"AS DEAD AS MY HOPES."
The broad, beautiful river widened, and the magnificent scenery of the
Thames spread out on either side, a picture without parallel in English
landscapes. The silvery water, the lights and shades ever changing, the
overhanging woods, the distant hill, the pretty islets, the
pleasure-boats, the lawns, the great nests of water-lilies, the green
banks studded with flowers, the rushes and reeds that grew even on the
water's edge. On they went, through Richmond, Kew, past Hampton Court,
past the picturesque old Hampton windmill, on to one of the prettiest
spots on the river--the "Bells" at Ousely, and there Lord Chandos
fastened the boat to a tree while they went ashore.
Ah, but it was like a faint, far-off dream of heaven--the lovely,
laughing river, the rippling foliage, the gorgeous trees, the quaint old
hostelry, the hundreds of blooming flowers--the golden sunlight pouring
over all. Sorrow, care and death might come to-morrow, when the sky was
gray and the water dull; but not to-day. Oh, lovely, happy to-day.
Beautiful sun and balmy wind, blooming flowers and singing birds. Lord
Chandos made a comfortable seat for Leone on the river bank, and sat
down by her side. They did not remember that they had been wedded
lovers, or that a tragedy lay between them; they did not talk of love or
of sorrow, but they gave themselves up to the happiness of the hour, to
the warm, golden sunshine, to the thousand beauties that lay around
them. They watched a pretty pleasure-boat drifting slowly along the
river. It was well filled with what Lord Chandos surmised to be a picnic
party, and somewhat to his dismay the whole party landed near the spot
where he, with Leone, was sitting. "I hope," he thought to himself,
"that there is no one among them who knows me--I should not like it, for
Leone's sake."
The thought had hardly shaped itself in his mind, when some one touched
him on the arm. Turning hastily he saw Captain Harry Blake, one of his
friends, who cried out in astonishment at seeing him there, and then
looked in still greater astonishment at the beautiful face of Madame
Vanira.
"Lady Evelyn is on board the Water Witch," he said. "Will you come and
speak to her?"
The handsome face of Lord Lanswell's son darkened.
"No," he replied, "pray excuse me. And--Harry, say nothing of my being
here. I rowed down this morning. There is no need for every one in
London to hear of it before night."
Captain Harry Blake laughed; at the sound of that laugh Lord Chandos
felt the greatest impulse to knock him down. His face flushed hotly, and
his eyes flashed fire. Leone had not heard one word, and had
persistently turned her face from the intruder, quite forgetting that in
doing so she was visible to every one on the boat. Lady Evelyn Blake was
the first to see her, and she knew just enough of life to make no
comment. When her husband returned she said to him carelessly:
"That was Madame Vanira with Lord Chandos, I am sure."
"You had better bring stronger glasses or clearer eyes with you the next
time you come," he replied, laughingly, and then Lady Evelyn knew that
she was quite right in her suspicions. It was only a jest to her and she
thought nothing of it. That same evening when Lady Ilfield, who was one
of Lady Marion's dearest friends, spoke of Stoneland House, Lady Evelyn
told the incident as a grand jest. Lady Ilfield looked earnestly at her.
"Do you really mean that you saw Lord Chandos with Madame Vanira at
Ousely?" she asked. "Alone, without his wife?"
"Yes," laughed Lady Evelyn, "a stolen expedition, evidently. He looked
horrified when Captain Blake spoke to him."
"I do not like it," said Lady Ilfield, who was one of the old school,
and did not understand the science of modern flirtation. "I have heard
already more of Lord Chandos than has pleased me, and I like his wife."
This simple conversation was the beginning of the end--the beginning of
one of the saddest tragedies on which the sun ever shone.
"I am sorry that he saw me," said Lord Chandos, as the captain waved his
final adieu; "but he did not see your face, Leone, did he?"
"No," she replied, "I think not."
"It does not matter about me," he said, "but I should not like to have
any one recognize you."
He forgot the incident soon after. When the boat was again on the
bright, dancing river, then they forgot the world and everything else
except that they were together.
"Lance," said Leone, "row close to those water-lilies. I should like to
gather one."
Obediently enough he went quite close to the white water-lilies, and
placed the oars at the bottom of the boat, while he gathered the lilies
for her. It was more like a poem than a reality; a golden sun, a blue,
shining river, the boat among the water-lilies, the beautiful regal
woman, her glorious face bent over the water, her white hands throwing
the drops of spray over the green leaves.
It was the prettiest picture ever seen. Lord Chandos filled the boat
with flowers; he heaped the pretty white water-lilies at the feet of
Leone, until she looked as though she had grown out of them. Then, while
the water ran lazily on, and the sun shone in golden splendor, he asked
her if she would sing for him.
"One song, Leone," he said, "and that in the faintest voice. It will be
clear and distinct as the voice of an angel to me."
There must have been an instinct of pride or defiance in her heart, for
she raised her head and looked at him.
"Yes, I will sing for you, Lance," she replied. "Those water-lilies take
me home. I will sing a song of which not one word has passed my lips
since I saw you. Listen, see if you know the words:
"'In sheltered vale a mill-wheel
Still sings 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.'"
The rich, beautiful voice, low and plaintive, now seemed to float over
the water: it died away among the water-lilies; it seemed to hang like a
veil over the low boughs; it startled the birds, and hushed even the
summer winds to silence. So sweet, so soft, so low, as he listened, it
stole into his heart and worked sweet and fatal mischief. He buried his
face in his hands and wept aloud.
On went the sweet voice, with its sad story: he held up his hand with a
gesture of entreaty.
"Hush, Leone," he said, "for God's sake, hush. I cannot bear it."
On went the sweet voice:
"'But while I hear that mill-wheel
My pains will never cease;
I would the grave would hide me,
For there alone is peace,
For there alone is peace.'"
"I will sing that verse again," she said, "it is prophetic."
"'I would the grave would hide me,
For there alone is peace.'"
She bent her head as she sung the last few words, and there was silence
between them--silence unbroken save for the ripple of the waters as it
washed past the boat, and the song of a lark that soared high in the
sky.
"Leone," said Lord Chandos, "you have killed me. I thought I had a
stronger, braver heart, I thought I had a stronger nature--you have
killed me."
He looked quite exhausted, and she saw great lines of pain round his
mouth, great shadows in his eyes.
"Have I been cruel to you?" she asked, and there was a ring of
tenderness in her voice.
"More cruel than you know," he answered. "Once, Leone, soon after I came
home we went to a concert, and among other things I heard 'In Sheltered
Vale.' At the first sound of the first notes my heart stood still. I
thought, Leone, it would never beat again; I thought my blood was frozen
in my veins; I felt the color die from my face. Lady Marion asked me
what was the matter, and the countess thought that I was going to swoon.
I staggered out of the room like a man who had drunk too much wine, and
it was many hours before I recovered myself; and now, Leone, you sing
the same words to me; they are like a death knell."
"They hold a prophecy," said Leone, sadly, "the only place where any one
can find rest is the grave."
"My beautiful Leone," he cried, "you must not talk about the grave.
There should be no death and no grave for one like you."
"There will be none to my love," she said, but rather to herself than to
him. Then she roused herself and laughed, but the laugh was forced and
bitter. "Why should I speak of my love?" she said. "Mine was a 'Mad
Love.'"
The day drifted on to a golden, sunlight afternoon, and the wind died on
the waters while the lilies slept. And then they went slowly home.
"Has it been a happy day, Leone?" asked Lord Chandos, as they drew near
home.
"It will have no morrow," she answered, sadly. "I shall keep those
water-lilies until every leaf is withered and dead; yet they will never
be so dead as my hopes--as dead as my life, though art fills it and
praises crown it."
"And I," he said, "shall remember this day until I die. I have often
wondered, Leone, if people take memory with them to heaven. If they do,
I shall think of it there."
"And I," she said, "shall know no heaven, if memory goes with me."
They parted without another word, without a touch of the hands, or one
adieu; but there had been no mention of parting, and that was the last
thing thought of.