I had longed to speak on the day when my
mother told me of her death.

“Let me go away alone, for a little while,” I
said. “I shall bear it better when I have looked
once more at the place where I first saw her—
when I have knelt and prayed by the grave
where they have laid her to rest.”

I departed on my journey—my journey to the
grave of Laura Fairlie.

It was a quiet autumn afternoon, when I
stopped at the solitary station, and set forth
alone, on foot, by the well-remembered road.
The waning sun was shining faintly through
thin white clouds; the air was warm and still;
the peacefulness of the lonely country was
overshadowed and saddened by the influence of the
falling year.

I reached the moor; I stood again on the
brow of the hill; I looked on, along the path—
and there were the familiar garden trees in the
distance, the clear sweeping semicircle of the
drive, the high white walls of Limmeridge House.
The chances and changes, the wanderings and
dangers of months and months past, all shrank
and shrivelled to nothing in my mind. It was
like yesterday, since my feet had last trodden
the fragrant heathy ground! I thought I should
see her coming to meet me, with her little straw
hat shading her face, her simple dress fluttering
in the air, and her well-filled sketch-book
ready in her hand.

Oh, Death, thou hast thy sting! oh, Grave,
thou hast thy victory!

I turned aside; and there below me, in the
glen, was the lonesome grey church; the porch
where I had waited for the coming of the woman
in white; the hills encircling the quiet burial-
ground; the brook bubbling cold over its stony
bed. There was the marble cross, fair and white,
at the head of the tomb—the tomb that now
rose over mother and daughter alike.

I approached the grave. I crossed once more
the low stone stile, and bared my head as I
touched the sacred ground. Sacred to gentleness
and goodness; sacred to reverence and grief.

I stopped before the pedestal from which the
cross rose. On one side of it, on the side nearest
to me, the newly-cut inscription met my eyes—
the hard, clear, cruel black letters which told
the story of her life and death. I tried to read
them. I did read, as far as the name. “Sacred
to the Memory of Laura——” The kind blue
eyes dim with tears; the fair head drooping
wearily; the innocent, parting words which
implored me to leave her—oh, for a happier last
memory of her than this; the memory I took
away with me, the memory I bring back with
me to her grave!

A second time, I tried to read the inscription.
I saw, at the end, the date of her death; and,
above it——

Above it, there were lines on the marble,
there was a name among them, which disturbed
my thoughts of her. I went round to the other
side of the grave, where there was nothing to
read—nothing of earthly vileness to force its way
between her spirit and mine.

I knelt down by the tomb. I laid my hands,
I laid my head, on the broad white stone, and
closed my weary eyes on the earth around, on
the light above. I let her come back to me.
Oh, my love! my love! my heart may speak to
you now! It is yesterday again, since we parted
—yesterday, since your dear hand lay in mine—
yesterday, since my eyes looked their last on
you. My love! my love!

* * * * *

Time had flowed on; and Silence had fallen,
like thick night, over its course.

The first sound that came, after the heavenly
peace, rustled faintly, like a passing breath of
air, over the grass of the burial-ground. I heard
it nearing me slowly, until it came changed to
my ear—came like footsteps moving onward—
then stopped.

I looked up.

The sunset was near at hand. The clouds
had parted; the slanting light fell mellow
over the hills. The last of the day was cold
and clear and still in the quiet valley of the
dead.

Beyond me, in the burial-ground, standing
together in the cold clearness of the lower light, I
saw two women. They were looking towards
the tomb; looking towards me.

Two.

They came a little on; and stopped again.
Their veils were down, and hid their faces from
me. When they stopped, one of them raised
her veil. In the still evening light, I saw the
face of Marian Halcombe.

Changed, changed as if years had passed over
it! The eyes large and wild, and looking at
me with a strange terror in them. The face
worn and wasted piteously. Pain and fear and
grief written on her as with a brand.

I took one step towards her from the grave.
She never moved—she never spoke. The veiled
woman with her cried out faintly. I stopped.
The springs of my life fell low; and the
shuddering of an unutterable dread crept over me
from head to foot.

The woman with the veiled face moved away
from her companion, and came towards me
slowly. Left by herself, standing by herself,
Marian Halcombe spoke. It was the voice that
I remembered—the voice not changed, like the
frightened eyes and the wasted face.

“My dream! my dream!” I heard her say
these words softly, in the awful silence. She
sank on her knees, and raised her clasped hands
to the heaven. “Father! strengthen him.
Father! help him, in his hour of need.”

The woman came on; slowly and silently
came on. I looked at her—at her, and at none
other, from that moment.

The voice that was praying for me, faltered
and sank low—then rose on a sudden, and called
affrightedly, called despairingly to me to come
away.

But the veiled woman had possession of me,
body and soul. She stopped on one side of the
grave. We stood face to face, with the tombstone
between us. She was close to the inscription