Via Crucis | Page 9

him with well-trained eyes; and now she was free to
choose, free to love, free to be Arnold's wife. And yet she had lived
with the dead man; and in the far-off past there were little tender lights
of happiness, half real, half played, but never forgotten, upon which she
had once taught her thoughts to dwell tenderly and sadly. She had
loved the dead man in the first days of marriage, as well as her cold and
unawakened nature could love at all--if not for himself, at least for the
hopes of vanity built on his name. She had hated him in secret, but she
could not have hated him so heartily had there not once been a little
love to turn so fiercely sour. She could not have trained her eyes to
smile at him so gently had she not once smiled for his own sake. And
so, when they brought him dead to the gate of his own house, his wife
had still some shreds of memories for weeds to eke out a show of
sorrow.
She passed through the postern in the small round tower beside the
gateway, knowing that when she came out under the portcullis, the
funeral train would be just reaching the other end of the bridge. The
little vaulted room in the lower story of the tower was not four steps in
width across, from door to door; but it was almost dark, and there the
Lady Goda stopped one moment before she went out to meet the
mourners. Standing still in the dimness, she pressed her gloved hands
to her eyes with all her might, as though to concentrate her thoughts

and her strength. Then she threw back her arms, and looked up through
the gloom, and almost laughed; and she felt something just below her
heart that stifled her like a great joy. Then all at once she was calm, and
touched her eyes again with her gloved hands, but gently now, as
though smoothing them and preparing them to look upon what they
must see presently. She opened the little door, and was suddenly
standing in the midst of the frightened herd of retainers and servants,
while the last strains of the dirge came echoing under the deep archway.
At that instant another sound startled the air--the deep bell-note of the
great bloodhounds, chained in the courtyard from sunrise to sunset; and
it sank to a wail, and the wail broke to a howl, dismal, ear-rending, wild.
Before it had died away, one of the Saxon bondwomen shrieked aloud,
and the next took up the cry, and then another, as a likewake dirge, till
every stone in the shadowy manor seemed to have a voice, and every
voice was weeping for the dead lord. And many of the women fell upon
their knees, and some of the men, too, while others drew up their hoods,
and stood with bent heads and folded hands against the rough walls.
Slowly and solemnly they bore him in and set the bier down under the
mid-arch. Then Gilbert Warde looked up and faced his mother; but he
stood aside, that she might see her husband; and the monks and song-
boys stood back also, with their wax torches, which cast a dancing
glare through the dim twilight. Gilbert's face was white and stern; but
the Lady Goda was pale, too, and her heart fluttered, for she had to play
the last act of her married life before many who would watch her
narrowly. For one moment she hesitated whether to scream or to faint
in honour of her dead husband. Then, with the instinct of the born and
perfect actress, she looked wildly from her son's face to the straight,
still length that lay beneath the pall. She raised one hand to her
forehead, pressing back her golden hair with a gesture half mad, half
dazed, then seemed to stagger forward two steps, and fell upon the
body, in a storm of tears.
Gilbert went to the bier, and lifted one of his mother's gloved hands
from the covered face, and it dropped from his fingers as if lifeless. He
lifted the black cloth pall, and turned it back as far as he could without
disturbing the woman's prostrate figure; and there lay the Lord of Stoke,

in his mail, as he had fallen in fight, in his peaked steel helmet, the
straight, fine, ring-mail close-drawn round his face and chin, the silky
brown hair looking terribly alive against the dead face. But across the
eyes and the forehead below the helmet there was laid a straight black
band, and upon his breast the great mailed hands clasped the
cross-hilted sword that lay lengthwise with his body. Gilbert,
bareheaded and unarmed, gazed down into his