A Mad Love, Charlotte Mary Brame [read this if txt] 📗

the stream, and the water-lilies stirred faintly us the white foam passed them by.


CHAPTER LXII.


"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.

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Publication Date: 09-17-2010

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