That was how I first asked Margaret Lammas to be my wife, and I
will agree with anyone who says I behaved very foolishly. But I
have not repented of it, and I never shall. I have long ago
understood that I was out of my mind that evening, but I think my
temporary insanity on that occasion has had the effect of making me
a saner man ever since. Her manner turned my head, for it was so
different from what I had expected. To hear this lovely creature,
who, in my imagination, was a heroine of romance, if not of
tragedy, talking familiarly and laughing readily was more than my
equanimity could bear, and I lost my head as well as my heart. But
when I went back to England in the spring, I went to make certain
arrangements at the Castle—certain changes and improvements which
would be absolutely necessary. I had won the race for which I had
entered myself so rashly, and we were to be married in June.
Whether the change was due to the orders I had left with the
gardener and the rest of the servants, or to my own state of mind,
I cannot tell. At all events, the old place did not look the same
to me when I opened my window on the morning after my arrival.
There were the gray walls below me and the gray turrets flanking
the huge building; there were the fountains, the marble causeways,
the smooth basins, the tall box hedges, the water lilies and the
swans, just as of old. But there was something else there, too—
something in the air, in the water, and in the greenness that I did
not recognize—a light over everything by which everything was
transfigured. The clock in the tower struck seven, and the strokes
of the ancient bell sounded like a wedding chime. The air sang
with the thrilling treble of the song-birds, with the silvery music
of the plashing water and the softer harmony of the leaves stirred
by the fresh morning wind. There was a smell of new-mown hay from
the distant meadows, and of blooming roses from the beds below,
wafted up together to my window. I stood in the pure sunshine and
drank the air and all the sounds and the odors that were in it; and
I looked down at my garden and said: “It is Paradise, after all.”
I think the men of old were right when they called heaven a garden,
and Eden a garden inhabited by one man and one woman, the Earthly
Paradise.
I turned away, wondering what had become of the gloomy memories I
had always associated with my home. I tried to recall the
impression of my nurse’s horrible prophecy before the death of my
parents—an impression which hitherto had been vivid enough. I
tried to remember my old self, my dejection, my listlessness, my
bad luck, my petty disappointments. I endeavored to force myself
to think as I used to think, if only to satisfy myself that I had
not lost my individuality. But I succeeded in none of these
efforts. I was a different man, a changed being, incapable of
sorrow, of ill luck, or of sadness. My life had been a dream, not
evil, but infinitely gloomy and hopeless. It was now a reality,
full of hope, gladness, and all manner of good. My home had been
like a tomb; to-day it was Paradise. My heart had been as though
it had not existed; to-day it beat with strength and youth and the
certainty of realized happiness. I reveled in the beauty of the
world, and called loveliness out of the future to enjoy it before
time should bring it to me, as a traveler in the plains looks up to
the mountains, and already tastes the cool air through the dust of
the road.
Here, I thought, we will live and live for years. There we will
sit by the fountain toward evening and in the deep moonlight. Down
those paths we will wander together. On those benches we will rest
and talk. Among those eastern hills we will ride through the soft
twilight, and in the old house we will tell tales on winter nights,
when the logs burn high, and the holly berries are red, and the old
clock tolls out the dying year. On these old steps, in these dark
passages and stately rooms, there will one day be the sound of
little pattering feet, and laughing child voices will ring up to
the vaults of the ancient hall. Those tiny footsteps shall not be
slow and sad as mine were, nor shall the childish words be spoken
in an awed whisper. No gloomy Welshwoman shall people the dusky
corners with weird horrors, nor utter horrid prophecies of death
and ghastly things. All shall be young, and fresh, and joyful, and
happy, and we will turn the old luck again, and forget that there
was ever any sadness.
So I thought, as I looked out of my window that morning and for
many mornings after that, and every day it all seemed more real
than ever before, and much nearer. But the old nurse looked at me
askance, and muttered odd sayings about the Woman of the Water. I
cared little what she said, for I was far too happy.
At last the time came near for the wedding. Lady Bluebell and all
the tribe of Bluebells, as Margaret called them, were at Bluebell
Grange, for we had determined to be married in the country, and to
come straight to the Castle afterwards. We cared little for
traveling, and not at all for a crowded ceremony at St. George’s in
Hanover Square, with all the tiresome formalities afterwards. I
used to ride over to the Grange every day, and very often Margaret
would come with her aunt and some of her cousins to the Castle. I
was suspicious of my own taste, and was only too glad to let her
have her way about the alterations and improvements in our home.
We were to be married on the thirtieth of July, and on the evening
of the twenty-eighth Margaret drove over with some of the Bluebell
party. In the long summer twilight we all went out into the
garden. Naturally enough, Margaret and I were left to ourselves,
and we wandered down by the marble basins.
“It is an odd coincidence,” I said; “it was on this very night last
year that I first saw you.”
“Considering that it is the month of July,” answered Margaret with
a laugh, “and that we have been here almost every day, I don’t
think the coincidence is so extraordinary, after all.”
“No, dear,” said I, “I suppose not. I don’t know why it struck me.
We shall very likely be here a year from today, and a year from
that. The odd thing, when I think of it, is that you should be
here at all. But my luck has turned. I ought not to think
anything odd that happens now that I have you. It is all sure to
be good.”
“A slight change in your ideas since that remarkable performance of
yours in Paris,” said Margaret. “Do you know, I thought you were
the most extraordinary man I had ever met.”
“I thought you were the most charming woman I had ever seen. I
naturally did not want to lose any time in frivolities. I took you
at your word, I followed your advice, I asked you to marry me, and
this is the delightful result—what’s the matter?”
Margaret had started suddenly, and her hand tightened on my arm.
An old woman was coming up the path, and was close to us before we
saw her, for the moon had risen, and was shining full in our faces.
The woman turned out to be my old nurse.
“It’s only Judith, dear—don’t be frightened,” I said. Then I
spoke to the Welshwoman: “What are you about, Judith? Have you
been feeding the Woman of the Water?”
“Aye—when the clock strikes, Willie—my Lord, I mean,” muttered
the old creature, drawing aside to let us pass, and fixing her
strange eyes on Margaret’s face.
“What does she mean?” asked Margaret, when we had gone by.
“Nothing, darling. The old thing is mildly crazy, but she is a
good soul.”
We went on in silence for a few moments, and came to the rustic
bridge just above the artificial grotto through which the water ran
out into the park, dark and swift in its narrow channel. We
stopped, and leaned on the wooden rail. The moon was now behind
us, and shone full upon the long vista of basins and on the huge
walls and towers of the Castle above.
“How proud you ought to be of such a grand old place!” said
Margaret, softly.
“It is yours now, darling,” I answered. “You have as good a right
to love it as I—but I only love it because you are to live in it,
dear.”
Her hand stole out and lay on mine, and we were both silent. Just
then the clock began to strike far off in the tower. I counted—
eight—nine—ten—eleven—I looked at my watch—twelve—thirteen—I
laughed. The bell went on striking.
“The old clock has gone crazy, like Judith,” I exclaimed. Still it
went on, note after note ringing out monotonously through the still
air. We leaned over the rail, instinctively looking in the
direction whence the sound came. On and on it went. I counted
nearly a hundred, out of sheer curiosity, for I understood that
something had broken and that the thing was running itself down.
Suddenly there was a crack as of breaking wood, a cry and a heavy
splash, and I was alone, clinging to the broken end of the rail of
the rustic bridge.
I do not think I hesitated while my pulse beat twice. I sprang
clear of the bridge into the black rushing water, dived to the
bottom, came up again with empty hands, turned and swam downward
through the grotto in the thick darkness, plunging and diving at
every stroke, striking my head and hands against jagged stones and
sharp corners, clutching at last something in my fingers and
dragging it up with all my might. I spoke, I cried aloud, but
there was no answer. I was alone in the pitchy darkness with my
burden, and the house was five hundred yards away. Struggling
still, I felt the ground beneath my feet, I saw a ray of
moonlight—the grotto widened, and the deep water became a broad
and shallow brook as I stumbled over the stones and at last laid
Margaret’s body on the bank in the park beyond.
“Aye, Willie, as the clock struck!” said the voice of Judith, the
Welsh nurse, as she bent down and looked at the white face. The
old woman must have turned back and followed us, seen the accident,
and slipped out by the lower gate of the garden. “Aye,” she
groaned, “you have fed the Woman of the Water this night, Willie,
while the clock was striking.”
I scarcely heard her as I knelt beside the lifeless body of the
woman I loved, chafing the wet white temples and gazing wildly into
the wide-staring eyes. I remember only the first returning look of
consciousness, the first heaving breath, the first movement of
those dear hands stretching out toward me.
That is not much of a story, you say. It is the story of my life.
That is all. It does not pretend to be anything else. Old Judith
says my luck turned on that summer’s night when I was struggling in
the water to save all that was worth living for. A month later
there was a stone bridge above the grotto, and Margaret and I stood
on it and looked up at the moonlit Castle, as we had done once
before, and as we have done many times since. For all those things
happened ten years ago last summer, and this is the tenth Christmas
Eve we have spent together by the roaring logs in the old hall,
talking of old times; and every year there are more old times to
talk of. There are curly-headed boys, too, with red-gold hair and
dark-brown eyes like their mother’s, and a little Margaret, with
solemn black eyes like mine. Why could not she look like her
mother, too, as well as the rest of them?
The world is very bright at this glorious Christmas time, and
perhaps there is little use in calling up the sadness of long ago,
unless it be to make the jolly firelight seem more cheerful, the
good wife’s face look gladder, and to give the children’s laughter
a merrier ring, by contrast with all that is gone. Perhaps, too,
some sad-faced, listless, melancholy youth, who feels that the
world is very hollow, and that life is like a perpetual funeral
service, just as I used to feel myself, may take courage from my
example, and having found the woman of his heart, ask her to marry
him after half an hour’s acquaintance. But, on the whole, I would
not advise any man to marry, for the simple reason that no man will
ever find a wife like mine, and being obliged to go farther, he
will necessarily fare worse. My wife has done miracles, but I will
not assert that any other woman is able to follow her example.
Margaret always said that the old place was beautiful, and that I
ought to be proud of it. I dare say she is right. She has even
more imagination than I. But I have a good answer and a plain one,
which is this,—that all the beauty of the Castle comes from her.
She has breathed upon it all, as the children blow upon the cold
glass window panes in winter; and as their warm breath crystallizes
into landscapes from fairyland, full of exquisite shapes and
traceries upon the blank surface, so her spirit has transformed
every gray stone of the old towers, every ancient tree and hedge in
the gardens, every thought in my once melancholy self. All that
was old is young, and all that was sad is glad, and I am the
gladdest of all. Whatever heaven may be, there is no earthly
paradise without woman, nor is there anywhere a place so desolate,
so dreary, so unutterably miserable that a woman cannot make it
seem heaven to the man she loves and who loves her.
I hear certain cynics laugh, and cry that all that has been said
before. Do not laugh, my good cynic. You are too small a man to
laugh at such a great thing as love. Prayers have been said before
now by many, and perhaps you say yours, too. I do not think they
lose anything by being repeated, nor you by repeating them. You
say that the world is bitter, and full of the Waters of Bitterness.
Love, and so live that you may be loved—the world will turn sweet
for you, and you shall rest like me by the Waters of Paradise.
From “The Play-Actress and the Upper Berth,” by F. Marion Crawford.
Copyright, 1896, by G. P. Putnam’s Sons.