So saying, my lady left the room as though no serious thought occupied her mind.

Then, for the first time, something like impatience with his fate came over the young lord, something like impatience with Leone, for whose love he had so much to suffer. He loved his proud, beautiful mother, who had, unknown to him, such great influence over him. He could not endure the thought of life-long separation from her. The glamour of a boy's first mad love had fallen from him, and he saw things as they were; he could estimate better than he had done before, what it meant to give up father, mother and friends all for one love.

He did not recover his spirits all day, but the temptation never once came near him to break his word or forget Leone. That night, one of the loveliest that ever dawned on earth, they were all going to a fete given by the Countess Spizia, and one part of the entertainment was that the beautiful grounds were to be illuminated.

Lord Chandos had never seen his mother look so proud, so brilliant or so handsome as on that night. She wore a superb dress of green velvet, with a suit of diamonds worth a king's ransom. Lady Marion wore a dress of rich lace, with cream color roses and green leaves. The fete was well attended; a great number of French people and English were there. The earl had declined. Moonlit gardens and illuminated grounds had not much attraction for him.

Lord Chandos sat for some little time by his mother's side; he was enjoying an ice, and as he watched her he felt a sensation of pride in her beauty—a keen sense of regret that they should ever be parted.

An involuntary cry of admiration came from the countess, and Lord Chandos looking in the direction where her eyes were fixed, saw Lady Erskine. Never had the great queen of blondes looked so lovely; the fine, fairy-like web of costly lace fell in graceful folds around a figure that stood alone for grace and symmetry. She wore nothing but green leaves in her golden hair; her arms, bare to the shoulders, were white, firm, and statuesque. Over her face, when she saw Lord Chandos, came a beautiful, brilliant flush.

The countess and her son were sitting in one of the pretty salons, where some of the most famous works of art were collected. There was an exquisite bust of Clytie which attracted much attention; they had been commenting on it, and Lady Lanswell was saying how much she would like a copy of it.

"Here comes something more beautiful than Clytie," she said, as Lady Marion advanced to meet them.

She made room for the young heiress by her side. Lady Marion had schooled herself well, but her task was no easy one—she was so candid, so loyal, so true in all her dealings, that the least attempt at anything savoring of deception was unpleasant to her; still, she would, of course, do anything to help Lady Lanswell. So she sat down by her side and talked with her usual gentle grace.

She said, after a time:

"Lady Lanswell, I have a great favor to ask of you. If you do not wish to go back to England just yet, will you join me? I am trying to persuade Lady Cambrey to make a tour through Spain."

She drew a long breath of relief when the words were spoken, she was so thankful to have them said and done with. She mentally resolved that never would she promise to do anything of this kind again. Lady Lanswell's calm restored hers.

"To Spain?" repeated the countess. "What a traveler you are, Lady Marion. What has put Spain into your mind?"

"I have always longed to see the Alhambra," said Lady Marion, with perfect truth. "As we are so near, it would be a pity to go back without seeing it."

"I quite agree with you. It may be some years before you come on the Continent again—you are quite right to go to Spain. And you really wish us to join your party?"

"Certainly, I should be delighted; it would increase my pleasure a hundred-fold," replied the young heiress, promptly.

"You are very kind to say so. I will go if you can persuade Lord Chandos to go with us."

"How can I do that?" she asked, with a smile. "Teach me how to 'persuade,' Lady Lanswell. I have never been able to 'persuade' any one."

The countess rose from her seat with a light laugh.

"I am afraid that in this case, persuasion, argument, and reason would be in vain. Lance, take Lady Marion to see the lamps in the almond trees—they are really very fine."

He took the soft, silken wrapper from her and wrapped it round her shoulders.

"Let us go and see the lamps," he said, and they went.

Ah, well. The sky above was filled with pale, pure stars; the almond-trees filled the air with delicate perfume; the nightingales were singing in the distant trees; great floods of silver moonlight fell over the grounds, in which the lilies gleamed palely white, and the roses hung their heavy heads.

They went together to the grove where the lamps shone bright as huge pearls. The path was a narrow one and he drew the white hand through his arm. How did it come about? Ah, who shall tell? Perhaps the wind whispered it, perhaps the nightingales sung about it, perhaps something in the great white lily leaves suggested it, perhaps the pale, pure stars looked disapproval; but it happened that the white hand felt the arm, and was clasped in a warm, strong hand—a clasp such as only love gives.

Who shall say how it happened? She raised her fair face to his in the soft, pure moonlight, and said to him:

"Must you really go back to England, Lord Chandos?"

The voice was sweet as music—the face, so fair, so pure, so proud.

"Must you," she added, "really go?"

"Yes, I am compelled to return," he answered slowly.

"Need it be yet?" she said. "I know you must go, but the journey through Spain will be so pleasant, and we might make a compromise. I will shorten the journey if you will delay your return."

And before he left the almond grove Lord Chandos had promised to do so, and as he made the promise he bent down and kissed the white hand lying in his.



CHAPTER XXIX.

WAITING FOR HIM.

Never had June seen such roses, never had lilies opened such white chalices, never had the trees looked so green, or the grass so long and thick, never had the birds sung as they sung this June, never had the light of the sun been so golden bright. The smile of the beautiful summer lay over the land, but in no place was it so fair as in River View. It was a scene like fairyland.

So Leone thought it as she watched day by day the beauty of blossom and leaf. It was in the month of May she first began to watch the signs of coming summer; with the first breath of the hawthorn, her heart grew light and a new beauty of hope came in her face. It was May and he was coming in June. She worked harder than ever. She rose early and retired late; these months of hard study and hard reading had changed her more than she knew herself. One year ago she had risen a beautiful, strong, healthy girl, full of fire, and life, and power. Now she was a refined, intellectual woman, full of genius and talent, full of poetry and eloquence, full of originality and wit; then she was a girl to be admired, now she was a woman who could rule a kingdom, whose power was unlimited.

She had acquired more in these few months of study than some people learn in years. She knew how great his delight would be, and she smiled to think how entirely at her ease she should be, even with his stately lady mother; she should feel no great awe of her in the future, for if Heaven had not given her the position of a lady by birth, she had made herself one by study and refinement.

So he was coming, and their real married life was to begin. She thought with a shudder of the pain she had passed through, of the horror of that terrible discovery. It was all over now, thank Heaven. It had never been any brand or stigma to her; she had never felt any false shame over it; she had never bowed her bright head as though a blight had passed over her. She said to herself it was not her fault, she was not in the least to blame. She had believed herself in all honor to be the wife of Lord Chandos, and she could not feel that the least shadow of blame rested on her.

He was coming home. Through the long hours of the summer day, she thought of nothing else. True, since the month of June, his letters had been very few and much cooler. True, it had been a severe shock to her, to hear that he had gone to Nice; but, as his letter said nothing of Lady Marion, and she knew nothing even of the existence of such a person, that did not matter. Why had he gone to Nice when June was so near? She wrote to him to ask the question, but his answer was: Because his parents had gone there. Then she said no more; that seemed quite natural. The only thing that occurred to her was, he would have a longer journey in June; he would come to her as he had promised, but he would take a longer time in traveling.

Lose faith in him! She flung back her head, with a bright, proud laugh. No, nothing could shake her faith in him; his proud lady mother had managed to get him under her influence—what did that matter? He loved her and her alone. She remembered the words spoken on her wedding-day; when she had asked him if he was quite sure their marriage was legal, his answer was, "Yes, and that nothing could part them except death."

How well she remembered those words, "except death"! He had taken her in his arms and kissed her, as though even death itself should not claim her. No shadow of fear entered her mind. She knew that he would come, as surely as she knew that the sun would rise and the day would dawn.

The thirtieth of June. No gift of second sight came to her, to tell her that on the twenty-seventh of June Lord Chandos had sat down and wrote her a very long letter, telling her that it was impossible for him to be at home on the thirtieth of June, as he had promised to go with his parents to Spain. A large party were going, and he must join them; but his heart would be with her on that day. He should think of her from morning dawn until sunset, and he would be with her soon. He was vexed that he had to take the journey; it was quite against his will, yet he had been over-persuaded. He should soon see her now; and, whatever he did, she must not feel in the least degree distressed, or put about. Their happiness was only delayed for a short time.

A long letter. She had no gift of second sight; she could not see that his face burned with a shameful flush as he wrote it; that for himself he had no pity; that his heart went out to her with a warmer love than ever, but that the fear of his mother's taunts and the pain on Lady Marion's face kept him where he was.

Then, when the long letter was written, he directed it and sent it by his valet to post; nor could she see how that same valet intended going to post it at once, but was prevented, and then laid it aside for an hour, as he thought, and forgot it for two whole days; then, fearing his master's anger, said nothing about it, trusting that the delay might be attributed to something wrong in the post; and so, on the very day it should have been given to her, it was put into the post-office, three days too late. She could not know all this, and she longed for the thirtieth of June as the dying long for cold water, as the thirsty hart for the clear spring.

It came. She had longed for it, waited for it, prayed for it, and now it was here. She awoke early in the morning; it was to her as though a bridegroom were coming; the song of the birds woke her, and they seemed to know that he was coming—they were up and awake in the earliest dawn. Then a great flood of golden sunlight came to welcome her; she hastened to the window to see what the day was like, and whether the sky was blue. It seemed to her that every little bird sung, "He is coming."

Here were the roses laughing in at the window, nodding as though they would say, "This is the thirtieth of June." There flashed the deep, clear river, hurrying on to the great sea over which he must have crossed; the wind whispered among the leaves, and every leaf had a voice. "He is coming to-day," they all said—"coming to-day."

There was a great stir even at that early hour in the morning between the white and purple butterflies; there was a swift, soft cooing from the wood-pigeons; the world seemed to laugh in the warm embrace of the rising sun. She laughed too—a sweet, happy laugh that stirred the rose leaf and jasmine.

"Oh, happy day!" she cried—"oh, kindly sun and kindly time, that brings my love back to me."

She looked at the gate through which he would pass—at the rose tree from which he would gather the rose; and she stretched out her hands with a great, longing cry.

"Send him quickly—oh, kind Heaven!" she cried. "I have waited so long, my eyes ache to look at him. I thirst for his presence as flowers thirst for dew."

She looked at her watch, it was but just six—the laborers were going to the field, the maids to the dairy, the herdsmen to their flocks. She could see the hay-makers in the meadow, and the barges dropped lazily down the stream. The time would soon pass and he would be here before noon. Could it be possible that she should see him so soon?

"In six hours," she repeated, "she should see him in six hours."

Ah, well, she had plenty to do. She went round the pretty villa to see if everything was as he liked best to see it, then she occupied herself in ordering for his enjoyment every dish that she knew he liked; and then she dressed herself to sit and wait for him at the window. She looked as though she had been bathed in dew and warmed by the golden sun, so bright, so sparkling, so fresh and brilliant, her eyes radiant with hope and love, the long, silken lashes like fringe, the white lids half-drooping, her face, with its passionate beauty heightened by the love that filled her heart and soul. She wore a dress of amber muslin with white lace, and in the rich masses of her dark hair lay a creamy rose. Fair and bright as the morning itself she took her place at the window to watch the coming of him who was so many miles away. It is thus women believe men, it is thus that men keep the most solemn vows that they can make.

The maid who brought her tea wondered why her young mistress chose to sit at the window to drink it; indeed, she started with wonder at the brilliant beauty of the face turned to her.

It struck her now that she might in very truth begin to expect him; the sun was growing warmer, the flowers were wide awake, the brown bees were busy among the carnations, the birds had done half their day's work; some of the tall-plumed lilacs were beginning to droop, and the white acacia blossoms had fallen on the long grass. Her whole soul in her eyes, and those eyes fixed longingly on the white gate, she sat there until noon.

Great city bells rang out the hour; in the villages it was told by sweet old chimes. The hay-makers sat down to rest, the butterflies rested in the great hearts of the red roses, the bees settled in the carnations, the languid, odorous wind was still while the strokes rang out one after another—fragrant, sunny, golden noon.

He had not come; but every moment was bringing him nearer. Some one brought her a glass of wine, some fruit and biscuits. She would not touch them because she would not take her eyes from the white gate through which he had to pass.



CHAPTER XXX.

THE THIRTIETH OF JUNE.

She did not grow impatient; the love which sustained her, the hope that inspired her was too sweet; her soul seemed to be in a blissful, happy trance; no doubt, no fear, no presentiment of coming disappointment dimmed the radiance of those sunny brows. He was coming fast as steam could bring him; it did not matter if he would not come yet, if more of the sunny hours passed—even if he delayed until even-tide, he would come so sure as the sun shone in the blue sky.

Noon passed. One—two—three—still she had never moved or stirred. Four and five struck, still the light had not died from her eyes nor the smile from her face; he would come; the stars might fall from the heaven, the great earth upheave, the rivers rise, the hills fall, night become day, darkness light, but he would come. Who so faithful, so fond, so true? And at five her maid came again; this time she had a cup of strong, fragrant coffee, and Leone drank it eagerly. She would wait for dinner; she expected some one, and she would wait. Quickly enough she replaced the cup and returned to her watch; he might have come while she had the cup to her lips; but, ah, no, no one had trodden on the white acacia blossoms—they were uncrushed.

Perhaps the long watching had wearied her, or the warm glow of the June afternoon fatigued her, or the strong odor of the flowers reached her brain. She looked at her watch; it was after five. He would come, most certainly; she knew that; but she was tired, and a great tearless sob rose to her lips. The heat of the June sun was growing less; she leaned her head against the casement of the window, and the white eyelids fell over the dark, passionate, tender eyes. She was dreaming, then; she heard the ripple of running water that sung as it ran, and the words were:

"A ring in pledge I gave her, And vows of love we spoke— Those vows were all forgotten, The ring asunder broke."

Over and over again the sweet, sad words were repeated. She was standing on the brink of the mill-stream again, her lover's kisses warm on her lips, her lover's hands clasping hers. Ah, Heaven, that the dream could have lasted or she never woke! A bird woke her by perching on her hand; perhaps he thought it was a lily, and she started in affright. The bells were ringing six; she had lost one whole hour, yet Heaven had sent that sleep in mercy; one hour of forgetfulness strengthened her for what she had to suffer. She woke with a start; for one moment her brain was confused between the dream and the reality. Was it the ripple of the mill-stream, or was it the sighing of the wind among the roses? She had slept for an hour. Had he come? Had she slept while he entered the garden? Was he hiding in jest?

She rang the bell quickly as the trembling hands would allow: and when the pretty, coquettish maid answered it she asked had any one come, had any one called; and the answer was, "No." Still she could not rest; she looked through the rooms, through the garden; ah, no, there were no traces of any arrival—none.

Once more to her watch at the window; but the scene began to change. There was no longer the golden glow over land and water, no longer the golden glare of a summer's day, no longer the sweet summer's noise, and the loud, jubilant songs of the birds. A gray tint was stealing over earth and sky; the lilies were closing their white cups; the birds singing their vesper hymn; longer shadows fell on the grass; cooler winds stirred the roses. He would come. The sky might pale, the earth darken, the sun set, the flowers sleep; but he would come. She would let no doubt of him enter her faithful heart. Let the night shadow fall, the sun of her love and her hope should still keep light.

And then from sky and earth, from clear river and green wood the light of day faded—eight, nine, and ten struck—the world grew dark and still—she kept her watch unbroken. It might be night when he returned; but she would hear the click of the gate and be there to welcome.

Ah, me, the sorrow that gathered like a storm-cloud over the beautiful face—the light, brightness and hope died from it as the light died from the heavens. Still she would not yield. Even after the shadows of evening had fallen over the land she kept her place. He would come. The servants of the household grew alarmed at last; and one by one they ventured in to try to persuade their young mistress to eat, to sleep, or to rest.

To one and all she said the same thing:

"Hush, do not speak; I am listening!"

It had grown too late to see; there was no moon, and the pale light of the stars revealed nothing; it had grown colder, too. There was a faint sound in the wind that told of coming rain. Her own maid—more at liberty to speak than the others—prayed her to come in; but all advice, reason, remonstrance received the same answer:

"I must not leave this spot until the twenty-four hours are ended."

She would not have suffered half the torture had the letter arrived; she would have known then at once that she was not to expect him; and the ordeal of waiting would have been over at once; but she clung to the hope he would come, he must come. She recalled his promises given solemnly—she said to herself with a little shudder:

"If he does not come to-day he will never come."

And then she hated herself for the half-implied doubt of him. No matter if the sun had fallen and the nightingale was singing; no matter if the solemn hush of night had fallen, and soft, deep shadows lay around, he would come. The sighs of the wind grew deeper; the roses drooped. She leaned forward, for it seemed to her there was a stir among the trees; it was only some night bird in quest of its prey. Again she bent her head; surely, at last, there was the click of the gate. But no; it was only the swaying of the branches in the wind.

Then clear and full and distinct, cleaving the air, rang out the hour of twelve; it was midnight, and he had not come. The thirtieth of June was over, and he had failed.

One by one she counted those strokes as they fell, in the vain hope that she must be mistaken, that it was only eleven. When she realized it she rose from her solitary watch with a long, low sigh. He had failed; he had not come. She would not judge him; but he had not kept that promise which was more solemn to her than any oath. There were many perils, both by sea and land; the steamer might have run ashore, the train may have been delayed; but if the appointment had been for her to keep she would have kept it in spite of all obstacles and all cost.

She rose from her long dull watch; she tried to cross the room and ring the bell, but the strength of her limbs failed her. She did not fall, she sunk into a senseless, almost helpless heap on the floor; and there, long after midnight, her servants found her, and for some time believed her dead. That was the thirtieth of June—for which she had hoped, worked, and prayed as woman never did before.

They raised her from the ground and took her to her room. One kinder than the others sat by her until the dawn, when the dark eyes opened with a look in them which was never to die away again.

"This is the first of July," she said, faintly.

And the maid, seeing that the morning had dawned, said:

"Yes, it is July."

She never attempted to rise that day, but lay with her face turned to the wall, turned from the sunlight and the birds' song, the bloom of flowers, the ripple of leaves, the warmth and light of the summer, thinking only of the mill-stream and the words that for her had so terrible a prophecy:

"A ring in pledge I gave her, And vows of love we spoke— Those vows are all forgotten, The ring asunder broke."

Over and over again they rang through her brain and her heart, while she fought against them, while she lay trying to deaden her senses, to stifle her reason, doing deadly battle with the fears that assailed her. She would not give in; she would not doubt him; there would come to her in time some knowledge; she should know why he had failed.

Failed, oh, God! how hard the word was to say—failed. Why, if every star in the sky had fallen at her feet it would not have seemed so wonderful.

Perhaps his mother—that proud, haughty woman, who seemed to trample the world under her feet—perhaps she had prevented his coming; but he would come, no matter what the mill-stream said, no matter what his mother wished. The day passed and the morrow came—the second of July. She rose on that day and went down-stairs the shadow of her former self—pale, cold, and silent. She did not say to herself "He will come to-day," hope was dying within her. Then at noon came the letter—her maid brought it in. She gave a low cry of delight when she saw the beloved handwriting, that was followed by a cry of pain. He would not have written if he had been coming; that he had written proved that he had no intention of coming. She took the letter, but she dared not trust herself to open it in the presence of her maid; but when the girl was gone, as there was no human eye to rest on the tortured face she could not control, she opened it.

Deadly cold seemed to seize her; a deadly shudder made the letter fall from her hands.

No, he was not coming.

He must go to Spain—to Spain, with his parents and a party of tourists—but he loved her just the same, and he should return to her.

"He is weak of purpose," she said to herself when she had read the last word; "he loves me still; he will come back to me; he will make me his wife in the eyes of the law as he has done in the sight of Heaven. But he is weak of purpose. The Countess of Lanswell has put difficulties in his way, and he has let them conquer him."

Then came to her mind those strong words:

"Unstable as water, thou shalt not excel."

For the second time her servants found her cold and senseless on the ground; but this time she had an open letter in her hand.

The pity was that the whole world could not see how women trust the promises of men, and how men keep theirs.



CHAPTER XXXI.

A MAN OF WAX.

It is not pleasant to tell how the foundations of a noble building are sapped: to tell how the grand, strong trunk of a noble tree is hacked and hewn until it falls; how the constant rippling of water wears away a stone; how the association with baser minds takes away the bloom from the pure ones; how the constant friction with the world takes the dainty innocence of youth away. It is never pleasant to tell of untruth, or infidelity, or sin. It is not pleasant to write here, little by little, inch by inch, how Lord Chandos was persuaded, influenced, and overcome.

The story of man's perfidy is always hateful—the story of man's weakness is always contemptible. Yet the strongest of men, Samson, fell through the blandishments of a woman. Lord Chandos was neither as strong as Samson nor as wise as Solomon; and that a clever woman should get the upper hand of him was not to be wondered at.

He was a brave, gallant, generous gentleman, gay and genial; he could not endure feeling unhappy, nor could he bear the thought of any other person's unhappiness; he had no tragedy about him; he was kind of heart and simple of mind; he was clever and gifted, but he was like wax in the hands of a clever woman like Lady Lanswell.

He was singularly unsuspicious, believed in most things and most persons; he never misjudged or gave any one credit for bad qualities. He had no more intention of deserting Leone when he left England than he had of seizing the crown of Turkey. His honest, honorable intention was to return to her and marry her on the first hour that such a marriage could be legal. He would have laughed to scorn any one who would have hinted at such a thing. His love then was his life, and he had nothing beside it.

Gradually, slowly but surely, other interests occupied him. A great writer says: "Love is the life of a woman, but only an episode in the life of a man." That was the difference—it was Leone's life; to him it had been an episode—and now that the episode was somewhat passed, other interests opened to him. He meant to be faithful to her and to marry her; nothing should ever shake that determination; but he had ceased to think it need be so hurriedly done; he need not certainly forego the pleasure of the tour and hurry home for his birthday; that was quixotic nonsense; any time that year would do. After his marriage he should lose his mother and Lady Marion; he would enjoy their company as long as he could; Leone was right, she had a luxurious home, the assurance of his love and fidelity, the certainty of being his wife—a few weeks or months would make but little difference to her. He did not think he had done any great harm in going to Spain. One might call it a broken promise; but then most promises are made with a proviso that they shall be kept if possible; and this was not possible; he would have been very foolish—so he said to himself—if he had made matters worse by refusing to go with his mother to Spain. It would have increased her irritation and annoyance all to no purpose.

He tried to convince himself that it was right; and he ended by believing it.

He felt rather anxious as to what Leone would say—and the tone of her letter rather surprised him. She had thought, long before she answered him, reproaches were of no avail—they never are with men; if he had not cared to keep his promise no sharply written words of hers could avail to make him keep it. She made no complaint, no reproaches; she never mentioned her pain or her sorrow; she said nothing of her long watch or its unhappy ending; she did not even tell him of the delayed letter—and he wondered. He was more uncomfortable than if her letter had been one stinging reproach from beginning to end. He answered it—he wrote to her often, but there was a change in the tone of her letters, and he was half conscious of it.

He meant to be true to her—that was his only comfort in the after years; he could not tell—nor did he know—how it first entered his mind to be anything else. Perhaps my lady knew—for she had completely changed her tactics—instead of ignoring Leone she talked of her continually—never unkindly, but with a pitying contempt that insensibly influenced Lord Chandos. She spoke of his future with deepest compassion, as though he would be completely cut off from everything that could make life worth living; she treated him as though he were an unwilling victim to an unfortunate promise. It took some time to impress the idea upon him—he had never thought of himself in that light at all. A victim who was giving up the best mother, the kindest friend, everything in life, to keep an unfortunate promise. My lady spoke of him so continually in that light at last he began to believe it.

He was like wax in her hands; despite his warm and true love for his wife that idea became firmly engraved on his mind—he was a victim.

When once she had carefully impressed that upon him my lady went further; she began to question whether really, after all, his promise bound him or not.

In her eyes it did not—certainly not. The whole thing was a most unfortunate mistake; but that he should consider himself bound by such a piece of boyish folly was madness.

So that the second stage of his progress toward falsehood was that, besides looking on himself as a kind of victim, he began to think that he was not bound by his promise. If it had been an error at first it was an error now; and the countess repeated for him very often the story of the Marquis of Atherton, who married the daughter of a lodge-keeper in his nineteenth year. His parents interfered; the marriage was set aside. What was the consequence? Two years after the girl married the butler, and they bought the Atherton Arms. The marquis, in his twenty-fifth year, married a peeress in her own right, and was now one of the first men in England. My lady often repeated that anecdote; it had made a great impression on her, and it certainly produced an effect on Lord Chandos.

My lady had certainly other influences to bring to bear. The uncle of Lady Erskine, the Duke of Lester, was one of the most powerful nobles in England—the head of the Cabinet, the most influential peer in the House of Lords, the grandest orator and the most respected of men. My lady enjoyed talking about him—she brought forward his name continually, and was often heard to say that whoever had the good fortune to marry Lady Erskine was almost sure to succeed the duke in his numerous honors. Lord Chandos, hearing her one day, said:

"I will win honors, mother—win them for myself—and that will be better than succeeding another man."

She looked at him with a half-sad, half-mocking smile.

"I have no ambition, no hope for you, Lance. You have taken your wife from a dairy—the most I can hope is that you may learn to be a good judge of milk."

He turned from her with a hot flush of anger on his face. Yet the sharp, satirical shaft found its way to his heart. He thought of the words and brooded over them—they made more impression on him than any others had done. In his mother's mind he had evidently lost his place in the world's race, never to regain it.

The duke—who knew nothing of the conspiracy, and knew nothing of the young lord's story, except that he had involved himself in some tiresome dilemma from which his parents had rescued him—the Duke of Lester, who heard Lord Chandos spoken of as one likely to marry his niece, took a great fancy to him; he had no children of his own; he was warmly attached to his beautiful niece; it seemed very probable that if Lord Chandos married Lady Erskine, he would have before him one of the most brilliant futures that could fall to any man's lot. Many people hinted at it, and constant dropping wears away a stone.

The last and perhaps the greatest hold that the countess had over her son was the evident liking of Lady Marion for him. In this, as in everything else, she was most diplomatic; she never expressed any wish that he should marry her; but she had a most sympathetic manner of speaking about her.

"I doubt, Lance," she said one day, "whether we have done wisely—at least whether I have done wisely—in allowing Lady Marion to see so much of you; she is so sweet and so gentle—I am quite distressed about it."

"Why, mother? I see no cause for distress," he said, abruptly.

"No, my dear; men all possess the happy faculty of never seeing that which lies straight before their eyes. It is one of their special gifts—you have it to perfection."

"Do speak out what you mean, mother; that satire of yours puzzles me. What do I not see that I ought to see?"

"Nothing very particular. What I mean is this, Lance, that I am almost afraid Lady Marion has been too much with us for her peace of mind. I think, when you go back to England on this wild-goose chase of yours, that she will feel it deeply."

He looked anxiously at her.

"Do you, mother, really think that?" he asked.

"I do, indeed. Of course I know, Lance, no words of mine will ever avail; but it seems to me you are in this position—if you leave Lady Marion and return to your pretty dairy-maid that Lady Marion will never be happy again. If you marry Lady Marion and dower that young person with a good fortune she will marry some one in her own rank of life and be much happier than she could be with you."

"Ah, mother," he said, sadly, "you do not know Leone."

"No, and never shall; but I know one thing—if I stood in your place and was compelled to make one or the other unhappy, I know which it would be. In marrying Lady Marion you make yourself at once and you delight me, you gratify every one who knows and loves you. In marrying that tempestuous young person you cut yourself adrift from fame, friends, and parents."

"But honor, mother, what about my honor?"

"You lose it in marrying a dairy-maid. You preserve it in marrying Lady Marion."

And with this Parthian shot my lady left him.



CHAPTER XXXII.

AN ACT OF PERFIDY.

So—inch by inch, little by little, step by step—Lord Chandos was influenced to give up his faith, his promise, his loyalty. I, who write the story, offer no excuse for him—there is none for the falseness and perfidy of men—yet it is of so common occurrence the world only jests about it—the world makes poetry of it and sings, cheerfully:

"One foot on land and one on shore, Men were deceivers ever."

A promise more or less, a vow more or less, a broken heart, a ruined life, a lost soul, a crime that calls to Heaven for vengeance—what is it? The world laughs at "Love's perfidies;" the world says that it serves one right. The girl is slain in her youth by a worse fate than early death, and the man goes on his way blithely enough.

Lord Chandos could not quite trample his conscience under foot; under the influence of his mother he began to see that his love for Leone had been very unfortunate and very fatal; he had begun to think that if one of two women must be miserable it had better be Leone. That which was present influenced him most. He loved his mother, he was flattered by Lady Marion's love for him. So many influences were brought to bear upon him, the earl and countess were so devoted to him, Lady Marion charmed him so much with her grace and kindness of manner, her sweetness of disposition, her wonderful repose, that his faith grew weak and his loyalty failed.

There came an evening when they two—Lord Chandos and Lady Marion—stood alone in one of the most beautiful courts of the Alhambra. The whole party had been visiting that marvelous palace, and, more by accident than design, they found themselves alone. The sun was setting—a hundred colors flamed in the western sky; the sun seemed loath to leave the lovely, laughing earth; all the flowers were sending her a farewell message; the air was laden with richest odors; the ripple of green leaves made music, and they stood in the midst of the glories of the past and the smile of the present.

"I can people the place," said Lady Marion, in her quiet way. "I can see the cavaliers in their gay dresses and plumes, the dark-eyed senoras with veil and fan. How many hearts have loved and broken within these walls, Lord Chandos!"

"Hearts love and break everywhere," he said, gloomily.

She went on:

"I wonder if many dreams of this grand Alhambra came to Queen Catharine of Arragon, when she lay down to rest—that is, if much rest came to her?"

"Why should not rest come to her?" asked Lord Chandos, and the fair face, raised to answer him, grew pale.

"Why? What a question to ask me. Was she not jealous and with good cause? How can a jealous woman know rest? I am quite sure that she must have thought often with longing and regret, of her home in sunny Granada."

"I have never been jealous in my life," said Lord Chandos.

"Then you have never loved," said Lady Marion. "I do not believe that love ever exists without some tinge of jealousy. I must say that if I loved any one very much, I should be jealous if I saw that person pay much attention to any one else."

He looked at her carelessly, he spoke carelessly; if he had known what was to follow, he would not have spoken so.

"But do you love any one very much?" he said.

The next moment he deeply repented the thoughtless words. Her whole face seemed on fire with a burning blush. She turned proudly away from him.

"You have no right to ask me such a question," she said. "You are cruel to me, Lord Chandos."

The red blush died away, and the sweet eyes filled with tears.

That was the coup de grace; perhaps if that little incident had never happened, this story had never been written; but the tears in those sweet eyes, and the quiver of pain in that beautiful face, was more than he could bear. The next moment he was by her side, and had taken her white hands in his.

"Cruel! how could I be cruel to you. Lady Marion? Nothing could be further from my thoughts. How am I cruel?"

"Never mind," she said, gently.

"But I do mind very much indeed. What did I say that could make you think me cruel? Will you not tell me?"

"No," she replied, with drooping eyes, "I will not tell you."

"But I must know. Was it because I asked you, 'if you ever loved any one very much?' Was that cruel?"

"I cannot deny, but I will not affirm it," she said. "We are very foolish to talk about such things as love and jealousy; they are much better left alone."

There was the witchery of the hour and the scene to excuse him; there was the fair loveliness of her face, the love in her eyes that lured him, the trembling lips that seemed made to be kissed; there was the glamour that a young and beautiful woman always throws over a man; there was the music that came from the throats of a thousand birds, the fragrance that came from a thousand flowers to excuse him. He lost his head, as many a wiser man has done; his brain reeled, his heart beat; the warm white hand lay so trustingly in his own, and he read on her fair, pure face the story of her love. He never knew what madness possessed him; he who had called himself the husband of another; but he drew her face to his and kissed her lips, while he whispered to her how fair and how sweet she was. The next moment he remembered himself, and wished the deed undone. It was too late—to one like Lady Marion a kiss meant a betrothal, and he knew it. He saw tears fall from her eyes; he kissed them away, and then she whispered to him in a low, sweet voice:

"How did you guess my secret?"

"Your secret," he repeated, and kissed her again, because he did not know what to say.

"Yes; how did you find out that I loved you?" she asked, simply. "I am sure I have always tried to hide it."

"Your beautiful eyes told it," he said; and then a sudden shock of horror came to him. Great Heaven! what was he doing? where was Leone? She did not perceive it, but raised her blushing face to his.

"Ah, well," she said, sweetly, "it is no secret since you have found it out. It is true, I do love you, and my eyes have not told you falsely."

Perhaps she wondered that he listened so calmly, that he did not draw her with passionate words and caresses to his heart, that he did not speak with the raptures lovers used. He looked pale and troubled, yet he clasped her hand more closely.

"You are very good to me," he said. "I do not deserve it, I do not merit it. You—you—shame me, Marion."

She looked at him with a warm glow of happiness on her face.

"It would not be possible to be too good to you; but I must not tell you of all I think of you, or you will grow vain. I think," she continued, with a smile that made her look like an angel, "I think now that I know how much you love me I shall be the happiest woman on the face of the earth."

He did not remember to have said how much he loved her, or to have spoken of his love at all, but evidently she thought he had, and it came to the same thing.

"How pleased Lady Lanswell will be!" said the young heiress, after a time. "You will think me very vain to say so, but I believe she loves me."

"I am sure of it; who could help it?" he said, absently.

He knew that he had done wrong, he repented it, and made one desperate effort to save himself.

"Lady Marion," he said, hurriedly, "let me ask you one question. You have heard, of course, the story of my early love?"

He felt the trembling of her whole figure as she answered, in a low voice:

"Yes; I know it, and that makes me understand jealousy. I am very weak, I know, but if you had gone to England, I should have died of pain."

He kissed her again, wondering whether for his perfidy a bolt from Heaven would strike him dead.

"You know it," he said; "then tell me—I leave it with you. Do you consider that a barrier between us, between you and me? You shall decide?"

She knew so little about it that she hastily answered:

"No; how can it be? That was folly. Lady Lanswell says you have forgotten it. Shall a mere folly be a barrier between us? No; love levels all barriers, you know."

He kissed her hands, saying to himself that he was the greatest coward and the greatest villain that ever stood on earth. Words he had none. Then they heard Lady Cambrey calling for her niece.

"Let me tell her," whispered the beautiful girl; "she will be so pleased, she likes you so much." Then, as they passed out of the court, she looked at the grand old walls. "I shall always love this place," she said, "because it is here that you have first said that you loved me."

And the pity is that every girl and every woman disposed to give her whole chance of happiness in a man's hand was not there to see how women believe men, and how men keep the promises they make.

He told his mother that same night.

"I have done it," he said; "circumstances have forced me into it, but I have forsworn myself. I have lost my self-respect, and I shall never be happy again while I live."

But she embraced him with eager delight.

"You have done well," she said; "you have risen above the shackles of a miserable promise, and have proved yourself a noble man by daring to undo the mad act of folly which might have blighted your life. I approve of what you have done, and so will any other sensible person."

And that was his consolation, his reward for the greatest act of perfidy that man ever committed, or a woman sanctioned.



CHAPTER XXXIII.

"I HAVE PERJURED MYSELF."

Lady Lanswell was triumphant; she lost no time; before noon of the day following she had sent to the Duke of Lester saying that they were staying at Granada, and that important family business awaited him there. She knew that he would lose no time in going there. In the days that intervened she managed her son most cleverly; she said little or nothing to him of Lady Marion. If he broached the subject, she changed it at once, saying: "Let the matter rest for awhile;" she was so sorely afraid he would draw back. She was kind to him in her way; if she saw his handsome face looking distressed, pained, or anxious, she would cheer him up with bright words, with laughter, or anything that would take the weight of thought or care from him.

The Duke of Lester was soon there. Anything in which his niece was interested was of vital consequence to him; he had no particular liking for Lady Cambrey, and always regretted that the young heiress had been given into her charge rather than in that of his amiable wife. He went to Granada, delighted with the news; he had heard so much of the talents of Lord Chandos that he was charmed with the idea of his belonging to the family. It had been a sore and heavy trial to the duke that he had no son, that so many honors and such great offices should die with him. It was from that motive that he had always felt an especial interest in the marriage of his beautiful young niece.

"If she marries well," he had said to himself more than once, "her husband must stand to me in the place of a son."

If he had to choose from the wide world, he would prefer Lord Chandos from his singular talent, activity, and capability for political life. He knew, as every one else did, that there had been some little drawback in the young lord's life, some mysterious love-affair, and he had not interested himself in it; he never did take any interest in matters of that kind. Evidently if, at any time, there had been a little faux pas, it was remedied, or so worldly-wise a woman as Lady Lanswell would never have introduced him to his niece.

So the Duke of Lester, all amiability and interest, gave the finishing touch to Lord Chandos' fate. When he had once spoken of the matter, there was no receding from it without a scandal that would have horrified all England. The duke's first words settled the whole matter; he held out his hand in frankest, kindliest greeting to Lord Chandos.

"I hear very pleasant intelligence," he said; "and while I congratulate you, I congratulate myself that I am to have the good fortune of an alliance with you."

Lady Lanswell stood by, and there was a moment's pause; perhaps she never suffered such intensity of suspense as she did during that moment, for her son's face grew colorless, and he looked as if he were going to draw back. The next minute he had recovered himself, and returned the duke's greeting: then, and only then, did the countess give a great sigh of relief; there could be no mistake, no drawing back from anything which the duke sanctioned.

That same day there was a family meeting; the earl and countess, Lord Chandos, the Duke of Lester, Lady Marion Erskine, and Lady Cambrey; they all dined together, and the duke discussed with the countess the time of the marriage.

There was little said, but that little was binding; there could be no retreat. In the autumn, about September, the countess thought; and she suggested that they should not return to England for the marriage; it could take place at the Embassy at Paris. There would be plenty of time for discussing these details; the thing now was to settle the engagement. It gave great delight; the earl, it is true, had some little scruple, which he ventured to express to his wife.

"I ought to add my congratulation," he said; "but I am in doubt over it. This seems a very suitable marriage, and Lady Marion is a most charming girl. But what about that other girl, my lady?"

"That has nothing to do with us," she replied, haughtily. "I am prepared to be very liberal; I shall not mind a thousand a year; she shall have nothing to complain of."

Lord Lanswell did not feel quite so sure, but as he never had had any management of his own affairs, it was too late to begin now. My lady would probably bring a hornet's nest about her ears—that was her own business; if he were any judge, either of looks or character, that young girl, Leone, would not be so lightly set aside.

However, he said nothing. Lord Lanswell had learned one lesson in his life; he had learned that "Silence was golden."

The matter was settled now; the duke had given his sanction, expressed his delight; several of the highly connected and important families belonging to the Lanswells and the Lesters had sent in their congratulations; everything was in trim.

There was no need for the duke to remain; he would join them in Paris for the wedding. No word was spoken on the subject between Lady Lanswell and himself, but there was a certain tacit understanding that the wedding must not take place in England, lest it should be disturbed.

The duke returned to England, taking back with him a sincere liking and a warm admiration for Lord Chandos; he was impatient for the time to come when he should be able to claim him as a relation of his own. The remainder of the party stayed at Granada; there was plenty to interest them in and about that charming city.

Some few days after his departure, Lord Chandos sought his mother. She had felt anxious over him of late. He looked like anything but a happy lover; he was thin, worn, and the face that had been so bright had grown shadowed and careworn. My lady did not like it. Any man who had won such a prize as Lady Erskine ought to feel delighted and show his pleasure.

So argued my lady, but her son did not seem to share her sentiments. She sat on this morning, looking very stately and beautiful, in a dress of moire antique, with a morning-cap of point lace—a woman to whom every one involuntarily did homage.

Lord Chandos looked at her with wonder and admiration; then he sighed deeply as he remembered why he had sought her. He sat down near her, the very picture of dejection and misery.

"Mother," he said, abruptly, "I have behaved like a villain and a coward. In what words am I to excuse myself?"

My lady's face darkened.

"I have not the pleasure of understanding you," she said. "Will you explain yourself?"

"I have perjured myself. I have broken the most solemn vows that a man could make. I have forsworn myself. Tell me in what words am I to tell my guilt, or excuse it?"

A contemptuous smile stole over the face of my lady.

"Are you troubling yourself about that tempestuous young person, Leone? Shame on you, when you have won the sweetest woman and the wealthiest heiress in England for your wife!"

His voice was broken with emotion as he answered her:

"I cannot forget that I believed her to be my wife once, and I loved her."

My lady interrupted him.

"My dear Lance, we all know what a boy's first love is. Ah, do believe me, it is not worth thinking of; every one laughs at a boy's love. They take it just as they take to whooping-cough or fever; it does not last much longer either. In another year's time you will laugh at the very mention of what you have called love. Believe me," continued her ladyship, proudly, "that Lady Marion is the wife Heaven ordained for you, and no other."

The handsome young head was bent low, and it seemed to my lady as though a great tearless sob came from his lips. She laid her hand on his dark, crisp waves of hair.

"I do sympathize with you, Lance," she said, in a kind voice; and when Lady Lanswell chose to be kind no one could rival her. "You have, perhaps, made some little sacrifice of inclination, but, believe me, you have done right, and I am proud of you."

He raised his haggard young face to hers.

"I feel myself a coward and a villain, mother," he said, in a broken voice. "I ought to have gone back to that poor girl; I ought not to have dallied with temptation. I love Leone with the one love of my heart and mind, and I am a weak, miserable coward that I have not been true to her. I have lost my own self-respect, and I shall never regain it."

My lady was patient; she had always expected a climax, and, now it had arrived, she was ready for it. The scorn and satire gave place to tenderness; she who was the most undemonstrative of women, caressed him as though he had been a child again on her knees. She praised him, she spoke of his perfidy as though it were heroism; she pointed out to him that he had made a noble sacrifice of an ignoble love.

"But, mother," he said, "I have broken my faith, my honor, my plighted word," and her answer was:

"That for a great folly there could only be a great reparation; that if he had broken his faith with this unfortunate girl he had kept it, and his loyalty also, to the name and race of which he was so proud, to herself and to Lady Marion."

Like all other clever women, she could argue a question until she convinced the listener, even against his own will, and she could argue so speciously that she made wrong seem right.

He listened until he was unable to make any reply. In his heart he hated and loathed himself; he called himself a coward and a traitor; but in his mother's eyes he was a great hero.

"There is one thing I cannot do," he said; "I cannot write and tell her; it seems to me more cruel than if I plunged a dagger in her heart."

Lady Lanswell laughed.

"That is all morbid sentiment, my dear Lance. Leave the matter with me, I will be very kind and very generous; I will arrange everything with her in such a manner that you will be pleased. Now promise me to try and forget her, and be happy with the sweet girl who loves you so dearly."

"I will try," he said, but his young face was so haggard and worn that my lady's heart misgave her as she looked at him.

"I have done all for the best," she murmured to herself. "He may suffer now, but he will thank me for it in the years to come."



CHAPTER XXXIV.

A PALE BRIDEGROOM.

The writing of that letter was a labor of love to Lady Lanswell. She did not wish to be cruel; on the contrary, now that she had gained her wish, she felt something like pity for the girl she had so entirely crushed. Lord Chandos would have been quite true to his first love but for his mother's influence and maneuvers. She knew that. She knew that with her own hand she had crushed the life and love from this girl's heart. Writing to her would be the last disagreeable feature in the case. She would be finished with them, and there would be nothing to mar the brightness of the future.

My lady took up a jeweled pen; she had paper, white and soft, with her crest at the head; every little detail belonging to her grandeur would help to crush this girl for whom she had so much contempt and so little pity. She thought over every word of her letter; it might at some future day, perhaps, be brought against her, and she resolved that it should be a model of moderation and fairness. She had learned Leone's name, and she began:

"MY DEAR MISS NOEL,—My son has commissioned me to write to you, thinking, as I think, that the business to be arranged will be better settled between you and myself. I am glad to tell you that at last, after many months of infatuation, my son has returned to his senses, and has now but one idea, which is at once and forever to put an end to all acquaintance between you and himself. My son owns that it was a great mistake; he blames himself entirely, and quite exculpates you; he holds you blameless. Permit me to say that I do the same.

"My son, having recovered his senses, sees that a marriage between you and himself would be quite impossible. He regrets having promised it, and begs that you will forgive what seems to be a breach of that promise; but it is really the best and wisest plan of his life. Neither your birth, training, education, manners, nor appearance fit you to hold the position that my son's wife must hold. You must, therefore, consider the whole affair at an end; it was, at its worst, a piece of boyish folly and indiscretion, while you are blameless. It is my son's wish that ample compensation should be made to you, and I have placed the matter in the hands of Mr. Sewell, my lawyer, whom I have instructed to settle a thousand per annum on you. Let me add, further, that if ever you are in any pecuniary difficulty, I shall find a pleasure in helping you.

"One thing more: Lord Chandos is engaged to be married to one of the wealthiest women in England—a marriage which makes his father and myself extremely happy, which opens to him one of the finest careers ever opened to any man, and will make him one of the happiest of men. Let me add an earnest hope that your own good sense will prevent any vulgar intrusion on your part, either on my son or the lady to whom he is passionately attached. You will not need to answer this letter. Lord Chandos does not wish to be annoyed by any useless appeals; in short, no letter that you write will reach him, as we are traveling from place to place, and shall be so until the wedding-day.

"In conclusion, I can but say I hope you will look at the matter in a sensible light. You, a farmer's niece, have no right to aspire to the position of an earl's wife, and you have every reason to think yourself fortunate that worse has not happened.

"LUCIA, COUNTESS OF LANSWELL."

"There," said my lady, as she folded up the letter, "to most people that would be a quietus. If she has half as much spirit as I give her credit for, that little touch about the 'vulgar intrusion' will prevent her from writing to him. I think this will effectually put an end to all further proceedings."

She sealed the letter and sent it, at the same time sending one to her solicitor, Mr. Sewell, telling him of the happy event pending, and begging of him to arrange with the girl at once.

"If one thousand a year does not satisfy her, offer her two; offer her anything, so that we are completely rid of her. From motives of prudence it would be better for her to leave that place at once; advise her to go abroad, or emigrate, or anything, so that she may not annoy us again, and do not write to me about her; I do not wish to be annoyed. Settle the business yourself, and remember that I have no wish to know anything about it."

That letter was sent with the other, and my lady sunk back with an air of great relief.

"Thank Heaven!" she said to herself, "that is over. Ah, me! what mothers have to suffer with their sons, and yet few have been so docile as mine."

A few days afterward the countess sought her son. She had no grounds for what she said, but she imagined herself speaking the truth.

"Lance," she said, "I have good news for you. That tiresome little affair of yours is all settled, and there will be no need for us ever to mention the subject again. The girl has consented to take the thousand a year, and she—she is happy and content."

He looked at her with haggard eyes.

"Happy and content, mother?" he said. "Are you quite sure of that?"

"Sure as I am that you, Lance, are one of the most fortunate men in this world. Now take my advice, and let us have no more mention of the matter. I am tired of it, and I am sure that you must be the same. Try from this time to be happy with Lady Marion, and forget the past."

Did he forget it? No one ever knew. He never had the same light in his eyes, the same frank, free look on his face, the same ring in his laugh; from that day he was a changed man. Did he think of the fair young girl, whose passionate heart and soul he had woke into such keen life? Did he think of the mill-stream and the ripple of the water, and the lines so full of foreboding:

"The vows are all forgotten, The ring asunder broke."

Ah, how true Leone's presentiment had been! The vow was forgotten, the ring broken, the pretty love-story all ended. He never dared to ask any questions from his mother about her; he turned coward whenever the English letters were delivered; he never dared to think about her, to wonder how she had taken this letter, what she had thought, said, or done. He was not happy. Proud, ambitious, mercenary, haughty as was the Countess of Lanswell, there were times when she felt grieved for her son. It was such a young face, but there was a line on the broad, fair brow; there was a shadow in the sunny eyes; the music had gone out from his voice.

"Marion will soon make it all right," said the proud, anxious, unhappy mother; "there will be nothing to fear when once they are married."

Lady Marion was the most gentle and least exacting of all human beings, but even she fancied Lord Chandos was but a poor wooer. He was always polite, deferential, attentive, and kind; yet he seldom spoke of love. After that evening in the Alhambra he never kissed her; he never sought any tete-a-tete with her. She had had many lovers, as was only natural for a beauty and a great heiress. None of them had been so cool, so self-contained as Lord Chandos.

Lady Lanswell managed well; she ought to have been empress of some great nation; her powers of administration were so great. She persuaded them to have the wedding in the month of September, and to travel until that came.

"It will be a change from the common custom," she said; "most people are married in England, and go to the Continent for their honey-moon; you will be married in the Continent, and go to England for the honey-moon."

It was some little disappointment to Lady Marion; like all girls she had thought a great deal of her marriage. She had always fancied it in the grand old church at Erskine, where the noble men and women of her race slept their last sleep, where the Erskines for many generations had been married. She had fancied a long train of fair, young bridemaids, a troop of fair, fond children strewing flowers; and now it would be quite different. Still she was content; she was marrying the man whom she loved more than any one, or anything else in the world.

She had wondered so much why the countess desired the wedding to take place in Paris. She had even one day ventured to ask her, and Lady Lanswell answered first by kissing her, then by telling her that it was best for Lord Chandos. That was quite enough to content the loving heart, if it were better for him in any way. She did not inquire why. She would sacrifice any wish or desire of her own.

So the day of the wedding came, and a grand ceremonial it was. The noblest and most exclusive English in Paris attended it, and everything was after the wish of Lady Lanswell's heart. There had never been a fairer or more graceful bride. There had never been a handsomer or more gallant bridegroom. One thing struck the Countess of Lanswell and made her remember the day with a keen sense of pain, and it was this: when the bride retired to change her superb bridal dress for a traveling costume she had time to notice how white and ill her son looked. He was one of the most temperate of men; she did not remember that he had ever in his life been in the least degree the worse for wine, but she saw him go to the buffet and fill a small glass with strong brandy and drink it—even that, strong as it was, did not put any color into his face. Then he came to speak to her. She looked anxiously at him.

"Lance," she said, "I do not like asking you the question—but—have you really been drinking brandy?"

She never forgot the bitter laugh that came from his lips.

"Yes, I have indeed, mother. It is just as well a glass of poison did not stand there; I should have drunk it."

She shuddered at the words, and it must be owned they were not cheerful ones for a wedding-day.

The bride and bridegroom drove away; slippers and rice were thrown after them. And the pity is that every woman inclined to put faith in the vows and promises of a man was not there to see how they were kept.



CHAPTER XXXV.

"I LEAVE THEM MY HATRED AND MY CURSE."

Leone was alone when the letter of the Countess of Lanswell was delivered to her: she had been wondering for some days why no news came from Lord Chandos—why he did not write. She had written most urgent and affectionate letters to him, praying for news of him, telling him how bravely and happily she was bearing the separation from him, only longing to know something of him.

The warm, sultry month of August had set in, and she was working hard as ever; there was but one comfort to her in this long absence—the longer he was away from her, the more fit she should be to take her place as his wife when he did return. She felt now that she could be as stately as the Countess of Lanswell herself, with much more grace.

She had been thinking over her future when that letter came; it found her in the same pretty room where he had bidden her good-bye. When the maid entered with the letter on a salver, she had looked up with a quick, passionate sense of pleasure. Perhaps this was to tell her when he would come. She seized the dainty envelope with a low cry of intense rapture.

"At last," she said to herself, "at last. Oh, my love, how could you be silent so long?"

Then she saw that it was not Lance's writing, but a hand that was quite strange to her. Her face paled even as she opened it; she turned to the signature before she read the letter; it was "Lucia, Countess of Lanswell." Then she knew that it was from her mortal enemy, the one on whom she had sworn revenge.

She read it through. What happened while she read it? The reapers were reaping in the cornfields, the wind had sunk to the lightest whisper, some of the great red roses fell dead, the leaves of the white lilies died in the heat of the sun, the birds were tired of singing; even the butterflies had sunk, tired out, on the breasts of the flowers they loved; there was a golden glow over everything; wave after wave of perfume rose on the warm summer air; afar off one heard the song of the reaper, and the cry of the sailors as the ships sailed down the stream; there was life, light, lightness all around, and she stood in the middle of it, stricken as one dead, holding her death warrant in her hand. She might have been a marble statue as she stood there, so white, so silent, so motionless.

She read and reread it; at first she thought it must be a sorry jest; it could not be true, it was impossible. If she took up the Bible there, and the printed words turned blood-red before her eyes, it would be far less wonderful than that this should be true. A sorry, miserable jest some one had played her, but who—how? No, it was no jest.

She must be dreaming—horrible dreams come to people in their sleep; she should wake presently and find it all a black, blank dream. Yet, no—no dream, the laughing August sunlight lay all round her, the birds were singing, there was the flash of the deep river, with the pleasure-boats slowly drifting down the stream. It was no dream, it was a horrible reality; Lord Chandos, the lover whom she had loved with her whole heart, who ought, under the peculiar circumstances, to have given her even double the faith and double the love a husband gives his wife; he, who was bound to her even by the weakness of the tie that should have been stronger, had deserted her.

She did not cry out, she did not faint or swoon; she did not sink as she had done before, a senseless heap on the ground; she stood still, as a soldier stands sometimes when he knows that he has to meet his death blow.

Every vestige of color had faded from her face and lips; if the angel of death had touched her with his fingers, she could not have looked more white and still. Over and over again she read the words that took from her life its brightness and its hope, that slew her more cruelly than poison or steel, that made their way like winged arrows to her heart, and changed her from a tender, loving, passionate girl to a vengeful woman.

Slowly she realized it, slowly the letter fell from her hands, slowly she fell on her knees.

"He has forsaken me!" she cried. "Oh, my God! he has forsaken me, and I cannot die!"

No one cares to stand by the wheel or the rack while some poor body is tortured to death; who can stand by while a human heart is breaking with the extremity of anguish? When such a grief comes to any one as to Leone, one stands by in silence; it is as though a funeral is passing, and one is breathless from respect to the dead.

The best part of her died as she knelt there; the blue of the sky, the gold of the shining sun, the song of the birds, the sweet smell of flowers were never the same to her again. Almost all that was good and noble, brave and bright, died as she knelt there. When that letter reached her, she was, if anything, better than the generality of women. She had noble instincts, grand ideas, great generosity, and self-sacrifice; it was as though a flame of fire came to her, and burned away every idea save one, and that was revenge.

"He loved me," she cried; "he loved me truly and well; but he was weak of purpose and my enemy has taken him from me."

Hours passed—all the August sunlight died; the reapers went home, the cries of the sailors were stilled, the birds were silent and still. She sat there trying to realize that for her that letter had blotted the sun from the heavens and the light from her life; trying to understand that her brave, handsome, gallant young love was false to her, that he was going to marry another while she lived.

It was too horrible. She was his wife before God. They had only been parted for a short time by a legal quibble. How could he marry any one else?

She would not believe it. It was a falsehood that the proud mother had invented to part her from him. She would not believe it unless she heard it from others. She knew Mr. Sewell's private address; he would know if it were true; she would go and ask him.

Mr. Sewell was accustomed to tragedies, but even he felt in some degree daunted when that young girl with her colorless face and flashing eyes stood before him. She held out a letter.

"Will you read this?" she said, abruptly. "I received it to-day from Lucia, Countess of Lanswell, and I refuse to believe it."

He took the letter from her hands and read it, then looked at the still white face before him.

"Is it true?" she asked.

"Yes," he replied, "perfectly true."

"Will you tell me who it is that is going to marry my husband?" she asked.

"If you mean will I tell you whom Lord Chandos is to marry, I am sorry to say my answer must be 'No.' I am not commissioned to do so. You may see it for yourself in the newspapers."

"Then it is true," she said slowly; "there is no jest, no doubt, no mistake about it?"

"No, none. And as you have shown me your letter," said Mr. Sewell, "I may as well show you the one I have received, and you may see for yourself what Lady Lanswell's intentions about you are. Take a chair," added the lawyer, "I did not notice that you were standing all this time; you took me by surprise. Pray be seated."

She took the chair which he had placed for her, and read the letter through. She laid it down on the table, her face calm, white, the fire in her eyes giving place to utter scorn.

"I thank you," she said. "The letter written you is cruel and unjust as the one written to me. I decline the thousand per annum now and for all time. My husband loved me and would have been quite true to me, but that his mother has intrigued to make him false. I refuse her help, her assistance in any way; but I will have my revenge. If I had money and influence I would sue for my rights—ah, and might win then. As it is, and for the present, I am powerless; but I will have my revenge. Tell Lucia, Countess of Lanswell, so from me."

The passion, the dramatic force, the eager interest, the power of her beautiful face, struck him. In his heart he felt sorry for this girl, who he knew had been cruelly treated.

"I would not think about revenge," he said; "that is a kind of thing one reads about in novels and plays, but it is all out of date."

"Is it?" she asked, with a slow, strange smile.

"Yes. Take the advice of a sensible man who wishes to see you do well. Yours is a false position, a cruel position; but make the best of it—take the thousand per annum, and enjoy your life."

He never forgot the scorn those wonderful eyes flashed at him.

"No," she said, "I thank you; I believe when you give me that advice you mean well, but I cannot follow it. If I were dying of hunger I would not touch even a crumb of bread that came from Lady Lanswell. I will never even return to the house which has been my own. I will take no one single thing belonging to them. I will leave them my hatred and my curse. And you tell Countess Lucia, from me, that my hatred shall find her out, and my vengeance avenge me."

She rose from her chair and took the letter she had brought with her.

"I will never part with this," she said; "I will keep it near me always, and the reading of it may stimulate me when my energy tires. I have no message for Lord Chandos; to you I say farewell."

"She is going to kill herself," he thought; "and then, if it gets into the papers, my lady will wax wroth."

She seemed to divine his thoughts, for she smiled, and the smile was more sad than tears.

"I shall not harm myself," she said: "death is sweeter than life, but life holds 'vengeance.' Good-bye."



CHAPTER XXXVI.

AFTER THREE YEARS.

"The question is," said Lord Chandos, "shall we go or not? Please yourself, Marion, and then," he added, with an air of weariness, "you will be sure to please me."

"I should like to go, certainly, if you really have no other engagement, Lance," said Lady Chandos.

"My engagements always give place to your pleasure," replied the young husband. "If you really desire to see this new star we will go. I will see about it at once."

Still Lady Chandos seemed irresolute.

"It is quite true," she said, "that all London has gone mad about her, just as Paris, Vienna, and St. Petersburg did."

"London is always going mad about something or other, but the madness never lasts long."

"I have read many things," continued his wife calmly, "but I have never read anything like the description of the scene at the opera-house last evening; it really made me long to see her."

"Then let the longing be gratified, by all means," said Lord Chandos. "We will go this evening. Consider it settled, Marion, and do not think of changing your plans."

It was breakfast-time, and the husband and wife were discussing the advent of a new actress and singer—one who was setting the world on fire—Madame Vanira. Lord and Lady Chandos always took breakfast together; it was one of the established rules, never broken; it was the only time in the day when they were quite sure of seeing each other.

It was three years since they were married, and time had not worked any great change in either. Lady Chandos was even more beautiful than in her maiden days. She had the same sweet repose of manner, the same high-bred elegance and grace, the same soft, low voice, but the beauty of her face had grown deeper.

There was more light in the blue eyes, a deeper sheen on the golden hair, a richer tint on the fair face; there was more of life, animation, and interest, than she had displayed in those days when she seemed to glide through life like a spirit, rather than battle through it like a human being. Perhaps for her the battle had to come. In figure she had developed, she looked taller and more stately, but the same beautiful lines and gracious curves were there. As she sits in her morning-dress, the palest blue, trimmed with the most delicate cream color, a pretty, coquettish cap on her golden head, the bloom and freshness of early youth on her face, she looks the loveliest picture of lovely and blooming womanhood, the perfection of elegance, the type of a patrician. Her white hands are covered with shining gems—Lady Chandos has a taste for rings. She is altogether a proper wife for a man to have to trust, to place his life and honor in her, a wife to be esteemed, appreciated and revered, but not worshiped with a mad passion. In the serene, pure atmosphere in which she lived no passion could come, no madness; she did not understand them, she never went out of the common grooves of life, but she was most amiable and sweet in them.

Nor had Lord Chandos altered much in these three years; he had grown handsomer, more manly; the strong, graceful figure, the erect, easy carriage, were just the same; his face had bronzed with travel, and the mustache that shaded his beautiful lips was darker in hue.

Had they been happy, these three years of married life? Ask Lady Chandos, and she will say, "Happy as a dream." She has not known a shadow of care or fear, she has been unutterably happy; she is the queen of blondes, one of the most popular queens of society, the chosen and intimate friend of more than one royal princess, one of the most powerful ladies at court; no royal ball, or concert, or garden-party is ever given without her name being on the list; she is at the head of half the charities in London; she lays foundation stones; she opens the new wings of hospitals; she interests herself in convalescent homes; she influences, and in a great many instances leads the fashions. "Hats a la Chandos," "the Marion costume," are tributes to her influence. To know her, to be known to be on her visiting list, is a passport everywhere. She has the finest diamonds and the finest rubies in London; her horses are the envy and admiration of all who see them; her mansion in Belgravia is the wonder of all who see it—every corner of the earth has been racked to add to its luxury and comfort. She has more money—just as pin-money—than many a peer has for the keeping up of title and estate. She has a husband who is all kindness and indulgence to her; who has never denied her the gratification of a single wish; who has never spoken one cross word to her; who is always devoted to her service. What could any one wish for more? She would tell you, with a charming, placid smile on her sweet face, that she is perfectly happy. If there be higher bliss than hers she does not know it yet; if there is a love, as there is genius, akin to madness, she has never felt it. Passion does not enter her life, it is all serene and calm.

In those three years Lord Chandos had made for himself a wonderful name. The Duke of Lester had done all that he could for him, but his own talents and energy had done more. He had proved himself to be what the leading journals said of him, "a man of the times." Just the man wanted—full of life, activity, energy, talent, and power. He had made himself famous as an orator; when Lord Chandos rose to speak, the house listened and the nation applauded; his speeches were eagerly read. He was the rising man of the day, and people predicted for him that he would be prime minister before he was thirty. His mother's heart rejoiced in him—all her most sanguine hopes were fulfilled. Ask him if he is happy. He would laugh carelessly, and answer, "I am as happy as other men, I imagine." Ask him if his ambition and pride are gratified, and he will tell you "Yes." Ask him if ambition and pride can fill his life to the exclusion of all else; he will tell you "No." Ask him again if he has a thousand vague, passionate desires unfulfilled, and his handsome face will cloud and his eyes droop.

They are very popular. Lord Chandos gives grand dinners, which are considered among the best in London, Lady Chandos gives balls, and people intrigue in every possible way for invitations. She gives quiet dances and soirees, which are welcomed. She is "at home" every Wednesday, and no royal drawing-room is better attended than her "at home." She has select little teas at five o'clock, when some of the most exclusive people in London drink orange pekoe out of the finest Rose du Barri china. They are essentially popular; no ball is considered complete unless it is graced by the presence of the queen of blondes. As the Belgravian matrons all say, "Dear Lady Chandos is so happy in her marriage." Her husband was always in attendance on her. Other husbands had various ways; some went to their clubs, some smoked, some drank, some gambled, others flirted. Lord Chandos was irreproachable; he did none of these things.

There had never been the least cloud between them. If this perfect wife of his had any little weakness, it was a tendency to slight jealousies, so slight as to be nameless, yet she allowed them at times to ruffle her calm, serene repose. Her husband was very handsome—there was a picturesque, manly beauty about his dark head and face, a grandeur in his grand, easy figure that was irresistible. Women followed him wherever he went with admiring eyes. As he walked along the streets they said to each other, with smiling eyes, what a handsome man he was. If they went to strange hotels all the maids courtesied with blushing faces to the handsome young lord. At Naples one of the flower-girls had disturbed Lady Marion's peace—a girl with a face darkly beautiful as one of Raphael's women, with eyes that were like liquid fire, and this girl always stood waiting for them with a basket of flowers. Lord Chandos, in his generous, princely fashion, flung her pieces of gold or silver; once my lady saw the girl lift the money he threw to her from the ground, kiss it with a passionate kiss, and put it in the bodice of her dress. In vain after that did Carina offer Parma violets and lilies from Sorrento, Lady Chandos would have no more, and Carina was requested soon afterward by the master of the hotel to take her stand with her flowers elsewhere.

Lord Chandos never made any remark upon it—every lady has some foible, some little peculiarity. She was a perfect wife, and this little feeling of small jealousies was not worth mentioning. If they went to a ball and he danced three times with the same lady, he knew he would hear something in faint dispraise. If he admired any one as a good rider or a good dancer, out would come some little criticism; he smiled as he heard, but said nothing—it was not worth while. Like a kind-hearted man he bore this little failing in mind, and, if ever he praised one woman, he took care to add something complimentary to his wife. So the three years had passed and this was the spring-tide of the fourth, the showery, sparkling month of April; violets and primroses were growing, the birds beginning to sing, the leaves springing, the chestnuts budding, the fair earth reviving after its long swoon in the arms of winter. The London season of this year was one of the best known, no cloud of either sorrow or adversity hung over the throne or the country; trade was good, everything seemed bright and prosperous; but the great event of the season was most certainly the first appearance in England of the new singer, Madame Vanira, whose marvelous beauty and wonderful voice were said to drive people mad with excitement and delight.

It was to see her that Lord and Lady Chandos went to the Royal Italian Opera on that night in April on which our story is continued.



CHAPTER XXXVII.

A MEETING OF EYES.

The newspapers had already given many details of Madame Vanira. For many long years there had been nothing seen like her. They said her passion and power, her dramatic instinct, her intensity were so great, that she was like electric fire. One critic quoted of her what was so prettily said of another great actress:

"She has a soul of fire in a body of gauze."

No one who saw her ever forgot her; even if they only saw her once, her face lived clear, distinct, and vivid in their memory forever afterward. No one knew which to admire most, her face or her voice. Her face was the most wondrously beautiful ever seen on the stage, and her voice was the most marvelous ever heard—it thrilled you, it made you tremble; its grand pathos, its unutterable sadness, its marvelous sweetness; those clear, passionate tones reached every heart, no matter how cold, how hardened it might be—one felt that in listening to it that it was the voice of a grand, passionate soul. It was full, too, of a kind of electricity; when Madame Vanira sung she could sway the minds and hearts of her hearers as the winter winds sway the strong boughs. She drew all hearts to herself and opened them. When she sung, it was as though she sung the secret of each heart to its owner.

They said that her soul was of fire and that the fire caught her listeners; she had power, genius, dramatic force enough in her to electrify a whole theater full of people, to lift them out of the commonplace, to take them with her into the fairyland of romance and genius, to make them forget everything and anything except herself.

Such a woman comes once in a century, not oftener. They called her a siren, a Circe. She was a woman with a passionate soul full of poetry; a genius with a soul full of power; a woman made to attract souls as the magnet attracts the needle.

She made her debut in the theater of San Carlo, in Naples, and the people had gone wild over her; they serenaded her through the long starlit night; they cried out her name with every epithet of praise that could be lavished on her; they raved about her beautiful eyes, her glorious face, her voice, her acting, her attitudes.

Then a royal request took her to Russia; a still warmer welcome met her there; royal hands crowned her with diamonds, royal voices swelled her triumph; there was no one like La Vanira. She was invited to court and all honors were lavished on her.

From there she went to Vienna, where her success was as great; to Paris, where it was greater, and now she was to make her debut before the most critical, calm, appreciative audience in Europe. The papers for weeks had been full of her; they could describe her grand, queenly beauty, her wonderful acting, her genius, which was alone in the world, her jewels, her dresses, her attitudes; but there was nothing to say about her life.

Even the society journals, usually so well informed, had nothing to say about Madame Vanira. Whether she were single, or married, or a widow, none of them knew; of what town, of what nation, even of what family, none of them knew.

She seemed to be quite alone in the world, and against her even the faintest rumor had never been heard; she was of irreproachable propriety, nay, more, she was of angelic goodness—generous, truthful, charitable and high-minded. There was not a whisper against her good name—not one. She had a legion of admirers, none of whom could boast of a favor; she answered no letters; she gave no interviews; she accepted no invitations; she visited among some of the most exclusive circles, where she was received as an equal; she had had offers of marriage that would have made any other woman vain; she refused them all; she seemed to live for her art, and nothing else. Such a description naturally excited the curiosity of people, and the result was a house so crowded that it was almost impossible to find room.

"We may think ourselves fortunate," said Lady Chandos. "I have never seen the house so crowded, and, do not laugh, Lance, I do not see a prettier toilet than my own."

Lady Chandos was always well pleased when her husband complimented her on her dress; if he forgot it, she generally reminded him of it. She looked very beautiful this evening; her dress was of white satin, effectively trimmed with dead gold, and she wore diamonds with rubies—no one there looked better than the queen of blondes.

"I am quite impatient to see La Vanira," she said to her husband. "I wonder why she has chosen this opera, 'L'Etoile du Nord;' it is not the usual thing for a debutante."

Then the words died on her lips and for some minutes she said no more. The curtain was drawn up and Madame Vanira appeared. There was a dead silence for some few minutes, then there was a storm of applause; her beautiful face won it, her grand figure, her eyes, with their fire of passion, seemed to demand it.

Of all characters, perhaps that of the loving, impassionate Star of the North suited her best. In it she found expression for love, her passion and despair. She stood before what was perhaps the most critical audience in the world, and she thrilled them with her power. It was no more a woman; she seemed more like an inspired sibyl; her audience hung on every note, on every word from those wonderful lips; while she charmed all ears she charmed all eyes; the beauty of her magnificent face, the beauty of her superb figure, the grandeur of her attitudes, the inimitable grace of her actions were something new and wonderful. From the first moment the curtain rose until it fell the whole audience was breathless.

Lady Chandos laid down her jeweled opera-glass while she drew a breath of relief, it was so wonderful to her, this woman all fire, and genius and power.

"Lance," she said to her husband, "what a wonderful face it is. Have you looked well at it?"

She glanced carelessly at her husband as she spoke, then started at the change in him; his whole face had altered, the expression of careless interest had died, the color and light had died, his dark eyes had a strained, bewildered look; they were shadowed as though by some great doubt or fear.