On the terrace below the elder children stood John and Gerald and Daphne and Anne. They waited too, as the doves did, and their young faces were lifted that they might watch the window, and they were very sweet and gravely tender and unafraid and fair.
When their father drew near them 'twas the child Daphne who spoke, putting her hand in his and meeting his eyes with a lovely look.
"Father," she said, "we think that Mother Anne lies dying in her room. We are not afraid; mother has told us that to die is only as if a bird was let to fly out into the blue sky. And mother is with her, and we are waiting because we think—perhaps—we are not sure—but perhaps we might see her soul fly out of the window like a white bird. It seems as if the doves were waiting too."
My lord Duke kissed her and passed on.
"You may see it," he said, gently. "Who knows—and if you see it, sure it will be white."
And he went quietly through the house and up the staircase leading to Anne's tower-chamber, and the pretty apartment her Grace had prepared for her so lovingly to spend quiet hours in when she would be alone. This apartment led into the chamber, but now it was quite empty, for the Duchess was with her sister, who lay on the bed in the room within, where the ivy hung in festoons about the high window, which seemed to look up into the blue sky itself and shut out all the earth below and only look on Heaven.
To enter seemed like entering some sacred shrine where a pure saint lay, and upon the threshold his Grace lingered, almost fearing to go in and break upon the awful tenderness of this last hour, and the last words he heard the loving creature murmuring, while the being she had so worshipped knelt beside her.
"'Twas love," he heard, "'twas love. What matter if I gave my soul for you?"
He drew back with a quick sad beat of the heart. Poor, tender soul—poor woman who had loved and given no sign—and only in her dying dared to speak.
And then there came a cry—and 'twas the voice of her he loved—and he stood spellbound. 'Twas a cry of anguish—of fear—of horror and dismay. 'Twas her voice as he had heard it ring out in the blackness of her dream—her dear voice harsh with woe and broken into moaning—her dear voice which he had heard murmuring love to him—crooning over her children—laughing like music! And the torrent of words which she poured forth made his blood cold, and yet as they fell upon his ear he knew—yes, now he knew—revealed no new story to him, even though it had been until that hour untold. No, 'twas not new, for through many an hour when he had marked the shadow in her eyes he had vaguely guessed some fatal burden lay upon her soul—and had striven to understand.