Myra wandered about the precincts of her home like one distraught with
sorrow. The sun of her life had gone out, and left all dark and cold and
desolate. The flowers had lost their rare colours, and had clothed
themselves in sombre tints of red and purple. The river had lost its
merry voice, and went sobbing through the grounds. Many days passed, and
life became one long memory. With brooding and sorrowing over her lost
Love she grew pale and thin. Her eyes became wan and hollow, and misery
closed her lips.
Some weeks after the Prince had disappeared she visited her garden. The
flowers had grown tall and straggling, the walks were weedy, the lawn
had lost its velvet softness, and all was desolation. As she walked,
weeping, beside the once brilliant border, she saw the Rose-Mallow lying
half-dead across her path.
"Alas, sweet flower! what aileth thee?" she said, lifting his head and
looking into his face.
"My dear mistress, I am hurt to death," he murmured.
"Speak. Tell me thy sorrow."
"I worked by day and by night to climb the wall of the garden, and after
much labour I reached the summit, just as the sun was setting. There I
saw the lady whose melodious voice had won my heart. Ah, fair Princess!
she was more beautiful than dawn or daylight. I gazed at her, and told
her that I loved her; but she would not even look at me; she spread
forth her pale blossoms with sweet pride. 'I love the Night alone, and
only raise my face to his,' she said. Then I drooped and drooped with
pain. I am indeed hurt to death," he moaned.
She threw her arms around him, while her tears fell on his poor faded
leaves; and when the moon had risen her favourite lay dead in the once
happy garden.
The Princess fetched her golden spade, and dug his grave where he had
lived. Then she bent down and plucked a little cluster of flowers from
the Violet whose love had been wasted, to place upon the earth above
his resting-place; and from each blossom a tear-drop flowed from the
Violet's heart.
"Ah! if I had not advised him to seek his love away from those with whom
his life had been passed," moaned Myra. "He could have cared for one of
the flowers in the garden before he saw the Evening Primrose; his life
was spoilt through my counsel, and ended in pain. And, oh! that I had
been as other women, and had taken a knight of my father's court for
husband. If only I had put up with little imperfections, then this
trouble had not come upon me. But now life is over, and I can never know
happiness again."
That night Fate told the North Wind the story of his child. On his
mountain home he learned of the Queen's treachery, of Myra's early life,
and of Love's hateful blunder.
Spreading his powerful wings, by Fate's command, he flew earthwards, to
bear his daughter to the halls of that dread arbiter of destiny. He was
oppressed with sorrow. The snow-flowers hid their heads as he rushed,
sobbing, down the mountain; the earth shook at his voice as he shrieked
through village and valley; the dead leaves sighed as he scattered them
in thousands before him. But when he gained the palace gardens and
approached his daughter's window his fierce sorrow abated, and he
touched the strings of her harp with gentle fingers. The first strains
were more like the voice of the South Wind than that of the wilder
North. Then followed long wailing strains of melody, as of a soul in
distress.
Myra, sitting brooding on her misery, became strangely roused, as she
heard the weird instrument played upon by a master hand. Often the sad
music seemed to be the voice of her lover; then the tones softened to a
sigh; it was the Rose-Mallow's dying sob.
An overmastering wish seized her to open the casement. She must admit
those pleading tones, or her heart would break. Unable to quell the
desire, she threw wide the window.
[Illustration]
There stood a tall, winged man. His shaggy hair was heavy and black, his
face was gaunt and wild. He was sweeping the harp-strings with long,
bony fingers. Strange and uncouth and terrible as he looked, there was
such strength about the great figure, such power in the face, that the
Princess, though terror-stricken, was drawn towards him. And when he saw
her leaning from her casement, so gentle an expression crossed his worn
visage, that her fear of him departed instantly, and she said:--
"I know thee, great master. Thou art the Wind, and thou hast met my
Love. Ah, in mercy take me to him!"
"Wilt thou not be afraid to entrust thyself to my arms?" he whispered.
"Good sir, carry me all over the earth, through frozen worlds of endless
ice, so thou layest me at my lord's feet at last, and I shall not know a
moment's fear. I love him!" she said simply.
The Wind clasped her in his arms and flew away, lulling her to sleep as
he went.
When the Princess awoke she was standing in a gloomy cavern. The walls
were of black onyx. A stream of crystal water ran gurgling at her feet.
When her eyes became more accustomed to the haze and dimness of the
place, she saw a sight which made her wish to shriek aloud; but her
voice seemed to have gone, and she stood powerless and terror-stricken.
As she gazed a light seemed to break upon her mind.
Fate, robed in lowering mists, sat gazing into a divining glass, with
keen, prophetic eyes; with her right hand she held Love in strong and
terrible grasp. In the crouching, penitent figure, Myra recognised, with
bursting heart, that her Prince and Love were one. Then she became
conscious of the deep voice of Fate ringing through the gloom in
threatening tones.
"Thou didst think thou couldst play with her affections as thou dost
with those of a mortal maid, couldst win her love and break her heart by
thy desertion! But, trickster as thou art, in thine own net art thou
caught. See, where each tear she lets fall, a lily springs."
Myra's eyes followed Fate's pointing finger. Love looked up and saw the
Princess standing in a cluster of white lilies.
"Know that she is a spirit, immortal as thyself; a child of the Winds,
nursed on the salt Sea's breast. Therefore, as thou only canst feel
punishment in her agony, she shall be called Grief. Henceforth, in all
Love there shall be much of bitterness. Parting from the thing loved
shall be the keenest pang of human pain. She shall visit her
foster-parents but once again, and mingle her sobs with theirs. She
shall pursue thee through the ages, and fear of her coming shall lessen
thy rapture. Disappointment, despair, and misery, shall walk in her
train. Man shall weep tears of blood in that thou hast created Grief!"
Love shrieked aloud in pain, and flinging aside the cruel hand of Fate,
threw his arms about the shrinking girl. They stood in the misty gloom
together, his brilliant form regained its strength. Grief lifted her
brimming eyes to his and caught their power.
[Illustration]
A great wave of tenderness broke over the mournful face of Fate; her
calm glance rested prophetically on the two figures as she addressed
them for the last time.
"But her love of thee shall endure until the Lilies of Grief are lost in
the Roses of Love; for Love shall be king of Grief, and of Time, and of
Eternity."
[Illustration: UNTIL THE LILIES OF GRIEF ARE LOST IN THE ROSES OF LOVE]