He held out his hand and clasped the cold, unyielding one of his friend.
“I will help you as far as one man can help another, Ronald. We will bury the old feud and forget everything except that we have a wrong to avenge, a crime to punish, a murderer to bring to justice!”
“You are very good to me, Kenelm,” said the broken voice; “you see that I have hardly any strength or energy.”
“I have plenty,” said Kenelm Eyrle, “and it shall be used for one purpose. Ronald, will you let me see her? She is to be buried to-morrow—the fairest face the sun ever shone on will be taken away forever. Let me see her; do not refuse me. For the memory of the boy’s love so strong between us once—for the memory of the man’s love and the man’s sorrow that has laid my life bare and waste, let me see her, Ronald?”
“I will go with you,” said Sir Ronald Alden; and, for the first time since the tragedy in its full horror had been known to him, Sir Ronald left the library and went to the room where his dead wife lay.
CHAPTER V.
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.