Silencieux!  Ah, how happy they had been before the coming of Silencieux!  How frail is our happiness, how suddenly it can die!  One moment it seems built for eternity, marble-based and glittering with towers,—­the next, where it stood is lonely grass and dew, not a stone left.  Ah, yes, how happy they had been; and then Antony by a heartless chance had seen Silencieux, and in an instant their happiness had been at an end for ever.  Only a glance of the eyes and love is born, only a glance of the eyes, and alas! love must die.

A glance of the eyes and all the old kindness is gone, a glance of the eyes, and from the face you love the look you seek has died out for everlasting.

“O Antony!  Antony!” moaned Beatrice, as she wandered alone in those dank autumn lanes, “if you would only come back to me for one short day, come back with the old look on your face, be to me for a little while as you once were, I think I could gladly die—­”

Die!  A tattered flower caught her glance, shaking chilly in the damp wind, and once more she heard the whisper, “Death is coming!”

Near where she walked, stood, in the midst of a small meadow overgrown with nettles, the blackened ruin of a cottage long since destroyed by fire.  On the edge of the little sandy lane, perilously near the feet of the passer-by, was its forgotten well, the mouth choked with weeds and briers.

In her absorption Beatrice had almost walked into it.  Now she parted the bushes and looked down.  A stone fell as she looked, making a sepulchral echo.  What a place to hide one’s sorrow in!  No one would think of looking there.  Antony might think she had gone away, or he might drag the three black ponds, but here it was unlikely any one would come.  And in a little while—­a very little while—­Antony would forget, or sometimes make himself happy with his unhappiness.

Ah! but Wonder!  No, if Antony needed her no more, Wonder did.  She must stay for Wonder’s sake.  And perhaps, who could say, Antony might yet need her, might come to her some day and say “Beatrice,” with the old voice.  To be really necessary to Antony again, if only for one little hour,—­yes! she could wait and suffer for that.

CHAPTER XIII

THE HUMAN SACRIFICE

The valley was an ill place even for the body, a lair of rheums and agues; and disembodied fevers waited in wells for the sunk pail.  For the valley was very beautiful, beautiful with that green beauty that only comes of damp and decay.

Late one October night, Antony, alone with Silencieux, as was now again his custom, was surprised to hear footsteps coming hastily up the wood, and even more surprised at the sudden unusual appearance of Beatrice.

“I am sorry to disturb you, Antony,” she said, noting with a pang how the lamp had been arranged to throw a vivid light upon Silencieux, “but I want you to come down and look at Wonder.  I’m afraid she is ill.”