CHAPTER LVII.
THE SKELETON.
The death of the marquis took place in December, long before which timethe second marquis of Worcester, ever busy in the king's affairs, andunable to show himself with safety in England, or there be useful, hadgone from Ireland to Paris.
As the country was now a good deal quieter, and there was nothing todetain her in London, and much to draw her to Wyfern, Dorothy resolvedto go home, and there, if possible, remain. Indeed, there was nownothing else she could well do, except visit Mr. Herbert at Llangattock.But much as she revered and loved the old man, and would have enjoyedhis company, she felt now such a longing for activity, that she must goand look after her affairs. What with the words of the good marquis andher own late experiences and conflicts, Dorothy had gained muchenlightenment. She had learned that well-being is a condition of inwardcalm, resting upon yet deeper harmonies of being, and resulting inserene activity, the prevention of which natural result reacts inperturbation and confusion of thought and feeling. But for many sakesthe thought of home was in itself precious and enticing to her. It wasfull of clear memories of her mother, and vague memories of her father,not to mention memories of the childhood Richard and she had spenttogether, from which the late mists had begun to rise, and reveal themsparkling with dew and sunshine. As soon, therefore, as marquis Henryhad gone to countess Anne, Dorothy took her leave, with many kind wordsbetween, of the ladies Elizabeth, Anne, and Mary, and set out, attendedby her old bailiff and some of the men of her small tenantry, who havingfought the king's battle in vain, had gone home again to fight theirown.
At Wyfern she found everything in rigid order, almost cataleptic repose.How was it ever to be home again? What new thing could restore thehomefulness where the revered over-life had vanished? And how shall theworld be warmed and brightened to him who knows no greater or better manthan himself therein--no more skilful workman, no diviner thinker, nomore godlike doer than himself? And what can the universe have in it ofhome, of country, nay even of world, to him who cannot believe in a soulof souls, a heart of hearts? I should fall out with the very beating ofthe heart within my bosom, did I not believe it the pulse of theinfinite heart, for how else should it be heart of MINE? I made it not,and any moment it may SEEM to fail me, yet never, if it be what I thinkit, can it betray me. It is no wonder then, that, with only memories ofwhat had been to render it lovely in her eyes, Dorothy should have soonbegun to feel the place lonely.
The very next morning after her rather late arrival, she sent to saddleDick once more, called Marquis, and with no other attendant, set out tosee what they had done to dear old Raglan. Marquis had been chained upalmost all the time they were in London, and freedom is blessed even toa dog: Dick was ever joyful under his mistress, and now was merry withthe keen invigorating air of a frosty December morning, and frolicsomeamidst the early snow, which lay unusually thick on the ground,notwithstanding his hundred and twenty miles' ride, for they had takennearly a week to do it; so that between them they soon raised Dorothy'sspirits also, and she turned to her hopes, and grew cheerful.
This mood made her the less prepared to encounter the change thatawaited her. What a change it was! While she approached, what with thetrees left, and the towers, the rampart, and the outer shell of thecourts--little injured to the distant eye, she had not an idea of thedevastation within. But when she rode through one entrance after anotherwith the gates torn from their hinges, crossed the moat by a mound ofearth instead of the drawbridge, and rode through the open gateway,where the portcullises were wedged up in their grooves and their chainsgone, into the paved court, she beheld a desolation, at sight of whichher heart seemed to stand still in her bosom. The rugged horror of theheaps of ruins was indeed softly covered with snow, but what this tookfrom the desolation in harshness, it added in coldness and desertion andhopelessness. She felt like one who looks for the corpse of his friend,and finds but his skeleton.
The broken bones of the house projected gaunt and ragged. Its eyesreturned no shine--they did not even stare, for not a pane of glass wasleft in a window: they were but eye-holes, black and blank with shadowand no-ness. The roofs were gone--all but that of the great hall, whichthey had not dared to touch. She climbed the grand staircase, open tothe wind and slippery with ice, and reached her own room. Snow lay onthe floor, which had swollen and burst upwards with November rains.Through room after room she wandered with a sense of loneliness anddesolation and desertion such as never before had she known, even in herworst dreams. Yet was there to her, in the midst of her sorrow and loss,a strange fascination in the scene. Such a hive of burning human lifenow cold and silent! Even Marquis appeared aware of the change, for withtucked-in tail he went about sadly sniffing, and gazing up and down.Once indeed, and only once, he turned his face to the heavens, and gavea strange protesting howl, which made Dorothy weep, and a littlerelieved her oppressed heart.
She would go and see the workshop. On the way, she would first visit theturret chamber. But so strangely had destruction altered the look ofwhat it had spared, that it was with difficulty she recognised the doorsand ways of the house she had once known so well. Here was a great holeto the shining snow where once had been a dark corner; there a heap ofstones where once had been a carpeted corridor. All the human look ofindwelling had past away. Where she had been used to go about as if byinstinct, she had now to fall back upon memory, and call up again, withan effort sometimes painful in its difficulty, that which had vanishedaltogether except from the minds of its scattered household.
She found the door of the turret chamber, but that was all she found:the chamber was gone. Nothing was there but the blank gap in the wall,and beyond it, far down, the nearly empty moat of the tower. She turned,frightened and sick at heart, and made her way to the bridge. That stillstood, but the drawbridge above was gone.
She crossed the moat and entered the workshop. A single glance took inall that was left of the keep. Not a floor was between her and the sky!The reservoir, great as a little mountain-tarn, had vanished utterly!All was cleared out; and the white wintry clouds were sailing over herhead. Nearly a third part of the walls had been brought within a fewfeet of the ground. The furnace was gone--all but its mason-work. It waslike the change of centuries rather than months. The castle hadhalf-melted away. Its idea was blotted out, save from the human spirit.She turned from the workshop, in positive pain of body at the sight, andwandered she hardly knew whither, till she found herself in ladyGlamorgan's parlour. There was left a single broken chair: she sat downon it, closed her eyes, and laid back her head.
She opened them with a slight start: there stood Richard a yard or twoaway.
He had heard of her return, and gone at once to Wyfern. There learningwhither she had betaken herself, he had followed, and tracking what ofher footsteps he could discover, had at length found her.