THE MEETING AT THE MILL.
In the depths of the water she saw the reflection of the shining stars;
she watched them intently; the pure, pale golden eyes. A voice aroused
her--a voice with tone and accent quite unlike any other voice.
"I beg your pardon," it said, "could you show me the way to Rashleigh? I
have lost myself in the wood."
Raising her eyes she saw the gentleman who had raised his hat as he
passed her in the morning. She knew that he recognized her by the light
that suddenly overspread his face.
"Rashleigh lies over there," she replied. "You have but to cross the
field and pass the church."
"Even that," said the stranger, with a careless laugh, "even that I am
not inclined to do now. It is strange. I am afraid you will think me
half mad, but it seems to me that I have just stepped into fairy land.
Two minutes since I was on the bare highway, now I see the prettiest
picture earth has to offer."
"It is pretty," she replied, her eyes looking at the clear, dimpling
pool; "prettier now even than when the sun shines on it and the wheel
turns."
She had told him the way to Rashleigh, and he should have passed on with
a bow, but this was his excuse. The moon was shining bright as day, the
wind murmured in the alder trees, the light lay on the clear, sweet,
fresh water; the music of the water as it fell was sweet to hear. Away
in the woods some night bird was singing; the odor of the sleeping
flowers filled the air; and there on the green bank, at the water's
edge, sat the most beautiful girl he had ever seen in his life.
The moonlight fell on her exquisite southern face; it seemed to find its
home in the lustrous depths of her dark eyes; it kissed the dark ripples
of her hair, worn with the simple grace of a Greek goddess; it lay on
the white hands that played with the tufted grass.
He was young and loved all things beautiful, and therefore did not go
away. His mind was filled with wonder. Who was she--this girl, so like a
young Spanish princess! Why was she sitting here by the mill-stream? He
must know, and to know he must ask.
"I am inclined," he said, "to lie down here by this pretty stream, and
sleep all night under the stars; I am so tired."
She looked at him with a quick, warm glow of sympathy.
"What has tired you?" she asked.
He sat down on one of the great gray stones that lay half in the water,
half on the land.
"I have lost myself in the Leigh woods," he said. "I have been there
many hours. I had no idea what Leigh woods were like, or I should not
have gone for the first time alone."
"They are very large and intricate," she said; "I can never find the
right paths."
"Some one told me I should see the finest oak-trees in England there,"
he said, "and I have a passion for grand old oaks. I would go anywhere
to see them. I went to the woods and had very soon involved myself in
the greatest difficulties. I should never have found the way out had I
not met one of the keepers."
She liked to listen to him; the clear, refined accent, the musical tone;
as she listened a longing came over her that his voice might go on
speaking to her and of her.
"Now," he continued, embarrassed by her silence, "I have forgotten your
directions; may I ask you to repeat them?"
She did so, and looking at her face he saw there was no anger, nothing
but proud, calm content. He said to himself he need not go just yet, he
could stay a few minutes longer.
"Do you know that beautiful old German ballad," he said,
"'In sheltered vale a mill-wheel
Still tunes its tuneful lay'?"
"No; I never heard or read it," she answered. "Say it for me."
"'In sheltered vale a mill-wheel
Still tunes its tuneful lay.
My darling once did dwell there,
But now she's far away.
A ring in pledge I gave her,
And vows of love we spoke--
Those vows are all forgotten,
The ring asunder broke.'"
"Hush," she said, holding up one white hand; "hush, it is too sad. Do
you not see that the moonlight has grown dim, and the sound of the
falling waters is the sound of falling tears?"
He did not seem to understand her words.
"That song has haunted me," he said, "ever since I heard it. I must say
the last verse; it must have been of this very mill-wheel it was
written.
"'But while I hear the mill-wheel
My pains will never cease;
I would the grave could hide me,
For there alone is peace.'"
"Is it a love story?" she asked, pleased at the pathos and rhythm of the
words.
"Yes; it is the usual story--the whole love of a man's heart given to
one not worthy of it, the vows forgotten, the ring broken. Then he cries
out for the grave to hide himself and his unhappy love."
She looked up at him with dark, lustrous, gleaming eyes.
"Does all love end in sorrow?" she asked, simply.
He looked musingly at the moonlit waters, musingly at the starlit sky.
"I cannot tell," he replied, "but it seems to me that it ends more in
sorrow than in joy. I should say," he continued, "that when truth meets
truth, where loyalty meets loyalty, the ending is good; but where a true
heart finds a false one, where loyalty and honor meet lightness and
falsehood, then the end must be bad."
Leone seemed suddenly to remember that she was talking to a stranger,
and, of all subjects, they had fallen on love.
"I must go," she said, hurriedly. "You will remember the way."
"Pray do not go--just this minute," he said. "History may repeat itself;
life never does. There can never be a night half so fair as this again;
the water will never fall with so sweet a ripple; the stars will never
shine with so bright a light; life may pass, and we may never meet
again. You have a face like a poem. Stay a few minutes longer."
"A face like a poem." Did he really think so?
The words pleased her.
"Strange things happen in real life," he said; "things that, told in
novels and stories, make people laugh and cry out that they are
exaggerated, too romantic to be real. How strange that I should have met
you here this evening by the side of the mill-stream--a place always
haunted by poetry and romance. You will think it stranger still when I
tell you your face has haunted me all day."
She looked at him in surprise. The proud, beautiful face grieved at the
words.
"How is that?" she asked.
"I saw you this morning when I was going to Rashleigh with my friend,
Sir Frank Euston. You were standing against a white gate, and I
thought--well, I must not tell you what I thought."
"Why?" she asked, briefly.
"Because it might offend you," he replied.
He began to perceive that there was no coquetry in this beautiful girl.
She was proud, with a calm, serene, half-tragic pride. There would be no
flirtation by the side of the mill-stream. She looked as far above
coquetry as she was above affectation. He liked the proud calm of her
manner. She might have been a duchess holding court rather than a
country girl sitting by a mill-wheel. The idea occurred to him; and then
his wonder increased--who was she? and what was she doing here?
"Do you live near here?" he asked.
"Yes," she said, "behind the trees there you can see the chimneys of a
farmhouse; it is called Rashleigh Farm; my uncle, Robert Noel, lives
there; and I am his niece."
"His niece," repeated the young man, in an incredulous voice. She was a
farmer's niece, then, after all; and yet she looked like a Spanish
princess.
"You do not look like an English girl," he said, gravely.
"My father was English and my mother a Spanish lady; and I--well, I fear
I have more of the hot fire of Spain than of the chill of England in my
nature; my face is Spanish, so is my heart."
"A Spaniard is quick to love, quick to hate; forgives grandly and
revenges mercilessly," he said.
"That is my character," she said; "you have described it exactly."
"I do not believe it; neither hate nor revenge could exist with a face
like yours. Then your name is Noel?"
"Yes, my name is Leone Noel," she replied.
"Leone," he repeated, "that is a beautiful name. I have never heard it
before; but I like it very much; it is musical and rare--two great
things in a name."
"It is a German name," she said. "My uncle Robert hates it; he says it
reminds him of Lion; but you know it is pronounced Leon. My mother read
some German story that had the name in it and gave it to me."
"It suits you," he said, simply; "and I should not think there was
another name in the world that would. I wonder," he added, with a shy
laugh, "if you would like my name? It is Lancelot Chandos. My friends
call me Lance."
"Yes, I like that. I know all the history of Sir Lancelot. I admire him;
but I think he was a weak man--do not you?"
"For loving Queen Guinevere? I do not know. Some love is strength, not
weakness," he replied.
Leone looked up at him again.
"Are you the son of a great lord?" she asked; "some one told me so."
"Yes; my father is Earl of Lanswell; and people would call him a great
earl. He is rich and powerful."
"What has brought you, the son of a great earl, down to Rashleigh?" she
asked.
"My own idleness, to begin with," he said. "I have been at Oxford more
years than I care to count; and I have idled my time."
"Then you are studying?" she said.
"Yes, that is it. I am trying to make up for lost time. I have some
examinations to pass; and my father has sent me down to Dr. Hervey
because he is known everywhere as the cleverest coach in England."
A cloud came for just one half minute across the face of the moon; the
soft, sweet darkness startled Leone.
"I must go now," she said; "it is not only getting late, but growing
dark."
"I shall see you again," he cried, "do promise me."
"Nay, you have little faith in promises," she replied; and he watched
her as she vanished from among the alder-trees.
It was an unexpected meeting; and strange and startling consequences
soon followed.