All that day there was a light on her face that did one's heart good to see; and when Lady Lanswell saw her that evening she knew that all was well.

"Lance's little child!" The words had been a death-knell to Leone. She had seen his wife and lived--she had seen him in his home with that same fair wife by his side, and she had lived; but at the thought of her rival's children in his arms her whole soul died.

Died--never to live again. She sat for some time just where Lady Marion left her, and she said to herself a thousand times over and over again those words--"Lance's little child." Only G.o.d knows the anguish that came over her, the piercing sorrow, the bitter pain--the memory of those few months when she had believed herself to be Lance's wife. She fell on her knees with a great, pa.s.sionate cry.

"Oh, Heaven," she cried, "save me from myself!"

The most beautiful woman in Europe, the most gifted singer on the stage, the idol of the world of fashion--she lay there helpless, hopeless, despairing, with that one cry rising from her lips on which a world had hung:

"Heaven have mercy on me, and save me from myself!"

When she woke, the real world seemed to have vanished from her. She heard the sound of running water; a mill-wheel turning in a deep stream; she heard the rush and the foaming of water, the song of the birds overhead, the rustle of the great boughs, the cooing of the blue and white pigeons. Why, surely, that was a dream of home.

Home--the old farmhouse where Robert Noel lived, the kind, slow, stolid farmer. She could hear him calling, "Leone, where are you?" and the pigeons deafened her as they whirled round her head. She struggled for a time with her dazed, bewildered senses; but she could not tell which was the real life, whether she was at home again in the old farmhouse, and had dreamed a long, troubled dream, or whether she was dreaming now.

Her brain burned--it was like liquid fire; and she seemed to see always a golden-haired child.

"Lance's little child." Yes, there he was holding mother and child both in his arms, kissing them, while she lay there helpless and despairing.

"Mine was always a mad love," she said to herself--"a mad love."

Then she heard a sound of music--softest, sweetest music--floating through the room, and woke to reason with a terrible shudder to find that she was singing the old, sweet song:

"I would the grave would hide me, For there alone is peace."

"I have been mad," she said to herself; "those words drove me mad, 'Lance's little child.'"

She went to her room and bathed her head in ice-cold water. The pain grew less, but not the burning heat.

The idea became fixed in her mind that she must go back to the old mill-stream; she did not know why, she never asked herself why; that was her haven of rest, by the sound of rushing waters. Within sight of the mill-wheel, and the trees, and the water lilies, all would be well, the cloud would pa.s.s from her mind, the fire from her brain, the sword from her heart.

She had two letters to write, one to the manager with whom her engagement expired in two nights, telling him she was ill and had gone away for her health, and that he would not probably hear of her for some time; and another to Lord Chandos. It was simple and sad:

"Good-bye. I am going--not to Berlin--but away from Europe, and I shall never return; but before I leave I shall go to the mill-stream to look at and listen to the waters for the last time.

Good bye, Lance. In heaven you will know how much I have loved you, never on earth. In heaven you will know why I have left you. Be kind, and true, and good to all who are dear to you. Lance, if I die first, I shall wait inside the golden gates of heaven for you."

She did one thing more, which proved that her reason was still clear.

She paid off all her servants, and to the most trusted one left power to give up her house in her name, as she was leaving it.

And far off the mill-wheel turned in the stream, and the water-lilies stirred faintly us the white foam pa.s.sed 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 la.s.s was so near?"

She walked on through the green lane, where the hedges were one ma.s.s 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? G.o.d 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?