The doctors said she might in time
recover a little, but she would never be her old active self again. She
herself, with much painful effort, managed to convey to Stephen that she
knew the end was near. Stephen, knowing the wish of her heart and
thinking that it might do her good to gratify her wish, asked if she
should arrange that she be brought to Lannoy. Feebly and slowly, word by
word, she managed to convey her idea. 'Not now, dear one. I shall see it all in time!--Soon! And I shall
understand and rejoice!' For a long time she lay still, holding with her
right hand, which was not paralysed, the other's hand. Then she
murmured:

'You will find happiness there!' She said no more; but seemed to sleep. From that sleep she never woke, but faded slowly, softly away. Stephen was broken-hearted. Now, indeed, she felt alone and desolate. All were gone. Father, uncle, aunt!--And  Harold. The kingdoms of the
Earth which lay at her feet were of no account. One hour of the dead or
departed, any of them, back again were worth them all! Normanstand was now too utterly lonely to be endurable; so Stephen
determined to go, for a time at any rate, to Lannoy. She was becoming
accustomed to be called 'my lady' and 'your ladyship,' and the new
loneness made her feel better prepared to take her place amongst new
surroundings. In addition, there was another spur to her going. Leonard Everard,
knowing of her absolute loneliness, and feeling that in it was a
possibility of renewing his old status, was beginning to make himself
apparent. He had learned by experience a certain wisdom, and did not put
himself forward obtrusively. But whenever they met he looked at her so
meekly and so lovingly that it brought remembrances which came with
blushes. So, all at once, without giving time for the news to permeate
through the neighbourhood, she took her way to Lannoy with a few
servants. Stephen's life had hitherto been spent inland. She had of course now and
again been for short periods to various places; but the wonder of the sea
as a constant companion had been practically unknown to her. Now at her new home its full splendour burst upon her; and so impressed
itself upon her that new life seemed to open. Lannoy was on the north-eastern coast, the castle standing at the base of
a wide promontory stretching far into the North Sea. From the coast the
land sloped upward to a great rolling ridge. The outlook seaward was
over a mighty expanse of green sward, dotted here and there with woods
and isolated clumps of trees which grew fewer and smaller as the rigour
of the northern sea was borne upon them by the easterly gales. The coast was a wild and lonely one. No habitation other than an
isolated fisher's cottage was to be seen between the little fishing-port
at the northern curve away to the south, where beyond a waste of
sandhills and strand another tiny fishing-village nestled under a high
cliff, sheltering it from northerly wind. For centuries the lords of
Lannoy had kept their magnificent prospect to themselves; and though they
had treated their farmers and cottagers well, none had ever been allowed
to settle in the great park to seaward of the castle. From the terrace of the castle only than one building, other than the
cottage on the headland, could be seen. Far off on the very crest of the
ridge was the tower of an old windmill. CHAPTER XXIX--THE SILVER LADY


When it was known that Lady de Lannoy had come to Lannoy there was a
prompt rush of such callers as the county afforded. Stephen, however,
did not wish to see anyone just at present. Partly to avoid the chance
meeting with strangers, and partly because she enjoyed and benefited by
the exercise, she was much away from home every day. Sometimes, attended
only by a groom, she rode long distances north or south along the coast;
or up over the ridge behind the castle and far inland along the shaded
roads through the woods; or over bleak wind-swept stretches of moorland. Sometimes she would walk, all alone, far down to the sea-road, and would
sit for hours on the shore or high up on some little rocky headland where
she could enjoy the luxury of solitude. Now and again in her journeyings she made friends, most of them humble
ones. She was so great a lady in her station that she could be familiar
without seeming to condescend. The fishermen of the little ports to
north and south came to know her, and to look gladly for her coming. Their goodwives had for her always a willing curtsy and a ready smile. As
for the children, they looked on her with admiration and love, tempered
with awe. She was so gentle with them, so ready to share their pleasures
and interests, that after a while they came to regard her as some strange
embodiment of Fairydom and Dreamland. Many a little heart was made glad
by the arrival of some item of delight from the Castle; and the hearts of
the sick seemed never to hope, or their eyes to look, in vain. One friend she made who became very dear and of great import. Often she
had looked up at the old windmill on the crest of the ridge and wondered
who inhabited it; for that some one lived in it, or close by, was shown
at times by the drifting smoke. One day she made up her mind to go and
see for herself. She had a fancy not to ask anyone about it. The place
was a little item of mystery; and as such to be treasured and exploited,
and in due course explored. The mill itself was picturesque, and the
detail at closer acquaintance sustained the far-off impression. The
roadway forked on the near side of the mill, reuniting again the further
side, so that the place made a sort of island--mill, out-offices and
garden. As the mill was on the very top of the ridge the garden which
lay seawards was sheltered by the building from the west, and from the
east by a thick hedge of thorn and privet, which quite hid it from the
roadway. Stephen took the lower road. Finding no entrance save a locked
wooden door she followed round to the western side, where the business
side of the mill had been. It was all still now and silent, and that it
had long fallen into disuse was shown by the grey faded look of
everything. Grass, green and luxuriant, grew untrodden between the
cobble-stones with which the yard was paved. There was a sort of old-
world quietude about everything which greatly appealed to Stephen. Stephen dismounted and walked round the yard admiring everything. She
did not feel as if intruding; for the gateway was wide open. A low door in the base of the mill tower opened, and a maid appeared, a
demure pretty little thing of sixteen or seventeen years, dressed in a
prim strait dress and an old-fashioned Puritan cap. Seeing a stranger,
she made an ejaculation and drew back hastily. Stephen called out to
her:

'Don't be afraid, little girl! Will you kindly tell me who lives here?' The answer came with some hesitation:

'Sister Ruth.' 'And who is Sister Ruth?' The question came instinctively and without
premeditation.