"While roses are so red,While lilies are so white,Shall a woman exalt her faceBecause it gives delight?She's not so sweet as a rose,A lily is straighter than she,And if she were as red or white,She'd be but one of three."Whether she flush in love's summer,Or in its winter grow pale,Whether she flaunt her beauty,Or hide it in a veil;Be she red or white,And stand she erect or bowed,Time will win the race he runs with her,And hide her away in a shroud."
"While roses are so red,While lilies are so white,Shall a woman exalt her faceBecause it gives delight?She's not so sweet as a rose,A lily is straighter than she,And if she were as red or white,She'd be but one of three.
"Whether she flush in love's summer,Or in its winter grow pale,Whether she flaunt her beauty,Or hide it in a veil;Be she red or white,And stand she erect or bowed,Time will win the race he runs with her,And hide her away in a shroud."
"Those words took my fancy, Lord Chandos," continued Leone; "they are so true, so terribly true. All grace and beauty will be hidden away some day in a shroud."
"There will be no shroud for the soul," he said.
She rose from her seat and looked round with a weary sigh.
"That is true. After all, nothing matters, death ends everything; nothing matters except being good and going to heaven."
He smiled half sadly at her.
"Those are grave thoughts for the most brilliant beauty, the most gifted singer, the most popular queen of the day," he said.
"The brilliant beauty will be a mere handful of dust and ashes some day," she said.
Then Lord Chandos rose from his seat with a shudder.
"Let us go out into the sunlight," he said; "the shade under the old cedar makes you dull. How you have changed! I can remember when you never had a dull thought."
"I can remember when I had no cause for dull thoughts," she answered. Then, fancying that the words implied some little reproach to him, she continued, hastily: "My soul has grown larger, and the larger one's soul the more one suffers. I have understood more of human nature since I have tried to represent the woes of others."
He glanced at her with sudden interest.
"Which, of all the characters you represent, do you prefer?" he asked.
"I can hardly tell you. I like Norma very much—the stately, proud, loving woman, who has struggled so much with her pride, with her sense of duty, with her sacred character, who fought human love inch by inch, who yielded at last; who made the greatest sacrifice a woman could make, who risked her life and dearer than her life for her love. All the passion and power in my nature rises to that character."
"That is easily seen," he replied. "There have been many Normas, but none like you."
Her face brightened; it was so sweet to be praised by him!
"And then," she continued, "the grand tragedy of passion and despair, the noble, queenly woman who has sacrificed everything to the man she loves finds that she has a rival—a young, beautiful, beloved rival." She clasped her hands with the manner of a queen. "My whole soul rises to that," she continued; "I understand it—the passion, the anguish, the despair!"
His dark eyes, full of admiration, were riveted on her.
"Who would have thought," he said, gravely, "that you had such a marvel of genius in you?"
"You are very good to call it genius," she said. "I always knew I had something in me that was not to be described or understood—something that made me different from other people; but I never knew what it was. Do you know those two lines:
"'The poets learn in sufferingWhat they tell in song.'
"'The poets learn in sufferingWhat they tell in song.'
"I think the passion of anguish and pain taught me to interpret the pains and joys of others. There is another opera I love—'L'Etoile du Nord.' The grave, tender, grand character of Catherine, with her passionate love, her despair, and her madness, holds me in thrall. There is no love without madness."
A deep sigh from her companion aroused her, and she remembered that she was on dangerous ground; still the subject had a great charm for her.
"If I ever wrote an opera," she said, "I should have jealousy for my ground-work."
"Why?" he asked, briefly.
"Because," she replied, "it is the strongest of all passions."
"Stronger than love?" he asked.
"I shall always think they go together," said Leone. "I know that philosophers call jealousy the passion of ignoble minds; I am not so sure of it. It goes, I think, with all great love, but not with calm, well-controlled affection. I should make it the subject of my opera, because it is so strong, so deep, so bitter; it transforms one, it changes angels into demons. We will not talk about it." She drew a little jeweled watch from her pocket. "Lord Chandos," she said, "we have been talking two hours, and you must not stay any longer."
When he was gone she said to herself that she would not ask him any more questions about Lady Marion.
Madame de Chandalle gave a grandsoiree, and she said to herself that it should be one of the greatest successes of the season. Three women were especially popular and sought after: Madame Vanira, whose beauty and genius made her queen of society; Lady Chandos, whose fair, tranquil loveliness was to men like the light of the fair moon, and Miss Bygrave, the most brilliant of brunettes—the most proud and exclusive of ladies.
Madame de Chandalle thought if she could but insure the presence of all three at once, hersoireewould be the success of the season. She went in person to invite the great singer herself, a compliment she seldom paid to any one, and Leone at first refused. Madame de Chandalle looked imploringly at her.
"What can I offer as an inducement? The loveliest woman in London, Lady Chandos, will be there. That will not tempt you, I am afraid."
She little knew how much.
As Leone heard the words, her heart beat wildly. Lady Chandos, the fair woman who was her rival. She had longed to see her, and here was a chance. She dreaded, yet desired to look at her, to see what the woman was like whom Lance had forsaken her for. The longing tempted her.
"Your desire to welcome me," she said, gracefully, "is the greatest inducement you can offer me."
And Madame de Chandalle smiled at her victory.
Madame de Chandalle was the widow of an eminent French general. She preferred London to Paris. She was mistress of a large fortune, and gave the best entertainments of the season.
She knew that the beautiful singer accepted but few of the many invitations sent to her. Last week she had declined the invitations of a duchess and the wife of an American millionaire. She was doubly delighted that her own was accepted. The same was for Tuesday evening. On that evening Leone was free, and she had some idea that madame had chosen it purposely.
At last she was to see Lance's wife, the woman whom the laws of man, of society, and the world had placed in her place, given her position, her name, her love—the woman whom a mere legal quibble had put in her place.
The hours seemed long until Tuesday evening came. It struck her that if Lady Chandos were there Lord Chandos would be there too; he would see her at last in the regal position her own genius had won for herself; a position that seemed to her a thousand times grander than the one derived from the mere accident of birth. He would see then the world's estimation of the woman he had forsaken. She was pleased, yet half frightened, to know that at last she and her rival would meet face to face.
She had so noble a soul that vanity was not among her faults, but on this evening she was more than usually particular. Never had the matchless beauty of the great actress shown to greater advantage. She wore a dress of faint cream-colored brocade, half hidden in fine, costly lace, in the beautiful waves of her hair a large, cream-colored rose nestled, and with that she wore a set of diamonds a princess might have envied. The superb beauty, the half stately, half-languid grace, the southern eyes, the full, sweet lips, the wondrous beauty of her white neck and arms, the inexpressible charm of her attitudes, the play of her superb features—all made her marvelous to look upon. A dainty, delicate perfume came from the folds of her dress. She had a richly jeweled fan, made from the delicate amber plumage of some rare tropical bird; the radiance and light of her beauty would have made a whole room bright. She reached Madame de Chandalle's rather late. She gave one hasty glance round the superb reception-room as she passed to where madame was receiving her guests, but the dark, handsome head and face of Lord Chandos were nowhere to be seen.
Madame overwhelmed her with civilities, and Leone soon found herself the center of an admiring crowd. The assembly was a most brilliant one; there were princes of the blood, royal dukes, marshals of France, peers of England, men of highest note in the land; to each and all the radiant, beautiful artist was the center of all attraction.
A royal duke was bending over her chair, one of the noblest marshals of France, with the young Marquis of Tyrol to assist him, was trying to entertain her. They were lavishing compliments upon her.
Suddenly she saw some slight stir in the groups, the French marshal murmured: "Comme elle est belle!" and, looking up, she saw a fair, regal woman bowing to Madame de Chandalle—a woman whose fair, tranquil loveliness was like moonlight on a summer's lake. Leone was charmed by her. The graceful figure was shown to the best advantage by the dress of rich white silk; she wore a superb suit of opals, whose hundred tints gleamed and glistened as she moved.
"The very queen of blondes," she overheard one gentleman say to another, her eyes riveted by the fair, tranquil loveliness of this beautiful woman, whose dress was trimmed with white water-lilies, who wore a water-lily in her hair and one on her white breast.
Leone watched her intently. Watching her was like reading a sweet, half-sad poem, or listening to sweet, half-sad music—every movement was full of sweet harmony. Leone watched this beautiful woman for some time; every one appeared to know her; she was evidently a leader of fashion; still she had no idea who she was. She expected, she did not know why, to see Lord and Lady Chandos enter together.
The French marshal was the first to speak.
"You admire La Reine des Blondes, madame?" he said. "Ah, Heaven, how we should rave in Paris over so fair a lady. Do you know who she is?"
"No," answered Leone, "but I should like to know very much. She is very beautiful."
"It is the beauty of an angel," cried the marshal. "She is the wife of one of the most famous men in England—she is Lady Chandos."
"Ah," said Leone, with a long, low cry.
The very mention of the name had stabbed her through the heart.
The marshal looked up in wonder.
"I beg pardon," she said, quickly, "what name did you say? A sudden faintness seized me; the room is warm. What is the lady's name?"
She would not for the whole world that he should have known what caused either the pain or the cry.
The marshal repeated:
"That is Lady Chandos, the wife of Lord Chandos, who is the rising light of this generation."
"There are so many rising lights," she said, carelessly; but her heart was beating fast the while.
Ah, me! so fair, so graceful, so high-bred! Was it any wonder that he had loved her? Yet to this gorgeous woman, with her soul of fire, it seemed that those perfect features were almost too gentle, and lacked the fire of life. She saw several gentlemen gather round the chair on which Lady Chandos sat, like a queen on a throne; and then the golden head was hidden from her sight.
So at last she was face to face with her rival—at last she could see and hear her—this fair woman who had taken her lover from her. It was with difficulty that she was herself, that she maintained her brilliant repartees; her fire of wit, herbon motsthat were repeated from one to the other. Her powers of conversation were of the highest order. She could enchain twenty people at once, and keep all their intellects in active exercise. It was with difficulty she did that now; she was thinking so entirely of the golden head, with its opal stars. Then came another stir among the brilliant groups—theentreeof a prince, beloved and revered by all who knew him. Leone, with her quick, artistic eye, thought she had never seen a more brilliant picture than this—the magnificent apartment, with its superb pictures, its background of flowers, its flood of light; the splendid dresses and jewels of the women, the blending of rich colors, the flashing of light made it a picture never to be forgotten.
Suddenly she saw Madame de Chandalle smiling in her face, and by her side was the beautiful rival who supplanted her.
"Madame Vanira," said their hostess, "permit me to make known to you Lady Chandos, who greatly desires the pleasure of your acquaintance."
Then the two who had crossed each other's lives so strangely looked at each other face to face. Leone's heart almost stood still with a great throb of pain as she glanced steadily at the fair, lovely face of her rival. How often had he sunned himself in those blue eyes? how often had he kissed those sweet lips and held those white hands in his own? She recovered herself with a violent effort and listened. Lady Chandos was speaking to her.
"I am charmed to see you, Madame Vanira," she said; "I am one of your greatest admirers."
"You are very kind, Lady Chandos," said Leone.
Then Lady Marion turned to her hostess.
"I should like to remain with Madame Vanira," she said; "that is, if you will, madame?"
Leone drew aside her rich cream-colored draperies and lace. Lady Chandos sat down by her side.
"I am so pleased to meet you," she continued, with what was unusual animation with her. "I have longed to see you off the stage."
Leone smiled in the fair face.
"I can only hope," she said, "that you will like me as well off the stage as you do on."
"I am sure of that," said Lady Chandos, with charming frankness.
She admired the beautiful and gifted singer more than she cared to say. She added, timidly:
"Now that I have met you here, madame, I shall hope for the pleasure and honor of receiving you at my own house."
She wondered why Madame Vanira drew back with a slight start: it seemed so strange to be asked into the house that she believed to be her own.
"I shall be delighted," continued Lady Chandos. "I give a ball on Wednesday week; promise me that you will come."
"I will promise you to think of it," she replied, and Lady Chandos laughed blithely.
"That means you will come," she said, and the next moment Lord Chandos entered the room.
They both saw him at the same moment. Leone, with a sudden paling of her beautiful face, with a keen sense of sharp pain, and Lady Chandos with a bright, happy flush.
"Here is my husband," she said, proudly; little dreaming that the beautiful singer had called him husband, too.
He came toward them slowly; it seemed to him so wonderful that these two should be sitting side by side—the woman he loved with a passionate love, and the woman he married under his mother's influence.
There were so many people present that it was some time before he could get up to them, and by that time he had recovered himself.
"Lance," cried Lady Chandos, in a low voice, "see how fortunate I am; I have been introduced to Madame Vanira."
Yes, his heart smote him again; it seemed so cruel to deceive her when she was so kind, so gentle; she trusted in him so implicitly that it seemed cruel to deceive her. She turned with a radiant face to Leone.
"Let me introduce my husband, Lord Chandos, to you, Madame Vanira," she said, and they looked at each other for one moment as though they were paralyzed.
Then the simple, innate truth of Leone's disposition came uppermost. With the most dignified manner she returned the bow that Lord Chandos made.
"I have had the pleasure of meeting Lord Chandos before," she said.
And Lady Marion looked at her husband in reproachful wonder.
"And you never told me," she said. "Knowing my great admiration for Madame Vanira, you did not tell me."
"Where was it, madame?" he asked, looking at her with an air of helpless, hopeless entreaty.
Then she bethought herself that perhaps those few words might cause unpleasantness between husband and wife, and she tried to make little of them.
"I was at the French Embassy here in London, Lord Chandos, at the same time you were," she said.
And Lady Marion was quite satisfied with the explanation, which was perfectly true.
Then they talked for a few minutes, at the end of which Lady Chandos was claimed by her hostess for a series of introductions.
Lord Chandos and Leone were left alone.
She spoke to him quickly and in an undertone of voice.
"Lord Chandos," she said, "I wish to speak to you; take me into the conservatory where we shall not be interrupted."
He obeyed in silence; they walked through the brilliant throng of guests, through the crowded, brilliant room, until they reached the quiet conservatory at the end.
The lamps were lighted and shone like huge pearls among the blossoms. There were few people and those few desired no attention from the new-comers. He led her to a pretty chair, placed among the hyacinths; the fragrance was very strong.
"I am afraid you will find this odor too much, beautiful as it is," he said.
"I do not notice," she said; "my heart and soul are full of one thing. Oh, Lord Chandos, your wife likes me, likes me," she repeated, eagerly.
"I am not surprised at it; indeed, I should have been surprised if she had not liked you," he said.
The dark, beautiful eyes had a wistful look in them as they were raised to his face.
"How beautiful she is, how fair and stately!" she said.
"Yes, beautiful; but compared to you, Leone, as I said before, she is like moonlight to sunlight, like water to wine."
"I have done no wrong," continued Leone, with a thrill of subdued passion in her voice; "on the contrary, a cruel wrong was done to me. But when I am with her, I feel in some vague way that I are guilty. Does she know anything of your story and mine?"
His dark face burned.
"No," he replied; "she knows nothing of that except that in my youth—ah, Leone, that I must say this to you—in my youth I made some mistake; so my lady mother Was pleased to call it," he added, bitterly. "She does not know exactly what it was, nor could she ever dream for one moment that it was you."
She looked at him with a serious, questioning gaze.
"Surely you did not marry her without telling her that you had gone through that service already, did you? If so, I think you acted disloyally and dishonorably."
He bent his head in lowly humility before her.
"Leone," he said—"ah, forgive me for calling you Leone, but the name is so sweet and so dear to me—Leone, I am a miserable sinner. When I think of my weakness and cowardice, I loathe myself; I could kill myself; yet I can never undo the wrong I have done to either. She knows little, and I believe implicitly she has forgotten that little. Why do you ask me?"
"It seems so strange," said Leone, musingly, "I asked you to come here to speak to me that I might ask your advice. She, Lady Marion, has asked me to her house—has pressed me, urged me to go; and I have said that I will think of it. I want you to advise me and tell me what I should do."
"My dear Leone, I—I cannot. I should love above all things to see you at my house, but it would be painful for you and painful to me."
She continued, in a low voice:
"Lady Marion has asked me to be her friend; she is good enough to say she admires me. What shall I do?"
He was silent for some minutes, then he said:
"There is one thing, Leone, if you become a friend, or even a visitor of Lady Marion's, I should see a great deal of you, and that would be very pleasant; it is all there is left in life. I should like it, Leone—would you?"
Looking up, she met the loving light of the dark eyes full upon her. Her face flushed.
"Yes," she whispered, "I, too, should like it."
There was silence between them for some little time, then Leone said:
"Would it be quite safe for me to visit you? Do you think that Lady Lanswell would recognize me?"
"No," he answered, "if the eyes of love failed to recognize you at one glance, the eyes of indifference will fail altogether. My mother is here to-night; risk an introduction to her, and you will see. It would give fresh zest and pleasure to my life if you could visit us."
"It would be pleasant," said Leone, musingly; "and yet to my mind, I cannot tell why, there is something that savors of wrong about it. Lord Chandos," she added, "I like your wife, she was kindness itself to me. We must mind one thing if I enter your house; I must be to you no more than any other person in it—I must be a stranger—and you must never even by one word allude to the past; you promise that, do you not?"
"I will promise everything and anything," he replied. "I will ask Madame de Chandalle to introduce you to my mother—I should not have the nerve for it."
"If she should recognize me there will be a scene," said Leone, with a faint smile; "it seems to me that the eyes of hate are keener than the eyes of love."
"She will not know you. I believe that she has forgotten even your name; who would think of finding Leone in the brilliant actress for whose friendship all men sigh? Why, Leone, forgive me for using the word—life will be quite different to me if we are to be friends, if I may see your face sometimes in the home that should have been yours. It will make all the difference in the world, and I am absurdly happy at the bare thought of it."
"I think our conference has lasted long enough," she said, rising. "You think, then, that I should accept Lady Marion's invitation?"
"Yes, it will give us more opportunities of meeting, and will bring about between Lady Marion and yourself a great intimacy," he said.
"Heaven send it may end well," she said, half sadly.
"Thank Heaven for its kindness," he replied, and then they left the quiet conservatory, where the soft ripple of the scented fountain made sweetest music.
Lord Chandos quitted her, much to his regret, and Leone sought out Madame de Chandalle.
"I should like to ask you, madame, for one more introduction," she said. "I should much like to know the Countess of Lanswell."
Nothing could exceed madame's delight and courtesy. She took Leone to the blue saloon, as it was called, where the Countess of Lanswell sat in state. She looked up in gratified surprise as the name of the great singer was pronounced. If Leone felt any nervousness she did not show it; there must be no hesitation or all would be lost. She raised her eyes bravely to the handsome, haughty face of the woman who had spurned her. In the one moment during which their eyes met, Leone's heart almost stood still, the next it beat freely, for not even the faintest gleam of recognition came into my lady's eyes.
But when they had been talking for some minutes, and the countess had excelled herself in the grace of her compliments, she gazed with keen, bright eyes in that beautiful face.
"Do you know, Madame Vanira, that the first time I saw you there was something quite familiar in your face."
There was something startling in the crimson blush that mounts even to the locks of her dark hair.
"Is it so?" she asked.
And the countess did not relax the questioning gaze.
"I think now," she added, "that I am wrong. I cannot think of any one who is like you. I shall be glad to see you at Dunmore House, Madame Vanira. We have a dinner-party next week, and I hope you will be inclined to favor us. Do you know Lady Chandos?"
"Yes," was the half sad reply, "I was introduced to her this evening."
They talked on indifferent subjects. The countess was most charming to the gifted singer, and Leone could not help contrasting this interview with the last that she had with Lady Lanswell. One thing was quite certain. The countess did not recognize her, and her visits to Dunmore House would be quite safe.
She talked to Lady Lanswell for some time, and went away that night quite pleased with the new prospects opening before her.
"I like Madame Vanira," said the Countess of Lanswell, a few days after the introduction. "She is not only the most gifted singer of the present day, but she is an uncommon type of woman. Who or what was she?"
My lady was seated in her own drawing-room in the midst of a circle of morning callers. Lord Chandos was there, and he listened with some amusement to the conversation that followed. The countess was speaking to Major Hautbois, who was supposed to know the pedigree of everybody. She looked at him now for the information he generally gave readily, but the major's face wore a troubled expression.
"To tell the truth," he replied, "I have heard so many conflicting stories as to the lady's origin that I am quite at a loss which to repeat."
Lady Lanswell smiled at the naive confession.
"Truth does wear a strange aspect at times," she said. "When Major Hautbois has to choose between many reports, I should say that none of them were true. Myself," she continued, "I should say that Madame Vanira was well-born—she has a patrician face."
Lord Chandos thought of the "dairy-maid," and sighed while he smiled. Ah, if his mother could but have seen Leone with the same eyes with which she saw Madame Vanira all would have been well.
It was quite evident that my lady did not in the least recognize her—there could be no doubt of it. She continued to praise her.
"I have always," she said, "been far above what I consider the littleness of those people who think to show their superiority by abusing the stage, or rather by treating with supercilious contempt those who ornament the stage. Something," she added, with an air of patronage, "is due to queens."
And again Lord Chandos smiled bitterly to himself. If his mother had but owned these opinions a short time before, how different life might have been. Lady Lanswell turned to her son.
"Madame Vanira will be at Lady Marion's ball on Tuesday," she said: "I am sorry that I shall not meet her."
"Are you not coming, mother?" he asked, with a certain secret hope that she was not.
"No; the earl has made an engagement for me, which I am compelled to keep," she said, "much to my regret."
And she spoke truthfully. The proud and haughty countess found herself much impressed by the grace, genius, and beauty of Madame Vanira.
Leone had looked forward to the evening of the ball as to an ordeal that must be passed through. She dreaded it, yet longed for it. She could not rest for thinking of it. She was to enter as a guest the house where she should have reigned mistress. She was to be the visitor of the woman who had taken her place. How should she bear it? how would it pass? For the first time some of the terrible pain of jealousy found its way into her heart—a pain that blanched her face, and made her tremble; a new pain to her in the fire of its burning.
When the night of the ball came it found her with a pale face; her usual radiant coloring faded, and she looked all the lovelier for it. She dressed herself with unusual care and magnificence.
"I must look my best to-night," she said to herself, with a bitter smile. "I am going to see the home that should have been my own. I am going to visit Lady Chandos, and I believed myself to be Lady Chandos and no other. I must look my best."
She chose a brocade of pale amber that looked like woven sunbeams; it was half covered with point lace and trimmed with great creamy roses. She wore aparureof rubies, presented by an empress, who delighted in her glorious voice; on her beautiful neck, white and firm as a pillar, she wore a necklace of rubies; on her white breast gleamed a cross of rubies, in which the fire flashed like gleams of light.
She had never looked so magnificently beautiful. The low dress showed the white shining arms and shoulders like white satin. The different emotions that surged through her whole heart and soul gave a softened tenderness to the beautiful, passionate face.
She was a woman at whose feet a man could kneel and worship; who could sway the heart and soul of a man as the wind sways the great branches of strong trees.
On the morning of the day of the ball, a bouquet arrived for her, and she knew that it held her favorite flowers, white lilies-of-the-valley, with sweet hanging bells and gardenias that filled the whole room with perfume. She had nerve enough to face the most critical audience in the world.
She sung while kings and queens looked on in wonder; the applause of great multitudes had never made her heart beat or her pulses thrill; but as she drove to Stoneland House a faint, languid sensation almost overcame her; how should she bear it? What should she do? More than once the impulse almost mastered her to return, and never see Lord Chandos again; but the pain, the fever and the longing urged her on.
It was like a dream to her, the brilliantly-lighted mansion, the rows of liveried servants, the spacious entrance-hall lined with flowers, the broad white staircase with the crimson carpet, the white statues holding crimson lamps.
She walked slowly up that gorgeous staircase, every eye riveted by her queenly beauty. She said to herself:
"All this should have been mine."
Yet, it was not envy of the wealth and magnificence surrounding her, it was the keen pain of the outrageous wrong done to her which stung her to the quick. Brilliantly dressed ladies passed her, and she saw that more deference was paid to her than would have been paid to a duchess.
Then, in the drawing-room that led to the ballroom, she saw Lady Marion in her usual calm, regal attitude, receiving her guests. The queen of blondes looked more than lovely; her dress was of rich white lace over pale blue silk, with blue forget-me-nots in her hair. Leone had one moment's hard fight with herself as she gazed at this beautiful woman.
"She stands in my place, she bears my name; on her finger shines the ring that ought to shine on mine; she has taken the love I believed to be mine for life," said Leone to herself; "how shall I bear it?"
As she stood among the brilliant crowd, a strong impulse came over her to go up to Lady Marion and say:
"Stand aside; this is my place. Men cannot undo the laws of God. Stand aside, give me my place."
Words were still burning from her heart to her lips when she saw Lady Marion holding out her hand in kindliest greeting to her; all the bitter thoughts melted at once in the sunshine of that fair presence; her own hand sought Lady Marion's, and the two women, whose lives had crossed each other's so strangely, stood for one moment hand locked in hand, their eyes fixed on each other.
Lady Marion spoke first, and she seemed to draw her breath with a deep sigh as she did so.
"I am so pleased to see you, Madame Vanira," she said, eagerly. "We must find time for a long talk this evening."
With a bow Leone passed on to the ballroom, where the first person to meet her was Lord Chandos; he looked at the bouquet she carried.
"You have honored my flowers, madame," he said. "I remember your love for lilies-of-the-valley. You will put my name down for the first waltz?"
There was a world of reproach in the dark eyes she raised to his.
"No, I will not waltz with you," she replied, gently.
"Why not?" he asked, bending his handsome head over her.
"I might make false excuses, but I prefer telling you the truth," she answered; "I will not trust myself."
And when Leone took that tone Lord Chandos knew that further words were useless.
"You will dance a quadrille, at least?" he asked, and she consented.
Then he offered her his arm and they walked through the room together.
The ballroom at Stoneland House was a large and magnificent apartment; many people thought it the finest ballroom in London; the immense dome was brilliantly lighted, the walls were superbly painted, and tier after tier of superb blossoms filled the room with exquisite color and exquisite perfume.
The ballroom opened into a large conservatory, which led to a fernery, and from the fernery one passed to the grounds. Leone felt embarrassed; she longed to praise the beautiful place, yet it seemed to her if she did so it would be like reminding him that it ought to have been hers; while he, on the contrary, did not dare to draw her attention to picture, flower, or statue, lest she should remember that they had been taken from her by a great and grievous wrong.
"We are not very cheerful friends," he said, trying to arouse himself.
"I begin to think we have done wrong in ever thinking of friendship at all," she replied.
Lord Chandos turned to her suddenly.
"Leone," he said, "you have quite made a conquest of my mother—you do not know how she admires you!"
A bitter smile curled the beautiful lips.
"It is too late," she said sadly. "It does not seem very long since she refused even to tolerate me."
Lord Chandos continued:
"She was speaking about you yesterday, and she was quite animated about you; she praised you more than I have ever heard her praise any one."
"I ought to feel flattered," said Leone; "but it strikes me as being something wonderful that Lady Lanswell did not find out any good qualities in me before."
"My mother saw you through a haze of hatred," said Lord Chandos; "now she will learn to appreciate you."
A sudden glow of fire flashed in those superb eyes.
"I wonder," she said, "if I shall ever be able to pay my debt to Lady Lanswell, and in what shape I shall pay it?"
He shuddered as he gazed in the beautiful face.
"Try to forget that, Leone," he said; "I never like to remember that you threatened my mother."
"We will not discuss it," she said, coldly; "we shall never agree."
Then the band began to play the quadrilles. Lord Chandos led Leone to her place. He thought to himself what cruel wrong it was on the part of fate, that the woman whom he had believed to be his wedded wife should be standing there, a visitor in the house which ought to have been her home.
The one set of quadrilles had been danced, and Leone said to herself that there was more pain than pleasure in it, when Lady Marion, with an unusual glow of animation on her face, came to Leone, who was sitting alone.
"Madame Vanira," she said, "it seems cruel to deprive others of the pleasure of your society, but I should like to talk to you. I have some pretty things which I have brought from Spain, which I should like to show you. Will it please you to leave the ballroom and come with me, or do you care for dancing?"
Leone smiled sadly; tragedy and comedy are always side by side, and it seemed to her, who had had so terrible a tragedy in her life, who stood face to face with so terrible a tragedy now, it seemed to her absurd that she should think of dancing.
"I would rather talk to you," she replied, "than do anything else." The two beautiful, graceful women left the ballroom together. Leone made some remark on the magnificence of the rooms as they passed, and Lady Chandos smiled.
"I am a very home-loving being myself. I prefer the pretty little morning-room where we take breakfast, and my own boudoir, to any other place in the house; they seem to be really one's own because no one else enters them. Come to my boudoir now, Madame Vanira, and I will show you a whole lot of pretty treasures that I brought from Spain."
"From Spain." She little knew how those words jarred even on Leone's heart. It was in Spain they had intrigued to take her husband from her, and while Lady Marion was collecting art treasures the peace and happiness of her life had been wrecked, her fair name blighted, her love slain. She wondered to herself at the strange turn of fate which had brought her into contact with the one woman in all the world that she felt she ought to have avoided. But there was no resisting Lady Marion when she chose to make herself irresistible. There was something childlike and graceful in the way in which she looked up to Madame Vanira, with an absolute worship of her genius, her voice, and her beauty. She laid her white hand on Leone's.
"You will think me a very gushing young lady, I fear, Madame Vanira, if I say how fervently I hope we shall always be friends; not in the common meaning of the words, but real, true, warm friends until we die. Have you ever made such a compact of friendship with any one?"
Leone's heart smote her, her face flushed.
"Yes," she replied; "I have once."
Lady Chandos looked up at her quickly.
"With a lady, I mean?"
"No," said Leone; "I have no lady friends; indeed, I have few friends of any kind, though I have many acquaintances."
Lady Marion's hand lingered caressingly on the white shoulder of Leone.
"Something draws me to you," she said; "and I cannot tell quite what it is. You are very beautiful, but it is not that; the beauty of a woman would never win me. It cannot be altogether your genius, though it is without peer. It is a strange feeling, one I can hardly explain—as though there was something sympathetic between us. You are not laughing at me, Madame Vanira?"
"No, I am not laughing," said Leone, with wondering eyes. How strange it was that Lance's wife, above all other women, should feel this curious, sympathetic friendship for her!
They entered the beautiful boudoir together, and Lady Marion, with pardonable pride, turned to her companion.
"Lord Chandos arranged this room for me himself. Have you heard the flattering, foolish name for me that the London people have invented? They call me the Queen of Blondes."
"That is a very pretty title," said Leone, "they call me a queen, the Queen of Song."
And the two women who were, each in her way, a "queen," smiled at each other.
"You see," continued Lady Chandos, "that my husband used to think there was nothing in the world but blondes. I have often told him if I bring a brunette here she is quite at a disadvantage; everything is blue, white, or silver."
Leone looked round the sumptuous room; the ceiling was painted by a master hand; all the story of Endymion was told there; the walls were superbly painted; the hangings were of blue velvet and blue silk, relieved by white lace; the carpet, of rich velvet pile, had a white ground with blue corn-flowers, so artistically grouped they looked as though they had fallen on the ground in picturesque confusion. The chairs and pretty couch were covered with velvet; a hundred little trifles that lay scattered over the place told that it was occupied by a lady of taste; books in beautiful bindings, exquisite drawings and photographs, a jeweled fan, a superb bouquet holder, flowers costly, beautiful, and fragrant; a room that was a fitting shrine for a goddess of beauty.
"My own room," said Lady Chandos, with a smile, as she closed the door; "and what a luxury it is, Madame Vanira—a room quite your own! Even when the house is full of visitors no one comes here but Lord Chandos; he always takes that chair near those flowers while he talks to me, and that is, I think, the happiest hour in the day. Sit down there yourself."
Leone took the chair, and Lady Chandos sat down on a footstool by her side. It was one of the most brilliant and picturesque pictures ever beheld; the gorgeous room, with its rich hangings, the beautiful, dark-eyed woman, with the Spanish face, her dress like softened sunbeams, the fire of her rubies like points of flame, her whole self lovely as a picture, and the fair Queen of Blondes, with the golden hair and white roses—a picture that would have made an artist's fortune.
"How pleasant this is," said Lady Chandos, "a few minutes' respite from the music and dancing! Do you love the quiet moments of your life, Madame Vanira?"
Leone looked down on the fair, lovely face with a deep sigh.
"No, I think not," she replied; "I like my stage life best."
Lady Chandos asked, in a half pitying tone:
"Why did you go on the stage? Did you always like it?"
And Leone answered, gravely:
"A great sorrow drove me there."
"A great sorrow? How strange! What sorrow could come to one so beautiful, so gifted as you?"
"A sorrow that crushed all the natural life in me," said Leone; "but we will not speak of it. I live more in my life on the stage than in my home life; that is desolate always."
She spoke unconsciously, and the heart of the fair woman who believed herself so entirely beloved warmed with pity and kindness to the one whose heart was so desolate.
"A great sorrow taught you to find comfort in an artificial life," she said, gently; "it would not do that to me."
And her white hand, on which the wedding-ring shone, caressed the beautiful white arm of Madame Vanira.
"What would it do to you?" asked Leone, slightly startled.
"A really great trouble," replied Lady Chandos, musingly, "what would it do for me? Kill me. I have known so little of it; I cannot indeed remember what could be called trouble."
"You have been singularly fortunate," said Leone, half enviously.
And the fair face of the Queen of Blondes grew troubled.
"Perhaps," she said, "all my troubles are to come. I should not like to believe that."
She was quite silent for some few minutes, then, with a sigh, she said:
"You have made me feel nervous, and I cannot tell why. What trouble could come to me? So far as I see, humanly speakingly, none. No money troubles could reach me; sickness would hardly be a trouble if those I loved were round me. Ah, well, that is common to every one." A look of startled intelligence came over her face. "I know one, and only one source of trouble," she said; "that would be if anything happened to Lord Chandos, to—to my husband; if he did not love me, or I lost him."
She sighed as she uttered the last words, and the heart of the gifted singer was touched by the noblest, kindest pity; she looked into the fair, flower-like face.
"You love your husband then?" she said, with a gentle, caressing voice.
"Love him," replied Lady Chandos, her whole soul flashing in her eyes—"love him? Ah, that seems to me a weak word! My husband is all the world, all life to me. It is strange that I should speak to you, a stranger, in this manner; but, as I told you before, my heart warms to you in some fashion that I do not myself understand. I am not like most people. I have so few to love. No father, no mother, no sisters, or brothers. I have no one in the wide world but my husband; he is more to me than most husbands are to most wives—he is everything."
Leone looked down on that fair, sweet face with loving eyes; the very depths of her soul were touched by those simple words; she prayed God that she might always remember them. There was infinite pathos in her voice and in her face when she said:
"You are very happy, then, with your husband, Lady Marion?"
"Yes, I am very happy," said the young wife, simply. "My husband loves me, I have no rivals, no jealousies, no annoyances; I may say I am perfectly happy."
"I pray God that you may always be so!" said Leone, gently.
And with an impulse she could not resist she bent down and kissed the sweet face.
Then Lady Chandos looked up.
"I am afraid," she said, "that our pleasant five minutes' chat is ended. We must go back to the ballroom. I am afraid all your admirers will be very angry with me, Madame Vanira."
"That is a matter of perfect indifference?" she replied. "I know you better, Lady Marion, for those five minutes spent here than I should have done during a century in ballrooms."
"And you promise that we shall always be friends," said the fair woman who called herself Lady Chandos.
"I promise, and I will keep my word," said the beautiful singer, who had believed herself to be his wife.
And with those words they parted.
Lady Marion never did anything by halves. It was seldom that her calm, quiet nature was stirred, but when that happened she felt more deeply, perhaps, than people who express their feelings with great ease and rapidity. She was amused herself at her own great liking for Madame Vanira; it was the second great love of her life; the first had been for her husband, this was the next. She talked of her incessantly, until even Lord Chandos wondered and asked how it was.
"I cannot tell," she replied; "I think I am infatuated. I am quite sure, Lance, that if I had been a gentleman, I should have followed Madame Vanira to the other side of the world. I think her, without exception, the most charming woman in the world."
She raised her eyes with innocent tenderness to his face.
"Are you jealous because I love her so much?" she asked.
He shuddered as he heard the playful, innocent words, so different from the reality.
"I should never be jealous of you, Marion," he replied, and then turned the conversation.
Nothing less than a visit to Madame Vanira would please Lady Chandos. She asked her husband if he would go to the Cedars with her, and wondered when he declined. The truth was that he feared some chance recognition, some accidental temptation; he dared not go, and Lady Marion looked very disappointed.
"I thought you liked Madame Vanira," she said. "I am quite sure, Lance, that you looked as if you did."
"My dear Marion, between liking persons and giving up a busy morning to go to see them there is an immense difference. If you really wish me to go, Marion, you know that I will break all my appointments."
"I would not ask you to do that," she replied, gently, and the result of the conversation was that Lady Chandos went alone.
She spent two hours with Leone, and the result was a great increase of liking and affection for her. Leone sang for her, and her grand voice thrilled through every fiber of that gentle heart; Leone read to her, and Lady Chandos said to herself that she never quite understood what words meant before. When it was time to go, Lady Chandos looked at her watch in wonder.
"I have been here two hours," she said, "and they have passed like two minutes. Madame Vanira, I have no engagement to-morrow evening, come and see me. Lord Chandos has a speech to prepare, and he asked me to forego all engagements this evening."
"Perhaps I should be in the way," said Leone; but Lady Marion laughed at the notion. She pleaded so prettily and so gracefully that Leone consented, and it was arranged that she should spend the evening of the day following at Stoneland House.
She went—more than once. She had asked herself if this intimacy were wise? She could not help liking the fair, sweet woman who had taken her place, and yet she felt a great undercurrent of jealous indignation and righteous anger—it might blaze out some day, and she knew that if it ever did so it would be out of her control. It was something like playing with fire, yet how many people play with fire all their lives and never get burned!
She went, looking more beautiful and regal than ever, in a most becoming dress of black velvet, her white arms and white shoulders looking whiter than ever through the fine white lace.
She wore no jewels; a pomegranate blossom lay in the thick coils of her hair; a red rose nestled in her white breast.
She was shown into the boudoir she had admired so much, and there Lady Chandos joined her.
Lord Chandos had been busily engaged during the day in looking up facts and information for his speech. He had joined his wife for dinner, but she saw him so completely engrossed that she did not talk to him, and it had not occurred to her to tell him that Madame Vanira was coming, so that he was quite ignorant of that fact.
The two ladies enjoyed themselves very much—they had a cup of orange Pekoe from cups of priceless china, they talked of music, art, and books.
The pretty little clock chimed ten. Lady Chandos looked at her companion.
"You have not tried my piano yet," she said. "It was a wedding present from Lord Chandos to me; the tone of it is very sweet and clear."
"I will try it," said Madame Vanira. "May I look through the pile of music that lies behind it?"
Lady Chandos laughed at the eagerness with which Leone went on her knees and examined the music.
Just at that moment, when she was completely hidden from view, the door suddenly opened, and Lord Chandos hastily entered. Seeing his wife near, without looking around the room, in his usual caressing manner, he threw one arm round her, drew her to him, and kissed her.
It was that kiss which woke all the love, and passion, and jealousy in Leone's heart; it came home to her in that minute, and for the first time, that the husband she had lost belonged to another—that his kisses and caresses were never more to be hers, but would be given always to this other.
There was one moment—only one moment of silence; but while it lasted a sharp sword pierced her heart; the next, Lady Chandos, with a laughing, blushing face, had turned to her husband, holding up one white hand in warning.
"Lance," she cried, "do you not see Madame Vanira?"
She wondered why the words seemed to transfix him—why his face paled and his eyes flashed fire.
"Madame Vanira!" he cried, "I did not see that she was here."
Then Leone rose slowly from the pile of music.
"I should ask pardon," she said; "I did not know that I had hidden myself so completely."
It was like a scene from a play; a fair wife, with her sweet face, its expression of quiet happiness in her husband's love; the husband, with the startled look of passion repressed; Leone, with her grand Spanish beauty all aglow with emotion. She could not recover her presence of mind so as to laugh away the awkward situation. Lady Chandos was the first to do that.
"How melodramatic we all look!" she said. "What is the matter?"
Then Lord Chandos recovered himself. He knew that the kiss he had given to one fair woman must have stabbed the heart of the other, and he would rather have done anything than that it should have happened. There came to him like a flash of lightning the remembrance of that first home at River View, and the white arms that were clasped round his neck when he entered there; and he knew that the same memory rankled in the heart of the beautiful woman whose face had suddenly grown pale as his own.
The air had grown like living flame to Leone; the pain which stung her was so sharp she could have cried aloud with the anguish of it. It was well nigh intolerable to see his arm round her, to see him draw her fair face and head to him, to see his lips seek hers and rest on them. The air grew like living flames; her heart beat fast and loud; her hands burned. All that she had lost by woman's intrigue and man's injustice this fair, gentle woman had gained. A red mist came before her eyes; a rush, as of many waters, filled her ears. She bit her lips to prevent the loud and bitter cry that seemed as though it must escape her.
Then Lord Chandos hastened to place a chair for her, and tried to drive from her mind all recollection of the little incident.
"You are looking for some music, madame," he said, "from which I may augur the happy fact that you intended to sing. Let me pray that you will not change your intention."
"Lady Chandos asked me to try her piano," she said shyly.
"I told Madame Vanira how sweet and silvery the tone of it is, Lance," said Lady Chandos.
And again Leone shrunk from hearing on another woman's lip the word she had once used. It was awkward, it was intolerable; it struck her all at once with a sense of shame that she had done wrong in ever allowing Lord Chandos to speak to her again. But then he had pleaded so, he had seemed so utterly miserable, so forlorn, so hopeless, she could not help it. She had done wrong in allowing Lady Marion to make friends with her; Lady Marion was her enemy by force of circumstances, and there ought not to have been even one word between them. Yet she pleaded so eagerly, it had seemed quite impossible to resist her.
She was roused from her reverie by the laughing voice of Lady Marion, over whose fair head so dark a cloud hung.
"Madame Vanira," she was saying, "ask my husband to sing with you. He has a beautiful voice, not a deep, rolling bass, as one would imagine from the dark face and tall, stalwart figure, but a rich, clear tenor, sweet and silvery as the chime of bells."
Leone remembered every tone, every note of it; they had spent long hours in singing together, and the memory of those hours shone now in the eyes that met so sadly. A sudden, keen, passionate desire to sing with him once more came over Leone. It might be rash—it was imprudent.
"Mine was always a mad love," she said to herself, with a most bitter smile. "It might be dangerous—but once more."
Just once more she would like to hear her voice float away with his. She bent over the music again—the first and foremost lay Mendelssohn's beautiful duet. "Oh, would that my love." They sang it in the summer gloamings when she had been pleased and proud to hear her wonderful voice float away over the trees and die in sweetest silence. She raised it now and looked at him.
"Will you sing this?" she asked; but her eyes did not meet his, and her face was very pale.
She did not wait for an answer, but placed the music on a stand, and then—ah, then—the two beautiful voices floated away, and the very air seemed to vibrate with the passionate, thrilling sound; the drawing-room, the magnificence of Stoneland House, the graceful presence of the fair wife, faded from them. They were together once more at the garden at River View, the green trees making shade, the deep river in the distance.
But when they had finished, Lady Chandos was standing by, her face wet with tears.
"Your music breaks my heart," she said; but she did not know the reason why.
If Leone had been wiser after that one evening, she would have avoided Lord Chandos as she would have shunned the flames of fire; that one evening showed her that she stood on the edge of a precipice. Looking in her own heart, she knew by its passionate anguish and passionate pain that the love in her had never been conquered. She said to herself, when the evening was over and she drove away, leaving them together, that she would never expose herself to that pain again.
It was so strange, so unnatural for her—she who believed herself his wife, who had spent so many evenings with him—to go away and leave him with this beautiful woman who was really his wife. She looked up at the silent stars as she drove home; surely their pale, golden eyes must shine down in dearest pity on her. She clinched her white, soft hands until the rings made great red dents; she exhausted herself with great tearless sobs; yet no tears came from her burning eyes.
Was ever woman so foully, so cruelly wronged? had ever woman been so cruelly tortured?
"I will not see him again," she cried to herself; "I cannot bear it."
Long after the stars had set, and the crimson flush of dawn stirred the pearly tints of the sky, she lay, sobbing, with passionate tears, feeling that she could not bear it—she must die.
It would have been well if that had frightened her, but when morning dawned she said to herself that hers had always been a mad love, and would be so until the end. She made one desperate resolve, one desperate effort; she wrote to Lord Chandos, and sent the letter to his club—a little, pathetic note, with a heart-break in every line of it—to say that they who had been wedded lovers were foolish to think of being friends; that it was not possible, and that she thought they had better part; the pain was too great for her, she could not bear it.
The letter was blotted with tears, and as he read it for whom it was written, other tears fell on it. Before two hours had passed, he was standing before her, with outstretched hands, the ring of passion in his voice, the fire of passion in his face.
"Leone," he said, "do you mean this—must we part?"
They forgot in that moment all the restraints by which they had surrounded themselves; once more they were Lance and Leone, as in the old days.
"Must we part?" he repeated, and her face paled as she raised it to his.
"I cannot bear the pain, Lance," she said, wearily. "It would be better for us never to meet than for me to suffer as I did last evening."
He drew nearer to her.
"Did you suffer so much, Leone?" he asked, gently.
"Yes, more almost than I can bear. It is not many years since I believed that I was your wife, and now I have to see another woman in my place. I—I saw you kiss her—I had to go away and leave you together. No, I cannot bear it, Lance!"
The beautiful head drooped wearily, the beautiful voice trembled and died away in a wail that was pitiful to hear; all her beauty, her genius, her talent—what did it avail her?
Lord Chandos had suffered much, but his pain had never been so keen as now at this moment, when this beautiful queenly woman wailed out her sorrow to him.
"What shall I do, Leone? I would give my life to undo what I have done; but it is useless—I cannot. Do you mean that we must part?"
The eyes she raised to his face were haggard and weary with pain.
"There is nothing for it but parting, Lance," she said. "I thought we could be friends, but it is not possible; we have loved each other too well."
"We need not part now," he said; "let us think it over; life is very long; it will be hard to live without the sunlight of your presence, Leone, now that I have lived in it so long. Let us think it over. Do you know what I wanted to ask you last evening?"
"No," she replied, "what was it?"
"A good that you may still grant me," he said. "We may part, if you wish it, Leone. Leone, let us have one happy day before the time comes. Leone, you see how fair the summer is, I want you to spend one day with me on the river. The chestnuts are all in flower—the whole world is full of beauty, and song, and fragrance; the great boughs are dipping into the stream, and the water-lilies lie on the river's breast. My dear love and lost love, come with me for one day. We may be parted all the rest of our lives, come with me for one day."
Her face brightened with the thought. Surely for one day they might be happy; long years would have to pass, and they would never meet. Oh, for one day, away on the river, in the world of clear waters, green boughs and violet banks—one day away from the world which had trammeled them and fettered them.
"You tempt me," she said, slowly. "A day with you on the river. Ah, for such a pleasure as that I would give twenty years of my life."
He did not answer her, because he dared not. He waited until his heart was calm and at rest again, then he said:
"Let us go to-morrow, Leone, no one knows what twenty-four hours may bring forth. Let us go to-morrow, Leone. Rise early. How often we have gone out together while the dew lay upon the flowers and grass. Shall it be so?"
The angel of prudence faded from her presence as she answered, "Yes." Knowing how she loved him, hearing the old love story in his voice, reading it in his face, she would have done better had she died there in the splendor of her beauty and the pain of her love than have said, "Yes." So it was arranged.
"It will be a beautiful day," said Lord Chandos. "I am a capital rower, Leone, as you will remember. I will take you as far as Medmersham Abbey: we will land there and spend an hour in the ruins; but you will have to rise early and drive down to the river side. You will not mind that."
"I shall mind nothing that brings me to you," she said, with a vivid blush, and so it was settled.
They forgot the dictates of honor; he forgot his duty to his wife at home, and she forgot prudence and justice.
The morning dawned. She had eagerly watched for it through the long hours of the night; it wakes her with the song of the birds and the shine of the sun; it wakes her with a mingled sense of pain and happiness, of pleasure and regret. She was to spend a whole day with him, but the background to that happiness was that he was leaving a wife at home who had all claims to his time and attention.
"One happy day before I die," she said to herself.
But will it be happy? The sun will shine brightly, yet there will be a background; yet it shall be happy because it will be with him.
It was yet early in the morning when she drove to the appointed place at the river side. The sun shone in the skies, the birds sang in the trees, the beautiful river flashed and glowed in the light, the waters seemed to dance and the green leaves to thrill.
Ah, if she were but back by the mill-stream, if she were but Leone Noel once again, with her life all unspoiled before her; if she were anything on earth except a woman possessed by a mad love. If she could but exchange these burning ashes of a burning love for the light, bright heart of her girlhood, when the world had been full of beauty which spoke to her in an unknown tongue.
God had been so good to her; he had given to her the beauty of a queen, genius that was immortal, wit, everything life holds most fair, and they were all lost to her because of her mad love. Ah, well, never mind, the sun was shining, the river dancing far away in the sun, and she was to spend the day with him. She had dressed herself to perfection in a close-fitting dress of dark-gray velvet, relieved by ribbons of rose pink; she wore a hat with a dark-gray plume, under the shade of which her beautiful face looked doubly bewitching; the little hands, which by their royal gestures swayed multitudes, were cased in dark gray. Lord Chandos looked at her in undisguised admiration.
"The day seems to have been made on purpose for us," he said, as he helped her in the boat.
Leone laughed, but there was just the least tinge of bitterness in that laugh.
"A day made for us would have gray skies, cold rains, and bleak, bitter winds," she said.
And then the pretty pleasure boat floated away on the broad, beautiful stream.
It was a day on which to dream of heaven; there was hardly a ripple on the beautiful Thames; the air was balmy, sweet, filled with the scent of hay from the meadows; of flowers from the banks; it was as though they had floated away into Paradise.
Lord Chandos bent forward to see that the rugs were properly disposed; he opened her sunshade, but she would not use it.
"Let me see the beautiful river, the banks and the yews, while I may," she said, "the sun will not hurt me."
There was no sound save that of the oars cleaving the bright waters. Leone watched the river with loving eyes; since she had left River View—and she had loved it with something like passion—it seemed like part of that married life which had ended so abruptly. They passed by a thicket, where the birds were singing after a mad fashion of their own.
"Stop and listen," she said, holding up her hand.
He stopped and the boat floated gently with the noiseless tide.
"I wonder," said Leone, "if in that green bird kingdom there are tragedies such as take place in ours?"
Lord Chandos laughed.
"You are full of fanciful ideas, Leone," he said. "Yes, I imagine, the birds have their tragedies because they have their loves."
"I suppose there are pretty birds and plain birds, loving birds, and hard-hearted ones; some who live a happy life, filled with sunlight and song—some who die while the leaves are green, shot through the heart. In the kingdom of birds and the kingdom of men it is all just the same."
"Which fate is yours, Leone?" asked Lord Chandos.
"Mine?" she said, looking away over the dancing waters, "mine? I was shot while the sun shone, and the best part of me died of the wound in my heart."