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 nomesalliancein 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."
"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 greatestprima donnaof 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.
"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."
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 havecarte blancheover 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.
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 havenotmarried 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 notcallit a marriage; itisone," 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.
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 beencouleur 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."
"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: