AN IMPATIENT LOVER'S PLANS.
There had been no mistake about the wooing of Lord Chandos. He had not
thought of loving and riding away; the proud, beautiful, gifted girl
whom he loved had been wooed and pursued with the ardor and respect that
he would have shown to a princess.
There came another day, when something had prevented him from seeing
her; and unable to control his impatience, he had ridden over to the
farm, this time ostensibly to see the farmer, and ask for another glass
of his famous cider; this time, under the farmer's eyes even, he stopped
and spoke to Leone.
"You will be at the mill-stream this evening?" he whispered, and her
answer was:
"Yes."
When he had drunk the cider and ridden away, Farmer Noel turned to his
niece.
"A fine young man that, Leone; but what did he say to you?"
"Nothing particular; something about the mill-stream," replied the proud
lips, that disdained a lie.
"Because," said Robert Noel, slowly, "you have a beautiful face of your
own, my lady lass, and a young man like that would be sure to admire
it."
"What matter if he did, uncle?" she asked.
"Harm would come of it," replied the farmer; "what a man admires he
often loves; and no good would come of such a love as that."
"Why not?" she asked again, with flushed face and flashing eyes. "Why
not?"
"We reckon in these parts," said the farmer, slowly, "that there is too
great a difference between the aristocracy and the working-people. To
put it in plain words, my lady lass, when a great lord or a rich man
admires a poor lass, as a rule it ends in her disgrace."
"Not always," she answered, proudly.
"No, perhaps not always; but mostly, mostly," repeated Robert Noel. "You
have a beautiful face, and, if you are wise, you will keep out of that
young gentleman's way. I should not like to offend you, Leone; you will
excuse me for speaking plainly."
"It does not offend me," she said, simply; "although I do not think that
you are right. Why should not a lord, great and rich as this one, marry
a girl who has no drawback but poverty? I do not see such a great
difference."
"I cannot tell you, my lady lass, either the why or the wherefore," he
replied. "I know that rich men do not marry poor and obscure girls; and
if they do, there is sure to be something wrong with the marriage. We
will not talk about it, only if he seems to admire you at all, do you
keep out of that young man's way."
She made him no answer; his care for her touched her, but then there was
no need. Lord Chandos was unlike other men; besides which he loved her
so well he could not live without her.
So, when the sun was setting in the western sky, she went down to the
mill-stream, where her lover awaited her.
The crimson clouds were reflected in the rippling water, the birds were
singing in the trees, the flowers were all falling asleep; the fair,
fragrant world was getting ready for its time of rest.
"Leone," he cried, seizing her hands and drawing her toward him, "my
darling, I thought to-day would never come. How many hours did yesterday
hold?"
"Twenty-four," she replied.
"Only twenty-four? Why, it seemed to me it was a day as long as a year,
and I asked myself one question, sweet."
"What was it, Lance?"
"This: that if one day seemed so terribly long, what would become of me
if I had to pass a week without you?"
"What would become of you?" she said, laughingly.
"I should die of my own impatience," he said, his handsome young face
flushing. "Fate may try me as it will," he added, "but it must never
separate me from you. It is because I have found this out that I have
asked you to meet me here to-night. I cannot live without you, Leone;
you understand that the hours are long and dark; life seems all ended, I
cannot feel interest or energy; I am longing for you all the time, just
as thirsty flowers are longing for dew. Leone, I should long until the
fever of my own longing killed me--for you."
He drew the beautiful face to his own, and kissed it with a passion
words could never tell.
"Why should I not be happy in my own way?" he said. "If I want the one
only thing on earth that could bring me my happiness, why should I not
have it? Of what use is money, wealth, position, rank, anything else on
earth to me, unless I have you. I would rather lose all I have in the
world than lose you."
"It is sweet to be loved so well," she said, with a sigh.
"I have had letters from home to-day," he said, "and I--I am half afraid
to tell you lest you should say no. I am to leave Rashleigh in one month
from now, and to go to my father's house--Cawdor, it is called. Leone, I
cannot go alone."
She looked at him with wondering eyes; the ardent young lover who
believed his love to be so great and so generous, yet who, in reality,
loved himself best, even in his love.
"Darling, I want you to consent to be my wife before I leave Rashleigh,"
he continued. "I know it will be the best and easiest plan if I can but
win your consent."
Her loving heart seemed almost to stand still; the crimson clouds and
the rippling waters seemed to meet; even in her dreams she had never
imagined herself his wife.
Lord Chandos continued:
"I know my parents well; my father is inflexible on some points, but
easily influenced; my mother is, I believe, the proudest woman in the
wide world. I know that she expects something wonderful from me in the
way of marriage; I hardly think that there is a peeress in England that
my mother would deem too good for me, and it would wound her to the
heart should I marry a woman beneath me in rank. Indeed I know she would
never forgive me."
She uttered a little, low cry.
"Then why have you loved me?" she asked.
Her lover laughed.
"How could I help it, my darling? In you I have found the other half of
my own soul. I could no more help loving you than a bird can help
singing. But listen, Leone; it is as I say, if I were to go home and
pray all day to them it would be useless. I have another plan. Marry me,
and I can take you to them and say, 'This is my wife.' They could not
help receiving you then, because the marriage could not be undone, and
my mother, with her worldly tact, would made the best of it then. If I
ask permission to marry you, they will never grant it; if I marry you,
they will be compelled to forgive it."
She drew herself half proudly from him.
"I do not wish any one to be compelled to receive me, nor do I wish to
be the cause of unpleasantness," she said.
"My darling, all lovers have something to suffer. The course of true
love cannot run smooth. Surely you would not desert me, or forsake me,
or refuse to love me because I cannot change the opinion of my
conservative parents. I know no lady, no peeress in England, who is half
so beautiful, so clever as you--not one. I shall be more proud to take
you home as Lady Chandos than if you were a queen's daughter. You
believe me?"
"Yes, I believe _you_," she replied.
"Never mind any one else, Leone. My father admires beautiful women; he
will be sure to love you; my mother will be very disagreeable at first,
but in a short time she will learn to love you, and then all will be
well."
The little white hand clung to him.
"You are quite sure, Lance?" she said, with a sob--"quite sure?"
"Yes, sweet, I am more than sure. You will be Lady Chandos, of Cawdor,
and that is one of the oldest and grandest titles in England."
"But will your mother forgive you and love you again?" she asked,
anxiously.
"Yes, believe me. And now, Leone, let me tell you my plans. They are all
rather underhand, but we cannot help that; everything is fair in love
and war. About twenty miles from here there is a sleepy little village
called Oheton. I was there yesterday, and it was there that this plan
came to me. Oh, my darling, turn your sweet face to me and let me be
quite sure that you are listening."
"I am listening, Lance," she said.
"No, not with all your heart. See how well I understand you. Your eyes
linger on the water, and the falling of it makes music, and the rhyme of
the music is:
"'These vows were all forgotten,
The ring asunder broken.'
When will you trust me more thoroughly, Leone?"
She glanced at him with something of wonder, but more of fear.
"How do you know what I am thinking of?" she asked.
"I can guess from the tragical expression of your face, and the pathos
of your eyes as they linger on the falling water. Now, you shall not
look at the mill-stream, look at me."
She raised her dark, lustrous eyes to his face, and he went on:
"Over in this sleepy little village of Oheton, Leone--it is a sleepy
village--the houses are all divided from each other by gardens and
trees. Unlike most villagers, the people do not seem to know each other,
you do not hear any gossip; the people, the houses, the streets, all
seem sleepy together. At one end of the village is a church, one of the
most quaint, an old Norman church, that has stood like a monument while
the storms of the world raged around it; the vicar is the Reverend
Josiah Barnes."
"Why are you telling me all this?" she asked.
"You will soon understand," he replied. "The Reverend Mr. Barnes is over
sixty, and he, together with the people, the houses, and the streets,
seems sleepy; nothing would excite him, or interest him, or startle him.
"Now, Leone, I have taken lodgings for myself for three weeks in this
sleepy village; no one will take any notice of me; I shall go and come
just as I will; then I shall have the bans of our marriage published.
The dear old vicar will read them in his sleepy tones:
"'I publish the bans of marriage for the first time between Lancelot
Chandos and Leone Noel.' No one will hear the names plainly, and those
who do will not know to whom they belong, and there will be no
impediment; will there, Leone?"
The water laughed as it hurried over the stones.
"No impediment," it seemed to say; "no impediment, Leone."