The voice became a hovering form, which followed her as she walked. The ground beneath her feet grew hard: it was cold, and the winter wind touched her harshly. Till a great house appeared at the top of a hill, surrounded by well-ordered green.
She drew nearer its stone walls, passed through and into warmth and firelight. But it was quickly Night, and in silent corners the shadows gathered thick to hold their counsel. A long corridor it was, and in the distance a candlelight appeared, drawing closer: a large, strong handsome man. He was her father, but she was not his daughter, only Woman already swayed by the strength of his gait, and the unswerving resolution of his hands.
He held a ring of keys, as Ballard had, and like him forced the lock. The doorway opened and a woman no longer young, but still fair and far from old, sat up in the ghostly bed and wrapped the coverlet about her. And the form of light and darkness was no longer behind her, because it was she, her mother in the bed.
The Lord Purceville took her hard by the wrists, and dared her to scream. But no such sound came, and it puzzled him. Something like love shone in the deep and pleading blue eyes. And pain and pain and pain, because she knew it all before. Yet again the tragedy must be played. And she could only watch, and feel her heart weeping blood as all life was drained by him, the widow-spider.
And then her mother was alone in an unknown room, familiar though she had never seen it, a chalice of poison in her hands. Her face was wet, for the innocent babe that lay wrapped upon the bed. But the anguish and despair were too great, and with trembling limbs she lifted the cup of sorrow to her lips.
Yet bitter was the taste, bitter even as the road which led her to it: the cup was still half full when the baby cried, and something shook in her heart. She uttered a scream, and Anne Scott burst into the room, followed by her brother.
And she did not die, but was taken away. And the child taken from her, forever. The light went out in her soul, and the softness of her heart. . . her youth was gone.
And then she was old and dry, alone in a smoky hut, gnawing on the ends of schemes. Alone in ruin, alone with Death.
But somewhere a door was opened, and in walked the babe, grown to woman. And though she tried not to love her it was in vain: her own Mary, conceived in broken love, the lost treasure of her heart. And she loved her, full love once more, though it was too late. A black curtain was lowered before her eyes, as blood and water flowed from the breast.....
Then large, calloused hands almost Roman, came and took her from the lair, and tied her to a tree. And wood was brought and gathered round. . . till smoking tongues licked her feet, a beast unproud, devouring death as sure as life, and old and young alike.