THE PARTING.
They had been talking for more than an hour. He had given her the whole
history of the royal wedding, of what his embassy consisted of, of the
length of time he would be absent, how he should think of her
continually, how he implored her to write to him every day, and she had
given him every detail of her interview with Mr. Sewell and Lady
Lanswell. Then he said to himself that it was time they made some
arrangement over the future.
"So we are to live apart until next June, Leone," he said, gently. "It
is a terrible sentence; but the time will soon pass. Tell me, my
darling, where you would like to live until June comes?"
She looked at him with startled eyes.
"Need I leave home, Lance? Let me live here; I could not fancy any other
place was home. I feel as though if I once left here I should never see
you again."
"My darling, that is all fancy--nothing but fancy. No matter where you
are, my birthday comes on the thirtieth day of June, and on that day I
shall return to you to make you what I have always believed you to
be--my wife."
"I am your wife, Lance; let others say what they will, you will not deny
it."
"Not I, Leone. You are my wife; and the very first day the law permits
you shall bear my name, just as you now share my heart and life."
"On the thirtieth day of June," she sighed. "I shall count every hour,
every minute until then. I wish, Lance, I could sleep a long sleep from
the hour of parting until the hour of meeting--if I could but turn my
face from the light of day and not open my eyes until they rest on you
again. I shall have to live through every hour and every minute, and
they will be torture."
"The time will soon pass, Leone, my darling; it will be full of hope,
not despair. When the green leaves spring and the sunshine warms the
land, you will say to yourself, 'June is coming, and June brings back my
love;' when the lark sings and the wood-pigeons make their nests, when
the hawthorn blooms on the hedges and the lilac rears its tall plumes,
you will say 'June is near.' When the roses laugh and the lilies bloom,
when the brook sings in the wood, when the corn grows ripe in the
meadows, you will say 'June is come, and it brings my love.'"
"My love--oh, my love," sighed the girl, and her voice had the
passionate sweetness of a siren.
"I shall come back to you, Leone, with everything bright, smiling, and
beautiful; every rose that blooms, every bird that sings, every green
leaf that springs will be a message from me to you to say that I am
coming; when the wind whispers, and the trees murmur, it will be the
same story, that I am coming back to my darling. Let us picture the
thirtieth of June, and your mind shall rest on that picture. It will be
a bright day, I know, the sky all blue and clear, not a cloud in it; but
with the half-golden light one sees in June skies. You can see that
picture, Leone?"
"Yes," she replied, drawing nearer him, and resting her head again on
his breast.
"The sun will be low on the hills, and every living thing will be
laughing in its light. The great trees will have grown strong in it, the
flowers will have brightened, and the river there, Leone, will be
running so deep and clear, kissing the green banks and the osier beds,
carrying with it the leaves and flowers that will fall on its bosom, and
the garden will be filled with the flowers we love the best. You see
that picture, too, my love?"
"Yes, I see it," she whispers.
"Wherever I may be," he continued, "I shall so arrange my journey that I
may be with you on the morning of my birthday. You see the pretty white
gate yonder where the tall white roses climb in summer? My darling, rise
early on the thirtieth of June and watch that gate. Even should such an
impossible thing be as that you should never have one word of or from
me, get up and watch that gate on the thirtieth of June. You will see me
enter. I will part the clustering roses; I shall gather the sweetest,
together with the fairest lily that blooms, and bring them to you as
emblems of your own dearest self. You will see me walk down the broad
path there, and you will meet me at the door."
"Oh, my love, my love!" sighed the girl, "would that it were June now."
He bent down to kiss the loving lips.
"It will come," he said; "let me finish the picture. I shall have a
special license with me so that we can be remarried that day; and then
the world shall know who is Lady Chandos. Then my lady mother shall seek
you who have sought her; then she shall ask to know you, my darling, and
this hideous past shall be to us a dream and nothing more. Leone, when
sad thoughts come to you promise me that you will dwell on this side of
the picture and forget the other."
"I promise, Lance," she said, gently.
"You see, my love--whom I shall so soon call again by the beautiful name
of wife--you see that your life does not lie in ruins round you; the
only difference is that I shall be away."
"And that makes the difference of the whole world to me," said Leone.
"And to me," said Lord Chandos; "but it will soon be over, Leone. You
can go on living here--it is no unusual thing for a lady to live alone
while her husband is abroad. You can keep the same servants; you need
not make the least alteration in your life in any way. Only remain here
in silence and patience until I return. Now do you see, my darling, it
is not so dreadful?"
"It is hard enough," she replied; "but you have taken away the sting.
Oh, my darling, you will be true to me? I am only a simple village girl,
with nothing, your mother says, to recommend me; but I love you--I love
you. You will be true to me?"
"My dearest Leone, you may as well ask if the stars will be true to
heaven, or heaven to itself, as ask me if I will be true to you. You are
my life--a man is not false to his own life. You are soul of my soul--no
man betrays his soul! It would be easier for me to die than be false to
you, my love."
The passionate words reassured her--something of hope came over the
beautiful face.
"Lance," she said, "do you remember the mill-wheel and how the water
used to sing the words of the song?"
"Yes, I remember it; but those will never come true over us, Leone,
never. I shall never break my vows or you yours."
"No; yet how the water sung it over and over again:
"'Those vows were all forgotten,
The ring asunder broke.'
I can hear it now, Lance. It seems to me the wind is repeating it."
"It is only your fancy, my darling," he said.
But she went on:
"'I would the grave would hide me,
For there alone is peace.'
Ah, Lance, my love--Lance, will it happen to either of us to find peace
in the grave?"
"No, we shall find peace in life first," he said.
She laid her hand on his arm.
"Lance," she said, "I had a terrible dream last night. I could not sleep
for many hours. When at last my eyes closed I found myself by the old
mill stream. I thought that I had been driven there by some pain too
great for words, and I flung myself into the stream. Oh, Lance, my
love--Lance, I felt myself drowning. I felt my body floating, then
sinking. My hair caught in the bending branches of a tree. The water
filled my eyes and my ears. I died. In my sleep I went through all the
pain of death. My last thought was of you. 'Lance,' I cried, in death as
in life, 'Lance, come back to me in death!' It was a horrible dream, was
it not? Do you think it will ever come true?"
"No," he replied; but his handsome face had grown paler, and the shadows
of deep trouble lay in his eyes.
She raised her face to his again.
"Lance," she asked gently, "do you think that any creature--any one has
ever loved another as well as I love you? I often wonder about it. I see
wives happy and contented, and I wonder if their husbands' smiles make
heaven to them as yours do to me."
"I do not think there are many people capable of loving as you do,
Leone," he replied, "and now, my darling, I must leave you. Leone, spend
all your time in study. A few months more of work as hard as the last
three months, and my beautiful wife will be as accomplished as she is
graceful. Study will help you to pass away the time."
"I will do anything you tell me, Lance. You will let me write to you
every day, and you must write often to me."
"I will, sweet; but you will not be uneasy if my letters are not so
frequent as yours; the foreign post is not so regular as ours; and if we
travel in Germany I may not always be able to write."
"I will trust you," said the loving voice. "I am sure you will never
fail me."
She was proud as an empress, she had the high spirit of a queen; but now
that the moments of parting had come, both failed her. She clung to him,
weeping passionate tears--it was so cruelly hard, for she loved him so
well. Her tears rained on his face, her trembling lips could utter no
words for the bitter sobs. Never was sorrow so great, or despair so
pitiful. She kissed his face with all the passion of her love.
"Good-bye, my love," she sighed. "Oh, Lance, be true to me--my life lies
in yours."
"If ever I prove untrue to you, my darling, let Heaven be false to me,"
he said. "Leone, give me one smile; I cannot go until I have seen one."
She tried. He kissed the white lips and the weeping eyes.
"Good-bye, my beloved," he said. "Think of the thirteenth of June, and
the roses I shall bring back with me."
And then he was gone.