“My love,” said the Duke very quietly, “Mr. Tremodart is here.”
“I shall be glad to see Mr. Tremodart,” spoke a soft voice from the bed; and in response to a sign from the Duke, the clergyman (visibly quaking) passed round the great screen which shut off the bed from the rest of the room, and found himself face to face with the dying woman.
It was a scene not to be forgotten by any who looked upon it. The Duchess lay back upon a pile of snowy pillows, the peculiar pallor of approaching death lying like a shadow across her beautiful face. And yet, save for this never-to-be-mistaken shadow, there was nothing of death in her aspect. Few and far between as Mr. Tremodart’s pastoral visits had been (for he was always fearful of intruding upon the great folks at the castle), he had many times seen the Duchess look more worn and ill than she did now. The lines of pain, which had deepened so much of late in her face, had all been smoothed away. Something of the undefinable aspect of youth had come back to the expression, and the soft dark eyes were full of a liquid brightness which it was somehow difficult for him to meet. It was as though the brightness had been absorbed from an unseen source. There was a great awe in his eyes as he approached and touched the feeble hand for a moment extended to him.
On her knees beside the bed, grasping the other hand of the dying woman, was a young girl whose face could not at this moment be seen, for it was pillowed in the bed-clothes, whilst the slight figure was shivering and heaving with suppressed emotion. All that could be seen besides the slim graceful form was a mass of rippling loosened hair that looked dark in shadow, but lighted up with gleams of ruddy gold where the light touched it. Mr. Tremodart gave a compassionate glance at the weeping girl. It needed no word to explain the terrible loss which was coming upon her.
“My journey is just done, sir,” said the Duchess, with a swift glance from the face of her husband to that of the clergyman. “The call home has come at last. Will you speak some word of peace to me before I go? Let me hear the message that my Lord sends to me. Give me some promise of His to lead me on my way.”
The voice was very low, but clearly audible in the deep stillness. Poor Mr. Tremodart twisted his great hands together and felt as though an angel from heaven had asked counsel of him.
“O my dear lady!” he burst out at last, “you know those promises far better than I do. You have no need of any poor words of mine. Your life has ever been a blameless one. It is you who should teach me. God knows I need it. But you, if you are going before His judgment throne, can scarcely have a sin upon your soul. I stand mute in presence of a holiness greater than any I ever have known.”
The eyes of the dying woman were fixed upon Mr. Tremodart’s face with an expression he scarce understood.
“Am I to go into the presence of my God clad in the robe of my own righteousness?” she asked with a faint smile.
“O my dear lady, how better could you go?” questioned the confused and embarrassed clergyman. “Surely if ever there were a saint upon earth it is yourself. Everybody in the place knows it. What can I say to you that you do not already know?”