The ruffled waters, at the steps of the boat, swayed and parted. The
visage of a dead man looked out from the depths to her. His hair hung
lank about his brow, the tide washed it along in passing, as it washed
the weeds from the face of the lilies.
"Basil," she murmured.
"You called to me? Or was it but the haunting of a name that once did
melt like honey from your lip?"
"I called...."
"Was it the wail of love?--Ah no, perchance it was a sigh--the pitiful
sigh of happiness compassionate--happiness regretting sorrow?..."
"It was love alone that cried."
"Searching?"
"And finding not!"
"But why doth love cry here--here by the wet tomb of dead men? what may
it find where the waters slide and shift, and the fishes twist, and the
reeds tangle?"
"Rest."
"Where satins shimmer not, and gems are few, save those bled from the
heart of despair--frozen in flowing...."
"The rarest----"
"Where no song ever swells, and the dirge of the river pleads and pleads
for the soul of faith murdered...."
"And saves it."
"Doth love come here to find rest that no earth could give, here, in the
cradle of the weeds: to wear jewels, rarer than rubies of the crown,
tears of passion, ice-bound and spurned? Doth it come to sing the
river's anthem, to wash itself white and holy, and save its soul for
ever?"
"It comes."
* * * * *
Close by among the rushes a wood pigeon stirred in its sleep and cooed,
and the river at the foot of the house-boat step yawned like a bath of
silver, pale and cold. Over the gulf swayed the warm, white body of a
dreaming woman. Her arms were flung out, and a soft sob, sweeter than
the dove's note, a sob of rest and rapture and realisation broke from
her lips.
* * * * *
Far across the fields, the note of the chanticleer rang out; the gulf
closed, the porch of the house-boat stood empty, and the moon and the
stars paled at what they had seen. Then they hid their heads and wept in
the dawn.
Peach Bloom.
"'Twas only a dream--a boy's first passion,
A foolish love, and a mock of bliss."