"THE GRAVE ALONE GIVES PEACE."
The sun was setting--the western sky was all aflame, great crimson
clouds floated away with vapors of rose and orange--crimson clouds that
threw a rosy light on the trees and fields. In the distance stood the
old farmhouse, the light falling on the roof with its moss and lichen,
the great roses and white jasmine that wreathed the windows, the tall
elms that stood on either side of the fertile meadows, the springing
corn, the ricks of sweet-smelling hay. The light from the western sky
fell on them all. From beneath the tall elms with the trailing scarlet
creepers came a tall, graceful woman, whose face was covered with a
thick veil; she stood for some time watching the farmhouse, her
beautiful face white and set as the face of the dead; she threw back her
veil as though she was gasping for breath, and then she stood still and
motionless as a marble statue.
The blue and white pigeons were cooing loudly, as though they would tell
each other it was time to rest, the birds were singing their vesper
hymn, the cattle had all been driven to rest, the laborers had ceased
their toil, in the garden the white lilies had opened their cups to
catch the dew; it was all so sweet and still, as though a blessing from
Heaven lay on it.
The silent watcher stirred when she heard the baying of a hound.
"That is Rover," she said to herself, "and he would know me. What would
Uncle Robert say if he knew his lady lass was so near?"
She walked on through the green lane, where the hedges were one mass of
wild rose bloom, through the fields where the clover lay so sweet and
fragrant, until she came to the mill-stream. Her heart gave one bound as
she saw it.
The picturesque old mill, half hidden in foliage, and the great round
wheel, half hidden in the clear stream. There were the water-lilies
lying quite at rest now; there were the green reeds and sedges; the
nests of blue forget-me-nots; the little water-fall where the white rock
rose in the middle of the stream, and the water ran over it; the same
green branches dipped in the water, the same trees shaded it. She sat
down in the same spot where she had last sat with him. She remembered
how the ring had fallen into the little clear pool and he had found it.
The same, and yet how different. And sitting there, with the wreck of
her life round her, she sung in a low voice the words that to her had
been so full of prophecy:
"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;
These vows are all forgotten,
The ring asunder broke."
How true and how cold the prophecy had been. As she sat there she saw a
light in the mill, and the wheel began slowly to turn.
Foaming, laughing, singing, the water ran away shining in the red light
of the setting sun, golden in the little wavelets that kissed the banks.
Slowly the falling water set itself to music, and the rhythm was always:
"I would the grave could hide me,
For there alone is peace."
Shine on, setting sun. Sing on, falling water. There is no peace save in
death and in heaven. Sing on, little birds, throw your sweet shadows,
dewy nights; there is no peace but in death.
She lay down on the green bank and the water foaming by sung to her--it
was all so sweet, so silent, so still. One by one the little birds
slept, one by one the flowers closed their eyes, the roseate clouds
faded, and the gray, soft mantle of night fell on the earth.
So sweet and still--the stars came out in the sky, in the wood a
nightingale began to sing; the fire went out in her brain; the pain
ceased; she grew calm as one on whom a dread shadow lies.
The lovely, laughing water, with the gleam of golden stars in it,
falling with the rhythm of sweetest music. She drew nearer, she laid one
hand on the little wavelets, and the cool, sweet touch refreshed her.
The night, so sweet and still, with the gray shade of the king of
terrors rising from the mill-stream. The water-lilies seemed to rise and
come near to her, a thousand sweet voices seemed to rise from the water
and call her.
"There alone is peace," sung the nightingale; "There alone is peace,"
sung the lilies; "There alone is peace," sung the chiming waters. She
drew nearer to them. Heaven only knows what ideas were in that
overbalanced brain and distraught mind. Looking in the clear waters she
saw the golden stars shining; perhaps she thought she was reaching to
them. A little low cry fell on the night air. A cry that startled the
ring-doves, but fell on no mortal ear.
"Mine was always a mad love," she said to herself; "a mad love," and the
voice that had gladdened the hearts of thousands was heard on earth no
more.
A mad love, indeed; she went nearer to the gleaming waters; they seemed
to rise and infold her; the water-lilies seemed to hold her up. It
seemed to her rather that she went up to the stars than down to the
stream. There was no cry, no sound, as the soft waters closed over her,
as the water-lilies floated back entangled in the meshes of a dead
woman's hair.
In the grave alone was peace. So she lay through the long, sweet, summer
night, and the mill-stream sung her dirge.
Was it suicide, or was she mad? God who knows all things knew that she
had suffered a heavy wrong, a cruel injustice, a martyrdom of pain. She
had raised herself to one of the highest positions in the world and
there she had met her old love.
Only Heaven knew what she endured after that, when she saw his wife,
when she saw him in his daily life, yet knowing that he was lost to her
for evermore.
Then the climax came when his wife spoke of "Lance's little child." If
those words drove her to her death who shall wonder?
She saw the stars in the water and thought she was going to them; and
perhaps, on the Great Day, that thought, that imagination may plead for
her.
It was a mad love, a cruel, mad love.
Some instinct came to Lord Chandos when he read that letter that all was
not well. He started at once for Rashleigh.
The morning sun was high in the heavens when he reached there. Going at
once to the mill-stream, he had seen the body of the woman he loved
floating there, her long hair tangled in the water-lilies, a smile such
as comes from perfect peace on her face.
He did the wisest thing he could have done--he brought Farmer Noel to
the spot, and told him the story, while she lay with her face raised to
the morning skies--the story of a mad love.
Farmer Noel uttered no reproaches.
"I never thought she would live a happy life or die a happy death," he
said--"it was written so in her face."
They two kept the secret. In a small place like Rashleigh such an
occurrence is a nine days' wonder; every one believed that the hapless
lady had fallen into the stream as she was passing to the woods.
Although the farmer grieved sorely after her, he never told any one that
she was his niece, and no one recognized her.
There was a verdict of found drowned, and every one thought the farmer
very generous because he undertook the funeral expenses.
How Lord Chandos grieved, no words could tell--it was as though the
light of his life had disappeared; he never spoke of his sorrow, but it
made him old in his youth and killed the best part of his life in him.
No one, even ever so faintly, connected the inquest at Rashleigh with
the disappearance of Madame Vanira. The world went mad at first with
anger and disappointment, then a rumor was spread that madame had gone
to America, and had married a millionaire there.
The world recovered its good temper and laughed; then another grand
singer appeared on the scene, and Leone was forgotten. The only person
to whom Lord Chandos ever told the truth was the Countess of Lanswell,
and it shocked her so greatly that she gave up all society for a few
days, and then, as the world had done before her, forgot it.
Lord Chandos never forgot; the world was never the same to him. His
wife's words came true; he was kindness itself to her, and she was very
happy. She never even heard of Madame Vanira's untimely end, nor did she
ever know who Madame Vanira was. She always respected her, because she
had kept her word, and had gone out of her husband's way. As time passed
on she, too--forgot.
Lord Chandos never forgot.
Fair daughters and stalwart sons grew around him; he was kind, cheerful,
even gay, but in the depths of his heart he mourned over her. To please
him Lady Chandos gave to one of her daughters the name of Leone, and it
was pitiful to hear the pathos with which he used the name.
Of all his children he loves Leone best. In his dreams he sees the
golden gates of heaven, and the other Leone watching for him there.
While she sleeps in peace by the mill-stream, and as the water runs by,
it sings:
"A mad love--a mad love."
But "the mill will never grind again with the waters that are past."
THE END.