Chapter XXIX--The Silver Lady

by Bram Stoker

　　When it was known that Lady de Lannoy had come to Lannoy there was aprompt rush of such callers as the county afforded. Stephen,however, did not wish to see anyone just at present. Partly to avoidthe chance meeting with strangers, and partly because she enjoyed andbenefited by the exercise, she was much away from home every day.Sometimes, attended only by a groom, she rode long distances north orsouth along the coast; or up over the ridge behind the castle and farinland 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 orhigh up on some little rocky headland where she could enjoy theluxury of solitude.Now and again in her journeyings she made friends, most of themhumble ones. She was so great a lady in her station that she couldbe familiar without seeming to condescend. The fishermen of thelittle ports to north and south came to know her, and to look gladlyfor her coming. Their goodwives had for her always a willing curtsyand a ready smile. As for the children, they looked on her withadmiration and love, tempered with awe. She was so gentle with them,so ready to share their pleasures and interests, that after a whilethey came to regard her as some strange embodiment of Fairydom andDreamland. Many a little heart was made glad by the arrival of someitem of delight from the Castle; and the hearts of the sick seemednever to hope, or their eyes to look, in vain.One friend she made who became very dear and of great import. Oftenshe had looked up at the old windmill on the crest of the ridge andwondered who inhabited it; for that some one lived in it, or closeby, was shown at times by the drifting smoke. One day she made upher mind to go and see for herself. She had a fancy not to askanyone about it. The place was a little item of mystery; and as suchto be treasured and exploited, and in due course explored. The millitself was picturesque, and the detail at closer acquaintancesustained the far-off impression. The roadway forked on the nearside of the mill, reuniting again the further side, so that the placemade a sort of island--mill, out-offices and garden. As the mill wason the very top of the ridge the garden which lay seawards wassheltered by the building from the west, and from the east by a thickhedge of thorn and privet, which quite hid it from the roadway.Stephen took the lower road. Finding no entrance save a lockedwooden door she followed round to the western side, where thebusiness 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 fadedlook of everything. Grass, green and luxuriant, grew untroddenbetween the cobble-stones with which the yard was paved. There was asort of old-world quietude about everything which greatly appealed toStephen.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, dressedin a prim strait dress and an old-fashioned Puritan cap. Seeing astranger, she made an ejaculation and drew back hastily. Stephencalled out to her:'Don't be afraid, little girl! Will you kindly tell me who liveshere?' The answer came with some hesitation:'Sister Ruth.''And who is Sister Ruth?' The question came instinctively andwithout 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!' Itwas manifest that the matter had never afforded her anything in thenature of a problem. There was an embarrassing silence. Stephen didnot wish to seem, or even to be, prying; but her curiosity wasaroused. What manner of woman was this who lived so manifestlyalone, and who had but a Christian name! Stephen, however, had allher life been accustomed to dominance, and at Normanstand and Norwoodhad made many acquaintances amongst her poorer neighbours. She wasjust about to ask if she might see Sister Ruth, when behind the maidin the dark of the low passage-way appeared the tall, slim figure ofa silver woman. Truly a silver woman! The first flash of Stephen'sthought was correct. White-haired, white-faced, white-capped, white-kerchiefed; in a plain-cut dress of light-grey silk, withoutadornment of any kind. The whole ensemble was as a piece of oldsilver. The lines of her face were very dignified, very sweet, verybeautiful. Stephen felt at once that she was in the presence of nocommon woman. She looked an admiration which all her Quaker garmentscould not forbid the other to feel. She was not the first to speak;in such a noble presence the dignity of Stephen's youth imperativelydemanded silence, if not humility. So she waited. The Silver Lady,for so Stephen ever after held her in her mind, said quietly, butwith manifest welcome:'Didst thou wish to see me? Wilt thou come in?' Stephen answeredfrankly:'I should like to come in; if you will not think me rude. The factis, I was struck when riding by with the beautiful situation of themill. I thought it was only an old mill till I saw the gardenhedges; and I came round to ask if I might go in.' The Silver Ladycame forward at a pace that by itself expressed warmth as she saidheartily:'Indeed thou mayest. Stay! it is tea-time. Let us put thy horse inone of the sheds; there is no man here at present to do it. Thenthou shalt come with me and see my beautiful view!' She was about totake the horse herself, but Stephen forestalled her with a quick:'No, no! pray let me. I am quite accustomed.' She led the horse toa shed, and having looped the rein over a hook, patted him and ranback. The Silver Lady gave her a hand, and they entered the darkpassage together.Stephen was thinking if she ought to begin by telling her name. Butthe Haroun al Raschid feeling for adventure incognito is an innateprinciple of the sons of men. It was seldom indeed that her life hadafforded her such an opportunity.The Silver Lady on her own part also wished for silence, as shelooked for the effect on her companion when the glory of the viewshould break upon her. When they had climbed the winding stonestair, which led up some twenty feet, there was a low wide landingwith the remains of the main shaft of the mill machinery runningthrough it. From one side rose a stone stair curving with the outerwall of the mill tower and guarded by a heavy iron rail. A dozensteps there were, and then a landing a couple of yards square; then adeep doorway cut in the thickness of the wall, round which thewinding stair continued.The Silver Lady, who had led the way, threw open the door, andmotioned to her guest to enter. Stephen stood for a few moments,surprised as well as delighted, for the room before her as not likeanything which she had ever seen or thought of.It was a section of almost the whole tower, and was of considerablesize, for the machinery and even the inner shaft had been removed.East and south and west the wall had been partially cut away so thatgreat wide windows nearly the full height of the room showed themagnificent panorama. In the depths of the ample windows were littlecloistered nooks where one might with a feeling of super-solitude beaway from and above the world.The room was beautifully furnished and everywhere were flowers, withleaves and sprays and branches where possible.Even from where she stood in the doorway Stephen had a bird's-eyeview of the whole countryside; not only of the coast, with which shewas already familiar, and on which her windows at the Castle looked,but to the south and west, which the hill rising steep behind thecastle 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 seethou dost!' Stephen answered with a little gasp.'I think it is the quaintest and most beautiful place I have everseen!''I am so glad thou likest it. I have lived here for nearly fortyyears; and they have been years of unutterable peace and earthlyhappiness! And now, thou wilt have some tea!'Stephen left the mill that afternoon with a warmth of heart that shehad been a stranger to for many a day. The two women had acceptedeach other simply. 'I am called Ruth,' said the Silver Lady. 'And Iam Stephen,' said the Countess de Lannoy in reply. And that was all;neither had any clue to the other's identity. Stephen felt that somestory lay behind that calm, sweet personality; much sorrow goes tothe making of fearless quietude. The Quaker lady moved so little outof her own environment that she did not even suspect the identity ofher visitor. All that she knew of change was a notice from thesolicitor to the estate that, as the headship had lapsed into anotherbranch 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 tocome again. This time she made up her mind to tell who she was, lestthe concealment of her identity might lead to awkwardness. At thatmeeting friendship became union.The natures of the two women expanded to each other; and after a veryfew meetings there was established between them a rare confidence.Even the personal austerity of Quakerdom, or the state and estate ofthe peeress, could not come between. Their friendship seemed to befor 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 toherself; and Stephen respected her reticence as much as she did herconfidence.It had become a habit, early in their friendship, for Stephen to rideor walk over to the windmill in the dusk of the evening when she feltespecially lonely. On one such occasion she pushed open the outerdoor, which was never shut, and took her way up the stone stair. Sheknew she would find her friend seated in the window with hands foldedon lap, looking out into the silent dusk with that absorbedunderstanding of things which is holier than reverence, andspiritually more active than conscious prayer.She tapped the door lightly, and stepped into the room.With a glad exclamation, which coming through her habitual sedatenessshowed how much she loved the young girl, Sister Ruth started to herfeet. 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, fellrather than sank at her feet. The elder woman recognised, and knew.She made no effort to restrain her; but sinking back into her ownseat laid the girl's head in her lap, and held her hands closeagainst her breast.'Tell me,' she whispered. 'Won't you tell me, dear child, whattroubles you? Tell me! dear. It may bring peace!''Oh, I am miserable, miserable, miserable!' moaned Stephen in a lowvoice whose despair made the other's heart grow cold. The SilverLady knew that here golden silence was the best of help; holdingclose the other's hands, she waited. Stephen's breast began toheave; with an impulsive motion she drew away her hands and put thembefore her burning face, which she pressed lower still on the other'slap. Sister Ruth knew that the trouble, whatever it was, was aboutto find a voice. And then came in a low shuddering whisper a voicemuffled in the folds of the dress:'I killed a man!'In all her life the Silver Lady had never been so startled or soshocked. She had grown so to love the bright, brilliant young girlthat the whispered confession cut through the silence of the dusk asa shriek of murder goes through the silent gloom of night. Her handsflew wide from her breast, and the convulsive shudder which shook herall in an instant woke Stephen through all her own deep emotion tothe instinct of protection of the other. The girl looked up, shakingher 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 wouldhave been hurt less if it had been only his body that I slew. Well Iknow 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 Ikilled; his soul. His noble, loving, trusting, unselfish soul. Thebravest 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 alifetime, awoke to the woman's need. Gently she stroked thebeautiful head that lay so meekly on her lap; and as the girl sobbedwith but little appearance of abatement, she said to her softly:'Tell me, dear child. Tell me all about it! See! we are alonetogether. Thou and I; and God! In God's dusk; with only the silentland 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 totwinkle over the waste of waters, Stephen found voice and toldwithout reserve the secret of her shame and her remorse.At last, when her broken voice had trailed away into gentle catchingsof the breath, the older woman, knowing that the time come forcomfort, took her in her strong arms, holding her face wet againsther own, their tears mingling.'Cry on, dear heart!' she said as she kissed her. 'Cry on! It willdo thee good!' She was startled once again as the other seemed foran instant to grow rigid in her arms, and raising her hands cried outin a burst of almost hysterical passion:'Cry! cry! Oh my God! my God!' Then becoming conscious of her wetface she seemed to become in an instant all limp, and sank on herknees again. There was so different a note in her voice that theother'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'seyes and answered their query in words:'Oh! you don't know! You can't know what it is to me! I have notcried since last I saw him pass from me in the wood!'That time of confession seemed to have in some way cleared, purifiedand satisfied Stephen's soul. Life was now easier to bear. She wasable to adapt herself, justifiably to the needs of her position; andall around her and dependent on her began to realise that amongstthem was a controlling force, far-reaching sympathy, and a dominantresolution that made for good.She began to shake off the gloom of her sorrows and to take her placein her new high station. Friends there were in many, and quondamlovers by the score. Lovers of all sorts. Fortune-hunters therewere be sure, not a few. But no need was there for baseness when thelady herself was so desirable; so young, so fair, so lovable. Thatshe was of great estate and 'richly left' made all things possible toany man who had sufficient acquisitiveness, or a good conceit ofhimself. In a wide circle of country were many true-lovers who wouldhave done aught to win her praise.And so in the East the passing of the two years of silence and gloomseemed to be the winning of something brighter to follow.