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A Mad Love

by Charlotte M. Brame · English · Gutenberg #31489 · 621,162 chars · public domain (US)

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Title: A Mad Love

Author: Charlotte M. Brame


        
Release date: March 3, 2010 [eBook #31489]

Language: English

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/31489

Credits: Produced by Juliet Sutherland, Mary Meehan and the Online
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Produced by Juliet Sutherland, Mary Meehan and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net









                                    A MAD LOVE

                                 BY BERTHA M. CLAY

Author of "Sunshine and Roses," "Beyond Pardon," "Dora Thomas," "From
Out the Gloom," etc., etc.

CHICAGO.
DONOHUE, HENNEBERRY & CO.,
PUBLISHERS.




A MAD LOVE




CHAPTER I.

A DISCONTENTED BEAUTY.


"Leone," cried a loud voice, "where are you? Here, there, everywhere,
except just in the place where you should be."

The speaker was a tall, stout, good-tempered looking man. Farmer Noel
people called him all over the country-side. He stood in the farmyard,
looking all the warmer this warm day for his exertions in finding his
niece.

"Leone," he cried again and again.

At last the answer came, "I am here, uncle," and if the first voice
startled one with its loudness, this second was equally startling from
its music, its depth, its pathos.

"I am here, uncle," she said. "I wish you would not shout so loudly. I
am quite sure that the people at Rashleigh can hear you. What is it that
you want?"

"Have you made up the packets of wheat I asked you for?" he said.

"No," she replied, "I have not."

He looked disappointed.

"I shall be late for market," he said. "I must do them myself."

He went back into the house without another word. He never reproached
Leone, let her do what she would.

On Leone's most beautiful face were evident marks of bad temper, and she
did not care to conceal it. With a gesture of impatience she started
forward, passed over the farmyard and went through the gate out into the
lane, from the lane to the high-road, and she stood there leaning over
the white gate, watching the cattle as they drank from the deep, clear
pool.

The sun shone full upon her, and the warm, sweet beams never fell on
anything more lovely; the only drawback to the perfection of the picture
was this: she did not look in harmony with the scene--the quiet English
landscape, the golden cornfields, the green meadows, the great spreading
trees whereon the birds sung, the tall spire of the little church, the
quaint little town in the distance, the brook that ran gurgling by.

She looked out of harmony with them all; she would have been in perfect
keeping had the background been of snow-capped mountains and foaming
cascades. Here she looked out of place; she was on an English farm; she
wore a plain English dress, yet she had the magnificent beauty of the
daughters of sunny Spain. Her beauty was of a peculiar type--dark,
passionate, and picturesque like that of the pomegranate, the damask
rose or the passion-flower.

There was a world in her face--of passion, of genius, of power; a face
as much out of place over the gates of a farm as a stately gladiolus
would be among daisies and buttercups. An artist looking for a model of
some great queen who had conquered the world, for some great heroine for
whom men had fought madly and died, might have chosen her. But in a
farmyard! there are no words to tell how out of place it was. She stood
by the gate holding the ribbons of her hat in her hand--beautiful,
imperious, defiant--with a power of passion about her that was perhaps
her greatest characteristic.

She looked round the quiet picture of country life with unutterable
contempt.

"If I could but fly away," she said; "I would be anything on earth if I
could get away from this--I would not mind what; I would work, teaching,
anything; the dull monotony of this life is killing me."

Her face was so expressive that every emotion was shown on it, every
thought could be read there; the languid scorn of the dark eyes, and the
proud curves of the daintily arched lips, all told of unconcealed
contempt.

"A farm," she said to herself; "to think that when the world is full of
beautiful places, my lot must be cast on a farm. If it had been in a
palace, or a gypsy's camp--anywhere where I could have tasted life, but
a farm."

The beautiful restless face looked contemptuously out on the green and
fertile land.

"A farm means chickens running under one's feet, pigeons whirling round
one's head, cows lowing, dogs barking, no conversation but crops----"

She stopped suddenly. Coming up the lane she saw that which had never
gladdened her eyes here before; she saw a gentleman, handsome and young,
walking carelessly down the high-road, and as he drew near, another
gentleman, also handsome, but not quite so young, joined him.

They came laughing down the high-road together, but neither of them saw
her until they reached the great elm-tree. The sight of that wondrous
young face, with its rich, piquant beauty, startled them. One passed her
by without a word, the other almost stopped, so entirely was he charmed
by the lovely picture. As he passed he raised his hat; her beautiful
face flushed; she neither smiled nor bowed in return, but accepted the
salute as a tribute to her beauty, after the same fashion a queen
acknowledges the salutes and homage of her subjects.

With one keen glance, she divided him from his companion, the man who
had _not_ bowed to her. She took in that one glance a comprehensive
view. She knew the color of his eyes, of his hair, the shape of his
face, the peculiar cut of his clothes, so different to those worn by the
young farmers; the clustering hair, the clear-cut face, the delicate
profile, the graceful ease of the tall, thin figure, were with her from
that moment through all time.

The deep low bow gratified her. She knew that she was gifted with a
wondrous dower of beauty. She knew that men were meek when a beautiful
face charmed them. The involuntary homage of this handsome young man
pleased her. She would have more of it. When he rejoined his companion,
she heard him say:

"What a wonderful face, Euston--the most beautiful I have ever seen in
my life."

That pleased her still more; she smiled to herself.

"Perhaps I shall see him again," she thought.

Then one of the girls from the village passed the gate, and stopped for
a few minutes' conversation.

"Did you see those gentlemen?" asked the girl; and Leone answered:

"Yes."

"They have both come to live at Dr. Hervey's, to 'read,' whatever that
means. The young one, with the fair hair, is a lord, the eldest son of a
great earl; I do not remember the name."

So it was a great lord who had bowed to her, and thought her more
beautiful than any one he had ever seen. Her heart beat with triumph.

She bade the girl good-morning, and went back. Her beautiful face was
brilliant with smiles.

She entered the house and went up to her glass. She wanted to see again,
for herself, the face he had called beautiful.

Mirrored there, she saw two dark eyes, full of fire, bright, radiant,
and luminous--eyes that could have lured and swayed a nation; a
beautiful, oval face, the features of which were perfect; a white brow,
with dark, straight eyebrows; sweet, red lips, like a cloven rose; the
most beautiful chin, with a rare dimple; an imperial face, suited for a
queen's crown or the diadem of an empress, but out of place on this
simple farm. She saw grand, sloping shoulders, beautiful arms, and a
figure that was perfect in its symmetry and grace.

She smiled contentedly. She was beautiful, undoubtedly. She was glad
that others saw it. If a young lord admired her, she must be worth
admiring. Her good humor was quite restored.

How came it that this girl, with the beauty of a young princess, was at
home in the farmhouse? It was a simple story. The farmer, Robert Noel,
had only one brother, who loved romance and travel.

Stephen Noel, after trying every profession, and every means of
obtaining a livelihood, at last decided on becoming a civil engineer; he
went to Spain to help with a rail-road in the province of Andalusia, and
there fell in love with and married a beautiful Andalusian, Pepita by
name.

Dark-eyed Pepita died on the same day Leone was born, and the young
father, distracted by his loss, took the child home to England. The old
housekeeper at the Rashleigh farm took the girl, and Robert Noel
consented that she should be brought up as a child of his own.

The two brothers differed as light and darkness differ. Stephen was all
quickness and intelligence, Robert was stolid and slow. Leone always
said it took him ten minutes to turn around. He had never married, he
had never found time; but he gave the whole love of his heart to the
beautiful dark eyed child who was brought to his house sixteen years
ago.




CHAPTER II.

"WHAT, MARRY A FARMER!"


One can imagine the sensation that a bright, beautiful eagle would
produce in a dove's nest; the presence of that beautiful, imperious
child at the farm was very much the same. People looked at her in
wonder; her beauty dazzled them; her defiance amused them. They asked
each other where all her pride came from.

Uncle Robert often said in his slow fashion that he retired from
business when Leone was seven. At that early age he gave the management
of everything into her baby hands. From the chickens in the yard to the
blue and white pigeons on the roof. She could manage him, big as he was,
with one stamp of her little foot, one flash of her bright eyes; he was
powerless at once, like a great big giant bound hand and foot. She was a
strange child, full of some wonderful power that she hardly understood
herself--a child quite out of the common groove of life, quite above the
people who surrounded her. They understood her beauty, her defiance, her
pride, but not the dramatic instinct and power that, innate in her, made
every word and action seem strange.

Honest, stolid Robert Noel was bewildered by her; he did his best in
every way, but he had an uneasy consciousness that his best was but a
poor attempt. He sent her to school, the best in Rashleigh, but she
learned anything and everything except obedience.

She looked out of place even there, this dark-eyed Spanish girl, among
the pretty pink and white children with fair hair and blue eyes. She
bewildered even the children; they obeyed her, and she had the greatest
influence over them. She taught them recitations and plays, she fired
their imaginations by wonderful stories; she was a new, brilliant,
wonderful element in their lives. Even the school mistress, meek through
the long suffering of years, even she worshiped and feared her--the
brilliant, tiresome girl, who was like a flash of light among the
others. She had a face so grand and a voice so thrilling it was no
unusual thing when she was reading aloud in the school-room for the
others to suspend all work, thrilled to the heart by the sound of her
voice. She soon learned all that the Rashleigh governess could teach
her--she taught herself even more. She had little taste for drawing,
much for music, but her whole heart and soul were in books.

Young as she was, it was grand to hear her trilling out the pretty love
speeches of Juliet, declaring the wrongs of Constance or Katherine,
moaning out the woes of Desdemona. She had Shakespeare almost by heart,
and she loved the grand old dramatist.

When she was sixteen her uncle took her from school, and then the
perplexities of his honest life began. He wanted her to take her place
as mistress of the house, to superintend the farm and the dairy, to take
affectionate interest in the poultry and birds, to see that the butter
was of a deep, rich yellow, and the new laid eggs sent to market. From
the moment he intrusted those matters in her hands, his life became a
burden to him, for they were entirely neglected.

Farmer Noel would go into his dairy and find everything wrong, the cream
spilled, the butter spoiled; but when he looked at the dark-eyed young
princess with the Spanish face he dared not say a word to her.

He would suggest to her meekly that things might be different. She would
retaliate with some sarcasm that would reduce him to silence for two
days at least. Yet she loved, after a fashion of her own, this great,
stolid man who admired her with all his heart, and loved her with his
whole soul.

So time passed until she was seventeen, and the quiet farm life was
unendurable to her.

"Uncle," she would say, "let me go out into the world. I want to see it.
I want something to do. I often think I must have two lives and two
souls, I long so intensely for more than I have to fill them."

He could not understand her. She had the farm and the dairy.

"Be content," he would answer, "be content, my lady lass, with the home
God has given you."

"I want something to do. If I did all the work on this and twenty other
farms it would not touch my heart and soul. They are quite empty. People
say it is a battlefield. If it be one, I am sitting by with folded
hands. Inactivity means death to me."

"My lady lass, you can find plenty to do," he answered, solemnly.

"But not of the kind I want."

She paced up and down the large kitchen, where everything was polished
and bright; the fire-light glowed on the splendid face and figure--the
face with its unutterable beauty, its restless longing, its troubled
desires.

Some fear for the future of the beautiful, restless, passionate girl
came over the man, who watched her with anxious eyes. It began to dawn
upon him, that if he were to shut a bright-eyed eagle up in a cage, it
would never be happy, and it was very much the same kind of thing to
shut this lovely, gifted girl in a quiet farmhouse.

"You will be married soon," he said, with a clumsy attempt at comfort,
"and then you will be more content."

She flashed one look of scorn from those dark, lustrous eyes that should
have annihilated him. She stopped before him, and threw back her head
with the gesture of an injured queen.

"May I ask," she said, "whom you suppose I will marry?"

He looked rather frightened, for he began to perceive he had made some
mistake, though he could not tell what; he thought all young girls liked
to be teased about sweethearts and marriage; still he came valiantly to
the front.

"I mean that you will surely have a sweetheart some day or other," he
said, consolingly, though the fire from those dark eyes startled him,
and her scarlet lips trembled with anger.

"I shall have a sweetheart, you think, like Jennie Barnes or Lily Coke.
A sweetheart. Pray, whom will it be, do you think?"

"I know several of the young farmers about here who would each give his
right hand to be a sweetheart of yours."

She laughed a low, contemptuous laugh that made him wince.

"What, marry a farmer! Do you think the life of a farmer's wife would
suit me? I shall go unmarried to my grave, unless I can marry as I
choose."

Then she seemed to repent of the passionate words, and flung her
beautiful arms round his neck and kissed his face.

"I hate myself," she said, "when I speak in that way to you, who have
been so good to me."

"I do not mind it," said Robert Noel, honestly. "Never hate yourself for
me, my lady lass."

She turned one glance from her beautiful eyes on him.

"When I seem to be ungrateful to you, do remember that I am not, Uncle
Robert; I am always sorry. I cannot help myself, I cannot explain
myself; but I feel always as though my mind and soul were cramped."

"Cramp is a very bad thing," said the stolid farmer.

She looked at him, but did not speak; her irritation was too great; he
never understood her; it was not likely he ever would.

"I will go down to the mill-stream," she said.

With an impatient gesture she hastened out of the house.

The mill-stream was certainly the prettiest feature of the farm--a
broad, beautiful stream that ran between great rows of alder-trees and
turned the wheel by the force with which it leaped into the broad, deep
basin; it was the loveliest and most picturesque spot that could be
imagined, and now as the waters rushed and foamed in the moonlight they
were gorgeous to behold.

Leone loved the spot; the restless, gleaming waters suited her; it
seemed to have something akin to herself--something restless, full of
force and vitality. She sat there for hours; it was her usual refuge
when the world went wrong with her.

Round and round went the wheel; on sunlight days the sun glinted on the
sullen waters until they resembled a sheet of gold covered with white,
shining foam. Green reeds and flowers that love both land and water
fringed the edges of the clear, dimpling pool; the alder-trees dipped
their branches in it; the great gray stones, covered with green moss,
lay here and there. It was a little poem in itself, and the beautiful
girl who sat in the moonlight read it aright.




CHAPTER III.

THE MEETING AT THE MILL.


In the depths of the water she saw the reflection of the shining stars;
she watched them intently; the pure, pale golden eyes. A voice aroused
her--a voice with tone and accent quite unlike any other voice.

"I beg your pardon," it said, "could you show me the way to Rashleigh? I
have lost myself in the wood."

Raising her eyes she saw the gentleman who had raised his hat as he
passed her in the morning. She knew that he recognized her by the light
that suddenly overspread his face.

"Rashleigh lies over there," she replied. "You have but to cross the
field and pass the church."

"Even that," said the stranger, with a careless laugh, "even that I am
not inclined to do now. It is strange. I am afraid you will think me
half mad, but it seems to me that I have just stepped into fairy land.
Two minutes since I was on the bare highway, now I see the prettiest
picture earth has to offer."

"It is pretty," she replied, her eyes looking at the clear, dimpling
pool; "prettier now even than when the sun shines on it and the wheel
turns."

She had told him the way to Rashleigh, and he should have passed on with
a bow, but this was his excuse. The moon was shining bright as day, the
wind murmured in the alder trees, the light lay on the clear, sweet,
fresh water; the music of the water as it fell was sweet to hear. Away
in the woods some night bird was singing; the odor of the sleeping
flowers filled the air; and there on the green bank, at the water's
edge, sat the most beautiful girl he had ever seen in his life.

The moonlight fell on her exquisite southern face; it seemed to find its
home in the lustrous depths of her dark eyes; it kissed the dark ripples
of her hair, worn with the simple grace of a Greek goddess; it lay on
the white hands that played with the tufted grass.

He was young and loved all things beautiful, and therefore did not go
away. His mind was filled with wonder. Who was she--this girl, so like a
young Spanish princess! Why was she sitting here by the mill-stream? He
must know, and to know he must ask.

"I am inclined," he said, "to lie down here by this pretty stream, and
sleep all night under the stars; I am so tired."

She looked at him with a quick, warm glow of sympathy.

"What has tired you?" she asked.

He sat down on one of the great gray stones that lay half in the water,
half on the land.

"I have lost myself in the Leigh woods," he said. "I have been there
many hours. I had no idea what Leigh woods were like, or I should not
have gone for the first time alone."

"They are very large and intricate," she said; "I can never find the
right paths."

"Some one told me I should see the finest oak-trees in England there,"
he said, "and I have a passion for grand old oaks. I would go anywhere
to see them. I went to the woods and had very soon involved myself in
the greatest difficulties. I should never have found the way out had I
not met one of the keepers."

She liked to listen to him; the clear, refined accent, the musical tone;
as she listened a longing came over her that his voice might go on
speaking to her and of her.

"Now," he continued, embarrassed by her silence, "I have forgotten your
directions; may I ask you to repeat them?"

She did so, and looking at her face he saw there was no anger, nothing
but proud, calm content. He said to himself he need not go just yet, he
could stay a few minutes longer.

"Do you know that beautiful old German ballad," he said,

    "'In sheltered vale a mill-wheel
      Still tunes its tuneful lay'?"

"No; I never heard or read it," she answered. "Say it for me."

    "'In sheltered vale a mill-wheel
      Still tunes its tuneful lay.
    My darling once did dwell there,
      But now she's far away.
    A ring in pledge I gave her,
      And vows of love we spoke--
    Those vows are all forgotten,
      The ring asunder broke.'"

"Hush," she said, holding up one white hand; "hush, it is too sad. Do
you not see that the moonlight has grown dim, and the sound of the
falling waters is the sound of falling tears?"

He did not seem to understand her words.

"That song has haunted me," he said, "ever since I heard it. I must say
the last verse; it must have been of this very mill-wheel it was
written.

    "'But while I hear the mill-wheel
      My pains will never cease;
    I would the grave could hide me,
      For there alone is peace.'"

"Is it a love story?" she asked, pleased at the pathos and rhythm of the
words.

"Yes; it is the usual story--the whole love of a man's heart given to
one not worthy of it, the vows forgotten, the ring broken. Then he cries
out for the grave to hide himself and his unhappy love."

She looked up at him with dark, lustrous, gleaming eyes.

"Does all love end in sorrow?" she asked, simply.

He looked musingly at the moonlit waters, musingly at the starlit sky.

"I cannot tell," he replied, "but it seems to me that it ends more in
sorrow than in joy. I should say," he continued, "that when truth meets
truth, where loyalty meets loyalty, the ending is good; but where a true
heart finds a false one, where loyalty and honor meet lightness and
falsehood, then the end must be bad."

Leone seemed suddenly to remember that she was talking to a stranger,
and, of all subjects, they had fallen on love.

"I must go," she said, hurriedly. "You will remember the way."

"Pray do not go--just this minute," he said. "History may repeat itself;
life never does. There can never be a night half so fair as this again;
the water will never fall with so sweet a ripple; the stars will never
shine with so bright a light; life may pass, and we may never meet
again. You have a face like a poem. Stay a few minutes longer."

"A face like a poem." Did he really think so?

The words pleased her.

"Strange things happen in real life," he said; "things that, told in
novels and stories, make people laugh and cry out that they are
exaggerated, too romantic to be real. How strange that I should have met
you here this evening by the side of the mill-stream--a place always
haunted by poetry and romance. You will think it stranger still when I
tell you your face has haunted me all day."

She looked at him in surprise. The proud, beautiful face grieved at the
words.

"How is that?" she asked.

"I saw you this morning when I was going to Rashleigh with my friend,
Sir Frank Euston. You were standing against a white gate, and I
thought--well, I must not tell you what I thought."

"Why?" she asked, briefly.

"Because it might offend you," he replied.

He began to perceive that there was no coquetry in this beautiful girl.
She was proud, with a calm, serene, half-tragic pride. There would be no
flirtation by the side of the mill-stream. She looked as far above
coquetry as she was above affectation. He liked the proud calm of her
manner. She might have been a duchess holding court rather than a
country girl sitting by a mill-wheel. The idea occurred to him; and then
his wonder increased--who was she? and what was she doing here?

"Do you live near here?" he asked.

"Yes," she said, "behind the trees there you can see the chimneys of a
farmhouse; it is called Rashleigh Farm; my uncle, Robert Noel, lives
there; and I am his niece."

"His niece," repeated the young man, in an incredulous voice. She was a
farmer's niece, then, after all; and yet she looked like a Spanish
princess.

"You do not look like an English girl," he said, gravely.

"My father was English and my mother a Spanish lady; and I--well, I fear
I have more of the hot fire of Spain than of the chill of England in my
nature; my face is Spanish, so is my heart."

"A Spaniard is quick to love, quick to hate; forgives grandly and
revenges mercilessly," he said.

"That is my character," she said; "you have described it exactly."

"I do not believe it; neither hate nor revenge could exist with a face
like yours. Then your name is Noel?"

"Yes, my name is Leone Noel," she replied.

"Leone," he repeated, "that is a beautiful name. I have never heard it
before; but I like it very much; it is musical and rare--two great
things in a name."

"It is a German name," she said. "My uncle Robert hates it; he says it
reminds him of Lion; but you know it is pronounced Leon. My mother read
some German story that had the name in it and gave it to me."

"It suits you," he said, simply; "and I should not think there was
another name in the world that would. I wonder," he added, with a shy
laugh, "if you would like my name? It is Lancelot Chandos. My friends
call me Lance."

"Yes, I like that. I know all the history of Sir Lancelot. I admire him;
but I think he was a weak man--do not you?"

"For loving Queen Guinevere? I do not know. Some love is strength, not
weakness," he replied.

Leone looked up at him again.

"Are you the son of a great lord?" she asked; "some one told me so."

"Yes; my father is Earl of Lanswell; and people would call him a great
earl. He is rich and powerful."

"What has brought you, the son of a great earl, down to Rashleigh?" she
asked.

"My own idleness, to begin with," he said. "I have been at Oxford more
years than I care to count; and I have idled my time."

"Then you are studying?" she said.

"Yes, that is it. I am trying to make up for lost time. I have some
examinations to pass; and my father has sent me down to Dr. Hervey
because he is known everywhere as the cleverest coach in England."

A cloud came for just one half minute across the face of the moon; the
soft, sweet darkness startled Leone.

"I must go now," she said; "it is not only getting late, but growing
dark."

"I shall see you again," he cried, "do promise me."

"Nay, you have little faith in promises," she replied; and he watched
her as she vanished from among the alder-trees.

It was an unexpected meeting; and strange and startling consequences
soon followed.




CHAPTER IV.

AN INTERESTING TETE-A-TETE.


"Where have you been, Leone?" asks Farmer Noel.

She had begun a new life. It seemed years since she had left him, while
he sat in the same place, smoking the same pipe, probably thinking the
same thoughts. She came in with the brightness and light of the moon in
her face; dew-drops lay on her dark hair, her beautiful face was flushed
with the wind, so fair, so gracious, so royal, so brilliant. He looked
at her in helpless surprise.

"Where have you been?" he repeated.

She looked at him with a sweet, dreamy smile.

"I have been to the mill-stream." And she added in a lower tone, "I have
been to heaven."

It had been heaven to her--this one hour spent with one refined by
nature and by habit--a gentleman, a man of taste and education. Her
uncle wondered that evening at the light that came on her face, at the
cheerful sound of her voice, the smile that came over her lips. She was
usually so restless and discontented.

It was a break in her life. She wanted something to interrupt the
monotony, and now it had come. She had seen and spoken to not only a
very handsome and distinguished man, but a lord, the son of an earl. He
had admired her, said her face was like a poem; and the words brought a
sweet, musing smile to her face.

When the sun shone in her room the next morning she awoke with a sense
of something new and beautiful in her life; it was a pleasure to hear
the birds sing; a pleasure to bathe in the clear, cold, fresh water; a
pleasure to breathe the sweet, fragrant morning air. There was a half
wonder as to whether she could see him again.

The poetical, dramatic instinct of the girl was all awake; she tried to
make herself as pretty as she could. She put on a dress of pale pink--a
plain print, it is true, but the beautiful head and face rose from it as
a flower from its leaves.

She brushed back the rippling hair and placed a crimson rose in its
depths. Then she smiled at herself. Was it likely she should see him?
What should bring the great son of an earl to the little farm at
Rashleigh? But the blue and white pigeons, the little chickens--all
fared well that morning. Leone was content.

In the afternoon Farmer Noel wanted her to go down to the hay-fields.
The men were busy with the newly mown hay, and he wished her to take
some messages about the stacking of it. She looked like a picture of
summer as she walked through the green, shady lane, a red rose in her
hair and one in her breast, a cluster of woodbine in her hand. She saw
nothing of Lord Chandos, yet she thought of nothing else; every tree,
every field, every lane she passed she expected to see him; but of
course he was not there; and her heart beat fast as she saw him--he was
crossing what people called the Brook Meadow--and she met him face to
face.

They had met for the first time on a moonlight night; they met for the
second time on a sultry summer afternoon, when the whole world seemed
full of love. The birds were singing of love in the trees, the
butterflies were making love to the flowers, the wind was whispering of
love to the trees, the sun was kissing the earth that lay silent in its
embrace.

"Leone," he cried; and then he flushed crimson. "I beg your pardon," he
said, "but I ought to say Miss Noel; but I have been thinking of you all
night as Leone. I did not think of it before I spoke."

She laughed at the long apology.

"Say it all over again," she said. "Begin at 'Good-afternoon, Miss
Noel.'"

He repeated it after her, then added:

"I think my kind and good fortune sent me this way. I was longing for
some one to speak to--and of all happiness to meet you; but perhaps you
are busy."

"No; I have done all that I had to do. I am never busy," she added, with
regal calm.

He smiled again.

"No; I could not fancy you busy," he said, "any more than I could fancy
the goddess Juno in a hurry. To some fair women there belongs by
birthright a calm that is almost divine."

"My calm covers a storm," she replied. "My life has been brief and dull;
neither my heart nor my soul has really lived; but I feel in myself a
capability of power that sometimes frightens me."

He did not doubt it as he looked at the beautiful, passionate face; it
was even more lovely in the gleam of the sunlight than in the soft,
sweet light of the moon.

"You cannot stand in the sunshine," he said. "If you are not busy will
you go with me through Leigh Woods? I shall remember the way this time."

She hesitated one half minute, and he saw it; he raised his hat and
stood bare-headed, waiting for her answer.

"Yes, I will go," she said at length. "Why should I not?"

They went together to Leigh Woods, where the great oak-trees made a
pleasant shade, and the ground was a mass of wild flowers; great streams
of bluebells that stirred so gently in the wind, violets that hid
themselves under their leaves, cowslips like little tips of gold, wild
strawberry blossoms that looked like snow-flakes.

How fair it was. The sunbeams fell through the great green boughs,
throwing long shadows on the grass. It was a beautiful, silent world,
all perfume and light. The poetry of it touched both of them.

Lord Chandos was the first to speak; he had been watching the proud,
beautiful face of Leone; and suddenly he said:

"You look out of place here, Miss Noel; I can hardly tell you why."

"That is what my uncle says; he is always asking me if I cannot make
myself more like the girls of Rashleigh."

"I hope you never will," he cried, warmly.

"I do not know how," she said. "I must always be what God and nature
made me."

"They made you fair enough," he whispered.

And then he owned to himself that she was not like other girls.

She drew back proudly, swiftly; no smile came to her lips, no laughing
light to her eyes.

"Speak to me as you would to one in your own rank, my lord," she said,
haughtily. "Though fate has made me a farmer's niece, nature made
me----"

"A queen," he interrupted.

And she was satisfied with the acknowledgment. They sat down under one
of the great oak-trees, a great carpet of bluebells under their feet.

Leone looked thoughtful; she gathered some sprays of bluebells and held
them in her hands, her white fingers toying with the little flowers,
then she spoke:

"I know," she said, "that no lady--for instance, in your own rank of
life--would walk through this wood with you on a summer's afternoon."

A laugh came over his handsome, happy young face.

"I do not know. I am inclined to think the opposite."

"I do not understand what you would call etiquette; but I am quite sure
you would never ask one."

"I am not sure. If I had met one in what you are pleased to call my rank
of life last night by the mill-stream, looking as you looked, I am quite
sure that I should ask her to walk with me and talk with me at any
time."

"I should like to see your world," she said. "I know the world of the
poor and the middle class, but I do not know yours."

"You will know some day," he said, quietly. "Do not be angry with me if
I tell you that in all my world I have never seen one like you. Do not
be angry, I am not flattering you, I am saying just what I think."

"Why do you think that some day I may see your world?" she asked.

"Because with your face you are sure to marry well," he replied.

"I shall marry where I love," said Leone.

"And you may love where you will," he replied; "no man will ever resist
you."

"I would rather you did not speak to me in that fashion," she said,
gravely; and Lord Chandos found, that seated by this farmer's niece, in
the wood full of bluebells, he was compelled to be more circumspect than
if he were speaking to some countess-elect in a Mayfair drawing-room.
Leone, when she had set him quite straight in his place, as she called
it; when she had taught him that he was to treat her with as much, if
not more courtesy, than he bestowed on those of his own rank; Leone,
when she had done all this, felt quite at home with him. She had never
had an opportunity for exercising her natural talent for conversation;
her uncle was quite incapable of following or understanding her; the
girls who were her companions lost themselves in trying to follow her
flights of fancy.

But now there was some one who understood her; talk as she would, he
appreciated it; he knew her quotations; no matter how original her ideas
were he understood and followed them; it was the first time she had ever
had the opportunity of talking to an educated gentleman.

How she enjoyed it; his wit seemed waiting on hers, and seemed to catch
fire from it; his eyes caught fire from hers. She described her simple
life and its homely surroundings in words that burned.

It was in her simple, sweet, pathetic description of stolid Uncle Robert
that she excelled herself; she painted his character with the most
graphic touches.

"Do you know, Miss Noel," said Lord Chandos at last, "that you are a
genius, that you have a talent truly marvelous: that you can describe a
character or a place better than I have heard any one else?"

"No, I did not know anything about it," she said. "I am so accustomed to
being looked upon as something not to be understood, admired, or
imitated that I can hardly believe that I am clever. Uncle Robert is
really a character; nowadays men and women are very much alike; but he
stands out in bold relief, quite by himself, the slowest, the most
stolid of men, yet with a great heart full of love."

It was so pleasant to talk to him and see his handsome young face full
of admiration; to startle him by showing her talent, so pleasant that
the whole of the summer afternoon had passed before she thought of the
time; and he was equally confused, for Dr. Hervey's dinner-hour was
over. And yet they both agreed it was the most pleasant hour they had
ever spent.




CHAPTER V.

THE RECONCILIATION.


It was, of course, the old story; there were one or two meetings by the
mill-stream, a morning spent together in some distant hay-field, an
afternoon in the woods, and then the mischief was done--they loved each
other.

    "Alas, how easily things go wrong--
    A sigh too deep or a kiss too long;
    Then follows a mist and a weeping rain--
    And life is never the same again."

It soon became not merely a habit but a necessity for them to meet every
day. Farmer Noel understood perfectly well the art of tilling the
ground, of sowing the crops, of making the earth productive, but he knew
less than a child of the care and watchfulness his young niece required.
He contented himself by asking where she had been; he never seemed to
imagine that she had had a companion. He saw her growing more and more
beautiful, with new loveliness on her face, with new light in her eyes,
with a thousand charms growing on her, but he never thought of love or
danger--in fact, above the hay-making and the wheat, Farmer Noel did not
think at all.

She had gone into the glowing heart of fairyland--all the old life was
left far behind; she did not even seem to remember that she had been
restless and discontented; that in her soul she had revolted fiercely
against her fate; that she had disliked her life and longed for anything
that would change it; all that was forgotten; the golden glamour of love
had fallen over her, and everything was changed. He was young--this
brave, generous, gallant lover of hers--only twenty, with a heart full
of romance. He fairly worshiped the proud, beautiful girl who carried
herself with the stately grace of a young queen. He had fallen in love
after the fashion of his age--madly, recklessly, blindly--ready to go
mad or to die for his love; after the fashion of his age and sex he
loved her all the more because of her half-cold reserve, her indomitable
pride, her haughty rejection of all flattery.

Young girls do not always know the secret of their power; a little
reserve goes further than the most loving words. Leone's pride attracted
Lord Chandos quite as much as her beauty. The first little quarrel they
had was an outburst of pride from her; they had been strolling through
the sunniest part of Leigh Woods, and when it was time to part he bent
down to kiss the warm, white hand. She drew it quickly from him.

"You would not have done that to one of your own class," she cried; "why
do you do it to me?"

"You are not really angry, Leone?" he cried in wonder.

She turned her beautiful face, colorless with indignation, to him.

"I am so far angry," she said, "that I shall not walk through the woods
with you--never again."

She kept her word. For two whole days Lord Chandos wandered through the
fields and the lanes, through the woods and by the river, yet he saw no
sight of her. It was possible that she punished herself quite as much as
she did him; but he must be taught that, were he twenty times an earl,
he must never venture on even the least liberty with her; he must wait
her permission before he kissed her hand.

The fourth day--he could bear it no longer--he rode past the farm twenty
times and more; at length he was fortunate enough to see Farmer Noel,
and throwing the reins on his horse's neck he got down and went up to
him.

"Have you a dog to sell?" he asked. "Some one told me you had very fine
dogs."

"I have good dogs, but none to sell," replied the farmer.

"I want a dog, and I would give a good price for a good one," he said.
"Will you let me see yours?"

"Yes, you can see them, but you cannot buy them," said Robert Noel; and
the next scene was the handsome young lordling going round the farm,
with the stalwart, stolid farmer.

He won the farmer's heart by his warm praises of the farm, the cattle,
the dogs, and everything else he saw; still there was no Leone.

"I am very thirsty; should you think me very impertinent if I asked you
for a glass of cider?" he said; and the farmer, flattered by the
request, took him into the little parlor. He looked at his visitor in
simple wonder.

"They say you are a great lord's son," he said; "but if you are, you
have no pride about you."

Lord Chandos laughed; and the farmer called Leone. There was a pause,
during which the young lord's heart beat and his face flushed.

"Leone," cried the farmer again.

He turned to his visitor.

"You will wonder what 'Leone' means, it is such a strange name; it is my
niece. Here she comes."

The loveliest picture in all the world, trying hard to preserve her
usual stately grace, yet with a blushing, dimpling smile that made her
lovely beyond words.

"Leone," said the farmer, "will you bring a jug of cider?"

"Pray," cried the lord, "do not trouble yourself, Miss Noel. I cannot
think----"

She interrupted him by a gesture of her white hand.

"I will send it, uncle," she said, and disappeared.

The farmer turned with a smile to the young lord.

"She is very proud," he said; "but she is a fine girl."

The cider came; the visitor duly drank his glass and went; his only
reward for all that trouble was the one glance at her face.

That same evening a little note was given to her, in which he begged her
so humbly to forgive him, and to meet him again, that she relented.

He had learned his lesson; he wooed her with the deference due to a
young princess; no word or action of his displeased her after that,
while he loved her with a love that was akin to madness.

So through the long, bright, beautiful summer days, in the early
morning, while the sweet, fragrant air seemed to sweep the earth, and in
the evening when the dew lay upon flower and tree, they met and learned
to love each other.

One evening, as they sat by their favorite spot--the mill-stream--Lord
Chandos told her how he had learned to love her, how he had ceased to
think of anything in the world but herself.

"I knew you were my fate, Leone," he said, "when I saw you sitting here
by the mill-stream. I am quite sure that I have loved you ever since. I
do not remember that there has been one moment in which I have not
thought of you. I shall always thank Heaven that I came to Rashleigh--I
found my darling here."

For once all the pride had died from her face; all the hauteur was gone
from her eyes; a lovely gleam of tenderness took its place; a love-light
in the shy, sweet eyes that dropped from his.

"My darling Leone," he said, "if I lived a hundred years I could only
say over and over again--'I love you.' Those three words say everything.
Do you love me?"

She looked up at him. Then she raised her dark eyes to his and a little
quiver passed over her beautiful mouth.

"Yes, I love you," she said. "Whether it be for weal or for woe, for
good or ill, I know not; but I love you."

There was unutterable pathos, unutterable music in those three words;
they seemed to rhyme with the chime of the falling waters. She held out
her white hands, he clasped them in his.

"Why do you say it so sadly, my darling? Love will bring nothing but
happiness for you and for me," he said.

She laid her white arms on his neck, and looked earnestly in his face.

"There can be no comparison," she said. "Love to you is only a small
part of your life, to me it is everything--everything. Do you
understand? If you forget me or anything of that kind, I could not bear
it. I could not school myself into patience as model women do. I should
come and throw myself into the mill-stream."

"But, my darling, I shall never forget you--never; you are life of my
life. I might live without the air and the sunlight; I might live
without sleep or food, but never without you. I must forget my own soul
before I forget you."

Still the white hands clasped his shoulders and the dark eyes were fixed
on his face.

"You and your love are more than that to me," she said. "I throw all my
life on this one die; I have nothing else--no other hope. Ah, think
well, Lance, before you pledge your faith to me; it means so much. I
should exact it whole, unbroken and forever."

"And I would give it so," he replied.

"Think well of it," she said again, with those dark, earnest eyes fixed
on his face. "Let there be no mistake, Lance. I am not one of the meek
Griselda type; I should not suffer in silence and resignation, let my
heart break, and then in silence sink into an early grave. Ah, no, I am
no patient Griselda. I should look for revenge and many other things.
Think well before you pledge yourself to me. I should never
forgive--never forget. There is time now--think before you seal your
fate and mine."

"I need not think, Leone," he answered, quietly. "I have thought, and
the result is that I pledge you my faith forever and ever."

The earnest, eager gaze died from her eyes, and the beautiful face was
hidden on his breast.

"Forever and ever, sweet," he whispered; "do you hear? in all time and
for all eternity, I pledge you my love and my faith."

The water seemed to laugh as it rippled on, the wind laughed as it bent
the tall branches, the nightingale singing in the wood stopped suddenly,
and its next burst of song was like ringing laughter; the mountains
quivered over the mill-stream, the stars seemed to tremble as they
shone.

"Forever and ever," he repeated. The wind seemed to catch up the words
and repeat them, the leaves seemed to murmur them, the fall of the water
to rhyme with them. "Forever and ever, sweet, I pledge you my love and
my faith; our hearts will be one, and our souls one, and you will give
me the same love in return, my sweet?"

"I give you even more than that," she replied, so earnestly that the
words had a ring of tragedy in them; and then bending forward, he kissed
the sweet lips that were for evermore to be his own.

"You are mine now forever," he said, "my wife, who is to be."

She was quite silent for some minutes; then, looking up at him, she
said:

"I wish you had never sung that pretty ballad of the mill-wheel to me;
do you know what the water always says when I listen?

    "'Those vows are all forgotten,
    The ring asunder broken.'"

"My darling," he said, clasping her to his heart, "no words that have
any ring of doubt in them will ever apply to us, let the mill-stream say
what it will."




CHAPTER VI.

AN IMPATIENT LOVER'S PLANS.


There had been no mistake about the wooing of Lord Chandos. He had not
thought of loving and riding away; the proud, beautiful, gifted girl
whom he loved had been wooed and pursued with the ardor and respect that
he would have shown to a princess.

There came another day, when something had prevented him from seeing
her; and unable to control his impatience, he had ridden over to the
farm, this time ostensibly to see the farmer, and ask for another glass
of his famous cider; this time, under the farmer's eyes even, he stopped
and spoke to Leone.

"You will be at the mill-stream this evening?" he whispered, and her
answer was:

"Yes."

When he had drunk the cider and ridden away, Farmer Noel turned to his
niece.

"A fine young man that, Leone; but what did he say to you?"

"Nothing particular; something about the mill-stream," replied the proud
lips, that disdained a lie.

"Because," said Robert Noel, slowly, "you have a beautiful face of your
own, my lady lass, and a young man like that would be sure to admire
it."

"What matter if he did, uncle?" she asked.

"Harm would come of it," replied the farmer; "what a man admires he
often loves; and no good would come of such a love as that."

"Why not?" she asked again, with flushed face and flashing eyes. "Why
not?"

"We reckon in these parts," said the farmer, slowly, "that there is too
great a difference between the aristocracy and the working-people. To
put it in plain words, my lady lass, when a great lord or a rich man
admires a poor lass, as a rule it ends in her disgrace."

"Not always," she answered, proudly.

"No, perhaps not always; but mostly, mostly," repeated Robert Noel. "You
have a beautiful face, and, if you are wise, you will keep out of that
young gentleman's way. I should not like to offend you, Leone; you will
excuse me for speaking plainly."

"It does not offend me," she said, simply; "although I do not think that
you are right. Why should not a lord, great and rich as this one, marry
a girl who has no drawback but poverty? I do not see such a great
difference."

"I cannot tell you, my lady lass, either the why or the wherefore," he
replied. "I know that rich men do not marry poor and obscure girls; and
if they do, there is sure to be something wrong with the marriage. We
will not talk about it, only if he seems to admire you at all, do you
keep out of that young man's way."

She made him no answer; his care for her touched her, but then there was
no need. Lord Chandos was unlike other men; besides which he loved her
so well he could not live without her.

So, when the sun was setting in the western sky, she went down to the
mill-stream, where her lover awaited her.

The crimson clouds were reflected in the rippling water, the birds were
singing in the trees, the flowers were all falling asleep; the fair,
fragrant world was getting ready for its time of rest.

"Leone," he cried, seizing her hands and drawing her toward him, "my
darling, I thought to-day would never come. How many hours did yesterday
hold?"

"Twenty-four," she replied.

"Only twenty-four? Why, it seemed to me it was a day as long as a year,
and I asked myself one question, sweet."

"What was it, Lance?"

"This: that if one day seemed so terribly long, what would become of me
if I had to pass a week without you?"

"What would become of you?" she said, laughingly.

"I should die of my own impatience," he said, his handsome young face
flushing. "Fate may try me as it will," he added, "but it must never
separate me from you. It is because I have found this out that I have
asked you to meet me here to-night. I cannot live without you, Leone;
you understand that the hours are long and dark; life seems all ended, I
cannot feel interest or energy; I am longing for you all the time, just
as thirsty flowers are longing for dew. Leone, I should long until the
fever of my own longing killed me--for you."

He drew the beautiful face to his own, and kissed it with a passion
words could never tell.

"Why should I not be happy in my own way?" he said. "If I want the one
only thing on earth that could bring me my happiness, why should I not
have it? Of what use is money, wealth, position, rank, anything else on
earth to me, unless I have you. I would rather lose all I have in the
world than lose you."

"It is sweet to be loved so well," she said, with a sigh.

"I have had letters from home to-day," he said, "and I--I am half afraid
to tell you lest you should say no. I am to leave Rashleigh in one month
from now, and to go to my father's house--Cawdor, it is called. Leone, I
cannot go alone."

She looked at him with wondering eyes; the ardent young lover who
believed his love to be so great and so generous, yet who, in reality,
loved himself best, even in his love.

"Darling, I want you to consent to be my wife before I leave Rashleigh,"
he continued. "I know it will be the best and easiest plan if I can but
win your consent."

Her loving heart seemed almost to stand still; the crimson clouds and
the rippling waters seemed to meet; even in her dreams she had never
imagined herself his wife.

Lord Chandos continued:

"I know my parents well; my father is inflexible on some points, but
easily influenced; my mother is, I believe, the proudest woman in the
wide world. I know that she expects something wonderful from me in the
way of marriage; I hardly think that there is a peeress in England that
my mother would deem too good for me, and it would wound her to the
heart should I marry a woman beneath me in rank. Indeed I know she would
never forgive me."

She uttered a little, low cry.

"Then why have you loved me?" she asked.

Her lover laughed.

"How could I help it, my darling? In you I have found the other half of
my own soul. I could no more help loving you than a bird can help
singing. But listen, Leone; it is as I say, if I were to go home and
pray all day to them it would be useless. I have another plan. Marry me,
and I can take you to them and say, 'This is my wife.' They could not
help receiving you then, because the marriage could not be undone, and
my mother, with her worldly tact, would made the best of it then. If I
ask permission to marry you, they will never grant it; if I marry you,
they will be compelled to forgive it."

She drew herself half proudly from him.

"I do not wish any one to be compelled to receive me, nor do I wish to
be the cause of unpleasantness," she said.

"My darling, all lovers have something to suffer. The course of true
love cannot run smooth. Surely you would not desert me, or forsake me,
or refuse to love me because I cannot change the opinion of my
conservative parents. I know no lady, no peeress in England, who is half
so beautiful, so clever as you--not one. I shall be more proud to take
you home as Lady Chandos than if you were a queen's daughter. You
believe me?"

"Yes, I believe _you_," she replied.

"Never mind any one else, Leone. My father admires beautiful women; he
will be sure to love you; my mother will be very disagreeable at first,
but in a short time she will learn to love you, and then all will be
well."

The little white hand clung to him.

"You are quite sure, Lance?" she said, with a sob--"quite sure?"

"Yes, sweet, I am more than sure. You will be Lady Chandos, of Cawdor,
and that is one of the oldest and grandest titles in England."

"But will your mother forgive you and love you again?" she asked,
anxiously.

"Yes, believe me. And now, Leone, let me tell you my plans. They are all
rather underhand, but we cannot help that; everything is fair in love
and war. About twenty miles from here there is a sleepy little village
called Oheton. I was there yesterday, and it was there that this plan
came to me. Oh, my darling, turn your sweet face to me and let me be
quite sure that you are listening."

"I am listening, Lance," she said.

"No, not with all your heart. See how well I understand you. Your eyes
linger on the water, and the falling of it makes music, and the rhyme of
the music is:

    "'These vows were all forgotten,
    The ring asunder broken.'

When will you trust me more thoroughly, Leone?"

She glanced at him with something of wonder, but more of fear.

"How do you know what I am thinking of?" she asked.

"I can guess from the tragical expression of your face, and the pathos
of your eyes as they linger on the falling water. Now, you shall not
look at the mill-stream, look at me."

She raised her dark, lustrous eyes to his face, and he went on:

"Over in this sleepy little village of Oheton, Leone--it is a sleepy
village--the houses are all divided from each other by gardens and
trees. Unlike most villagers, the people do not seem to know each other,
you do not hear any gossip; the people, the houses, the streets, all
seem sleepy together. At one end of the village is a church, one of the
most quaint, an old Norman church, that has stood like a monument while
the storms of the world raged around it; the vicar is the Reverend
Josiah Barnes."

"Why are you telling me all this?" she asked.

"You will soon understand," he replied. "The Reverend Mr. Barnes is over
sixty, and he, together with the people, the houses, and the streets,
seems sleepy; nothing would excite him, or interest him, or startle him.

"Now, Leone, I have taken lodgings for myself for three weeks in this
sleepy village; no one will take any notice of me; I shall go and come
just as I will; then I shall have the bans of our marriage published.
The dear old vicar will read them in his sleepy tones:

"'I publish the bans of marriage for the first time between Lancelot
Chandos and Leone Noel.' No one will hear the names plainly, and those
who do will not know to whom they belong, and there will be no
impediment; will there, Leone?"

The water laughed as it hurried over the stones.

"No impediment," it seemed to say; "no impediment, Leone."




CHAPTER VII.

A FRIEND'S ADVICE.


"But," asked Leone, anxiously, "will that be safe, Lance? Supposing that
any one should hear and recognize the names, what then?"

"There is no fear. Nothing can ever be done without risk; but there is
no risk there--at least, none that I fear to run. I guarantee that not
one person in that church hears those names clearly. Then you will see
that I have arranged every detail. Then, when the three weeks have
expired, we will meet there some fine morning and be married. I have a
friend who will come with me as a witness. After that I propose that we
go to London, and there I shall introduce you to my father first; then
we will go down to Cawdor to my mother. Do you like the plan, Leone?"

"I should like it much better if they could know of it beforehand," she
replied, gravely.

His face grew grave as her own.

"That cannot be," he replied. "You see, Leone, I am not of age; I shall
not be twenty-one until September: and if my parents knew of it, they
have power to forbid the marriage, and we could not be married; but done
without their knowledge, they are of course powerless."

"I do not like it," she said, with a shudder; "I would rather all was
open and sincere."

"It cannot be. Why, Leone, where is your reason? If even your uncle
knew, he would interfere to prevent it. In his slow, stolid, honest mind
he would think such a marriage quite wrong, you may be sure; he would
talk about caste, and position, and all kinds of nonsense. We must keep
our secret to ourselves, my darling, if we wish to be married at all.
Surely, Leone, you love me enough to sacrifice your wishes to me on this
point?"

The beautiful face was raised to his.

"I love you well enough to die for you, and far too well to bring
trouble on you, Lance."

"My darling, there is only one thing that can bring trouble on me, and
that would be to lose you; that would kill me. You hear me, Leone, it
would not make me grow thin and pale, after the fashion of rejected
lovers, but it would kill me. Do not ask me to leave you an hour longer
than I need. Ah, my love, yield: do not grieve me with a hundred
obstacles--not even with one. Yield, and say that you will agree to my
plan."

There was no resisting the pleading of the handsome young face, the
loving eyes, the tender words, the passionate kisses; she could not
resist them; it was so sweet to be loved so well.

"You must keep our secret from that honest, stolid, good uncle of
yours," said Lord Chandos, "or he will think himself bound to call and
tell Dr. Hervey. You promise me, then, Leone, my love, to do what I ask,
and to be my own beloved wife, when the three weeks are over?"

"Yes, I promise, Lance," she replied.

Her voice was grave and sweet, her beautiful face had on it the light of
a beautiful and noble love.

"Then kiss me, as the children say, of your own accord, and let that
kiss be our betrothal."

She raised her lips to his for the first time and kissed him.

"That is our betrothal," he said; "now nothing can part us. Leone, I
waited for your promise to give you this."

He opened a small jewel-case, and took from it a diamond ring.

"This is what ladies call an engagement-ring," he said; "let me put it
on your finger."

She shrank back.

"Lance," she said, "do you remember the words of the song,

    "'A ring in pledge he gave her,
    And vows of love he spoke.'

How strange that by this stream you should offer me a ring!"

"You seem to think there is a fatality in the water, Leone," he said,
quietly.

"I have an idea that I cannot express, but it seems to me that story is
told in the falling water."

"If the water tells of a golden bright life, all happiness, with the
most devoted and loving of husbands, then it may tell you as much as it
likes. Let me put the ring on your finger, Leone."

She held out her hand--such a beautiful hand, with a soft, pink palm and
tapering fingers. As he went to place the ring on her finger, it fell
from his hand into the water below, and Leone uttered a low cry.

"It is not lost," he said; "it has not fallen into the stream, it is
here."

Looking down, she saw the flash of the diamonds in the little pool that
lay between two stones, Lord Chandos wiped it and dried it.

"You will prize it all the more because it has been dipped in your
favorite stream," he said. "Give me your hand again, Leone; we shall
have better fortune this time."

He placed the ring securely on her finger, then kissed the white hand.

"How angry you were with me the first time I kissed your hand," he said;
"and now I have all your heart. There will be neither broken vows nor a
broken ring for us, Leone, no matter what the water sings or says."

"I hope not," says the girl, brightly.

"I shall take possession of my lodgings at Oheton to-morrow," he said.
"I shall have to spend some little time there; but you must promise that
I shall see you every evening, Leone. Will you find your way to the
mill-wheel? When we are married, I shall try to buy the mill, the
stream, and the land all round it; it will be a sacred spot to me. In
three weeks, Leone, you will be my wife."

"Yes," she replied, "in three weeks."

The wind fell, the ripple of the green leaves ceased, the birds had sung
themselves to sleep, only the water ran laughingly on.

"Lance," cried the girl, suddenly, "do you know what the water says--can
you hear it?"

"No," he replied, with a laugh; "I have not such a vivid fancy as you.
What does it say?"

"Nothing but sorrow, nothing but sorrow," she chanted.

"I cannot hear that; if it says anything at all, it is nothing but love,
nothing but love."

And then, as the shades of night were coming on, he saw her safely home.

That same evening Lord Chandos and Sir Frank Euston talked long
together.

"Of course," said Sir Frank, "if you put me on my honor, I cannot speak,
but I beg of you to stop and think."

Lord Chandos laughed; his handsome face was flushed and eager.

"The man who hesitates is lost," he said. "All the thinking in the world
cannot alter matters, nor make me love my darling less."

"There is an old proverb I should like to recommend to you," said Sir
Frank Euston; "it is this--a young man married is a young man marred."

"I am quite as willing to be marred as to be married," said the young
lord, "and married I will be if all the powers on earth conspire against
me."

"I know how useless all arguments are," said his friend, "when a man
determines to be foolish; but do think for one moment of the terrible
disappointment to your parents."

"I do not see it; they have no right to be disappointed; my father
married to please himself, why should I not do the same?"

"You are outraging all the laws of your class," said Sir Frank. "However
beautiful a farmer's niece may be, we cannot suppose even a miracle
could fit her to take the place of the Countess of Lanswell."

A hot flush came over the young lord's face; a strange quiet came into
his voice.

"We will discuss what you like, Frank, but you must not touch the young
lady's name, we will leave that out of the question."

"You have asked me to be the witness of your marriage," said Sir Frank,
"and that entitles me to speak my mind. I do speak it, frankly,
honestly, plainly, as I should thank God for any friend to speak to a
brother of my own if he felt inclined to make a simpleton of himself."

"I call myself a sensible man to marry for love, not a simpleton," said
Lord Chandos grandly.

"My dear Lance," said his friend, "you make just this one mistake; you
are not a man at all, you are a boy."

He stopped suddenly, for the young lord looked at him with a defiant,
fierce face.

"You must not say that again, Frank, or we shall be friends no longer."

"I do not want to offend you, Lance; but you are really too young to
think of marriage. Your tastes are not formed yet; that which pleases
you now you will dislike in six or ten years' time. I assure you that if
you marry this farmer's niece now, in ten years' time you will repent it
in sackcloth and ashes. She is not fit, either by manner, education, or
anything else, to be your mother's daughter, and you know it; you know
that when the glamour of her beauty is over you will wonder at your own
madness and folly. Be warned in time."

"You may as well reason with a madman as a man in love," said the young
lordling, "and I am in love."

"And you are mad," said Sir Frank, quietly; "one day you will know how
mad."

Lord Chandos laughed.

"There is method in my madness. Come, Frank, we have been such friends I
would do anything you asked me."

"I should never ask you to do anything so foolish, Lance; I wish that I
had not given my word of honor to keep your secret; I am quite sure that
I ought to send word to the earl and countess at once; I cannot, as I
have promised not to do so, but I regret it."

"My dear Frank, nothing in the world would stop me; if anything were
done to prevent my marriage now, I would simply await another and more
favorable opportunity; my mind is made up. I love the girl with all my
heart, and she, no other, shall be my wife. If you refuse to act for me,
well and good; I shall find some one else."

"If you would but be reasonable, Lance," said his friend.

"I am not reasonable. When did you ever see reason and love go hand in
hand together?"

"They should do so always, and do, when the love is worth having."

"Now, Frank, I have listened patiently; I have heard all that you have
had to say; I have weighed every argument, and I remain unconvinced. You
have but to say whether you will do this to oblige me or not."

"If I do it, remember, it is under protest, Lance."

"Never mind what it is under, if you only promise."

"I promise, to save you from greater risk, but I do it against my will,
my reason, my good sense, my conscience, and everything else."

Lord Chandos laughed aloud.

"You will forget everything of that kind," he said, "when you see
Leone."

And the two friends parted, mutually dissatisfied.




CHAPTER VIII.

THE PROPHECY.


"A very impatient young man," said the good old vicar. "No man in his
senses would want to be married before ten in the morning. I call it
unchristian."

Good old Mr. Barnes had been roused from his early slumbers by the
announcement that the young man had come to be married.

Married, while the early morning sun was shining, and the birds singing
their morning hymn.

He was almost blind, this good old vicar, who had lived so long at
Oheton. He was very deaf, and could hardly hear, but then he did not
require very keen sight or hearing at Oheton; there was never more than
one marriage in a year, and funerals were very rare; but to be called
before nine in the morning to perform the marriage ceremony was
something unheard of. He had duly announced the bans, and no one had
taken the least notice of them; but to come so early, it was positively
cruel.

Others had risen early that morning. Leone had not slept well, for this
July morning, which was to bring such mingled joy and sorrow to others,
was a day of deepest emotion to her.

Her love-dream was to be realized. She was to marry the ardent young
lover who swore that he would not live without her.

She had thought more of her love than of the worldly advantages it would
bring her. She had not thought much of those until they stood, on the
evening before their wedding-day, once more by the mill-stream. It was
bright moonlight, for the smiling summer day was dead. It was their
farewell to the beautiful spot they both loved.

"I am so glad," said Lord Chandos, "that we can say good-bye to it by
the light of the moon. I wonder, Leone, when we shall see the
mill-stream again? I have a fancy that the pretty water has helped me in
my wooing."

As they sat there the wind rose and stirred the branches of the
alder-trees. In some way the great wavy masses of dark hair became
unfastened, and fell like a thick soft veil over Leone's shoulders. Lord
Chandos touched it caressingly with his hand.

"What beautiful hair, Leone--how thick and soft; how beautiful those
wavy lines are--what makes them?"

"A turn of Dame Nature's fingers," she replied, laughingly.

"I should like to see diamonds shining in these coils of hair," he said.
"Leone, one of the first things we must do to-morrow when we reach
London, is to buy a very handsome traveling-dress. I have written to-day
to my father to ask him to meet us at Dunmore House."

She repeated the words.

"Where is Dunmore House?" she asked.

"I forgot," he said, "that all places so familiar to me are strange to
you. One of my father's titles is Baron Dunmore, and his London
residence is called Dunmore House. We shall meet him there to-morrow,
and then you will be my wife."

For the first time she realized what an immense difference there was in
their positions. She glanced at him in sudden fear.

"Lance," she said, "shall I seem very much out of place in your home,
and among your friends?"

"My darling, you would grace any home," he replied; "mine has had no
fairer mistress in all the generations it has stood."

"I am half frightened," she said, gently.

"You need not be, sweet. Before this time next year all London will know
and admire the beautiful Lady Chandos."

"It seems a long leap to take in life," she said, "from being Farmer
Noel's niece to bear the name of Lady Chandos."

"You will grace the name, Leone," he replied. "I shall be the proudest
man in England--I shall have the most beautiful wife in England. This is
our last separation, our last parting; after this, we need never part."

He stooped down and caught some of the running water in his hand.

"A libation," he said, as he poured it back again. "I feel as though I
were losing a friend when I leave the mill-stream."

Loving and loved, no thought came to them there of how they should see
the mill-stream again.

"Leone, Lady Chandos." More than once that evening she said those words
to herself. It was after eight when she came in, and the farmer had long
finished his supper; he sat thinking over his pipe.

"You are late, my lady lass," he said; "sit down and talk to me before I
go to rest."

Obediently enough, she sat down while he told her the history of his
visits to the different markets. She heard, but did not take in the
sense of one single word he uttered. She was saying to herself over and
over again, that by this time to-morrow she should be Lady Chandos. Her
happiness would have been complete if she could have told her uncle. He
had been so kind to her. They were opposite as light and darkness, they
had not one idea in common, yet he had been good to her and she loved
him. She longed to tell him of her coming happiness and grandeur, but
she did not dare to break her word.

Robert Noel looked up in wonder. There was his beautiful niece kneeling
at his feet, her eyes dim with tears.

"Uncle," she was saying, "look at me, listen to me. I want to thank you.
I want you always to remember that on this night I knelt at your feet
and thanked you with a grateful heart for all you have ever done for
me."

"Why, my lady lass," he replied, "you have always been to me as a child
of my own," he replied.

"A tiresome child," she said, half laughing, half crying. "See. I take
this dear, brown hand, so hard with work, and I kiss it, uncle, and
thank you from my heart."

He could not recover himself, so to speak. He looked at her in blank,
wordless amazement.

"In the years to come," she continued, "when you think of me, you must
say to yourself, that, no matter what I did, I loved you."

"No matter what you did you loved me," he repeated. "Yes, I shall
remember that."

She kissed the toil-worn face, leaving him so entirely bewildered that
the only fear was lest he might sit up all night trying to forget it.

Then she went to her room, but not to sleep--her heart beat, every pulse
thrilled. This was to be the last night in her old home--the last of her
girlish life; to-morrow she would be Lady Chandos--wife of the young
lover whom she loved with all her heart and soul.

The birds woke her with their song, it was their wedding-day. She would
not see Robert Noel again; he took his breakfast before six and went off
to the fields again. She had but to dress herself and go to the station.
Oheton was some three miles from the station, but on a summer's morning
that was a trifle.

They were all three there at last--Sir Frank looking decidedly vexed and
cross, Lord Chandos happy as the day was long, and Leone beautiful as a
picture.

"Look," said the young lordling to his friend, "have I no excuse?"

Sir Frank looked long and earnestly at the beautiful southern face.

"Yes," he replied; "so far as beauty and grace can form an excuse, you
have one; but, Lance, if I loved that girl a thousand times better than
my life, I should not marry her."

"Why?" asked Lord Chandos, with a laugh.

"Because she has a tragedy in her life. She could not be happy. She will
neither have a happy life nor a happy death."

"My dear Frank, do not prophesy such evil on our wedding-day."

"I do not mean to prophesy, I say what I think; it is a beautiful face,
full of poetry and passion, but it is also full of power and unrest."

"You shall not look at her again if you say such things," cried Lord
Chandos.

And then the good vicar, still distressed at being aroused so early,
came to the church. Had it been less pitiful and pathetic, it would have
been most comical, the number of times the old vicar dropped his book,
forgot the names, the appalling mistakes he made, the nervous hesitation
of his manner. Sometimes Lord Chandos felt inclined to say hard, hot
words; again, he could not repress a smile. But at length, after
trembling and hesitating, the vicar gave the final benediction, and
pronounced them man and wife.

In the vestry, when the names were signed, some ray of light seemed to
dawn on the old vicar.

"Chandos," he said, "that is not a common name about here."

"Is it not?" said the young lord; "it seems common enough to me."

"Chandos," repeated the minister, "where have I heard that name!"

"I have heard it so often that I am tired of it," said the young
husband.

And then it was all over.

"Thank God to be out in the sunlight," he cried, as he stood, with his
beautiful wife, in the churchyard. "Thank God it is all over, and I can
call my love my wife. I thought that service would never end. Frank,
have you no good wishes for my wife?"

Sir Frank went to Leone.

"I wish you joy," he said; "I wish you all happiness--but----"

And then he played nervously with the hat he held in his hand.

"But," she said with a bright smile, "you do not think I shall get it?"

Sir Frank made no answer; he did not think she would be happy, but she
had chosen her own way; he had said all he could. Perhaps his eyes were
clearer than others, for he could read a tragedy in her face. Then Sir
Frank left them, having performed his part with a very ill grace.

"Leone, have you said good-bye to your uncle?" asked Lord Chandos.

"I left a little note to be given him when he returns home this evening.
How he will miss me."

"And how fortunate I am to have you, my darling; there is no one in the
wide world so happy. We will drive over to Rashleigh Station. I do not
care who sees me now, no one can part us. Dr. Hervey thinks I went home
to London this morning, but I won a wife before starting, did I not,
Leone, my beautiful love? You are Lady Chandos now. What are you
thinking of, my darling?"

"I was wondering, Lance, if there was anything in our marriage that
could possibly invalidate it and make it illegal?"

"No," he replied, "I have been too careful of you, Leone, for that. You
are my wife before God and man. Nothing shall take you from me but
death."

"But death," she repeated slowly.

And in after years they both remembered the words.




CHAPTER IX.

A MYSTERIOUS TELEGRAM.


Cawdor took rank among the most stately homes of England: it had been
originally one of the grand Saxon strongholds, one, too, which the
Normans had found hard to conquer.

As time wore on the round towers and the keep fell into
ruins--picturesque and beautiful ruins, round which the green ivy hung
in luxuriant profusion; then the ruins were left standing.

Little by little the new place was built, not by any particular design;
wing after wing, story after story, until it became one of the most
picturesque and most magnificent homes in England. Cawdor it was called;
neither court, hall nor park, simply Cawdor; and there were very few
people in England who did not know Cawdor. There was no book of
engravings that had not a view of Cawdor for its first and greatest
attraction; there was no exhibition of pictures in which one did not see
ruins of Cawdor. It had in itself every attribute of beauty, the
ivy-mantled ruins, the keep, from which one could see into five
different counties, the moat, now overgrown with trees; the
old-fashioned draw-bridge which contrasted so beautifully with the grand
modern entrance, worthy of a Venetian palace; the winding river, the
grand chain of hills, and in the far distance the blue waters of the
Channel.

There could not have been a more beautiful or picturesque spot on earth
than Cawdor. It had belonged to the Lanswell family for many
generations. The Lanswells were a wealthy race--they owned not only all
the land surrounding the fair domain of Cawdor, but nearly the whole of
the town of Dunmore. The Earl of Lanswell was also Baron of Raleigh, and
Raleigh Hall, in Staffordshire, was a very grand estate. In one part of
it an immense coal mine had been discovered, which made Lord Lanswell
one of the wealthiest men of the day.

Cawdor, Raleigh Hall, and Dunmore House, three of the finest residences
in England, together with a rent-roll counted by hundreds of thousands,
should have made the earl a happy man. He married a wealthy heiress in
accordance with the old proverb that "Like seeks like." His wife, Lucia,
Countess of Lanswell, was one of the proudest peeresses in England; she
was unimpeachable in every relation of life, and had little pity for
those who were not; she had never known sorrow, temptation, doubt, or
anything else; she had lived in an atmosphere of perfect content and
golden ease; she had the grandest mansion, the finest diamonds, the
finest horses in London; she had the most indulgent husband, the
handsomest son, and the prettiest daughter; she did not know the word
want in any shape, she had not even suffered from the crumpled
rose-leaf. The nearest approach to trouble of any kind that she had
known was that her son, Lord Chandos, had failed in one of his
examinations. He asked that he might go into the country for some months
to read, and permission was most cheerfully given to him. With her
daughter, Lady Imogene Chandos, the countess had never had and never
expected to have any trouble; she was one of the fairest, sweetest, and
most gentle of girls; she was docile and obedient; she had never in her
life given the least trouble to any one.

Lord Lanswell was walking up and down one of the broad terraces at
Cawdor one fine morning in July, when one of the servants brought to him
a telegram. He opened it hastily, it was from his son, Lord Chandos:

     "DEAREST FATHER,--Will you run up to town, and meet me at Dunmore
     House this evening? I have something very important to tell you.
     Not one word to mother yet."

Lord Lanswell stood still to think with the telegram in his hand.

"What can be the matter now?" he said to himself; "that boy will give me
trouble. He has done something now that he will not let my lady know."

He had a dull, heavy presentiment that the boy who should have been the
pride and delight of his life would be a drawback and a torment.

"I must go," said the earl to himself, "I must make some excuse to
satisfy my lady."

It was typical of Lady Lanswell that her husband seldom spoke of her as
my wife, the children more seldom still as "my mother;" every one alike
called her "my lady." She might have been the only peeress in England,
so entirely did every one agree in giving her that title. "My lady" was
pleased, meant sunshine at Cawdor; "my lady" was angry, meant gloom. She
regulated the moral and mental atmosphere of the house with a smile or a
frown.

Lord Lanswell knew that he dare not show the telegram to Lady Lanswell;
she would have started off at once for Dunmore House, and there would
have been war. He must deceive her. He carefully destroyed the telegram,
in some queer fashion which he did not own even to himself he had a kind
of sympathy with his son.

He had been wild in his youth and made allowances for the same in
others. His worst thought now was that his handsome young heir, with the
frank blue eyes and sunny hair, had been gambling or betting.

"A few thousand pounds would set him straight," he thought, "and after
all, one must not be too hard on the follies of youth."

No need to tell my lady; she looked on these exploits with a keen, cold
eye. He went to the drawing-room, where my lady sat looking regally
beautiful in black velvet and point lace.

The countess of Lanswell was considered one of the handsomest women in
England. She had married very young, and her beauty was still so well
preserved that she took her place with the beauties of the day. Husband
and children both felt in awe of the beautiful woman, with her queenly
grace and bearing.

"Lucia," said the earl, "I thought of running up to town this afternoon.
I shall return to-morrow."

"Indeed," said my lady, slowly. "Why this sudden resolution, Ross?"

"There is some little business that no one can attend to but myself," he
said. "I shall not be long absent."

"Business of what nature?" asked my lady, her fine eyes fixed on his
face.

"Why, dear, it is surely not needful for me to explain my business to
you? I have none of which you would not approve. I want to call on my
bankers--I want to sell some shares. I have several little reasons for
running up to town."

"You remember, of course, that the Beauvoirs dine here to-day?" said my
lady.

"Yes, I have not forgotten, but with your usual tact you can apologize
for me, Lucia."

The compliment pleased her.

"Certainly, I can, if your absence is really needful, Ross," said my
lady.

"It is needful, I assure you. I can tell you all I have done when I
return; just now I must hurry off, or I shall not catch the train."

As the earl quitted Cawdor, he regretted deeply that his son should have
complicated the situation by enforcing silence as regarded his mother.

He pondered a great deal on what he should say when he returned--above
all, if the boy's trouble was, as he imagined, the loss of money.

"I must not let his mother know," thought the earl. "Boys are boys; she
would think he was lost altogether if she knew that he had betting and
gambling debts. Whatever he owes, no matter what it is, I will give him
a check for it, and make him promise me that it shall be the last time."

He never thought of any other danger; that his son had fallen in love or
wanted to marry never occurred to him. He was glad when he reached
Dunmore House; the old housekeeper met him in the hall.

"I have dinner ready, my lord," she said. "Lord Chandos told me you were
coming."

He looked round expectantly.

"Is not Lord Chandos here?" he asked.

It occurred to him that the housekeeper looked troubled and distressed.

"No," she replied, "he is not staying here--they are staying in the
Queen's Hotel, in Piccadilly."

"They," he cried, "whom do you mean by they? Has Lord Chandos friends
with him?"

The woman's face grew pale. She shrunk perceptibly from the keen, gray
eyes.

"I understood his lordship that he was not alone," she replied. "I may
have made a mistake. I understood him also that he should be with you by
eight this evening, when you had finished dinner."

"Why could he not dine with me?" he thought. "Sends a telegram for me,
and then leaves me to dine alone. It is not like Lance."

But thinking over it would not solve the mystery; the earl went to his
room and dressed for dinner. He had ordered a bottle of his favorite
Madeira, of which wonderful tales were told.

Then he sat thinking about his son, and his heart softened toward him.
He thought of the handsome, curly-headed young boy whose grand spirit no
one but my lady could subdue. He laughed aloud as he remembered the
struggles between himself and his heir--they had always ended in his
defeat; but when my lady came on the scene it was quite another thing,
the defeat was on the other side then, and my Lord Chandos was usually
carried off defeated and conquered.

He thought of the handsome stripling who used to wander about the
grounds at Cawdor, trying to conceal from my lady the fact that he
smoked cigars. He did not fear his father and smoked boldly before him,
but at the first sound of my lady's rustling silk he flew rather than
ran. Lord Lanswell laughed aloud as he thought of it all.

"He is just as frightened at my lady now," he said to himself. "I cannot
help feeling touched and flattered that he has sent for me in his
trouble. I will help him and my lady shall never know."

His heart warmed to his son and heir--no one knew how dearly he loved
him, nor how completely his life was wrapped up in him. Then he heard a
cab drive up to the door. Surely that must be Lance.

He listened in impatient suspense--he heard whispering in the outer
hall, as though some consultation were being held.

"What in the world is the boy making a mystery over?" he asked himself.

Then he started from his chair in unutterable amazement.

Before him stood Lance, Lord Chandos, holding the hands of the most
beautiful girl he had ever seen in his life.




CHAPTER X.

A SHOCKED FATHER.


"I am quite sure of one thing," Lord Chandos had said, as they drew near
London, "and that is, Leone--if my father sees you before my mother has
time to interfere, it will be all right. He can resist anything but a
pretty face--that always conquers him."

"I wish," said Leone, with a sigh, "that I were less proud. Do you know,
Lance, that I cannot endure to hear you speak as though I were to be
received as a great favor. I wonder why I am so proud? I am a farmer's
niece, and you are the son of a powerful earl, yet I--please do not be
offended; I cannot help it--I feel quite as good as you."

He laughed aloud. There was nothing he enjoyed better than this proud
frankness of hers, which would never yield to or worship rank or title.

"I am glad to hear it, Leone," he replied. "For my own part, I think you
very much better than myself. I have no fear, if my father sees you
first, and that is why I have telegraphed to him to meet us at Dunmore
House."

"But," she insisted, "suppose that he does not like me--what shall we do
then?"

"Why," he replied, "the right and proper thing for me to do then will be
to try to love you, if possible, even better than I do now. Leone, the
first thing we must do is to drive to one of the court milliners; no
matter what follows, your dress must be attended to at once--first
impressions are everything. You look royally beautiful in all that you
wear, but I would much rather that my father saw you in a proper
costume. Suppose we drive to a milliner's first, and choose a handsome
dress, and all things suitable, then we can go to the Queen's Hotel; the
trunks can be sent after us. We can dine there; and when you have
dressed _a la_ Lady Chandos, we will go to Dunmore House, and carry
everything before us."

He did as he had said. They drove first to Madame Caroline's. Lord
Chandos was accustomed to the princely style of doing things. He sent
for madame, who looked up in wonder at his fair young face.

"This is my wife," he said, "Lady Chandos. We have been in the country
and she wants everything new, in your best style."

It seemed to him hours had passed when madame reappeared. Certainly he
hardly knew the superbly beautiful girl with her. Was it possible that
after all the poets had said about "beauty unadorned" that dress made
such a difference? It had changed his beautiful Leone into a beautiful
empress. Madame looked at him for approval.

"I hope your lordship is satisfied," she said; with the usual quickness
of her nation, she had detected the fact that this had been a runaway
marriage.

"I am more than satisfied," he replied.

Before him stood a tall, slender girl, whose superb figure was seen to
advantage in one of Worth's most fashionable dresses--trailing silk and
rich velvet, so skillfully intermixed with the most exquisite taste; a
lace bonnet that seemed to crown the rippling hair; pearl-gray gloves
that might have grown on the white hands. Her dress was simply perfect;
it was at once elegant and ladylike, rich and costly.

"I shall not be afraid to face my father now," he said, "I have a
talisman."

Yet his fair young face grew paler as they reached Dunmore House. It was
a terrible risk, and he knew it--a terrible ordeal. He realized what he
had done when the housekeeper told him the earl awaited him in the
dining-room. A decided sensation of nervousness came over him, and he
looked at the fresh, proud, glowing beauty of his young wife to reassure
himself. She was perfect, he felt that, and he was satisfied.

"Give me your hand, Leone," he said, and the touch of that little hand
gave him new courage.

He went in leading her, and the earl sprung from his seat in startling
amaze. Lord Chandos went boldly up to him.

"Father," he said, "allow me to introduce to you my wife, Leone, Lady
Chandos."

The earl gave a terrified glance at the beautiful southern face, but
made no answer.

"I have to ask your forgiveness," continued the young lordling, "for
having married without your consent; but I knew, under the
circumstances, it was useless to ask it, so I married without."

Still the same terrified look and utter silence.

"Father," cried Lord Chandos, "why do you not welcome my young wife
home?"

Then Lord Lanswell tried to smile--a dreadful, ghastly smile.

"My dear boy," he said, "you are jesting; I am quite sure you are
jesting. It cannot be real; you would not be so cruel!"

"Father," repeated the young lord, in an imperative voice, "will you bid
my wife welcome home?"

"No," said the earl stoutly, "I will not. The young lady will excuse me
if I decline to bid her welcome to a home that can never be hers."

"Father," cried the young man, reproachfully, "I did not expect this
from you."

"I do not understand what else you could expect," cried the earl,
angrily. "Do you mean to tell me that it is true that this person is
your wife?"

"My dear and honored wife," replied the young man.

"Do you mean to tell me that you have actually married this lady,
Lance--really married her?"

"I have, indeed, father, and it is about the best action of my life,"
said Lord Chandos.

"How do you intend to face my lady?" asked the earl, with the voice and
manner of one who proposes a difficulty not to be solved.

"I thought you would help us, father; at least, speak to my wife."

The earl looked at the beautiful, distressed face.

"I am very sorry," he said, "sorry for you, Lance, and the lady, but I
cannot receive her as your wife."

"She is my wife, whether you receive her or not," said Lord Chandos.
"Leone, how can I apologize to you? I never expected that my father
would receive you in this fashion. Father, look at her; think how young,
how beautiful she is; you cannot be unkind to her."

"I have no wish to be unkind," said the earl, "but I cannot receive her
as your wife."

Then, seeing the color fade from her face, he hastened to find her a
chair, and poured out a glass of wine for her; he turned with a stern
face to his son.

"What have you been doing?" he cried. "While your mother and I thought
you were working hard to make up for lost time, what have you been
doing?"

"I have been working very hard," he replied, "and my work will bring
forth good fruit; but, father, I have found leisure for love as well."

"So it seems," said the earl, dryly; "perhaps you will tell me who this
lady is, and why she comes home with you?"

"My wife; her name was Leone Noel; she is now Lady Chandos."

For the first time Leone spoke.

"I am a farmer's niece, my lord," she said, simply.

Her voice had a ring of music in it so sweet that it struck the earl
with wonder.

"A farmer's niece," he replied. "You will forgive me for saying that a
farmer's niece can be no fitting wife for my son."

"I love him, my lord, very dearly, and I will try hard to be all that he
can wish me to be."

"Bravely spoken; but it is quite in vain; my lady would never hear of
such a thing--I dare not--I cannot sanction it, even by a word, my lady
would never forgive me. Can you tell me when this rash action was
accomplished?"

"This is our wedding-day, father," cried Lord Chandos. "Only think of
it, our wedding-day, and you receive us like this. How cruel and cold."

"Nay, I am neither," said the earl; "it is rather you, Lance, who do not
seem to realize what you have done. You seem to think you belong to
yourself; you are mistaken; a man in your position belongs to his
country, his race, to his family, not to himself; that view of the
question, probably, did not strike you."

"No," replied Lord Chandos, "it certainly did not; but, father, if I
have done wrong, forgive me."

"I do forgive you, my dear boy, freely; young men will be foolish--I
forgive you; but do not ask me to sanction your marriage or receive your
wife. I cannot do it."

"Then, of what use is your forgiveness? Oh, father, I did not expect
this from you; you have always been so kind to me. I had fancied
difficulties with my mother, but none with you."

"My dear Lance, we had better send for my lady; she is really, as you
know, the dominant spirit of our family. She will decide on what is to
be done."

"I insist on my wife being treated with due respect," raged the young
lord.

"My dear Lance, you must do as you will; I refuse to recognize this lady
in any way. Will you tell me when and where you were married?"

"Certainly: this morning, by the Reverend Mr. Barnes, at the Church of
St. Barnabas, in Oheton, a little village twenty miles from Rashleigh.
The marriage was all _en regle_; we had the bans published and witnesses
present."

"You took great pains to be exact, and the lady, you tell me, is a
farmer's niece."

"My uncle is Farmer Robert Noel; he has a farm at Rashleigh," said
Leone, "and in his way is an honest, loyal, honorable man."

The earl could not help feeling the sweet, soft music of that voice; it
touched his heart.

"I believe you," he said, "but it is a sad thing Farmer Noel did not
take more care of his niece. I am sorry it has happened; I can do
nothing to help you; my lady must manage it all."

"But, father," pleaded the young man, "it was on you I relied; it was to
your efforts I trusted. Be my friend; if you will receive my wife here
and acknowledge her, no one else can say a word."

"My dear boy, only yesterday your mother and I were speaking of
something on which the whole desire of her heart was fixed; remembering
that conversation I tell you quite frankly that I dare not do what you
ask me; your mother would never speak to me again."

"Then, Leone, darling, we will go; Heaven forbid that we should remain
where we are not welcome. Father," he cried, in sudden emotion, "have
you not one kind word, not one blessing for me, on my wedding-day?"

"I refuse to believe that it is your wedding-day, Lance. When that day
does come, you shall have both kind words and blessings from me."




CHAPTER XI.

THE LAWYER'S STATEMENT.


Lady Lanswell stood in the library at Dunmore House, her handsome face
flushed with irritation and annoyance, her fine eyes flashing fire. She
looked like one born to command; her tall, stately figure bore no signs
of age; her traveling dress of rich silk swept the ground in graceful
folds. She had not removed her mantle of rich lace; it hung from her
shoulders still; she had removed her bonnet and gloves. With one jeweled
hand resting on the table, she stood, the picture of indignation and
anger.

Lord Lanswell had sent a telegram at once, when his son left him,
begging her to come at once, as Lance had something important to tell
her.

My lady lost no time; she was far more quick and keen of judgment than
the earl. She never thought of gambling or betting, her thoughts all
went to love. It was something about a girl, she said to herself; but
she should stand no nonsense. Lance must remember what was due to his
family. If he had made any such mistake as that of falling in love with
one beneath him, then he must rectify the mistake as quickly as
possible; there could be no _mesalliance_ in a family like theirs. As
for any promise of marriage, if he had been so foolish as to make one he
must break it. A sum of money would doubtless have to be expended over
the matter, then it would be all right.

So thought my lady, and as the express drew near London she promised
herself that all would be well. Her spirits rose, her fears abated; no
son of hers would ever make a mistake so utterly absurd. There was
something of scorn in my lady's face as she entered Dunmore House. The
earl met her in the entrance hall.

"I have lost no time, as you see," she said. "What is all this nonsense,
Ross?"

He did not answer until they stood together in the library, with the
door closed, and then she repeated the words. Something in her husband's
face dismayed her.

"Speak, Ross; I dislike suspense. Tell me at once; what has the boy
done?"

"He is married," said the earl, solemnly.

"Great Heaven!" cried my lady. "Married! You cannot mean it.
Married--how--whom--when?"

"You will be dreadfully distressed," he began, slowly.

My lady stamped her foot.

"I can bear distress better than suspense. Tell me quickly, Ross, has he
disgraced himself?"

"I am afraid so," was the brief reply.

"And I loved him so--I trusted him so; it is impossible; tell me, Ross."

"He has married a farmer's niece. The girl is beautiful. I have seen no
one so beautiful; she seems to be well educated and refined. Her uncle
has a farm at Rashleigh."

"A farmer's niece," cried my lady; "you cannot possibly mean it. There
must be some mistake--the boy has been playing a practical joke on you."

"It is no joke; I only wish it were. Lance gave me the details. He was
married yesterday morning by the Reverend Mr. Barnes, at the Church of
St. Barnabas, at Oheton, a village somewhere near Rashleigh."

"Married--really and actually married," cried my lady. "I will not
believe it."

"Unhappily, it is true. He expected, I think, to make his home here; he
had no idea of leaving Dunmore House; but I told him that I could not
receive him or her."

"Her! You do not mean to say that he had the audacity to bring her here,
Ross?"

"Yes, they came together last night; but I would not receive her. I told
them plainly that you must settle the matter, as I could not."

"I should think not," said my lady, with emphasis.

"I must own, though," continued the earl, "that I was rather sorry for
Lance; he had trusted entirely to my good offices and seemed to think it
very cruel of me to refuse to plead for him."

"And the girl," said my lady, "what of her?"

"You will think I am weak and foolish, without doubt," he said, "but the
girl distressed me even more than Lance. She is beautiful enough to
arouse the admiration of the world; and she spoke so well for him."

"A farmer's niece--an underbred, forward, designing, vulgar country
girl--to be Countess of Lanswell," cried my lady, in horror.

"Nay," said the earl, "she is a farmer's niece, it is true, but she is
not vulgar."

"It is not possible that she can be presentable," said my lady. "We must
move heaven and earth to set the marriage aside."

"I had not thought of that," said the earl, simply.

Then my lady took the lace mantilla from her shoulders, and sat down at
the writing-table.

"I will send for Mr. Sewell," she said. "If any one can give us good
advice, he can."

Mr. Sewell was known as one of the finest, keenest, and cleverest
lawyers in England; he had been for more than twenty years agent for the
Lanswells of Cawdor. He knew every detail of their history, every event
that happened; and the proud countess liked him, because he was
thoroughly conservative in all his opinions. She sent for him now as a
last resource; the carriage was sent to his office, so that he might
lose no time. In less than an hour the brisk, energetic lawyer stood
before the distressed parents, listening gravely to the story of the
young heir's marriage.

"Have you seen the girl?" he asked.

"Yes, I have seen her," said the earl.

"Is she presentable?" he inquired. "Would any degree of training enable
her to take her rank----"

Lady Lanswell interrupted him.

"The question need never be asked," she said, proudly. "I refuse ever to
see her, or acknowledge her. I insist on the marriage being set aside."

"One has to be careful, my lady," said Mr. Sewell.

"I see no need for any great care," she retorted. "My son has not
studied us; we shall not study him. I would rather the entail were
destroyed, and the property go to one of Charles Seyton's sons, than my
son share it with a low-born wife."

My lady's face was inflexible. The earl and the lawyer saw that she was
resolved--that she would never give in, never yield, no matter what
appeal was made to her.

They both knew that more words were useless. My lady's mind was made up,
and they might as well fight the winds and the waves. Lord Lanswell was
more inclined to pity and to temporize. He was sorry for his son, and
the beautiful face had made some impression on him; but my lady was
inflexible.

"The marriage must be set aside," she repeated.

The earl looked at her gravely.

"Who can set aside a thoroughly legal marriage?" he asked.

"You will find out the way," said my lady, turning to Mr. Sewell.

"I can easily do that, Lady Lanswell; of course it is for you to decide;
but there is no doubt but that the marriage can easily be disputed--you
must decide. If you think the girl could be trained and taught to behave
herself--perhaps the most simple and honorable plan would be to let the
matter stand as it is, and do your best for her."

"Never!" cried my lady, proudly. "I would rather that Cawdor were burned
to the ground than to have such a person rule over it. It is useless to
waste time and words, the marriage must be set aside."

The lawyer looked from one to the other.

"There can be no difficulty whatever in setting the marriage aside,"
said Mr. Sewell. "In point of fact, I must tell you what I imagined you
would have known perfectly well."

My lady looked at him with redoubled interest.

"What is that?" she asked, quickly.

The earl listened with the greatest attention.

"It is simply this, Lady Lanswell, that the marriage is no marriage;
Lord Chandos is under age--he cannot marry without your consent; any
marriage that he contracts without your consent is illegal and
invalid--no marriage at all--the law does not recognize it."

"Is that the English law?" asked Lady Lanswell.

"Yes, the marriage of a minor, like your son, without the consent of his
parents, is no marriage; the law utterly ignores it. The remedy lies,
therefore, in your own hands."

Husband and wife looked at each other; it was a desperate chance, a
desperate remedy. For one moment each thought of the sanctity of the
marriage tie, and all that was involved in the breaking of it. Each
thought how terribly their only son must suffer if this law was
enforced.

Then my lady's face hardened and the earl knew what was to follow.

"It remains for us, then, Mr. Sewell," she said, "to take the needful
steps."

"Yes, you must make an appeal to the High Court, and the marriage will
be at once set aside," said Mr. Sewell. "It is a terrible thing for the
young wife, though."

"She should have had more sense than to have married my son," cried my
lady. "I have pity for my son--none for her."

"I think it would be more fair to tell Lord Chandos what you intend
doing," said Mr. Sewell. "Not that he could make either resistance or
defense--the law is absolute."

"What will the end be?" asked my lady.

"The marriage will be declared null and void; they will be compelled to
separate now; but again he has the remedy in his own hand. If he chooses
to remain true and constant to her, the very next day after he becomes
of age he can remarry her, and then she becomes his lawful wife; if he
forgets her the only remedy for her would be money compensation."

"It shall be the business of my life to see that he does forget her,"
said my lady.

"You can commence proceedings at once," said Mr. Sewell. "You can file
your petition to-morrow."

"It will make the whole matter public," hesitated my lady.

"Yes, that is the one drawback. After all it does not matter," said Mr.
Sewell, "many young men make simpletons of themselves in the same way.
People do not pay much attention."

Lord Lanswell looked at his wife's handsome, inflexible face.

"It is a desperate thing to do, Lucia," he said, "for Lance loves her
very dearly."

"It was a desperate action on his part to marry without consulting us,"
said my lady.

"He will be of age next June," said the earl, "do you think that he will
be true to her?"

"No," said the countess, proudly. "I can safely pledge you my word that
he will not."




CHAPTER XII.

"THEY WILL NOT FORGIVE ME."


"Thank Heaven," said the countess, "that the matter can be set straight.
If there had been no remedy I should have lost my reason over it. The
boy must have been mad or blinded, or very probably drawn into it in
some disgraceful fashion or other."

My lady was triumphant, her handsome face lighted with satisfaction, but
the earl looked grave. The lawyer had taken his leave, and they still
remained to discuss matters. Lord Lanswell did not seem so well pleased;
he went up to my lady where she was standing.

"Lucia," he began, "do you think that if we succeed in parting these two
we shall do quite right?"

"Right," cried my lady. "I shall think it one of the most virtuous
actions of my life."

"Well," said the earl, "I am sorry that I cannot quite agree with you.
No doubt this marriage is vexatious enough, but whether it is well to
obliterate all traces of it, or rather to do away with it altogether, is
quite another thing."

"I am the best judge of what is right in this case," said my lady,
haughtily; "I will have no interference. The business part of it must be
attended to at once."

"At least you will write to Lance and tell him what you intend doing?"

"Yes, I have no objection to that," she replied; "it can make no
possible difference to him."

"He may try to make some compromise," said Lord Lanswell, whose heart
smote him as he thought of the passionate, beautiful face.

"There can be no compromise; he must give her up at once, and marry some
one in his own rank," said the countess. "I will write the letter at
once, and I must ask you, Ross, not to be weak. A weak man is the most
contemptible object in creation."

"I will try not to be weak, my dear," said the earl, submissively; "but
I am concerned for Lance."

"Lance must take his chance," said my lady, too angry to be conscious of
the rhyme; "he has done wrong, and he must suffer for it. He will thank
Heaven in a year's time from now that I have saved him."

Still Lord Lanswell looked at his wife with a grave expression of doubt.

"You think, then, Lucia, that in a year's time he will have forgotten
that poor young wife?"

"I am quite sure of it. Long before I had heard of this foolish affair I
had decided in my own mind whom he should marry, and I see no reason for
changing my plans."

Lord Lanswell thought with regret and sympathy of the young wife. Could
it be possible, he thought, that his son would be so disloyal, so
unfaithful as to forget in twelve short months the wife he had risked so
much to win? He looked at the countess.

"The matter then lies in a nutshell and depends entirely upon whether
Lance continues true to his love or not. If he remains true, your scheme
for parting them will have but little effect; if he prove false, why
then all will be well, according to your way of thinking."

"We will finish with the subject," she said. "You may make your mind
quite easy about it. I guarantee all my knowledge of the world that he
will not only have forgotten her in twelve months' time, but that he
will be ashamed of having ever fancied himself in love with her."

Lord Lanswell went, in obedience to his wife's command, to assist in the
commencement of the proceedings, and as soon as my lady was left alone,
she sat down to write to her son. She told him, in the plainest possible
words, that his marriage was not only unlawful, but invalid, as he,
being minor, could not contract a legal marriage without the consent of
his parents. My lady had faith enough in herself to add openly:

"You can, of course, please yourself, as soon as you are of age; you can
then remarry the young person without our consent if you will; but my
opinion is you will not."

The time which had passed so unpleasantly for the earl and countess was
bright and light for the young bride and bridegroom. Leone had shed some
bitter tears when they left Dunmore House, but Lord Chandos laughed; he
was angry and irritated, but it seemed to him that such a state of
things could not last. His father and mother had indulged him in
everything--surely they would let him have his way in marriage. He
kissed the tears from his young wife's face, and laughed away her fears.

"It will be all right in the end," he said. "My father may hold out for
a few days, but he will give way; in the meantime, we must be happy,
Leone. We will stay at the Queen's Hotel until they invite us to Cawdor.
It will not be long; my mother and father cannot get on without me. We
will go to the opera to-night, that will distract your thoughts."

The opera had been but hitherto an empty word to Leone. She had a vague
idea that it consisted of singing. After all there was some compensation
to be found; her young husband was devoted to her, she was magnificently
dressed, and was going in a beautiful closed carriage to the opera.

She uttered no word of surprise, but her whole soul was filled with
wonder. The highest festivity and the greatest gayety she had ever
witnessed was a choir tea-party. She had a most beautiful voice; in
fact, neither herself nor any of those around her knew the value of her
voice or appreciated it.

On great occasions the choir were entertained by the rector--once during
the summer when they made merry out in the green woods, and once in the
winter when they were entertained in the school-room. Leone had thought
these parties the acme of grandeur and perfection; now she sat in that
brilliant circle and wondered into what world she had fallen.

Before the curtain was raised she was engrossed in that brilliant
circle. She had never seen such dresses, such diamonds, such jewels,
faces so beautiful, toilets so exquisite; it was all quite new to her.
The beautiful and poetic side of it appealed to her. Her beautiful face
flushed with delight, her dark eyes were lustrous and radiant.

Lord Chandos, looking round the opera-house, where some of the
handsomest women in England were, said to himself that among all these
fair and noble faces there was not one so beautiful as Leone's.

She herself was quite unconscious of the admiration she excited; she did
not see how the opera-glasses were turned to her face; she could not
hear people asking: "Who is that with Lord Chandos? What a beautiful
face, what a lovely girl! Who is she?" Lord Chandos saw it, and was not
only proud, but flattered by it.

"My mother will yield at once when she sees her," he thought; "she will
be pleased that the most beautiful woman in England is my wife."

He made no introductions, though many of his friends bowed to him, with
a secret hope that he would ask them into his box. But he had arranged
his own plans. His mother--the proud, exclusive, haughty Countess of
Lanswell--should be the one to introduce his beautiful wife to the
world; that of itself would be a passport for her. So that he was
careful not to ask any one into his box, or even to exchange a word with
any of the people he knew.

From the time the curtain was drawn up until the opera ended, Leone was
in a trance. Quite suddenly she had entered this new and beautiful world
of music and art--a world so bright and dazzling that it bewildered her.

Lord Chandos watched her with keen delight--her lustrous eyes, the
intense face, the parted lips.

The opera was one of the most beautiful--"Norma"--and the part of Norma
was taken by the greatest _prima donna_ of her time. Leone's eyes filled
with tears as those passionate reproaches were sung; she knew nothing of
the language, but the music was full of eloquence for her. She turned
suddenly to her husband; her whole soul seemed awake and thrilling with
dramatic instinct.

"Lance," she said in a low voice, "I could do that; I do not mean that I
could sing so well, but I could feel the jealousy she feels. I could
utter those reproaches. Something seems to have awoke in my soul that
never lived before; it is all new to me, yet I understand it all; my
heart is on fire as I listen."

"And you have enjoyed it?" he said, when the curtain fell on the last
grand scene.

She answered him with a low sigh of perfect content.

So it was that to her her wedding-day became the most marked day of her
life, for on it she awoke to the knowledge of the world of art and
music.

There was nothing for it but to remain at the hotel.

Lord Chandos merely laughed at the notion of his parents holding out
against him. He was wonderfully sanguine.

"We shall hear the carriage stop some fine morning," he said, "and they
will be here to seek a reconciliation."

He laughed when the waiter gave him my lady's letter; he turned
triumphantly to his wife.

"This is from my mother," he said; "I knew she would relent, it is
probably to ask us to Cawdor."

But as he read it his face changed; the smile and the triumph died from
it. He said no word to Leone, but tore the letter into shreds. She
looked on with a wistful face.

"Is it from your mother, Lance?" she asked.

He took her in his arms and kissed her.

"My darling, do not trouble about them; you are all the world to me.
They will not forgive me; but it does not matter. I am proud of what I
have done. I am quite independent. I shall take a pretty little villa at
Richmond, and we shall live there until they come to their senses."

"That will be giving up all the world for me," she said.

"The world will be well lost, Leone. We will go to-morrow and find a
pretty little house where we shall be quite happy. Remember one thing
always--that my mother will love you when she sees you."

"Then let her see me now, Lance, at once," she cried, eagerly, "if you
think so. Why wait? I should be more happy than any one else in the
world if you would do that."

"It is too soon yet," he replied; "all will be right in time."

She wished that he had offered to show her his mother's letter; but she
did not like to ask what the contents were.

Lord Chandos dare not tell her, besides which he laughed in scorn at the
idea. They might threaten as they would; but he felt quite certain there
was no power on earth which could set aside his marriage, therefore he
should not trouble himself about it. He would go to Richmond and look
out for a house there.




CHAPTER XIII.

A PERFECTLY HAPPY WOMAN.


"They would never dare do it," Lord Chandos repeated to himself with a
laugh of contempt. Set his marriage aside. They were mad to think of
such a thing.

From time to time strange-looking documents came to him; he thrust them
aside without even looking at them. He only laughed at the notion. Part
him from Leone. It was not in the power of any one on earth to do it. He
never mentioned the matter to Leone at all; it was not worth while to
disturb her.

They had been to Richmond, and had found there a villa so beautiful it
seemed to have been built for them--a quaint, picturesque, old English
house, full of pretty nooks and corners, with large latticed windows,
over which roses and jasmine hung in abundance; a smooth, green lawn on
which stood a superb cedar-tree; beautiful grounds that reached down to
the river. The views from the windows were superb. It was worth anything
to stand on that green lawn and watch the sunset on the Thames.

Leone was delighted with it; she had never dreamed of a home so
beautiful. Lord Chandos furnished it with the utmost luxury, and there
the first few happy months of their life was spent. Lord Chandos did not
wish exactly that his marriage should be kept secret, but he did not
want it known to the world in general until his mother was willing to
introduce and receive his wife.

To Leone that life that opened to her was like a heaven on earth; her
husband surrounded her with "kind observances;" he purchased for her a
wardrobe that was a marvel of beauty and elegance; he found a French
lady's-maid, who understood all the duties of the toilet. What was more,
he had the best masters in London to instruct her. Her voice was one of
the finest ever heard, her taste for music so great that she was soon
proficient.

He taught her himself to ride. There was one thing singular, every
master who attended her was aware of a great hidden power within her,
they said among each other that she was something wonderful--that the
world would hear of her some day. There was an innate sense of power, a
grand dramatic instinct, a keen sense of everything beautiful, noble and
great. There were times when an electric flash of genius made them
marvel.

"It is a thousand pities," said the music-master to himself, "that she
has married a nobleman. If she had been dependent on her own exertions,
I could have made her one of the finest singers in the world."

Again, the drawing-master said:

"If I had the training of Lady Chandos I would make her the finest
artist in England."

None of them had discovered the real secret of her genius, or what was
the true fire that every now and then seemed to brighten them all as it
flashed over them.

A few weeks completely changed her; she had that keen, quick insight
into everything, that wondrous tact and intelligence which make some
women seem as though they were magicians.

When she went first to River View, she had some traces of her rustic
training. Before six weeks had passed over it had all disappeared. Lord
Chandos himself had taught her; her intonation and accent were clear and
refined, her words well chosen, her expressions always poetical and full
of grace; no one meeting her then could have told that she had spent her
life in the rural shades of Rashleigh.

New beauty came to her with this development of mind; new, spiritual,
poetical loveliness; and Lord Chandos, looking at his peerless young
wife, felt always quite confident that when his mother saw her all would
be well--she would be proud of her.

While Leone seemed to have gone straight to heaven, she could not
realize that this was the same life she rebelled against with such
fierce rebellion. Now the days were not long enough to hold in them all
the happiness that fell to her share. The birds woke her with their
singing; the sun with its shining; another beautiful day had dawned for
her--a day that was full of beauty and love. They passed like a dream.

She took breakfast always with her husband; perhaps the happiest hour of
the day was that. The windows of the pretty breakfast-room looked over a
wilderness of flowers; the windows were always open. The soft, sweet
summer air came in, parting the long, white curtains, bringing with it
the breath of roses and the odor of a hundred flowers.

She looked as fresh and fair as the morning itself. Lord Chandos
wondered more and more at her radiant loveliness. Her soul was awake
now, and looked out of her dark eyes into the world she found so
beautiful.

Then Lord Chandos went up to town for a few hours, while Leone took her
different lessons and studied. They met again at lunch, and they spent
the afternoon out-of-doors. An ideal life--an idyl in itself. Leone,
while she lived, retained a vivid remembrance of those afternoons, of
the shade of the deep woods, of the ripple of the river through the
green banks, of the valleys where flowers and ferns grew, of the long
alleys where the pleasant shade made a perfect paradise. She remembered
them--the golden glow, the fragrance, the music of them, remained with
her until she died. All the most pleasant times of our lives are dreams.

Then they dined together; and in the evening Lord Chandos took his
beautiful young wife to the opera or the play, to concert or lecture.

"As soon as I am of age," he would say, "I shall take you on the
Continent; there is no education we get like that we get by traveling
one year on the Continent; and you will be at home on every subject,
Leone," he would say; and Leone longed for the time to come.

"When I am of age," was his universal cry.

When Leone expressed any anxiety or sorrow over his separation from his
parents, he would laugh and answer:

"Never mind, my darling, it will be all right when I am of age. Never
mind, darling, you will have my mother asking for the pleasure of
knowing you then--the tables will be turned; let the great world once
see you, and you will be worshiped for your beauty, your grace, and your
talent."

She looked wistfully at him.

"Do they love beauty so much in your world, Lance?" she asked.

"Yes, as a rule, a beautiful face has a wonderful influence. I have
known women without a tithe of your beauty, Leone, rise from quite
third-rate society to find a place among the most exclusive and noblest
people in the land. Your face would win for you, darling, an entrance
anywhere."

"The only thing I want my face to do," she said, "is to please your
mother."

"And that, when she sees it, it is quite sure to do," replied the
lover-husband.

"Lance," said Lady Chandos, "what shall we do if your parents will
neither forgive us nor see us?"

"It will be very uncomfortable," said Lord Chandos; "but we shall have
to bear it. It will not much matter so far as worldly matters are
concerned; when I am of age I shall have a separate and very handsome
fortune of my own. My mother will soon want to know you when you become
the fashion--as you will, Leone."

So she dismissed the future from her mind. She would not think of it.
She had blind reliance, blind confidence in her husband; he seemed so
carelessly happy and indifferent she could not think there was anything
vitally wrong. She was so unutterably happy, so wonderfully, thoroughly
happy. Her life was a poem, the sweetest love-story ever written or
sung.

"Why am I so happy?" she would ask herself at times; "why has Heaven
given me so much? all I ever asked for--love and happiness?"

She did not know how to be grateful enough.

One morning in autumn, a warm, beautiful morning, when the sun shone on
the rich red and brown foliage--they were out together on the fair
river--the tide was rising and the boat floated lazily on the stream.
Lady Chandos wore a beautiful dress of amber and black that suited her
dark, brilliant beauty to perfection. She lay back among the velvet
cushions, smiling as her eyes lingered on the sky, the trees, the
stream.

"You look very happy, Leone," said Lord Chandos.

"I am very happy," she replied. "I wrote to my uncle yesterday, Lance. I
should like to send him a box filled with everything he likes best."

"You shall, if it pleases you, my darling," he answered.

She leaned over the side of the boat watching the water, drawing her
hand through the clear stream.

"Happy," she repeated, rather to herself than to him; "I can safely say
this, that I have had so much happiness since I have been here that if I
were wretched all my life afterward I should still have had far more
happiness than falls to the lot of many people."

She remembered those words in after years; and she owned to herself that
they had been most perfectly true.

The few months passed at River View had been most perfectly happy--no
shade of care had come over her, no doubt, no fear--nothing that chilled
the warmth of her love, nothing that marred its perfect trust. In some
lives there comes a pause of silent, intense bliss just before the
storm, even as the wind rests before the hurricane.

"You make me very proud, Leone," said Lord Chandos, "when you tell me of
your happiness; I can only say may it be like the light of heaven,
eternal."




CHAPTER XIV.

"TRUE UNTIL DEATH."


For some long months that case stood on the records. Every paper in
England had some mention of it; as a rule people laughed when they read
anything about it. They said it was a case of Corydon and Phyllis, a
dairy-maid's love, a farce, a piece of romantic nonsense on the part of
a young nobleman who ought to know better. It created no sensation; the
papers did not make much of it; they simply reported a petition on the
part of the Right Honorable the Earl of Lanswell and Lucia, his wife,
that the so-called marriage contracted by their son, Lancelot, Lord
Chandos, should be set aside as illegal, on account of his being a
minor, and having married without their consent.

There was a long hearing, a long consideration, a long lawsuit; and it
was, as every one had foreseen it would be, in favor of the earl against
his son. The marriage was declared null and void--the contract illegal;
there could be no legal marriage on Lord Chandos' side without the full
and perfect consent of his parents.

When that decision was given, Lady Lanswell smiled. Mr. Sewell
congratulated her on it. My lady smiled again.

"I may thank the law," she said, "which frees my son from the
consequences of his own folly."

"Remember," said the lawyer, "that he can marry her, my lady, when he
comes of age."

"I know perfectly well that he will not," replied the countess; but Mr.
Sewell did not feel so sure.

The earl, the countess, and the solicitor sat together at Dunmore House,
in solemn consultation; they were quite uncertain what should be the
next step taken. Due legal notice had been given Lord Chandos; he had
simply torn the paper into shreds and laughed at it--laughed at the idea
that any law, human or divine, could separate him from his young wife;
he took no notice of it; he never appeared in answer to any inquiry or
summons; he answered no questions; the lawyer into whose hands he had
half laughingly placed the whole matter had everything to do for him,
and wondered at the recklessness with which the young lord treated the
whole affair.

It was all over now; and the decree which had parted them, which severed
the tie between them, had gone forth--the marriage was void and worth
nothing.

The matrons of Belgravia who read it said it was perfectly right; there
was no doubt that he had been inveigled into it; and if such a thing
were allowed to go unpunished there would be no more safety for their
curled darlings; they would be at the mercy of any designing, underbred
girl who chose to angle for them.

Men of the world smiled as they read it, and thought Lord Chandos well
out of what might have been a very serious trouble. Young people thought
little about it; the Belgravian belles merely said one to another that
Lord Chandos had been in some kind of trouble, but that his parents had
extricated him. And then all comment ended; even the second day after
the judgment was given it had been forgotten.

When the Countess of Lanswell held in her hands the letter which told
her the desire of her heart was granted, and her son free, for a few
moments she was startled; her handsome face paled, her hands trembled;
it had been a desperate step, but she had won. She had the greatest
faith in her own resources; she felt a certain conviction that in the
end she would win; but for one moment she was half startled at her own
success.

"Let us send for Lance here to Cawdor," she said to the earl, "while Mr.
Sewell sees the girl and arranges with her. He must have _carte blanche_
over money matters; whatever he thinks fit to mention I shall agree to.
If a thousand a year contents her, I am willing."

"Yes, yes--it is no question of money," said the earl. "It will be a
great trouble to her naturally, and we are bound to make what
compensation we can. If you wish me to send for Lance I will do so at
once. I will send a telegram from the station at Dunmore; he will be
here soon after noon."

There had been little or no communication between the young heir and his
parents since the lawsuit began. Once or twice Lord Chandos and the earl
had met; but the earl always refused to discuss matters with him.

"You must talk to my lady, my dear boy," he would reply; "you know that
she manages everything;" and Lord Chandos, fearing no evil, laughed at
what he considered an amiable weakness on his father's part.

"I love my wife," he said to himself, "but no woman should ever be so
completely mistress of me. I shall always keep my independence, even
though I love my wife perhaps better than any man living; but I will
never give up my independence."

He was somewhat startled that morning in September to find a telegram
waiting him at River View, from Cawdor, stating that Lord Lanswell
wished him to take the first train, as he had news of the utmost
importance to him. Lady Lanswell, who was a most complete woman of the
world, had warily contrived that a piece of real good fortune should at
the same time fall to his lot. She had great influence at court, and she
had used it to some purpose. There was a royal wedding on the Continent,
and he was one of the two English noblemen chosen as the representatives
of English royalty. There could be no refusal of such an honor, Lady
Lanswell knew that; and she, knowing that Lord Chandos would be
delighted over it, had used all her influence, hoping that it would
distract his attention from the decision given and from his wife. She
had arranged a little programme in her mind--how it should all be
managed; she would send a telegram summoning him to Cawdor; she would
first show him the letter of appointment, induce him to answer by
accepting it, then when the letter accepting the appointment had gone,
and he was committed beyond recall, she would tell him the judicial
decision over his marriage.

The telegram reached River View one morning when Lord Chandos and Leone
sat at a late breakfast-table, Leone looking like a radiant spring
morning, her beautiful face, with its exquisite coloring, and her dainty
dress of amber and white.

"A telegram," she said. "Oh, Lance, how I dread the sight of those
yellow envelopes; they always fill me with horror; they always seem to
be the harbinger of bad news."

He kissed the beautiful face before he opened the telegram.

"There is no very bad news here," he said. "I must go to Cawdor at once;
my father has some very important news for me."

Some instinct seemed to warn her of coming danger; she rose from her
seat and went over to him; she laid her tender arms round his neck; she
laid her beautiful face on his.

"It means harm to us, Lance," she said; "I am sure of it."

"Nonsense, my darling," he cried; "how can it be about us? Most likely
there is a general election, or some business of that kind coming on,
and he wants to see me about it."

Still the beautiful face grew paler, and the shadows deepened in the
dark eyes.

"Shall you go at once?" she asked.

Lord Chandos looked at his watch.

"The train starts at twelve," he said. "I must go in half an hour's
time, Leone."

"Half an hour," she said, and the tender hands clasped him more tightly,
"only half an hour, Lance?"

Some prophetic instinct seemed to come over her; the passionate love on
her beautiful face deepened into tragedy; yet he had never breathed one
word to her of what had taken place. She knew nothing of the lawsuit;
and Lord Chandos never intended her to know anything about it; but with
the chill of that autumn morning came a chill of doubt and fear such as
she had never known before.

"How long shall you be away?" she asked.

"Not one moment longer than I am compelled to stay," he replied. "If my
father really wants to see me on election affairs I may be absent two
days; trust me, Leone; the first moment I am free I shall return;" and
drawing her beautiful face down to his own the young husband kissed it
with passionate devotion, little dreaming of what lay before him.

"Only half an hour," said Leone. "Oh, Lance, let me spend it with you. I
will order your portmanteau to be packed; my dear, do not let me leave
you for one moment."

She drew a little stool and sat down at his feet.

Lord Chandos laughed.

"One would think we were lovers still."

She looked at him with that wonderful expression of face, so earnest, so
intent, so lofty.

"So we are," she said; "we will be lovers until we die; shall we not,
Lance?"

"I hope so; but we shall be unlike most married people, Leone, if we do
that," he replied.

"I will not believe you," she answered. "You laugh, sometimes, Lance, at
love; but I am sure if I were your wife for fifty years you would never
tire of me or love me less."

"I never wish to do so," he replied.

"You never will," said Leone, "my faith is as strong as my love, and you
have it all. I could rather believe now that the heavens would fall over
my head than you could ever for one moment forget me."

"I shall never forget you, sweet," he said; "this is the first time we
have ever been parted since we have been married; you must not be sad
and lonely, Leone."

"I shall spend all my time in thinking of your return," she said.
"Lance, it will comfort me all the time you are away; you will say some
of those beautiful words I love to hear."

He took both her white hands in his.

"My darling," he said, "I love you with all my heart, and I will be true
to you until death."

The sweetness of the words seemed to content her for a time; she laid
her face on his hands for some minutes in wistful silence.

"Leone," said the rich, cheerful voice of the young earl, "I have an
idea that I will bring you good news from home. My father would not have
sent for me unless he wanted me, and I shall make a bargain with him. If
he wants me to do anything, I shall consent only on condition that I
take you to Cawdor."

They talked of it for some minutes; then Leone rose and busied herself
for some time in helping him--her face was pale and her hands trembled.
When the moment came for him to say good-bye he held her in his arms.

"Once again," she whispered.

And he answered:

"My darling wife, I love you, and will be true to you until death."

And those were the last words that for some time she heard him speak.




CHAPTER XV.

AN EXCITING INTERVIEW.


Lady Lanswell looked somewhat startled when her son entered the room.
During those few months of his married life he had altered much; he
looked taller and stronger; the handsome face was covered with a golden
beard and mustache; he looked quite three years older than before his
marriage.

He was a handsome stripling when his mother kissed him and sent him,
with many injunctions as to study, to Dr. Hervey's, a handsome
stripling, with golden down on his lip, and the hue of a ripe peach on
his face; now he was a man of the world, assured, confident, easy in his
carriage and bearing.

He looked at his mother with half-defiance, half-amusement in his eyes.

The strong, handsome woman, whose brave nature had never known fear,
trembled for one moment when she remembered what she had to tell her
son.

He bent down to kiss her, and for one moment her heart relented to her
son. She steeled herself with the recollection that what she had done
was for his benefit.

"I have good news for you, Lance," she said, with her stately grace;
"very excellent news."

"I am glad to hear it, mother," replied Lord Chandos, thinking to
himself how much more this interview resembled that of a queen and a
crown prince than of mother and son.

"You have traveled quickly and would probably like some refreshment--you
would like a glass of Madeira?"

The truth was that her ladyship herself, with all her courage, felt that
she required some artificial stimulant--the courage and pride of the
proudest woman in England ebbed; she feared what she had to say.

"An honor has been bestowed on you," she said, "one which would make any
peer in England proud."

His face brightened--he was keenly susceptible to the flattery implied
in his mother's words.

"You have been asked, together with Lord Dunferline, to represent our
gracious sovereign at the marriage of the Princess Caroline at
Hempsburg. Such an invitation, I need not tell you, is equivalent to a
royal command."

"I know it, mother, and I am delighted," he said, wondering in his own
mind if he should be able to take Leone with him.

"The notice is rather short," continued the countess; "but that is owing
to some delay on the part of Lord Dunferline. I hear that you are the
envy of every man at the club. You will have to leave England for
Germany in three days; to-morrow you must be at the palace. I
congratulate you, Lance; it is very seldom that a man so young as you
receives so signal a favor."

He knew it, and was proud accordingly; yet he said to himself that Leone
must go with him; he could not live without Leone.

Lady Lanswell continued:

"Your father is delighted over it; I cannot tell you how pleased he is."

Then Lord Chandos looked wonderingly around.

"Where is my father?" he said. "I have not seen him yet."

Lady Lanswell knew that he would not see him. The earl had fled
ignominiously; he had declined to be present at the grand fracas between
his wife and his son; he had left it all in my lady's hands.

"Your father had some business that took him away this morning; he knew
that I could say for him all that he had to say."

Lord Chandos smiled, and the smile was not, perhaps, the most respectful
in the world. My lady did not observe it.

"I am quite sure," he said, "that you can interpret all my father's
ideas."

It was then, with her son's handsome face smiling down on her, that the
countess grew pale and laid her hand, with instinctive fear, on the
papers spread before her. She nerved herself for the struggle; it would
never do to give way.

"I have other news for you, Lance," she said, and he looked with clear,
bright, defiant eyes in her face.

She drew herself to her full height, as though the very attitude gave
the greatest strength; there was no bend, no yielding in her. Stern,
erect, proud, she looked full in her son's face; it was as though they
were measuring their strength one against the other.

"I have never said to you, Lance, what I thought of this wretched
mistake you call your marriage," she began; "my contempt and indignation
were too great that you should dare to give the grand old name you bear
to a dairy-maid."

Leone's beautiful Spanish face flashed before him, and he laughed at the
word dairy-maid; she was peerless as a queen.

"Dare is not the word to use to a man, mother," he retorted.

"Nor should I use it to a man," said my lady, with a satirical smile. "I
am not speaking to a man, but to a hot-headed boy; a man has
self-control, self-denial, self-restraint, you have none; a man weighs
the honor of his name or his race in his hands; a man hesitates before
he degrades a name that kings have delighted to honor, before he ruins
hopelessly the prestige of a grand old race for the sake of a
dairy-maid. You, a hot-headed, foolish boy, have done all this;
therefore, I repeat that I am not speaking to a man."

"You use strong language, mother," he said.

"I feel strongly; my contempt is strong," she said. "I know not why so
great a humiliation should have fallen on me as that my son--the son of
whom I was proud--should be the first to bring shame on his name."

"I have brought no shame on it, mother," he said, angrily.

"No shame!" said the countess, bitterly. "I can read, fancy, the short
annals of the Lanswells--'Hubert, Earl Lanswell, died while fighting
loyally for his king and his country; Ross, Earl Lanswell, was famed for
political services; Lancelot, Earl Lanswell, married a dairy-maid.' I
would rather," she cried, with flashing eyes, "that you had died in your
childhood, than lived to bring such bitter shame on a loyal race."

His face grew pale with anger, as the bitter words were hurled at him.

"Will you understand, once for all, mother, that I have _not_ married a
dairy-maid?" he cried. "My wife is a wonder of beauty; she is dainty and
lovely as a princess. Only see her, you would change your opinion at
once."

"I hope never to do that. As for seeing her, I shall never so far lose
my own self-respect as to allow such a person to speak to me."

Lord Chandos shook his head with a rueful smile.

"If you had ever seen Leone, mother, you would laugh at the idea of
calling her a person," he said.

Lady Lanswell moved her hand with a gesture of superb pride.

"Nay, do not continue the subject. If the girl was not actually a
dairy-maid, in all probability she was not far removed from it. I have
no wish to discuss the question. You have stained the hitherto stainless
name of your family by the wretched mistake you call a marriage."

"I do not _call_ it a marriage; it _is_ one," he said.

And then my lady's face grew even paler.

"It is not one. I thank Heaven that the law of the land is just and
good; that it very properly refuses to recognize the so-called marriage
of a hot-headed boy. You have ignored our letters on the subject, you
have laughed at all threats, treated with disdain all advice; now you
will find your level. The judicial decree has been pronounced; the
marriage you have talked of with such bravado is no marriage; the woman
you have insulted me by mentioning is not your wife."

She neither trembled nor faltered when he turned to her with a white,
set face.

"Pardon me; I must speak plainly; that which you have said is a lie!"

"You forget yourself, Lord Chandos," she said, with cold dignity.

"You force me to use words I do not like, mother," he cried "Why do you
irritate me--why say those things?"

"They are perfectly true; here on the table lie the papers relative to
the suit; the judicial opinion has been pronounced; our petition is
granted, and your marriage, as you choose to call it, is set aside, is
pronounced illegal, null, void!"

The fierce, white anger of his face startled her.

"It shall not be!" he cried.

"It must be," she repeated; "you cannot prevent it. You must have been
singularly devoid of penetration and knowledge not to know from the
first that it must be decided against you; that no minor can marry
without the consent of his parents. A wise law it is, too; there would
soon be an end of the aristocracy of England if every hot-headed,
foolish boy of nineteen could marry without the consent of his parents
or guardian."

If his antagonist had been a man, there would have been hot, angry
words, perhaps blows; as it was, to a lady, and that lady his mother, he
could say nothing. He sunk back with a white face and clinched hands;
his mother resolutely stifled all pity, and went on, in her clear voice:

"The law has decided for us against you; you know now the truth. If you
have any respect for that unfortunate girl, you will not see her again;
she is not your wife, she is not married to you. I need not speak more
plainly; you know what relationship she will hold to you if you do not
leave her at once."

The handsome face had in these five minutes grown quite haggard and
worn.

"My God!" he cried; "I refuse to believe it, I refuse to believe one
word of it!"

With her clear, pitiless voice, she went on telling him what would
happen.

"You have one resource," she said, "and I tell you quite honestly about
it; when you are of age you can remarry this person if you wish."

He sprung from his seat with a cry of wounded pain and love.

"Mother, is it really true?" he asked. "I married that young girl before
Heaven, and you tell me that if I persist in returning to her she loses
her fair name! If it be so, you have done a very cruel thing."

"It is so," said my lady, coldly. "I grant that it seems cruel, but
better that than tarnish the name of a whole race."

"I shall remarry Leone, mother, the day after I am twenty-one," he said.

The countess raised her eyebrows.

"The same man does not often make a simpleton of himself in the same
fashion, but if you will do it, you will. For the present, if you have
any regard for the person who is not your wife, you will let her go home
again. I will return and talk over your journey with you."

So saying, the Countess of Lanswell quitted the room, leaving her son
overwhelmed with a sense of defeat.




CHAPTER XVI.

LEONE'S DETERMINATION.


Lucia, Countess of Lanswell, stood alone in the superb drawing-room at
Cawdor. It was evening, one of the warmest and brightest in September.
Nearly three months had passed since the fatal marriage which had
grieved and distressed her, and now she fondly hoped all her distress
was ended. The decree had gone forth that the marriage was null and
void; was, in fact, no marriage, Lord Chandos being under age when it
was contracted. She said to herself all was null now. True, her son was
in a most furious rage, and he had gone to consult half the lawyers in
London, but she did not care for that; he was sure to rage and rave; he
was a spoiled child, who never in his life had been contradicted or
thwarted. The more angry he was the better; she knew by experience the
hotter the fire the more quickly it burns away. Had he been cool, calm,
collected and silent she would have dreaded the after consequences.

"He will exhaust himself with furious words," she said to herself with a
slow smile. "When he has done that, all danger will be over."

She had smiled when she heard of his rapid journeys, his fierce
denunciations, his violent invectives, his repeated oaths that no power
on earth should take him from his young wife.

She had smiled when the earl, whose conscience was more tender than her
own, had said over and over again that it was a terrible thing to set
aside a marriage, to call a religious ceremony null and void. He would
not have done it himself, but my lady had firm nerves, and a will of
iron; nothing daunted her. She laughed at his persuasions and arguments.
She told him the day would come on which he would thank Heaven that the
honor of his name and race had been saved from destruction. My lady was
triumphant. Knowing her son was spending his whole time in these
journeys, she had requested Mr. Sewell himself to go to the pretty
little villa at Richmond, to see the young wife himself, and tell her
the truth about the marriage; to speak what she was pleased to call
plain English to her; to tell her that in the eyes of the law and of all
honest, honorable men she was not his wife; that every hour she called
herself by his name, or lived under his roof, added to her disgrace and
increased her shame.

"You can tell her," said my lady, with ill-concealed contempt, "that
next June he will be twenty-one, and then he can please himself; he can
remarry her if he will; no one then will have the least control over
him; he will be his own master and can do as he likes. In all
probability," she continued, "the girl will please herself with fanciful
ideas about his being true to her; do not contradict her if she believes
it--she will part from him more easily; but, believe me, my son will
never return to her--never!"

Mr. Sewell had tried in vain to escape the interview; he was neither
particularly tender of heart nor given to sentiment, but he shrunk from
seeing the young girl who called herself Lady Chandos; he shrunk from
telling her the truth; but my lady was inexorable; he must do it, and no
one else.

He did it, but until the day of his death he never forgot it; he could
not bear to think of it, and he never mentioned it. Until the day of his
death he was haunted by a beautiful, passionate face, white with
terrible despair.

He was compelled to speak in what my lady called plain English, or she
would never have understood him. She could not understand in the least
why the fact of Lord Chandos being under twenty-one should make her
marriage null and void; illegal, because contracted without his parents'
consent. She had turned to him with flashing eyes.

"Are the laws of England all framed for the convenience of the rich?"
she asked.

And, proud as he was of his legal knowledge, the lawyer had hesitated
before the fire of her question.

She understood at last--she saw what Mr. Sewell called the justice of
the case--the reasons why such a law was needful, and she knew that she
was not the lawful wife of Lancelot, Lord Chandos. She looked into the
stern face of her companion with eyes filled with awful despair.

"He did not know it," she said; "only tell me that, and I shall be
happier. He did not know it?"

"No," said Mr. Sewell; "I am quite sure that Lord Chandos was ignorant
of the fact--it never occurred to him; if it had done so, he would have
deferred his marriage until he came of age."

"I shall take some comfort in that," she said, slowly. "If he has erred,
it has been done in ignorance and innocence. You say that the wrong can
be righted next June; that he can marry me then without the consent of
either of his parents."

"Certainly he can," replied the lawyer.

Something of the shock of despair passed from her face as he uttered
these words. She folded her arms over her breast with the repressed
passion of a tragedy queen.

"Then I have no fear," she said. "Were the time twice as long, the
cruelty twice as great, the law twice as strong, he would return to me
true and faithful, as he loves me. You can tell his mother that."

"I will," said Mr. Sewell, relieved to see some of the horror fall from
her face.

She would not discuss her future arrangements with him. Lady Lanswell
was anxious that she should take a large sum of money and return home.
She looked at him with the dignity of an outraged queen.

"Before Heaven, and in my own eyes, Lord Chandos is my husband," she
said, with calm dignity; "and with him only will I discuss my future.
You can tell his mother that also. No other creature living shall
interfere with my fate or destiny."

She tried hard--and she was a woman of wonderful resource--she tried
hard to keep her dignity, not to fail or falter before him, the cold
emissary of that cruel mother; but unutterable woe looked out of her
eyes at him, her white face had on it the passion of despair, her voice
the ring of anguish, the small white hands on which the wedding-ring
shone, trembled like leaves stirred in the summer wind; the very
repression of her passionate despair made it seem more terrible. He
clearly explained to her her position at last, she must consent to an
immediate separation from Lord Chandos; she must give up his name, leave
the shelter of his roof, or men and women, too, would brand her with the
scarlet letter--would look on her as one lost and dead to all sense of
honor.

"You will see for yourself," added the lawyer, "that the wisest and best
plan is for you to go away at once--this very day even--then you will
stand a better chance when next June comes. Even one more day spent
under this roof would be fatal to your character and reputation. You
must go at once."

Once more she raised her despairing eyes to him. Her voice trembled as
though it were all tears.

"Tell me," she said, gently, "has this been done by Lady Lanswell's
desire more than by the earl's?"

"Yes, I believe it is so," he said.

Leone continued:

"If the countess relented now, and gave her consent, could we be legally
married at once?"

"If the earl and countess consent you could be remarried to-day. Nothing
is wanted but their permission."

"Thank you," she said, gently. Then with pathos and dignity that touched
him greatly she held out her hand to him. "I do not blame you for the
message you have brought," she said; "the fault lies with Lady Lanswell
and the English law, not with you. You have fulfilled your mission as
kindly as you could. I forgive you what you have done and what you have
said."

The white lips closed firmly, no other sound came from them, but Mr.
Sewell looked back as he closed the door, and she lay then with her face
on the floor. He did not go to her; he thought it was better to leave
her alone. He said to himself, as he quitted the house, that not for all
the wealth of the Lanswells would he pass through another such scene.

The hour came in which she raised her face once again to the sunlight,
and tried to realize what had happened. She had risen that morning the
happiest girl in all England, her only anxiety being to make herself
more beautiful than ever in her husband's eyes. The morning itself was
not more fresh and fair; everything had been _couleur de rose_.

Her husband, as she believed him, thought so little of the quarrel with
his parents that she had imbibed his careless, happy ideas about it.
There was no cloud in her sky, no doubt in her heart; now her heart was
full of despair. She looked at the blue September sky, and asked herself
if it were possible to realize what had happened. She was dazed,
stunned, as though some one had struck her a violent blow. She went out
of the pretty drawing-room where she had heard what seemed to her her
death-warrant. She opened her white lips to breathe the pure, fresh air
of heaven.

As she stood there panting for breath, one of the servants came to her,
holding a letter in her hand. Leone opened it. The few hastily-written
lines were from her husband. They said, simply:

     "MY DARLING,--I shall not be able to return home to-day. I have
     some disagreeable business in town, of which I will tell you more
     anon. I shall be at home for luncheon to-morrow. Believe me, always
     your loving husband,

     "LANCE."

She looked at the word "husband" until the letters seemed to burn like
fire. He had signed himself her husband. Ah, then, it was quite plain
that he neither believed, or, perhaps, had not even heard, of what had
been done. As she stood there with the fading boughs of a spreading tree
over her head, the words came to her again and again:

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

She seemed once more to hear the falling of the waters. Would the vows
made to her ever be broken? Ah, no! a thousand times no!

She would go to his mother and appeal to her. A woman must, of course,
be merciful to a woman. She would go herself and appeal to Lucia,
Countess of Lanswell.




CHAPTER XVII.

"I WOULD RATHER SEE MY SON DEAD."


The countess stood alone in the drawing-room. The sun was setting over
the trees in the park, and a warm glow filled the beautiful room with
rosy light--a light that fell on costly pictures, on marble statues, on
buhl and jasper, on silver and gold, on mirrors and flowers, whose
fragrance was delicious even to breathe, but it fell on my lady's proud
face and figure as though it liked best to linger there.

The dressing-bell had not rung, and she, waiting for it, had fallen into
a reverie. She was sure she had done right, yet, without doubt, the girl
would feel it keenly. What matter? "Women must weep," it was part of
their lives. Whoever paused or cared for a woman's tears? Women had wept
before and would weep again. She looked round on the superb home where
she reigned mistress, and laughed with scorn as she tried to picture the
farmer's niece queen of these ancient walls.

Right? Most certainly she had done right; let weak minds and weak hearts
think as they would. The golden sunset, the rosy clouds, the soft, sweet
song of the birds, the fragrance of the thousand blooming flowers, the
faint whisper of the odorous wind appealed to her in vain. What was a
bleeding heart and weeping eyes to her?

Yet she was but a woman; and these sweet voices of nature could not
leave her quite unsoftened. She wondered where Lance was. She remembered
him a fair-haired, laughing, defiant boy, playing there under the trees
when the red light fell. She started suddenly when one of her
well-trained footmen opened the door, and said a lady wished to see her.
The countess looked at him in haughty vexation.

"Why do you bring a message so vague? I see no lady who gives neither
card nor name."

"I beg pardon, my lady," said the man, humbly. "I did not forget. The
lady herself said you did not know her, but that her business was most
important."

"You must say that I decline to see any one who gives neither name nor
card," said the countess. Then, seeing the man look both anxious and
undecided, she added, sharply: "Is it a lady?"

He looked greatly relieved.

"It is, my lady. She is young and beautiful," he would have added, if he
had dared.

"You would surely be able to discriminate between a lady and--a person
of any other description?" said the countess.

The man bowed.

"The lady wishes me to add that her business was of great importance,
and that she had traveled some distance to see you."

"Show her in here," said the countess.

The red light of the setting sun had moved then, and fell over her in
great gleams on her dark velvet dress, on her exquisite point lace, and
fine, costly gems. She looked regally proud, haughty, and unbending--the
type of an English aristocratic matron, true to her class, true to her
order, intolerant of any other. As she stood in the heart of the rosy
light the door opened, and this time the countess of Lanswell was
startled out of her calm. There entered the most beautiful girl she had
ever beheld--tall, slender, graceful, exquisitely dressed, moving with
the most perfect grace and harmony; her face like some grand, passionate
poem--a girl lovely as a houri, who walked up to her with serene and
queenly calm, saying:

"Lady Lanswell, I am your son's wife."

The countess, taken so entirely by surprise, looked long and keenly into
that beautiful face--looked at the clear, bright eyes, so full of fire
and passion--at the lovely, imperial mouth, and the whole face so full
of tragedy and beauty; then in a clear, distinct voice, she answered:

"My son has no wife."

Leone drew the glove from her left hand, holding it before my lady's
eyes.

"Will you look at my wedding-ring?" she asked.

A scornful smile played round my lady's lips.

"I see a ring," she said, "but not a wedding-ring. There can be no
wedding-ring where there is no marriage."

"Do you believe that marriages are known in Heaven?" Leone asked. "Do
you believe that if a marriage had been contracted in the presence of
Heaven, witnessed by the angels, do you suppose that a mere legal
quibble can set it aside?"

"You choose your arguments badly," said the countess. "If you appeal to
Heaven, so can I. One of the greatest commandments given from there
says, 'Children, obey your parents.' My son is commanded by a divine
voice to obey me, and I forbid him to marry until he is of age."

"You have not the power!" cried Leone.

"You are mistaken; not only the power is mine, but I have used it. The
foolish ceremony you choose to call your marriage is already set aside."

Leone drew one step nearer to her with flashing eyes.

"You know that in your heart you cannot believe it. You cannot think
it," she cried. "You know that I am your son's wife. You have brought
the great strong arm of the law upon me. You have taken from me my
husband's name. Yet neither you, nor any human power can make me less
his wife. He married me," she continued, her eyes flashing, her face
flushing, "he married me before God, and I say that you cannot undo that
marriage. I defy you."

"True, I could not undo it, but the law both can and has done so.
Half-educated young ladies, who wish to make such grand marriages,
should have common sense first. No youth under age, like my son, can
legally marry without the consent of his parents."

The flush faded from the beautiful face, and gave place to a white
horror. Leone looked at the countess.

"You do not surely think that I married your son for any other reason
except that I loved him?" she cried.

"Pray, believe that I have never troubled myself in the least to think
of your motive," said my lady.

"I loved him, Lady Lanswell, you could never know how much. You are
proud and haughty; you love a hundred things. I loved but him. I love
him with my whole heart and soul. If he had been a peasant, instead of
an earl, being what he is, I should have loved him just the same."

Lady Lanswell's face darkened with scorn.

"I am willing to listen to anything you may wish to say, but I beg of
you leave all such nonsense as love out of the discussion. You have
probably come to see me because you want money. Let us come to the point
at once."

The pride that flushed the beautiful face of the girl startled the
haughty patrician who stood before her.

"Money," cried Leone, "I have never thought of money. I do not
understand. Why should I want money from you?"

To do her justice, the countess shrunk from the words.

"I should suppose," she said, "that you will require some provision made
for you, now that you are leaving my son?"

It was with difficulty that Leone controlled herself. Her whole frame
trembled with indignation. Then the color receded from her face and left
her white, silent, and motionless.

"I have been too hard," thought the countess, "no one can suffer beyond
her strength."

She motioned the girl to take a chair, sitting down herself for the
first time since the interview began. There was no feeling of pity in
her heart, but she felt there were certain things to be said, and the
best way would be to say them and have it all over.

Leone did not obey. She stood silent for a few minutes. Then she said,
simply:

"I would never take money from you, Lady Lanswell, not even if I were
dying of hunger. You do not like me; you are cruel to me."

Lady Lanswell interrupted her with a superb gesture of scorn.

"I could not possibly like or dislike you," she said; "you are less than
nothing to me. It was natural that I should think you came to me for
money. If that be not your object, may I ask what it is?"

"Yes; I will tell you. I thought, as you were a woman, I might appeal to
you."

My lady smiled haughtily.

"You are the first that has ever ventured to address me as a woman. What
appeal do you want to make to me?"

The passion of despair seemed to die away from her. A great calm came
over her. She went up to Lady Lanswell, and knelt at her feet. The
countess would have given much for the power of moving away, but there
was that in the beautiful, colorless face raised to hers which compelled
her to listen.

"I humble myself to you," pleaded the sweet voice. "I pray of you, who
are so great, so powerful, so mighty, to have pity upon your son and
upon me. One word from you will go so far; you can undo all that has
been done. If you will give your consent all will be well."

Lady Lanswell looked at her in silent wonder. Leone went on:

"I plead to you. I pray to you, because I love him so. In my heart I am
as proud as you, may be prouder; but I lay my pride under my feet, I
humble myself. I pray of you to take pity upon your son, and on myself.
I love him so well, he loves me too. Life would hold nothing for either
of us if we are parted. For the sake of all the love you have ever felt
for husband, father, brother, son--for God's sake, I pray you to take
pity on us, and do not separate us."

The passionate torrent of words stopped for one minute; tears streamed
down the beautiful upraised face; then she went on:

"I would do all that you wished me; I would try hard to improve myself;
I would work so hard and work so well that no one would even guess, ever
so faintly, that I belonged to a different class. I would be the most
devoted of daughters to you; I would live only to please you, I----"

The countess held up her hand with a warning gesture.

"Hush!" she said; "you are talking the most arrant nonsense."

But Leone this time would not be controlled. All the passion and love
within her seemed to find vent in the next few words. They might have
burned the lips which uttered them, but they fell unheeded on the ears
of the proudest woman in England.

"Hush," she said again. "Neither pleading nor prayers will avail with
me. I speak the simple truth when I say that I would rather see my son
dead than see you his wife."




CHAPTER XVIII.

A WRONGED WOMAN'S THREAT.


For some five minutes there was silence, and the two who were to be
mortal enemies looked at each other. Leone knew then that all prayers,
all pleadings were in vain; that they were worse than useless; but in
the heart of the foe there was no relenting, no pity, nothing but scorn
and hate. She had poured out the whole of her soul in that supplication
for pity, and now she knew that she had humbled herself in vain; the
mother's cruel words smote her with a pain like that of a sharp sword.
She was silent until the first smart of that pain was over, then she
said, gently:

"Why do you say anything so cruel?--why do you hate me?"

"Hate you?" replied my lady, "how can you be so mistaken? It is not you
I hate, but your class--the class to which you belong--although the word
hate is much too strong. I simply hold them in sovereign contempt."

"I cannot help my class," she said, briefly.

"Certainly not; but it is my place to see that my son takes no wife from
it. To you, yourself, I can have no dislike; personally I rather like
you; you have a pleasant face, and I should take you to be clever. But
you have not even one of the qualifications needful--absolutely
necessary for the lady whom my son calls wife."

"Yet he chose me," she said, simply.

"You have a nice face, and my son has fancied it," said the countess
contemptuously. "You ought to be grateful to me for separating you from
my son now. I am doing for him the kindest thing that any one could do.
I know Lord Chandos better than any one else, and I know that he tires
of everything in a short time. He would have wearied of you by
Christmas, and would have loathed the chains he had forged for himself.
When he was a child he tired of a new toy in half an hour--his
disposition has not changed."

"I cannot believe it," cried Leone. "I will not believe it, great lady
as you are. You are wicked to malign your own son."

"I do not malign him," said the countess, indifferently. "Many gentlemen
think it quite complimentary to be called changeable. My son has always
been known as one of the most variable of men; nothing pleases him long;
it is seldom that anything pleases him twice. You think he will always
love you; let me ask you why? You have a pretty face, granted; but there
is nothing under the sun of which a man tires sooner. You have nothing
else; you have no education, no accomplishments, no good birth; I should
say no good breeding, no position, rank, or influence. If I may speak my
mind plainly, I should say that it was a most impertinent presumption
for you, a farmer's niece, even to dream of being Lady Chandos--a
presumption that should be punished, and must be checked. You would,
without doubt, make an excellent dairy-maid, even a tolerable
housekeeper, but a countess never. The bare idea is intolerable."

She grew more angry as she spoke; for the girl's grace and beauty, the
wonderful sweetness of her voice, the passion, the power, the loveliness
of her face, began to tell upon her; she could not help owning to
herself that she had seen nothing so marvelous as this wonderful girl.

"Then," said Leone, calmly, "I have appealed to you in vain?"

"Quite in vain," replied my lady. "Remember that against you personally
I have nothing to say, neither have I any dislike; but if you have
common sense, you will see that it is utterly impossible for my son to
take the future Countess of Lanswell from a farmhouse. Now try and act
rationally--go away at once, leave my son, and I will see that you have
plenty to live upon."

"Whatever may be said of the class from which I spring," cried Leone, "I
believe in the sanctity of marriage, and I would scorn to barter my love
for anything on earth."

"Yes, that is all very pretty and very high-flown," said the countess,
with a contemptuous laugh; "but you will find a few thousand pounds a
very comfortable matter in a few years' time."

"You said you would rather see your son dead than married to me, Lady
Lanswell; I repeat that I would rather die of hunger than touch money of
yours. I did not know or believe that on the face of God's earth there
was ever a creature so utterly hard, cold and cruel as you."

The light of the setting sun had somewhat faded then, and it moved from
the proud figure of the countess to the lovely young face of Leone, but
even as the light warmed it, new pride, new energy, new passion seemed
to fill it. The prayer and the pleading died--the softened light, the
sweet tenderness left it; it was no longer the face of a loving,
tender-hearted girl, pleading with hot tears that she might not be taken
from her husband--it was the face of a tragedy queen, full of fire and
passion. She stood, with one hand upraised, like a sibyl inspired.

"I have done, Lady Lanswell," she said; "you tell me that Lord Chandos
is free to marry as he will when he is twenty-one."

"If you can find any comfort in that statement, I can verify it," she
replied; "but surely you are not mad enough to think that, when my son
is of age, he will return to you."

"I am sure of it," said Leone. "I believe in my husband's love, and my
husband's constancy, as I believe in Heaven."

"I hope your faith in Heaven will be more useful to you," sneered the
countess. "I have womanly pity enough to warn you not to let your hopes
rest on this. I prophesy that Lord Chandos will have utterly forgotten
you by next June, and that he does not see you again."

"I will not believe it, Lady Lanswell. You are my superior by birth and
fortune, but I would neither exchange mind nor heart with you. You have
sordid and mean ideas. My husband will be true, and seek me when the
time comes."

My lady laughed.

"You are very happy to have such faith in him; I have not half so much
in any creature living. You hold that one card in your hand--you seem to
think it a winning one; it may or may not be. I tell you one thing
frankly: that I have already settled in my own mind who shall be my
son's wife, and I seldom fail in a purpose."

"You are a wicked woman," cried Leone. "I have no fear of you. You may
try all that you will. I do not believe that you will take my husband
from me. You are a wicked woman, and God will punish you, Lady Lanswell.
You have parted husband and wife who loved each other."

"I am not very frightened," laughed my lady. "I consider that I have
been a kind of providence to my son. I have saved him from the effect of
his own folly. Will you allow me to say now that, having exhausted a
very disagreeable subject, this interview must be considered closed! If
you would like any refreshments my housekeeper will be pleased to----"

But the girl drew back with an imperial gesture of scorn.

"I want nothing," she said. "I have a few words to say to you in
parting. I repeat that you are a wicked woman, Lady Lanswell, and that
God will punish you for the wicked deed you have done. I say more,
whether Heaven punishes you or not, _I will_. You have trampled me under
your feet; you have insulted, outraged, tortured me. Listen to the
word--you have tortured me; you have received me with scorn and
contumely; you have laughed at my tears; enjoyed my prayers and
humiliation. I swear that I will be revenged, even should I lose all on
earth to win that revenge. I swear that you shall come and plead to me
on your knees, and I will laugh at you. You shall plead to me with
tears, and I will remind you how I have pleaded in vain. You have wrung
my heart, I will wring yours. My revenge shall be greater than your
cruelty; think, then, how great it will be."

"I repeat that I am not frightened," said the countess, but she shrunk
from the fire of those splendid eyes.

"I was mad to think I should find a woman's heart in you. When the hour
of my revenge comes, my great grief will be that I have a heart of
marble to deal with!" cried Leone.

"You cannot have such great affection for your husband, if you speak to
his mother in this fashion," said the countess, mockingly.

The girl stretched out her white arms with a despairing cry.

"Give me back my husband, and I recall my threats."

Then, seeing that mocking smile on that proud face, her arms fell with a
low sigh.

"I am mad," she said, in a low voice, "to plead to you--quite mad!"

"Most decidedly," said the countess. "It appears to me there is more
truth in that one observation than in any other you have made this
evening. As I am not particularly inclined to the society of mad men or
mad women, you will excuse me if I withdraw."

Without another word, my lady touched the bell. To the servant who
entered she said:

"Will you show this person out as far as the park gates, please?"

And, without another look at Leone, she quitted the room.

Leone followed in silence. She did not even look around the sumptuous
home one day she believed to be hers; she went to the great gates which
the man-servant held open as she passed through. The sun had set, and
the gray, sweet gloaming lay over the land. There was a sound of falling
water, and Leone made her way to it. It was a cascade that fell from a
small, but steep rock. The sound of the rippling water was to her like
the voice of an old friend, the sight of it like the face of some one
whom she loved. She sat down by it, and it sung to her the same sweet
old song:

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

It would not be so with her, ah no! If ever the needle was true to the
pole, the flowers to the sun, the tides to the moon, the stars to the
heavens, Lord Chandos would be true to her.

So she believed, and, despite her sorrow, her heart found rest in the
belief.




CHAPTER XIX.

LEONE'S PROPHECY.


No words could do justice to the state of mind in which Lord Chandos
found himself after that interview at Cawdor. He rushed back to London.
Of the three previous days remaining he spent one in hunting after the
shrewdest lawyers in town. Each and all laughed at him--there was the
law, plain enough, so plain that a child could read and understand it.
They smiled at his words, and said, half-contemptuously, they could not
have imagined any one so ignorant of the law. They sympathized with him
when he spoke of his young wife, but as for help, there was none.

The only bright side to it was this, he could remarry her on the day he
came of age. Of that there was and could be no doubt, he said, but he
was bent on finding some loop-hole, and marrying her at once, if it were
really needful for the ceremony to be performed again. It could not be,
and there was nothing for it but to resign himself to the inevitable. He
did not know that Leone had heard the terrible sentence, and he dreaded
having to tell her. He was worn out with sorrow and emotion. In what
words was he to tell her that she was not his wife in the eyes of the
law, and that if they wished to preserve her character unspotted and
unstained she must leave him at once?

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 any

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