"TELL ME YOUR SECRET."
The sunny summer days at Nice--who can tell of their beauty, the glory
of the sunny blue sky, the glory of the foliage, the sweet, balmy breath
of the wind, which seemed daily to bring with it the perfume from a
hundred new flowers? How did the time pass? No one knew; it was a long
roll of pleasure and gayety. There was pleasure enough in being
out-of-doors; a picnic there was a very simple matter. They heard of a
very beautiful spot, drove there, remained there so long as it suited
them, then went back again. There were, as there always are, some very
nice English people at Nice, but none like fair, sweet Lady Marion.
As the charm of her sweet character grew upon him, Lord Chandos liked
her more and more. He enjoyed her society. She was not witty, she could
not amuse a whole room full of people, she could not create laughter,
she was not the cause of wit in others, nor did talking to her awake the
imagination and arouse all the faculties of one's mind.
Talking to her was rest, grateful as the shade of green trees after the
glare of the summer's sun. The sweet voice, the clear, refined accent,
the gracious and gentle thoughts, the apt quotations, all were something
to remember. She was by no means a genius, but she was well read, and
had the power of remembering what she read, had the gift of making most
of her knowledge. If you wished for an hour's interesting conversation,
there was no one like Lady Marion. She had such curious odds and ends of
information; her reading had been universal. She had some knowledge on
every point. She had her own ideas, too, clearly defined and
straightforward, not liable to vary with every paper she read, and in
these days one learns to be thankful for consistency. On those warm,
lovely, life-giving days, when the sun and sky, earth and air, flower
and tree did their best, it was Lord Chandos who liked to linger under
the vines talking to this fair girl whose very face was a haven of rest.
He never thought of love at all in connection with her, he felt so sure
of the one great fact that he loved his wife; he forgot that there could
be such a thing as danger or temptation. Lady Marion had grown to love
him; it was impossible to help it; he had great and grave faults, as all
men have, but he was so brave and fearless, so gallant and generous, so
kind and chivalrous, no one could help loving him; his faults were
lovable, a fact that was much to be regretted; since, if they had been
disagreeable, he might have been cured of them.
Lady Marion, in her quiet, gentle fashion, had learned to love him. She
appealed to him continually; the reading of a book, the singing of a
song, the arrangement of a day's plans, the choosing of acquaintances,
on each and all of these points she made him her confidant and guide; it
was so gently and so naturally done that he insensibly guided her whole
life without knowing it. What Lord Chandos said or thought was her rule.
It was such a pleasure to guide and advise her, she was so yielding, so
gentle, she took such a pride in obeying him; she would apologize to him
at times and say:
"I told you, Lord Chandos, that I must always have a stronger mind than
my own to lean upon."
He listened to the words with a smile, but it did just occur to him that
she would not have his mind to lean upon much longer, for he must go
home to England to Leone. Once or twice lately he had been much struck
with Lady Marion's manner. She was so gracious, so charming with him.
When he had suddenly entered the room where she was sitting he had seen
the crimson blush that rose over her white neck and brow. He noticed
too, that she had rarely, if ever, raised her eyes to his face until
that blush had passed away, lest they should tell their own secret. And
one day he said to her:
"Why do you never give me a frank, open look, Lady Marion--such as you
gave me always when I knew you first? now you turn your face away, and
your eyes droop. Have I displeased you?"
"No," she replied, gently; "it is not that; you could not displease me."
"Then you are keeping some secret from me," he said, and she smiled a
slow, sweet, half-sad smile that stirred his heart with curious power.
"I have no secret," she said; "or if I have it matters little to any one
but myself."
"Tell me your secret, Lady Marion," he said, with a sigh.
"I will answer you in the words of my favorite poet," she said; "listen,
Lord Chandos."
They were standing under the shade of a clustering vine, the wind that
kissed both fair young faces was full of perfume, the flowers that
bloomed around them were full of sweetest odors, the whisper of the
odorous wind was no sweeter than the voice in which she quoted the
words:
"'Perhaps some languid summer day,
When drowsy birds sing less and less,
And golden fruit is ripening to excess;
If there's not too much wind or too much cloud,
And the warm wind is neither still nor loud,
Perhaps my secret I may say,
Or--you may guess.'"
"What beautiful words," he cried. "It seems to me, Lady Marion, that you
have a whole storehouse full of the most apt and beautiful quotations.
You ought to have been a poet yourself."
"No," she replied, "I can appreciate, but I cannot invent. I can make
the words and the thoughts of a poet my own, but I cannot invent or
create; I have no originality."
"You have what is rarer, still," he cried; "a graceful humility that
raises you higher than any other gift could do."
He spoke so warmly that she looked up in wonder, but Lord Chandos turned
abruptly away; there might be danger if he said more.
So the lovely, leafy month of May ended, and June began. Then Lord
Chandos began to think of home--his birthday was on the thirtieth of
June, and he knew what he had promised for that day. He could see the
pretty, flower-covered window--the roses which must be thrust aside--the
gate he had promised to open; he remembered every detail. Well, it was
all very pretty and very pleasant; but, he could not tell why, the bloom
of the romance was gone, that was quite certain. He had learned to
associate poetry with the pale moonlight and golden hair, with a very
fair face and a soft ripple of sweet speech. Still he intended most
honorably to keep his promise; he took great delight, too, in thinking
of Leone's passionate happiness, of her beautiful face, of the ecstasy
of welcome she would give him. Then, of course, he must marry her; the
very day after that would be the first of July, and, for the first time,
he thought of his coming marriage with a sigh--it would separate him so
entirely from his mother, and from Lady Marion; in all probability he
would never see much of her again. He thought more of her loss than of
his own.
"How she will miss me," he said to himself; "she will have no one to
consult, no one to advise her. I wish we could always be the same good
friends as now."
Then it occurred to him that perhaps, after all, his wife would not care
to know that he was on such confidential terms with any one but herself.
He would have felt far less sure of either his return or his marriage if
he had overheard a slight conversation that took place between his
mother and Lady Marion. The Countess of Lanswell called one day and took
the young heiress out for a drive with her; when they were seated,
driving through scenery so beautiful one could hardly believe it to be a
fallen world, the countess in her sweetest manner, which she knew how to
make quite irresistible, said:
"Lady Marion, I want you to help me to do something, if you will."
"You know I will do anything I can for you, Lady Lanswell," said the
girl, gently; "I could have no greater pleasure."
She did not add, because I love your son, but this was in her mind, and
the countess quite understood it.
She continued:
"You know how I love my dear and only son, how anxious I am for his
welfare, how devoted to his interests."
"I can imagine it all," said Lady Marion, warmly.
The countess went on:
"He has an idea, a quixotic, foolish and most unhappy one, one that if
carried out will mar his life and ruin his prospects, and in the end
break his heart. Now, I want you to help me break off this idea; he
thinks of returning to England in June, and if he does, all hope is
over. He never allows himself to be coerced or persuaded; as to the word
'marriage' it would be a fatal one, but we might, I am sure, influence
him--that is, if you will help me."
"I will do all I can," said Lady Marion, earnestly; her sweet face had
grown very pale.
"He must not go back to England," said the countess: "we must keep him
here until August--how can we do it?"
"Ask him to stay," said the young girl, simply; "that seems the most
straightforward plan."
"Yes, but it would not be of the least use; he must be influenced. Now I
think that he prefers your society to any other; suppose you plan a tour
through Spain, and ask him to go with us."
The pale face flushed.
"I will if you think he would agree," she replied.
"I believe he would; if he seems inclined to refuse, and you are in the
least degree disturbed over it, I believe firmly that he will go. I do
not think that he knows the strength of his own feelings for you. Let us
try it. You can speak to me about it before him, then I will leave you
with him and you can finish your good work."
"He is not likely to be vexed, is he?" asked Lady Marion, timidly.
"Vexed, my dear child, no; he will consider himself highly favored. You
see it is in this way. I cannot show any eagerness for it, and you can.
My son would suspect my motive; he knows yours must be a good one, and
will feel sure that it is liking for his society--you do like it, do you
not, Lady Marion?"
"Yes, I cannot deny it," replied the young girl, "and I will help you
all I can. You do not wish him to return to England in June. I will do
my best to keep him away."
And the question was--would she succeed?