He understood his mother's character too well to dare any delay. He was sure that if Leone remained even one day under his roof, when the time came that he should introduce her to the world as his wife, his mother would bring the fact against her, and so prevent her from even knowing people.

There was no help for it—he must tell her. He wrote a letter telling her he would be at River View for luncheon on the following day; he knew that he must leave that same evening for the Continent.

He would have given the world to have been able to renounce the royal favor, of which he had felt so proud, but he could not. To have done so would have been to have deprived him not only of all position, but to have incurred disgrace. To have refused a favor so royally bestowed would have been an act of ingratitude which would have deprived him of court favor for life.

He must go; and when the first pain was over, he said to himself it was, perhaps, the best thing that could have happened. He could not have borne to know that Leone was near him, yet not see or speak to her.

It was all for the best, painful as it was. If for these long months they must be parted, it was better for him to be abroad—he dare not have trusted himself at home. He loved Leone so well that he knew his love would have broken down the barriers which the law had placed between them. He would go to River View, and, let it pain him as it would, he would tell her all, he would leave her as happy as was possible under the circumstances. He would stay away until the time was over; then, the very day he came of age, he would return and remarry her. He laughed to scorn his mother's prophecy. He prove untrue to his darling! The heavens must fall first. Not for him the mill-wheel story—not for him the broken ring.

How happy they would be, then, when the time had passed, and he could introduce Leone as his beloved wife to the whole world. He would try and think of that time without dwelling more than he could help on the wretched present. He went home to River View, but the first glance at Leone's face told him that she knew all.

It was not so much that the beauty had gone from it, that the beautiful eyes were dim with long, passionate weeping, or that the lips trembled as she tried to smile. Her whole face had changed so completely; its tragic intensity, the power of its despair, overmastered him.

Lord Chandos clasped her in his arms, and covered the sad young face with kisses and tears.

"My darling," he said, "you know all; I can see you know all."

The ring of happy music had quite died from her voice—he hardly recognized it.

"Yes," she answered him, "I know all."

"My darling," he cried, "it is not my fault. You will think I ought to have known it; but I swear to Heaven that I never even thought or suspected it. I would rather have been dead than have put you in a false position, Leone—you know that."

She laid her fair arms on his neck, and hid her white face on his breast.

"I am sure of it," she said, gently; "I have never thought of that: I know that you intended to make me your wife."

"So you are my wife, let who will say to the contrary—you are my beloved, revered, honored wife, Leone. Why, my darling, all the strength has left you! Look up, Leone. They have done the worst they can do, and what is it? They have parted us for a few months. When the parting is ended we shall be together for life."

She tightened the clasp of her fair arms around his neck.

"I know; I have faith in you, but it is so hard to bear, Lance. We were so happy, and you were all the world to me. How shall I live through the long months to come? Lance, perhaps you will be angry with me—I have done something that perhaps you will not like."

"That would not be possible, Leone. I must always like everything you do. Why, my darling, how you tremble! Sit down, there is nothing in all the world to fear."

"No; let me tell you what I have to say with my head here on your breast. You must not be angry with me, Lance. When I had seen Mr. Sewell, I felt that I could not bear it. I went down to Cawdor and saw Lady Lanswell."

He started with surprise. She raised her face to his, longing to see if he were angry, yet half afraid.

"You went to Cawdor to see my mother," he repeated. "My darling, it was a strong measure. What did she say or do?"

"You are not angry with me for it, Lance?" she asked, gently.

"I angry, my darling? No, a thousand times no. I could not be angry with you. Why did you go—for what purpose?"

"I went to ask her to have pity on us; not to enforce this cruel sentence; to be pitiful to me, because I love you so dearly."

"And her answer?" asked Lord Chandos, eagerly.

"Her answer was everything that was cruel and wicked. Ah, forgive me, Lance, she is your mother, I know, but she has taken in her cruel hands a divine power. She has parted us and I prayed her to be merciful. I told her how dearly we loved each other, but she had no pity—no mercy—no woman's kindness, no sympathy. She was cold, cruel, proud, haughty. She insulted, humiliated and outraged me. She refused to hear one word, and when I left her, I swore to be revenged on her."

The slender form trembled with passion. He drew her even more closely to his breast.

"My darling, you need not think of vengeance," he said. "I am grieved that my mother was unkind to you. Had you consulted me, I should most certainly have said do not go. Mind, I am not angry or annoyed, only so far as this, that I would not have you irritated for the world. I must say that I had always felt that if my mother could see you our cause was won. I did not believe that any creature living could resist that face."

She looked up at him with unutterable love.

"Do you really care so much for it, Lance? Have you never seen a face you like as well?"

"No, and never shall see one, my darling; when we are parted it will live in my heart bright and fair until we meet again."

Then the tender arms clung more tightly to him.

"Must we be parted, Lance?" she whispered. "We were married in the sight of Heaven—must we leave each other? Oh, Lance, it cannot be true; no one can say that I am not your wife."

Quietly and calmly trying to command himself, he told her then how inevitable it was that they must submit to the voice of the law during the next few months, so as to insure their future happiness and fair name. And then he told her of the favor conferred upon him, and how he was compelled to accept it or never to hope for court favor again.

She listened with a face that seemed turned to stone. Slowly the tender arms unwound themselves and fell by her side; slowly the beautiful eyes left his and filled with despair. He tried to console her.

"You see, my darling," he said, "that in any case we must have parted. Though this appointment is a mark of royal regard, still it is quite imperative. I could not have refused it without ruin to my future career, and I could not have taken you with me, so that for a time we must have parted."

"I see," she said, gently, but her hands fell, and a shudder that she could not control passed over her.

"Leone," said Lord Chandos, "we have not long to be together, and we have much to arrange. Tell me, first, what you thought of my mother?"

"She is very beautiful, very proud, very haughty, cold and cruel—if not wicked," said the young girl, slowly.

"That is not very flattering," said Lord Chandos.

"I could have loved and worshiped her if she had been kind to me," said Leone; "but she was cruel, and some time or other I shall have my revenge."

He looked gravely at her.

"I do not like to hear that, my darling. How can you be revenged?"

A light came over her face.

"I do not know. I have a prophetic insight at times into the future. As I stand here, I know that a time will come when your mother will weep to me as bitterly as I wept to her, and just as much in vain."

"I hope not," he answered. "All will be well for us, Leone. But revenge, my darling, is a horrible word, and does not suit those sweet lips at all. Let me kiss away the sound of it."

He bent his handsome head and kissed her lips with love that seemed stronger than death and true as eternity.



CHAPTER XX.

THE PARTING.

They had been talking for more than an hour. He had given her the whole history of the royal wedding, of what his embassy consisted of, of the length of time he would be absent, how he should think of her continually, how he implored her to write to him every day, and she had given him every detail of her interview with Mr. Sewell and Lady Lanswell. Then he said to himself that it was time they made some arrangement over the future.

"So we are to live apart until next June, Leone," he said, gently. "It is a terrible sentence; but the time will soon pass. Tell me, my darling, where you would like to live until June comes?"

She looked at him with startled eyes.

"Need I leave home, Lance? Let me live here; I could not fancy any other place was home. I feel as though if I once left here I should never see you again."

"My darling, that is all fancy—nothing but fancy. No matter where you are, my birthday comes on the thirtieth day of June, and on that day I shall return to you to make you what I have always believed you to be—my wife."

"I am your wife, Lance; let others say what they will, you will not deny it."

"Not I, Leone. You are my wife; and the very first day the law permits you shall bear my name, just as you now share my heart and life."

"On the thirtieth day of June," she sighed. "I shall count every hour, every minute until then. I wish, Lance, I could sleep a long sleep from the hour of parting until the hour of meeting—if I could but turn my face from the light of day and not open my eyes until they rest on you again. I shall have to live through every hour and every minute, and they will be torture."

"The time will soon pass, Leone, my darling; it will be full of hope, not despair. When the green leaves spring and the sunshine warms the land, you will say to yourself, 'June is coming, and June brings back my love;' when the lark sings and the wood-pigeons make their nests, when the hawthorn blooms on the hedges and the lilac rears its tall plumes, you will say 'June is near.' When the roses laugh and the lilies bloom, when the brook sings in the wood, when the corn grows ripe in the meadows, you will say 'June is come, and it brings my love.'"

"My love—oh, my love," sighed the girl, and her voice had the passionate sweetness of a siren.

"I shall come back to you, Leone, with everything bright, smiling, and beautiful; every rose that blooms, every bird that sings, every green leaf that springs will be a message from me to you to say that I am coming; when the wind whispers, and the trees murmur, it will be the same story, that I am coming back to my darling. Let us picture the thirtieth of June, and your mind shall rest on that picture. It will be a bright day, I know, the sky all blue and clear, not a cloud in it; but with the half-golden light one sees in June skies. You can see that picture, Leone?"

"Yes," she replied, drawing nearer him, and resting her head again on his breast.

"The sun will be low on the hills, and every living thing will be laughing in its light. The great trees will have grown strong in it, the flowers will have brightened, and the river there, Leone, will be running so deep and clear, kissing the green banks and the osier beds, carrying with it the leaves and flowers that will fall on its bosom, and the garden will be filled with the flowers we love the best. You see that picture, too, my love?"

"Yes, I see it," she whispers.

"Wherever I may be," he continued, "I shall so arrange my journey that I may be with you on the morning of my birthday. You see the pretty white gate yonder where the tall white roses climb in summer? My darling, rise early on the thirtieth of June and watch that gate. Even should such an impossible thing be as that you should never have one word of or from me, get up and watch that gate on the thirtieth of June. You will see me enter. I will part the clustering roses; I shall gather the sweetest, together with the fairest lily that blooms, and bring them to you as emblems of your own dearest self. You will see me walk down the broad path there, and you will meet me at the door."

"Oh, my love, my love!" sighed the girl, "would that it were June now."

He bent down to kiss the loving lips.

"It will come," he said; "let me finish the picture. I shall have a special license with me so that we can be remarried that day; and then the world shall know who is Lady Chandos. Then my lady mother shall seek you who have sought her; then she shall ask to know you, my darling, and this hideous past shall be to us a dream and nothing more. Leone, when sad thoughts come to you promise me that you will dwell on this side of the picture and forget the other."

"I promise, Lance," she said, gently.

"You see, my love—whom I shall so soon call again by the beautiful name of wife—you see that your life does not lie in ruins round you; the only difference is that I shall be away."

"And that makes the difference of the whole world to me," said Leone.

"And to me," said Lord Chandos; "but it will soon be over, Leone. You can go on living here—it is no unusual thing for a lady to live alone while her husband is abroad. You can keep the same servants; you need not make the least alteration in your life in any way. Only remain here in silence and patience until I return. Now do you see, my darling, it is not so dreadful?"

"It is hard enough," she replied; "but you have taken away the sting. Oh, my darling, you will be true to me? I am only a simple village girl, with nothing, your mother says, to recommend me; but I love you—I love you. You will be true to me?"

"My dearest Leone, you may as well ask if the stars will be true to heaven, or heaven to itself, as ask me if I will be true to you. You are my life—a man is not false to his own life. You are soul of my soul—no man betrays his soul! It would be easier for me to die than be false to you, my love."

The passionate words reassured her—something of hope came over the beautiful face.

"Lance," she said, "do you remember the mill-wheel and how the water used to sing the words of the song?"

"Yes, I remember it; but those will never come true over us, Leone, never. I shall never break my vows or you yours."

"No; yet how the water sung it over and over again:

"'Those vows were all forgotten, The ring asunder broke.'

I can hear it now, Lance. It seems to me the wind is repeating it."

"It is only your fancy, my darling," he said.

But she went on:

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

Ah, Lance, my love—Lance, will it happen to either of us to find peace in the grave?"

"No, we shall find peace in life first," he said.

She laid her hand on his arm.

"Lance," she said, "I had a terrible dream last night. I could not sleep for many hours. When at last my eyes closed I found myself by the old mill stream. I thought that I had been driven there by some pain too great for words, and I flung myself into the stream. Oh, Lance, my love—Lance, I felt myself drowning. I felt my body floating, then sinking. My hair caught in the bending branches of a tree. The water filled my eyes and my ears. I died. In my sleep I went through all the pain of death. My last thought was of you. 'Lance,' I cried, in death as in life, 'Lance, come back to me in death!' It was a horrible dream, was it not? Do you think it will ever come true?"

"No," he replied; but his handsome face had grown paler, and the shadows of deep trouble lay in his eyes.

She raised her face to his again.

"Lance," she asked gently, "do you think that any creature—any one has ever loved another as well as I love you? I often wonder about it. I see wives happy and contented, and I wonder if their husbands' smiles make heaven to them as yours do to me."

"I do not think there are many people capable of loving as you do, Leone," he replied, "and now, my darling, I must leave you. Leone, spend all your time in study. A few months more of work as hard as the last three months, and my beautiful wife will be as accomplished as she is graceful. Study will help you to pass away the time."

"I will do anything you tell me, Lance. You will let me write to you every day, and you must write often to me."

"I will, sweet; but you will not be uneasy if my letters are not so frequent as yours; the foreign post is not so regular as ours; and if we travel in Germany I may not always be able to write."

"I will trust you," said the loving voice. "I am sure you will never fail me."

She was proud as an empress, she had the high spirit of a queen; but now that the moments of parting had come, both failed her. She clung to him, weeping passionate tears—it was so cruelly hard, for she loved him so well. Her tears rained on his face, her trembling lips could utter no words for the bitter sobs. Never was sorrow so great, or despair so pitiful. She kissed his face with all the passion of her love.

"Good-bye, my love," she sighed. "Oh, Lance, be true to me—my life lies in yours."

"If ever I prove untrue to you, my darling, let Heaven be false to me," he said. "Leone, give me one smile; I cannot go until I have seen one."

She tried. He kissed the white lips and the weeping eyes.

"Good-bye, my beloved," he said. "Think of the thirteenth of June, and the roses I shall bring back with me."

And then he was gone.



CHAPTER XXI.

WAITING FOR THE DAY.

How the days of that dreary summer passed Leone never knew; the keenest smart of the pain came afterward. At first she was too utterly stunned and bewildered by the suddenness of the blow to realize all that happened. It was impossible to believe that her marriage had been set aside, and that her husband, as she called him, had gone away; but, as the days rolled on, she slowly but surely realized it. There was no break in the terrible monotony. The voice that made such music in her ears was silent, the footsteps that had made her heart beat and her pulse thrill were heard no more; the handsome face, always brightened with such tender love for her, no longer brought sunshine and warmth; it was as though the very light had gone out of her life, and left it all bleak, dark and cold.

For some days the proud heart, the proud, unyielding spirit gave way, and she longed for death; life without Lance seemed so utterly unbearable. Then youth and a naturally strong constitution triumphed. She began to think how much she could learn so as to surprise him on his return. Her soul was fired with ambition; in a few months she would achieve wonders. She set herself so much; she would become proficient on the piano and the harp; she would improve her singing; she would practice drawing; she would take lessons in French and Italian.

"I can learn if I will," she said to herself; "I feel power without limit in myself. If I fix my own will on attaining a certain object I shall not fail. Lance shall find an accomplished wife when he returns."

She resolved to give her whole time and attention to it. Thanks to the old books in Farmer Noel's house, she was better read than the generality of ladies. No toil, no trouble daunted her. She rose in the morning long hours before the rest of the household were awake, and she read for hours after they were asleep. The masters who attended her, not knowing her motive, wondered at her marvelous industry. They wondered, too, at the great gifts nature had bestowed upon her—at the grand voice, capable of such magnificent cultivation; at the superb dramatic instinct which raised her so completely above the commonplace; at the natural grace, the beauty of face and attitude, the love of the beautiful and picturesque. They wondered why so many great gifts, such remarkable beauty and talent should have been lavished on one creature. They strove with her—the more she learned the more they tried to teach her; the harder she worked the harder they worked with her.

As the weeks passed on her progress was wonderful. She was often amazed at herself. It was so sweet to study for his sake, to rise in the early morning and work for him.

She watched with the keenness of love the last leaves fall from the trees—she watched with the keen avidity of love for the white snow and the wail of wintery winds, for the long, dark nights and gray, cold dawn. Each one brought her nearer and nearer; every day was a pain past and a nearer joy. Welcome to the nipping frost and the northern winds; welcome the hail, the rain, the sleet—it brought him nearer. How she prayed for him with the loving simplicity of a child. If Heaven would but spare him, would save him from all dangers, would send him sunny skies and favorable winds, would work miracles in his behalf, would avert all accident by rail and road, would bring him back to her longing, loving arms—ah, if the kind, dear Heaven would do this. When she went out for her daily walks she met the poor, the wretched—she would give liberal alms; and when they said:

"God bless your bonny face, my lady," she would say:

"No, not mine; ask him to bless some one else; some one whom I love and who is far away."

It seemed to her like the turning point of a life-time when Christmas Day was passed. Now for the glad New Year which was to bring him back to her.

The first days of the year were months to her. This year was to bring her love, her husband, her marriage—all—blessed new year. When the bells chimed on the first day she went to church, and kneeling with those true of heart and simple of faith as herself she prayed the new year might bring him home.

It was pitiful to see how the one precious hour of the day was the hour in which she wrote to him those long, loving letters that were poems in themselves. He wrote, but not so often; and she saw from the newspaper reports of all that he did and where he went.

She will never forget the day on which she saw the first snow-drop. It was like a message from a lovely modest flower, raising its white head as though it would say to her, "No more tears; he is coming."

She went into a very ecstasy of delight then. Golden primroses and pale cowslips came; the sweet violets bloomed, the green leaves budded, the birds began to sing; it was spring, delicate, beautiful spring, and in June he would come.

She was almost ready for him. It was April now, and she had worked without intermission. She loved to think of his pleasure when he found her so improved. She delighted in picturing what he would say, and how he would reward her with kisses and caresses; how he would praise her for her efforts; how proud even he would be of her.

"I want you to tell me the exact truth," she said to one of the masters.

"I will tell you any truth you wish to hear," he said.

"I want you to tell me this. If you met me anywhere, and did not know that in my youth I had received no training, should you, from anything in my manner, find it out?"

"No," he replied, frankly. "I would defy any one to know that you have not been born the daughter of a duke. Permit me to say, and believe me I am sincere, your manner and conversation are perfection."

She was happy after that; people would not be able to laugh at him and say he had married a low-born wife. She would be equal to any lady in the land when she was Lady Chandos.

The spring was giving place to the laughing, golden-hued summer. He had gone to Italy; his parents were there; they had been spending the spring in Rome and he had joined them.

Nothing, Leone thought, could be more natural. His letters from Rome were not so frequent or so long; but that was no matter; he had less time, perhaps; and being with his parents not so much opportunity.

Her faith in him never lessened, never faltered, never wavered.

True, she wondered at times why he had gone to his parents, why he had joined them after the cruel way in which they had behaved. She could not quite understand.

It seemed to her at times almost disrespect to her that he should associate with them until they had apologized to her, and made amends for the wrong done; but then, she said to herself, he knew best; all he did was well done, and there was nothing to fear.

Then May came—so short the time was growing. Everything he had spoken of was here—the green leaves, the singing birds, the soaring lark, the cooing wood-pigeon. Only a few more weeks now, and the girl grew more beautiful every day as her hope grew nearer its fulfillment.

She was much struck by a conversation she had one day with Signor Corli, her singing-master. She had sung, to his intense delight and satisfaction, one of the most difficult and beautiful cavatinas from "Der Freischutz," and he marveled at her wonderful voice and execution.

"It is ten thousand pities," he said, "that you have a position which forbids you to think of the stage."

She laughed at the time.

"The stage?" she repeated. "Why, signor?"

"Because you have the genius which would make you the finest dramatic singer in the world," he replied; "you would be the very queen of song. I repeat it—it is ten thousand pities you have been placed in such a position the stage could never attract you."

"No, it certainly will not," she said. "But do you think I have really talent for it, signor?"

"No, not talent," he replied, "but genius. Once in every hundred years such a one is given to the world. If you went on the stage I venture to prophesy you would drive the world mad."

She laughed.

"It is just as well, then, that the world is saved from madness," she said.

"It is not well for the world of art," said Signor Corli.

She smiled after he was gone, half flattered by his words, yet half amazed. Could what he said be true? Was this dramatic power, as he called it, the power she had felt within herself which made her different to others? Then she laughed again. What did it matter to her—her life would be spent under the shelter of her husband's love—the husband who was to claim her in June.



CHAPTER XXII.

THE RECONCILIATION.

Those few months had been filled with excitement for Lord Chandos. The pain he had felt at leaving his wife had been great and hard to bear, but life differs so greatly for men and women. Women must sit at home and weep. For them comes no great field of action, no stir of battle, no rush of fight; their sorrow weighs them down because they have nothing to shake it off. With men it is so different; they rush into action and forget it.

Leone was for some days prostrate with the pains of her sorrow. Lord Chandos suffered acutely for a couple of hours; then came the excitement of his journey, the whirl of travel and adventure, the thousand sources of interest and pleasure.

He was compelled to take his thoughts from Leone. He had a hundred other interests; not that he loved or cared for her less, but that he was compelled to give his attention to the duties intrusted to him. He was compelled to set his sorrow aside.

"I must work now," he said to himself, "I shall have time to think afterward."

He would have time to look his sorrow in the face—now it must stand aside.

When he really brought himself face to face with the world, it was impossible to help feeling flattered by the position he held. Every one congratulated him.

"You start to-morrow," one would say. "Glad to hear you have been chosen," said another. One prophesied continual court favor. Another that he would receive great honors. Every one seemed to consider him quite a favorite of fortune. No one even ever so faintly alluded to his marriage, to the lawsuit, or to the decision.

He was divided between gratitude for the relief and irritation that what had been of such moment to him had been nothing to others. Yet it was a relief to find his darling's name held sacred. He had dreaded to hear about it—to have the matter discussed in any word or shape; but it seemed as though the world had formed one grand conspiracy not to mention it.

Then came the excitement of traveling. His companion, Lord Dunferline, one of the most famous statesmen and noblest peers of England, was many years older than himself. He was a keen, shrewd, clever man, full of practical knowledge and common sense; he was the best friend who could have been chosen for the young lord; and Lady Lanswell congratulated herself on that as a magnificent piece of business. Lord Dunferline had not an iota of sentiment in his whole composition; his idea was that people came into this world to make the very best use they can of it—to increase in wealth, prosperity, and fortune; he believed in buying well, selling well, doing everything well, making the best use of life while it is ours to enjoy; he believed in always being comfortable, bright, cheery; he knew nothing of trouble; sickness, poverty, loss of friends, were all unknown evils to him; he had a prosperous, busy, happy life.

He was one on whom no honor was ever wasted, lost, or thrown away. He made the most of everything; he was rigid in the observation of etiquette, and exacted the utmost deference in his turn. He talked so long and so grandly of the honor conferred on them both that at last Lord Chandos began to find the importance of it too.

The marriage was to take place at Berlin; and they were received with something like royal honors. Society opened its arms to them; the elite of Berlin vied with each other in giving fetes of all kinds to the English noblemen who represented the English queen.

Still Lord Chandos made time for his letters; he would rather have gone without food than have missed that daily letter from Leone. He wrote to her as often as possible; and his letters would have satisfied even the most loving and sensitive heart. He told her how he loved her, how he missed her, how empty the world seemed, in spite of all its grandeur, because she was not near him—words that comforted her when she read them. Were they true or false? Who shall tell?

Then when the wedding festivities were held, it was not possible for him to write often, his time was so fully occupied. He wrote one sentence that consoled her and it was this—that, although he was surrounded by some of the loveliest women in Europe, there was not a face or a figure that could compare with hers. How she kissed the words as she read them, as women do the written words of the men they love!

It was such a different world, this he lived in now. It was all a blaze of color and brightness, a blaze of jewels, a scene of festivity and mirth, a scene of regal splendor and ever-changing gayety. There was no time for thought or reflection. Lord Chandos was always either being feted or feting others.

The few hasty words dashed off home said but little—it was a different world. If ever at night he found himself under the light of the stars, if he heard the ripple of water, if he stood for a moment watching the swaying of green boughs, his thoughts at once flew to her—the happy, simple home-life at Richmond was like some quiet, beautiful dream, the very memory of which gives rest. He found himself at times wondering how he liked it so well, it was such a contrast to the feted courtier's life he led now. He thought of its calm as he thought of a far-off summer lake.

There had been no flash of jewels, no sheen of cloth of gold there, no grand uniforms, no thrones there, no crowns, no kings or queens—Leone and himself; yet how happy they had been. How he loved her; and his young heart warmed with his love.

What would the world say when she came forth in her imperial loveliness? He liked to think about it. There were many handsome women and beautiful girls, but none to compare to her—not one.

He had intended to love her always with the same warmth and truth; he meant to be constant to her as the needle to the pole. He believed himself to be so; but insensibly the new life changed him—the gay, bright, glistening world influenced him.

After a time—even though he loved her just the same—after a time his thoughts ceased to dwell with such fervent interest on the pretty, simple home. After a time he began to feel his old keen sense of pleasure in all that the world had of the beautiful and bright; he began to feel an interest in its honors and titles.

"I have been lotus-eating," he said to himself; "there is nothing for it but to rouse myself."

In a short time he became very popular in Berlin. The young English noble, Lord Chandos, was as popular as any young sovereign, and there was little need to hurry home.

He went one evening to a very select ball given by the wife of the English embassador, Lady Baden. She smiled when she saw him.

"I have a surprise for you," she said, warmly. "I have what I know to be a most charming surprise. Will you go to the little salon, the third on the left? The door is closed, open it, and you will see what you will see."

Lord Chandos bowed and went in the direction she indicated. He did not expect to see anything particular, but he respected the caprices of les grandes dames. He opened the door carelessly enough and started back in amaze. There stood his father and mother, his mother's handsome face pale with anxiety, her jeweled arms outstretched, her fine eyes full of love.

"Lance," she said, "my dear son, how good it is to see you again!"

With the cautious avoidance of anything like a scene that distinguishes Englishmen, Lord Chandos turned first and carefully closed the door. Then the earl spoke:

"My dear boy," he said, "I am so pleased to see you!"

But there was no response for either on the face of their son. He bowed coldly, and his mother's jeweled arms fell by her side.

"This is a surprise, indeed," he said. "I should have considered some little notice more agreeable."

"Lance, you may say what you will to me," said the earl, "but remember, not one word to your mother."

"My mother was very cruel to me," he said, coldly, turning from her.

But my lady had recovered herself. She held out her hands with charming grace; she looked at her son with a charming smile.

"My dearest Lance," she said, "children call the physician who cuts off a diseased limb cruel, yet he is most merciful. I am even more merciful than he. I did what I did in the spirit of truest kindness to you, my son."

"Let there be no mention of the word kindness between us," he said. "You nearly broke the heart, and certainly ruined the life of the girl whom I loved. Mother, if that be what you call kindness, then I do not understand the English tongue."

"I did it for your sake, my dearest Lance," said my lady, caressingly.

"One would have thought that, loving the girl with my whole heart, for my sake you would have loved her also."

"Love plays but a poor part in life, Lance," said the Countess of Lanswell. "You have too much sense to mar one of the brightest futures a man has before him for the sake of sentimental nonsense called love."

"Mother," said the young lord, "I shall marry her on my twenty-first birthday. I shall not delay one hour. You understand that clearly?"

The Countess of Lanswell shrugged her graceful shoulders.

"You will certainly be able to do as you like then," she said; "but we need not quarrel over it in prospective; we can wait until the event happens; then it will be quite time enough to discuss what we shall do."

"I am quite resolved," said Lord Chandos. "No persuasion, no argument shall induce me to change."

"I have no arguments to use," said my lady, with a proud laugh. "When you are of age you shall do as you like, marry whom you will—no interference of mine will avail; but let us wait until the time comes. My object in coming here is to seek a reconciliation with you. You are our only son, and though you think me proud and cold, I still love and do not care to be at variance with you. Let us be friends, Lance, at least until you are of age."

She held out her hands again with a smile he could not resist.

"I tell you frankly," continued my lady, "that the young person has been to see me. We had quite a melodramatic interview. I do not wish to vex you, Lance, but she would make a capital fifth-rate actress for a tragedy in a barn."

"Come, my lady, that is too bad," said the earl.

The countess laughed.

"It was really sensational," she said. "The conclusion of the interview was a very solemn threat on her part that she would be revenged upon me, so that I must be prepared for war. But, Lance, let it be as it may, we must be friends. You will not refuse your mother when she asks a favor, and it is the first favor, mind."

"I cannot refuse," he replied. "I will be friends, as you phrase it, mother, but you must change your opinion about Leone."

"Another time," said my lady, with a wave of the hand. "Kiss me now, Lance, and be friends. Shake hands with your father. We are staying at the Hotel France. When the ball is over, join us at supper."

And in that way the solemn reconciliation was effected.



CHAPTER XXIII.

A SHREWD SCHEME.

There had been nothing very sentimental in the reconciliation scene between parents and son. The earl and Lord Chandos walked home through the quiet streets of Berlin, while my lady drove. They smoked the cigar of peace, while Lord Chandos reported his social triumphs to his father. No more passed between them on the most important of all subjects—his love, his marriage, and the lawsuit; they spoke of anything and everything else. The only words which went from the heart of the father to the heart of the son, were these:

"I am glad you have made friends with my lady, Lance. She has pined after you, and she is so proud. She says nothing, but I know that she has felt the separation from you most keenly. I am glad it is all right; you must not vex her again, Lance."

"I will not, if I can help it," replied the young lord; and so the conversation ended.

Lord Chandos was a clever man, but he was in the hands of a far more clever woman. When a woman has the gift of strategy, she excels in it, and the countess added this to her other accomplishments. She was a magnificent strategist. Her maneuvers were of the finest; quite beyond the power of one less gifted to detect. A man in her skillful hands was a toy, to be played with as she would. The strongest, the wisest, the most honest, the best, were but wax in her hands. She did just as she would with them, and it was so cleverly done, so skillfully managed, that they never had the faintest idea my lady was twining them around her little fingers. She had two modes of strategy. One was by grand moves, one alone of which was enough to carry a nation. The other means was by a series of finest possible details of intrigue.

She said to herself that her son's marriage with this person should be set aside in some fashion or other, and in the end she prevailed. That was by one grand move.

She was equally resolved that her son should marry Lady Marion Erskine, the beauty, the belle, the wealthiest heiress of the season, and by a series of fine, well-directed maneuvers, she was determined to accomplish that.

The fates were propitious to her. Lady Marion Erskine was the niece and ward of Lady Cambrey, and Lady Cambrey, though guardian of one of the wealthiest heiresses in Europe, was herself poor and almost needy. She was a distant relative of Lady Marion's mother, who had asked her to undertake the charge of her child, and Lady Cambrey had been only too pleased to undertake it. It was arranged that she should remain with Lady Marion Erskine until her marriage, and Lady Cambrey was wise enough to know that she must find her future fortune from the marriage. She must use all her influence in favor of the lover who offered the greatest advantages, and Lady Lanswell was the only woman in England who had the wit to find it out.

That was the darling wish of her life, that her son should marry Lady Marion Erskine, the belle, beauty and heiress; and she saw the beginning of her tactics from this fact, that Lady Cambrey's influence would go with the most munificent lover.

They had one interview in London. The countess had invited Lady Cambrey to a five-o'clock tea.

"We have hardly met this year," said the countess. "We are staying in London for a week or two, though it is quite out of season, and I am so pleased to see you. Is Lady Erskine in town?"

"No; I merely came up to give orders for the redecoration of Erskine House; Lady Marion is tired of it as it is."

"I call it a special providence that you should be in town just now," said Lady Lanswell; "I was quite delighted when I heard it. There is nothing I enjoy more than a cup of tea and a chat with a congenial friend."

This from the countess, to whom champagne and politics were baby play, was refreshing. Lady Cambrey was delighted, and before long the two ladies had opened their hearts to each other. The countess, in the most ingenuous manner possible, told her friend the sad history of her dear boy's entanglement and infatuation; how, in his simplicity, he had positively married the girl, and how, fortunately, the law had freed him.

"You know, my dear Lady Cambrey," she said, "it might have been his ruin, but now, thank Heaven," she added, piously, "it is all over, and my boy is free. I have looked all round England to find a suitable wife for him, and there is no one I should like him to marry half so well as Lady Marion Erskine. You see that I show you the cards in my hands very freely."

"It would be a very good match," said Lady Cambrey, thoughtfully.

"If you use your influence, you will not find me ungrateful," continued the countess; "indeed, I should consider myself bound to assist you in every way—my home, carriages, purse, would always be at your services."

"You are very kind," said Lady Cambrey, and in those few words they perfectly understood each other.

The mother knew that she had virtually sold the honor and loyalty of her son, as Lady Cambrey had sold the free will of her niece.

Then they enjoyed a cup of tea, after which my lady became more confidential.

"Promise," she said, "to persuade Lady Marion to spend the winter in Rome and I shall be quite content."

"She will do it if I advise it," said Lady Cambrey. "She is very docile."

"We can decide on our plans of action when we meet there," said the countess. "The chief thing is to keep all idea of 'our ideas' from my son. Instead of drawing his attention to Lady Marion, we must seem to avoid bringing them together. I understand men. The first result of that will be an intense anxiety on his part to see her. Do you understand?"

"Quite," said Lady Cambrey. "It is really a pleasure to meet some one who understands human nature as you do, Lady Lanswell."

The countess smiled graciously at the compliment, feeling as though it were well deserved.

So it was arranged, and Lady Cambrey's part of the plot was very easy. She had but to suggest to her niece that she should spend the winter in Rome and she would at once fall in with her wish.

Lady Lanswell had settled in her own mind the plan of the whole campaign. She intended to go to Berlin, there to seek a reconciliation with her son, and persuade him to go to Rome with them. She managed it all so well, saying nothing at first of their intended journey, but making herself very agreeable to her son. She brought to him all the flattering things said of them. She studied every little whim, wish, or caprice. She put him on a pedestal and made an idol of him. She was all that was gay, amiable, pleasant and kind. She made herself not only his friend and companion, but everything else in the world to him. She was gay, amiable, gracious, witty. With her still beautiful face and fine figure, she made herself so attractive and charming that Lord Chandos was soon entirely under her influence.

How many mothers might have taken a hint for the management of their sons from her. She found no fault with cigars or latch-keys. She was the essence of all that was kind, yet, at the same time, she was so animated, so bright, so witty, that the time spent with her passed quickly as a dream. Lord Chandos did not even like to think of parting from her; and then, when she was most kind and most attentive to him, she mentioned Rome.

"We are going to Rome, Lance, for the winter," said the countess to her son.

He looked up from the paper he was reading in blank amazement.

"To Rome, mother? Why, what is taking you there?"

"I find there will be some very nice English people there," she said; "I am tired of Paris; it is one eternal glare; I long for the mysterious quiet and dreamy silence of Rome. It will be a pleasant change. I really like a nice circle of English people out of England."

That was the beginning. She was too wise and diplomatic to ask him to go with them. She contented herself by speaking before him of the gayeties they expected, the pleasures they anticipated; then, one day, as they were discussing their plans, she turned to him and said:

"Lance, what do you intend doing this winter? Are you going back to England to think over the fogs?"

"I am not quite sure," he said; and then he wondered why she said nothing about going to Rome with them. At last, when she saw the time had come, she said, carelessly:

"Lance, if you do not care about returning to England, come with us to Rome."

"I shall be delighted."

He looked up with an air of relief. After all, he could not see Leone until summer: why return to England and melancholy? He might just as well enjoy himself in Rome. He knew what select and brilliant circles his mother drew around her. Better for him to be the center of one of those than alone and solitary in England.

"Of course," said the countess, diplomatically, "I will not urge you, I leave it entirely to you. If you think what the fashion of the day calls your duties demand that you should return, do not let me detain you, even for one day."

"I have no particular duties," he said, half gloomily.

He would have liked his mother to have insisted on his going, to have been more imperative, but as she left it entirely to him, he thought her indifferent over the matter.

He was a true man. If she had pressed him to go, urged him, tried to persuade him, he would have gone back to England, and the tragedy of after years would never have happened. As it occurred to him that his mother simply gave the invitation out of politeness, and did not care whether he accepted or not, he decided on going. So when the festivities of Berlin were all ended, he wrote to Leone, saying that he was going to spend the winter with his parents in Rome; that if he could not spend it with her, it mattered little enough to him where is was; but that he was longing with all his heart for the thirtieth of June.



CHAPTER XXIV.

IN THE HANDS OF A CLEVER WOMAN.

"In Rome," said Lady Marion Erskine, to her cousin; "how strange it seems to be really here! Do you know that when I was a little girl and learned Roman history I always thought it a grand fable. I never believed such a place really existed. Rome is a link between the old world and the new."

"Yes," replied Lady Cambrey, "it is quite true, my dear."

She had no notion, even ever so vague, of what her beautiful young kinswoman meant.

Lady Cambrey was not given to the cultivation of ideas, but she was always most amiably disposed to please Lady Marion. It was something very delightful to be the chaperon of a beautiful young heiress like Lady Erskine, and she was always delighted to agree with Lady Marion's words, opinions, and ideas.

Lady Marion was submissive and gentle by nature. She was one of the class of women born to be ruled and not to rule. She could never govern, but she could obey. She could not command, but she could carry out the wishes of others to the last letter.

Lady Cambrey, from motives of her own, wanted her to go to Rome. She had managed it without the least trouble.

"Marion," she said, "have you decided where to spend the winter?"

"No," was the quiet reply, "I have not thought much about it, Aunt Jane; have you?"

The words were so sweetly and placidly spoken.

"Yes, I have thought a great deal about it. I hear that a great many very nice English people have gone to Rome. They say that there will be one of the nicest circles in Europe there."

"In Rome," said Lady Marion, musingly. "Do I know many of those who are going?"

"Yes, some of our own set. One of the great Roman princes, Dorio, has just married a beautiful English girl, so that for this year at least the English will be all the rage in Rome. I should like to go there. I knew some of the Dorio family, but not the one just married."

"Then, if you would like it, we will go there," said Lady Marion; "I shall be pleased if you are."

So without any more difficulty the first part of the programme was carried out, and Lady Marion Erskine, with her chaperon, Lady Jane Cambrey, settled in Rome for the winter. They took a beautifully furnished villa, called the Villa Borgazi, near to some famous gardens. Lady Cambrey took care that, while she reveled in Italian luxuries, no English comfort should be wanting—the Villa Borgazi soon had in it all the comforts of an English home.

She came home one morning, after many hours of shopping, with a look of some importance on her face.

"Marion," she said, "I have heard that the Lanswells are here. I am very pleased. I thought of calling this afternoon; if you are tired, I will go alone."

And from the tone of her voice, rather than her words, Lady Marion fancied that she would prefer to pay her visit alone.

"You remember the Countess of Lanswell; she was la grande dame par excellence in London last summer. She admired you very much, if you recollect."

"I remember her," said Lady Marion; then, with some interest, she added, "It was her son, Lord Chandos, who got himself into such difficulties, was it not?"

Lady Cambrey was slightly taken by surprise; her ward had always shown such a decided distaste for gossip of all kinds that she trusted she had never even heard of this little escapade. However, Lady Marion's question must be answered.

She shook her head gravely.

"It was not his fault, poor boy!" she said; "his mother has told me all about it. I am very sorry for him."

"Why does he deserve so much pity?" she asked.

And Lady Cambrey answered:

"He was but a boy at the time, and she, this person, a dairy-maid, I believe, took advantage of his generosity, and either persuaded him to marry her, or wrung from him some promise of marriage when he should be of age."

"I thought," said straightforward Lady Marion, "that he was married, and his parents had petitioned that the marriage be considered null and void as he was under age."

"I think, my dear," said the diplomatic aunt, "that it would be as well not to mention this. Two things are certain, if Lord Chandos had been properly married, his marriage could never have been set aside; the other is, that the countess can never endure the mention of her son's misfortune."

"Do you know Lord Chandos?" asked Lady Marion, after a time.

"Yes, I know him, and I consider him one of the most charming men I have ever met, a perfect cavalier and chivalrous gentleman."

"That is high praise," said Lady Marion, thoughtfully.

"I know of none higher," said her aunt, and then with her usual tact changed the subject; but more than once that day Lady Marion thought of the man who was a cavalier and a gentleman.

Meanwhile the time passed pleasantly for the countess and her son. They were staying at the grand palace of the Falconis—once the home of princes, but now let by the year to the highest bidder. Lady Lanswell took good care that her son should be well amused; every morning a delicious little sketch of the day's amusement was placed before him; the countess laid herself out to please him as man had never been pleased before.

The countess saw that he received letters from England continually. She was above all vulgar intrigue, or she might have destroyed more than one-half which came, without his seeing them. She would not do that; the war she carried into the enemy's camp was of the most refined and thorough-going kind. She would set aside a marriage on a mere quibble, but she would not destroy a letter. She had said, openly and defiantly to her son's face, that she felt sure he would not remarry Leone in June, but she would stoop to no vulgar way to prevent it.

It often happened that the countess herself opened the letter-bag. When she did so, and there was a letter from Leone, she always gave it to her son with a smile, in which there was just a shade of contempt.

"Another letter," she would say; "my dear Lance, you contribute quite your share to the inland revenue."

She never alluded to Leone, but she did permit herself, at rare intervals, to relate some ludicrous anecdotes of people who had suffered from a severe attack of love.

Lord Chandos found the time pass very pleasantly; he said to himself he might as well remain in Rome and enjoy himself, as go back to England and be miserable. Wherever he went, he could not see Leone. He would not trust himself; he loved her too much, if he were in the same land, not to be near her.

Being in Rome, he did as the Romans did; he amused himself to the very utmost of his power; he seized every golden hour that passed, and though he loved Leone as much as ever, he ceased to feel the keen pain which their separation had caused him at first. One morning, from the Countess of Lanswell to Lady Jane Cambrey, there passed a little note. It said, simply:

"Shall we take the first step to-night? Bring Lady Marion to the Princess Galza's concert, and leave the rest to me."

Lady Cambrey lost no time. She sought her ward and said so much to her about the concert, for which they both had invitations, that Lady Marion was eager to go.

"I must superintend your toilet, Marion; as it is your first appearance in Roman society, you must make a favorable impression."

She selected one of the loveliest toilets that could have been chosen—a white brocade, embroidered with flowers of the palest blue.

"You must wear pearls and pale-blue flowers," she said, "and you will find that to-morrow every one will be talking of the new beauty that has risen over Rome."

Lady Marion looked perfectly beautiful; she was perfect in her style, the very queen of blondes, with her soft, shining hair, and eyes blue as the summer skies. Her face was the purest mixture of rose and white, with the dainty, delicate color described in that one line:

"Crimson shell, with white sea foam."

She had a beautiful, fresh mouth, a dimpled chin, a neck and shoulders white as ivory, arms so rounded and white it was a treat to see them. She was of the queenly type—tall, with the promise of a grand womanhood; her white throat was firm, her arms rounded and strong; she was the ideal of an English gentlewoman; her pure, proud face, clear eyes, and sweet lips were beautiful beyond words. When she was dressed that evening for the princess' concert she looked most charming. Lady Cambrey had said truly that among the dark-eyed daughters of Italy she would shine white and fair as a white dove among colored ones.

Her dress was the perfection of taste—it was trimmed with pale-blue forget-me-nots and white heath; a string of pearls was twisted in her fair hair, and another round her white throat.

"If he does not fall in love with her," said Lady Cambrey to herself, "it will be because he has no admiration left in him for any one except his dairy-maid."

Lady Lanswell had been very successful in her diplomacy. She had spoken of the concert before her son, who had received an invitation, but said nothing about his going. He listened in silence, wondering if she would ask him to go with her, saying to himself that he should decline, for he did not like concert-going. Then, as she did not ask him, he began to feel piqued over it and wonder why.

After a short time he volunteered to go, and my lady took it very coolly, reminding him of how often he had grown tired of a hot concert-room. Then he resolved to go and made arrangements accordingly, his mother smiling sweetly all the time. When all was settled, and he had quitted the room, my lady laughed quietly. It was wonderful with what bland sweetness and fine tact she managed men. She could lead her son as though he were deaf, blind, and dumb, yet of all men he believed himself most firm and secure in his opinion.

Heaven help the man who falls helplessly into the hands of a clever woman!



CHAPTER XXV.

THE INTRODUCTION.

If Lady Lanswell had purposely designed the meeting between her son and the beautiful blonde to have taken place in the most picturesque spot in Europe, she could not have chosen better. The great salon of the Palazzo Golza had, in former days, been used as a royal audience-room; the noblest princes in Rome had met there, and had given audience to the grandest nobles. It was a superb apartment; there was a background of purple tapestry from which the blonde loveliness of the English girl shone resplendent as a snow-drop on a black ground. There were many beautiful women present; the Princess Ainla, whose dark beauty was the wonder of all who saw it; the famous American belle, Miss Sedmon, whose auburn hair resembled that given by the old masters to the Madonna; but there was not one in that vast assembly who could vie with Lady Marion.

The Countess of Lanswell, with her son, was one of the last to enter the salon; with one keen, comprehensive glance the countess took in, as it were, the whole situation; she saw the pure, proud face of Lady Erskine, saw that she was seated in the very place where her beauty was seen to the best advantage, then she took her seat, never even looking in that direction, and saying nothing to her son.

It was just like laying a trap for a bird—he fell into it with the same helplessness.

Lady Lanswell neither looked at Lady Erskine nor her son, yet she knew exactly the moment when his eyes first fell on her. She saw him start; then she sat quite still, waiting for the question she knew must follow.

It came at last.

"Mother," he said, "who is that beautiful girl?"

My lady looked at him with languid eyes.

"What beautiful girl, Lance? There are so many."

"An English girl, I am sure. She has a string of pearls in her hair. Who can she be?"

Still Lady Lanswell feigned ignorance. She looked on the wrong side of the room, and she affected not to understand where he meant, and when she could affect no longer, she said:

"Do you mean Lady Marion Erskine, the young lady near Princess Golza?"

"Yes, it must be Lady Erskine," he replied. "How beautiful she is, mother. She shines like a fair pearl with that background of dark tapestry. I heard some one say yesterday that she was in Rome. What a perfect face."

My lady looked at it coldly.

"Do you think so, Lance?" she said. "I thought that you gave the preference to dark beauties."

His heart went back for one moment to the beautiful, passionate face he had seen by the mill stream. The gorgeous salon, the beautiful women, the peerless face of Lady Marion, the exquisite music, all floated away from him, and he was once more by the mill-stream, with Leone's face before him. So strong, so vivid was the memory, that it was with difficulty he refrained from calling the name aloud.

My lady guessed by the sudden expression of pain on his face where his thoughts had gone. She recalled them.

"Tastes differ so greatly," she said. "Do you really consider Lady Marion beautiful, Lance?"

"Yes, I have seen no one more lovely," he answered.

Then the countess dismissed the subject—too much must not be said at once. She did not mention Lady Marion's name again that evening, but she saw that her son looked often at her, and she smiled to think the bait had taken.

Again they were walking through the vast gardens of one of the Roman palaces, when the whole party met. Lady Cambrey was with her niece; Lord Chandos was near the countess, but not close by her side. The ladies met, exchanged a few words, then parted, the countess not having made the least effort to introduce her son; he spoke of it afterward.

"Mother," he said, "you did not introduce me to Lady Erskine."

Lady Lanswell smiled calmly.

"It was out of pure consideration for her; they tell me she has so many admirers in Rome. From what I know of her, you would not be quite in her style."

The words piqued him.

"Why not?" he asked.

His mother laughed again.

"She is very proud, Lance, and very exclusive. I need say no more."

My lady always knew exactly when to leave off. She turned away now, leaving her son with the impression that Lady Erskine would not care to know him, on account of his unfortunate love affair.

They were destined to meet again that evening. A ball was given by an English lady, Mrs. Chester, who had one of the best houses in Rome. Lady Erskine looked very beautiful; her dress was of pale blue velvet, superbly trimmed with white lace; she wore diamonds in her hair, and carried a bouquet of white lilies in her hand. She was the belle of the ball, and it was Mrs. Chester who introduced Lord Chandos to her. She was quite innocent of any intrigue, but had she been the chosen confidante of Lady Lanswell, she could not have done more to further her views. She had been dancing with Lord Chandos herself, and began to speak to him of the beautiful blonde.

"Lady Marion Erskine realizes my idea of a fair woman," said Mrs. Chester. "I have read the words in prose and poetry, now I understand them."

"I do not know Lady Erskine," said the young earl.

"Not know her. Why, I should have thought that all the Englishmen in Rome knew their beautiful country-woman."

"I have never been introduced to her," said Lord Chandos.

"Then this is the last hour in which you shall lay any such complaint against fate," said Mrs. Chester. "Come with me, my lord."

Like all other English ladies in Rome, Mrs. Chester had a great admiration for the heir of the Lanswells. It was impossible to withhold it. He was so handsome, so brave and gallant, with the bearing of a prince, the chivalry of a knight, and in his temper the sweet, sunny grace of a woman. They all liked him; he seemed to have the geniality, the generosity, the true nobility of an Englishman, without the accompanying reserve and gloom. At that time there was no one more popular in Rome than the young lord, about whom so many romantic stories were told. He followed Mrs. Chester to where Lady Marion stood, the brilliant center of a brilliant group. It pleased him to see what deference was paid to him—how Italian princes and French dukes made way when Mrs. Chester presented him to the beautiful heiress.

The first moment the proud clear eyes smiled in his face he liked her. She was most charming in her manner; she had not the fire and passion of Leone; she was not brilliant, original or sparkling, but she was sweet, candid, amiable, and gentle.

One found rest in her—rest in the blue eyes, in the sweet, smiling lips, in the soft, low voice, in the graceful, gentle movements—rest and content.

She never irritated, never roused any one to any great animation; she received rather than gave ideas; she was one of those quiet, gentle, amiable women whose life resembles the rippling of a brook rather than the rush of a stream. She looked with a smile into the handsome face of the young lord, and she, too, liked him.

They stood together for a few minutes while Lord Chandos begged for a dance, and even during the brief time more than one present thought what a handsome pair they were. Lord Chandos was much pleased with her—the low voice, the exquisitely-refined accent, the gentle grace, all delighted him.

She lacked passion, power, fire, originality, the chief things which went for the making up of Leone's character; no two people could be more dissimilar, more unlike; yet both had a charm for Lord Chandos; with the one he found the stimulant of wit and genius, with the other sweetest rest.

They had several dances together; in her quiet, gentle way Lady Marion confided to him that she preferred Englishmen to Italians, whom she thought wanting in frankness and ease.

"Why did you come to Rome?" asked Lord Chandos; and the beautiful blonde was almost at a loss how to answer the question. The only answer that she could give was that Lady Cambrey had first mentioned it.

"It was not from any great wish, then, to see the antiquities or the art treasures of Rome?" asked Lord Chandos, thinking as he spoke with what rapture Leone would have thought of a visit to Italy.

"No, it was not that, although I would not have missed seeing Rome on any account. What brought you here, Lord Chandos?"

He also hesitated for a moment, then he answered:

"I really do not know. I came, so far as I know my own mind, because my mother came," and then their eyes met with a curious, half-laughing gaze.

It was strange that they should have both come there without having any clear or distinct notion why.

"It seems to me," said Lord Chandos, "that we are both under guidance."

"I am glad, for my own part," said Lady Erskine. "It is much easier to be guided than to guide. I find it easier to obey than to command."

"Do you?" he asked, laughingly. "You will find it very easy then some day 'to love, honor and obey.'"

"I do not doubt it," said the beautiful heiress, calmly. "I should not care to go through life alone; I want a stronger soul than my own to lean on."

And again Lord Chandos went back in thought to the noble, self-reliant girl who would hold her own against the world if need should be.

And yet he liked Lady Marion; her graceful, languid helplessness had a great charm for him. When he bade her good-evening, it was with the hope that they would soon meet again.



CHAPTER XXVI.

MAN'S FICKLENESS.

They did meet again and again, always with pleasure on his part, and very soon with something else on hers. Wherever she was she looked out above the dark Italian heads for the tall, erect figure and brave English face of Lord Chandos. She did not talk much to him, but there was a light in her eyes and a smile on her face most pleasant to see when he was near. She never sought him, she never, either directly or indirectly, gave him any idea of where she was going. She never contrived to meet him, but there were very few days during which they did not spend some hours together.

Lady Lanswell paid not the least attention when Lady Erskine joined their party. She was kind and cordial, but she never made the least effort either to entertain her or to induce her to stay. If ever by chance Lord Chandos named her, his mother received the remark in total silence—in fact, she completely ignored her—in which she showed her tact. Had she ever made the least attempt to bring them together, he would have seen through the little plot, and would have taken fright; as it was, the net was so skillfully woven, that he was caught in it before he knew there was a net at all. If the countess arranged a party for any place, she never included the young heiress among her guests.

So that their frequent interviews were so completely accidental, neither of them thought anything of it; they drifted unawares into an intimacy at which every one smiled but themselves. It flattered Lord Chandos to see dukes and princes drawback when he came near the beautiful heiress, as though it were quite understood that he had the right to claim her attention—to see a proud Roman prince, with a long pedigree, make way with a bow—to see a courtly French duke resign the seat he had waited half the night for—to see the eyes of envy that followed him—it flattered him, and he never asked where it would end.

Lady Lanswell saw it all with well-pleased eyes, but said nothing; she was biding her time.

One evening they met at Mrs. Chester's. There was neither ball nor party, but a quiet at home; and their friendship made greater strides than it hitherto had done.

Some one asked Lady Erskine to sing. Lord Chandos looked at her.

"Do you sing?" he asked.

And she answered with a quiet smile:

"Yes, it is one of the few things I do well enough to content myself. I have a good voice and I sing well."

"Are you what people call fond of music?" he asked.

And she answered:

"Yes, I often put my own thoughts to music, and if I meet any words that seem to me very good or very sweet I never rest until I have found a melody that fits them. I came across some the other day. Shall I sing them to you?"

There was a slight commotion in the room when people saw the beautiful English girl led to the piano. She turned with a smile to Lord Chandos.

"My song is English," she said, "and will not be understood by every one."

"I shall understand it," he said; "you must sing it to me."

When he heard the words he understood the blush that covered her face.

"I should change my song," she said, "if another came into my mind. These words are by a poetess I read and admire much. It is called 'Somewhere or Other.'"

She sung in a sweet, pure voice; there was neither fire, power, nor passion in it; but the words were clear and distinct.

"'Somewhere or other there must surely be The face not seen, the voice not heard, The heart that never yet—never yet—ah, me, Made answer to my word.

"'Somewhere or other, may be near or far, Past land and sea, clear out of sight, Beyond the wandering moon, the star, That tracks her night by night.

"'Somewhere or other, may be far or near, With just a wall, a hedge between, With just the last leaves of the dying year Fallen on a turf so green.'"

He stood by her side while she sung, his eyes fixed on her face, thinking how pure and fair she was. When the sweet strain of music ended, he said:

"Somewhere or other—you will find it soon, Lady Marion."

"Find what?" she asked.

"'The heart that has never yet answered a word,'" he replied, quoting the words of her song. "People do often meet their fate without knowing it."

When he saw the fair face grow crimson he knew at once that she thought she was speaking of himself and her. After that there seemed to be a kind of understanding between them. When others were speaking he would quote the words: "Somewhere or other," and then Lady Marion would blush until her face burned. So a kind of secret understanding grew between them without either of them quite understanding how it was.

Lady Lanswell was quite happy; the bait was taking; there was no need for her to interfere, all was going well.

"Mother," said Lord Chandos, "I cannot understand it; you invite all the old dowagers and spinsters in Rome to your afternoon teas and soirees, but you never invite any young ladies, and there are some very pretty ones."

"My dear Lance, I know it, and deeply regret it; but you see I have no one to entertain young ladies."

He raised his head with an injured air.

"You have me," he replied.

The countess laughed.

"True, I have you, but I mean some one free and eligible."

"Am I not free and eligible?" he asked, quickly; and then his brave young face grew fiery red under his mother's slow, sneering smile. "I do not mean that; of course I am not free or eligible in that sense of the word, yet I think I am quite as well able to entertain young and pretty girls as old dowagers."

Lady Lanswell looked keenly at him.

"My dear Lance, I will do anything to please you," she said, "but if you persist in considering yourself an engaged man, you must forego the society of charming girls. I have no desire for another visit from that tempestuous young person."

Lance, Lord Chandos, shuddered at the words—"a tempestuous young person"—this was the heroine of his romance, his beautiful Leone, whose voice always came to him with the whisper of the wind, and the sweet ripple of falling water. "A tempestuous young person," his beautiful Leone, whose passionate kisses were still warm on his lips, whose bitter tears seemed wet on his face—Leone, who was a queen by right divine. He turned angrily away, and Lady Lanswell, seeing that she had gone far enough, affected not to see his anger, but spoke next in a laughing tone of voice.

"You see, Lance, in my eyes you are very eligible, indeed, and it seems to me almost cruel to bring you into a circle of young girls, one of whom might admire you, while I know that you can never admire them. Is it not so?"

"I am not free, mother, you know as well as all the world knows; still, I repeat it that it is no reason why you should fill the house with dowagers and never bring the bloom of a young face near it."

"I will do as you wish, Lance," said my lady, and her son smiled.

"Though I consider myself, and am, in all solemn truth, engaged, still that does not make me a slave, mother. I am free to do as I like."

"Certainly," said my lady, and for some minutes there was silence between them.

Lord Chandos broke in.

"Why do you never ask Lady Erskine to visit you, mother? She is a charming girl, and you like her."

The countess looked at him straight in the face.

"I think it more prudent not to do so," she said. "Lady Marion is one of the most perfect women I know; I know, too, that she admires you, and as you are not free to admire her, you are better apart."

He flung himself down on the carpet, and laid his handsome head on his mother's knee, looking up to her with coaxing eyes, as he had done when he was a boy.

"Does she really admire me, mother? This beautiful girl, who has all the grandees in Rome at her feet—does she really admire me?"

"I have said it," laughed my lady.

"Who told you, mother? How do you know?"

"I shall not tell you, Lance; sufficient for you to know that it is quite true, and that I consider I am simply acting as prudence dictates. I should admire you, Lance, if I were a young girl myself."

"I am very much flattered," he said, slowly. "Even if it be true, mother, I do not quite see why you should think so much prudence needful. I admire Lady Marion; why should we not be friends?"

"Would the tempestuous young person like it, Lance?" asked my lady.

And it is very painful to state that an exceedingly strong and highly improper word came from between Lord Chandos' closed lips.

"Do not tease me, mother. I see no harm in it; if I did, be quite sure I would not do it. Lady Marion and I can always be friends. I like her and admire her; there is a certain kind of repose about her that I enjoy. Why should we not be friends?"

"Be friends if you like," said Lady Lanswell; "but if, in the course of a few weeks, you find that mutual admiration does not answer, do not blame me."

From that day Lady Lanswell laid aside all pretense at scruple, and allowed matters to go as they would; she visited the young heiress constantly, and smiled when she saw that her son was becoming, day by day, more attracted to her. She noticed another thing, too, with keen pleasure, and it was that, although the same number of letters came from England, not half so many went there.

"A step in the right, direction," thought my lady; "I shall succeed after all."

To do Lord Chandos justice, he was quite blind to the danger that surrounded him. He intended to be true to Leone—he had no other desire, no other wish—he had never contemplated for one moment the act of deserting her; he would have denounced any one who even hinted at such a thing.

But he was young, she was beautiful, they were in sunny Italy. And he never dreamed of loving her.

They were friends, that was all; they were to be exceptions to the general rule—they were to be friends, without any of the elements of love or flirtation marring their intercourse.

Only friends. Yet in the beginning of May when Lady Cambrey and her ward declined to return to England for the summer, but resolved to spend it in Naples, Lord Chandos went there also, without feeling at all sure that he would be back in London by June.



CHAPTER XXVII.

"TELL ME YOUR SECRET."

The sunny summer days at Nice—who can tell of their beauty, the glory of the sunny blue sky, the glory of the foliage, the sweet, balmy breath of the wind, which seemed daily to bring with it the perfume from a hundred new flowers? How did the time pass? No one knew; it was a long roll of pleasure and gayety. There was pleasure enough in being out-of-doors; a picnic there was a very simple matter. They heard of a very beautiful spot, drove there, remained there so long as it suited them, then went back again. There were, as there always are, some very nice English people at Nice, but none like fair, sweet Lady Marion.

As the charm of her sweet character grew upon him, Lord Chandos liked her more and more. He enjoyed her society. She was not witty, she could not amuse a whole room full of people, she could not create laughter, she was not the cause of wit in others, nor did talking to her awake the imagination and arouse all the faculties of one's mind.

Talking to her was rest, grateful as the shade of green trees after the glare of the summer's sun. The sweet voice, the clear, refined accent, the gracious and gentle thoughts, the apt quotations, all were something to remember. She was by no means a genius, but she was well read, and had the power of remembering what she read, had the gift of making most of her knowledge. If you wished for an hour's interesting conversation, there was no one like Lady Marion. She had such curious odds and ends of information; her reading had been universal. She had some knowledge on every point. She had her own ideas, too, clearly defined and straightforward, not liable to vary with every paper she read, and in these days one learns to be thankful for consistency. On those warm, lovely, life-giving days, when the sun and sky, earth and air, flower and tree did their best, it was Lord Chandos who liked to linger under the vines talking to this fair girl whose very face was a haven of rest.

He never thought of love at all in connection with her, he felt so sure of the one great fact that he loved his wife; he forgot that there could be such a thing as danger or temptation. Lady Marion had grown to love him; it was impossible to help it; he had great and grave faults, as all men have, but he was so brave and fearless, so gallant and generous, so kind and chivalrous, no one could help loving him; his faults were lovable, a fact that was much to be regretted; since, if they had been disagreeable, he might have been cured of them.

Lady Marion, in her quiet, gentle fashion, had learned to love him. She appealed to him continually; the reading of a book, the singing of a song, the arrangement of a day's plans, the choosing of acquaintances, on each and all of these points she made him her confidant and guide; it was so gently and so naturally done that he insensibly guided her whole life without knowing it. What Lord Chandos said or thought was her rule. It was such a pleasure to guide and advise her, she was so yielding, so gentle, she took such a pride in obeying him; she would apologize to him at times and say:

"I told you, Lord Chandos, that I must always have a stronger mind than my own to lean upon."

He listened to the words with a smile, but it did just occur to him that she would not have his mind to lean upon much longer, for he must go home to England to Leone. Once or twice lately he had been much struck with Lady Marion's manner. She was so gracious, so charming with him. When he had suddenly entered the room where she was sitting he had seen the crimson blush that rose over her white neck and brow. He noticed too, that she had rarely, if ever, raised her eyes to his face until that blush had passed away, lest they should tell their own secret. And one day he said to her:

"Why do you never give me a frank, open look, Lady Marion—such as you gave me always when I knew you first? now you turn your face away, and your eyes droop. Have I displeased you?"

"No," she replied, gently; "it is not that; you could not displease me."

"Then you are keeping some secret from me," he said, and she smiled a slow, sweet, half-sad smile that stirred his heart with curious power.

"I have no secret," she said; "or if I have it matters little to any one but myself."

"Tell me your secret, Lady Marion," he said, with a sigh.

"I will answer you in the words of my favorite poet," she said; "listen, Lord Chandos."

They were standing under the shade of a clustering vine, the wind that kissed both fair young faces was full of perfume, the flowers that bloomed around them were full of sweetest odors, the whisper of the odorous wind was no sweeter than the voice in which she quoted the words:

"'Perhaps some languid summer day, When drowsy birds sing less and less, And golden fruit is ripening to excess; If there's not too much wind or too much cloud, And the warm wind is neither still nor loud, Perhaps my secret I may say, Or—you may guess.'"

"What beautiful words," he cried. "It seems to me, Lady Marion, that you have a whole storehouse full of the most apt and beautiful quotations. You ought to have been a poet yourself."

"No," she replied, "I can appreciate, but I cannot invent. I can make the words and the thoughts of a poet my own, but I cannot invent or create; I have no originality."

"You have what is rarer, still," he cried; "a graceful humility that raises you higher than any other gift could do."

He spoke so warmly that she looked up in wonder, but Lord Chandos turned abruptly away; there might be danger if he said more.

So the lovely, leafy month of May ended, and June began. Then Lord Chandos began to think of home—his birthday was on the thirtieth of June, and he knew what he had promised for that day. He could see the pretty, flower-covered window—the roses which must be thrust aside—the gate he had promised to open; he remembered every detail. Well, it was all very pretty and very pleasant; but, he could not tell why, the bloom of the romance was gone, that was quite certain. He had learned to associate poetry with the pale moonlight and golden hair, with a very fair face and a soft ripple of sweet speech. Still he intended most honorably to keep his promise; he took great delight, too, in thinking of Leone's passionate happiness, of her beautiful face, of the ecstasy of welcome she would give him. Then, of course, he must marry her; the very day after that would be the first of July, and, for the first time, he thought of his coming marriage with a sigh—it would separate him so entirely from his mother, and from Lady Marion; in all probability he would never see much of her again. He thought more of her loss than of his own.

"How she will miss me," he said to himself; "she will have no one to consult, no one to advise her. I wish we could always be the same good friends as now."

Then it occurred to him that perhaps, after all, his wife would not care to know that he was on such confidential terms with any one but herself.

He would have felt far less sure of either his return or his marriage if he had overheard a slight conversation that took place between his mother and Lady Marion. The Countess of Lanswell called one day and took the young heiress out for a drive with her; when they were seated, driving through scenery so beautiful one could hardly believe it to be a fallen world, the countess in her sweetest manner, which she knew how to make quite irresistible, said:

"Lady Marion, I want you to help me to do something, if you will."

"You know I will do anything I can for you, Lady Lanswell," said the girl, gently; "I could have no greater pleasure."

She did not add, because I love your son, but this was in her mind, and the countess quite understood it.

She continued:

"You know how I love my dear and only son, how anxious I am for his welfare, how devoted to his interests."

"I can imagine it all," said Lady Marion, warmly.

The countess went on:

"He has an idea, a quixotic, foolish and most unhappy one, one that if carried out will mar his life and ruin his prospects, and in the end break his heart. Now, I want you to help me break off this idea; he thinks of returning to England in June, and if he does, all hope is over. He never allows himself to be coerced or persuaded; as to the word 'marriage' it would be a fatal one, but we might, I am sure, influence him—that is, if you will help me."

"I will do all I can," said Lady Marion, earnestly; her sweet face had grown very pale.

"He must not go back to England," said the countess: "we must keep him here until August—how can we do it?"

"Ask him to stay," said the young girl, simply; "that seems the most straightforward plan."

"Yes, but it would not be of the least use; he must be influenced. Now I think that he prefers your society to any other; suppose you plan a tour through Spain, and ask him to go with us."

The pale face flushed.

"I will if you think he would agree," she replied.

"I believe he would; if he seems inclined to refuse, and you are in the least degree disturbed over it, I believe firmly that he will go. I do not think that he knows the strength of his own feelings for you. Let us try it. You can speak to me about it before him, then I will leave you with him and you can finish your good work."

"He is not likely to be vexed, is he?" asked Lady Marion, timidly.

"Vexed, my dear child, no; he will consider himself highly favored. You see it is in this way. I cannot show any eagerness for it, and you can. My son would suspect my motive; he knows yours must be a good one, and will feel sure that it is liking for his society—you do like it, do you not, Lady Marion?"

"Yes, I cannot deny it," replied the young girl, "and I will help you all I can. You do not wish him to return to England in June. I will do my best to keep him away."

And the question was—would she succeed?



CHAPTER XXVIII.

HOW IT HAPPENED.

"Mother," said Lord Chandos, "I never knew a month pass as this has done—the days have wings. It is the sixteenth to-day, and it does not seem to be twenty-four hours since it was the first."

"That shows, at least, that life has been pleasant to you," said the countess.

"Yes, it has been very pleasant," he replied, and then he sighed deeply.

"Why do you sigh, Lance? The future can be as pleasant as the past, can it not?"

He looked up half impatiently.

"I sigh to think that my share in it is all ended. I must be in England by the end of June."

"Make the most of the time left," said my lady; "there's another week, at least. Let us go everywhere and see everything. In all probability, we shall not meet at Nice again."

He had expected contradiction, he had expected his mother to oppose his desire of returning home, and he was slightly piqued to find that so far from opposing him, she seemed to fall into the idea as though it were the most natural one.

"I think," he pursued, "that if I leave here on the twenty-seventh that will be soon enough."

"Yes," said the countess, quietly. "It is not such a long journey, after all."

So she would not oppose him, she would not argue with him, but left him to take his own way. The handsome face grew shadowed, the frank eyes troubled. It is very hard when a man cannot force any one to contradict him. He rose from his chair, he walked uneasily up and down the room; he spoke almost nervously on one or two points and then he said:

"Mother, I suppose you know what I intend doing."

She looked up at him with the blandest smile and the sweetest air.

"Doing, Lance—about the boat to-night, do you mean?"

She purposely affected to misunderstand him.

"The boat?" he repeated. "No, I mean about—my—my—future—my marriage."

"I cannot say that I know what you intend doing, Lance, but I am quite sure you will never again have the bad taste to offend your father and me. I can trust you so far."

He looked still more uncomfortable; he could always manage the countess better when she was angry than when she was amiable. He stopped abruptly before her, and looking at her said:

"I must marry Leone, mother, I must."

"Very well, Lance. When you are twenty-one, you can do as you like."

"Oh, mother," cried the young lord, "be more humane, do not be so frigid and cold; speak to me about it. I am your only son, surely my marriage is a matter of some importance to you."

There was a passion of entreaty in his voice, and Lady Lanswell looked kindly at him.

"Certainly your marriage is of more importance than anything else on earth; but you cannot expect me to look with favor on that tempestuous young person who ranted at me like a third-rate actress from a traveling theater; you must excuse me, Lance, but there are limits to human endurance, and she is beyond mine."

"Mother, let me be happy, let me go and marry her, let me bring her back here and we shall all be happy together."

"My dear Lance, I should not consider a person of her position a fit companion for my maid; for myself, I quite declare I shall not oppose your marriage with the girl—it is quite useless, since you are of age, to do as you like; but I shall never see you or speak to you again; when you leave me here for that purpose our good-bye will last beyond death. Still you understand I do not seek to win you from your purpose, you are free to do as you will."

The misery on his handsome young face touched her a little, and she had to remind herself that she was doing all she did for his own good.

"We will not talk any more about it, Lance," she said, kindly; "words will not alter facts. Did your father tell you what we proposed about the boat to-night?"

His lips trembled as he tried to answer her.

"I cannot throw off sorrow as you can, mother; I am talking to you about that which will make the misery or the happiness of my life, and you think of nothing but a boat."

"Words are so useless, Lance," repeated my lady; "they are but empty sounds. I am going out to look for some cameos; I think I should like a set, they are very elegant and recherche."