbelieved. But no shadow of a doubt passed through her mind because she had through a long life dwelt interestedly on the many variations in human type. She was extraordinarily interested when he ended with the story of Robin.

“I do not know exactly why ‘it matters to me’—I am quoting her mother,” he explained, “but it happens that I am determined to stand between the child and what would otherwise be the inevitable. It is not that she has the slightest resemblance to—to anyone—which might awaken memory. It is not that. She and her mother are of totally different types. And her detestation of me is unconquerable. She believes me to be the worst of men. When I entered the room into which the woman had trapped her, she thought that I came as one of the creature’s damnable clients. You will acknowledge that my position presents difficulties in the way of explanation to a girl—to most adults in fact. Her childish frenzy of desire to support herself arises from her loathing of the position of accepting support from me. I sympathize with her entirely.”

“Mademoiselle Valle is an intelligent woman,” the Duchess said as though thinking the matter out. “Send her to me and we will talk the matter over. Then she can bring the child.”