HOW IT HAPPENED.
"Mother," said Lord Chandos, "I never knew a month pass as this has
done--the days have wings. It is the sixteenth to-day, and it does not
seem to be twenty-four hours since it was the first."
"That shows, at least, that life has been pleasant to you," said the
countess.
"Yes, it has been very pleasant," he replied, and then he sighed deeply.
"Why do you sigh, Lance? The future can be as pleasant as the past, can
it not?"
He looked up half impatiently.
"I sigh to think that my share in it is all ended. I must be in England
by the end of June."
"Make the most of the time left," said my lady; "there's another week,
at least. Let us go everywhere and see everything. In all probability,
we shall not meet at Nice again."
He had expected contradiction, he had expected his mother to oppose his
desire of returning home, and he was slightly piqued to find that so far
from opposing him, she seemed to fall into the idea as though it were
the most natural one.
"I think," he pursued, "that if I leave here on the twenty-seventh that
will be soon enough."
"Yes," said the countess, quietly. "It is not such a long journey, after
all."
So she would not oppose him, she would not argue with him, but left him
to take his own way. The handsome face grew shadowed, the frank eyes
troubled. It is very hard when a man cannot force any one to contradict
him. He rose from his chair, he walked uneasily up and down the room; he
spoke almost nervously on one or two points and then he said:
"Mother, I suppose you know what I intend doing."
She looked up at him with the blandest smile and the sweetest air.
"Doing, Lance--about the boat to-night, do you mean?"
She purposely affected to misunderstand him.
"The boat?" he repeated. "No, I mean about--my--my--future--my
marriage."
"I cannot say that I know what you intend doing, Lance, but I am quite
sure you will never again have the bad taste to offend your father and
me. I can trust you so far."
He looked still more uncomfortable; he could always manage the countess
better when she was angry than when she was amiable. He stopped abruptly
before her, and looking at her said:
"I must marry Leone, mother, I must."
"Very well, Lance. When you are twenty-one, you can do as you like."
"Oh, mother," cried the young lord, "be more humane, do not be so frigid
and cold; speak to me about it. I am your only son, surely my marriage
is a matter of some importance to you."
There was a passion of entreaty in his voice, and Lady Lanswell looked
kindly at him.
"Certainly your marriage is of more importance than anything else on
earth; but you cannot expect me to look with favor on that tempestuous
young person who ranted at me like a third-rate actress from a traveling
theater; you must excuse me, Lance, but there are limits to human
endurance, and she is beyond mine."
"Mother, let me be happy, let me go and marry her, let me bring her back
here and we shall all be happy together."
"My dear Lance, I should not consider a person of her position a fit
companion for my maid; for myself, I quite declare I shall not oppose
your marriage with the girl--it is quite useless, since you are of age,
to do as you like; but I shall never see you or speak to you again; when
you leave me here for that purpose our good-bye will last beyond death.
Still you understand I do not seek to win you from your purpose, you are
free to do as you will."
The misery on his handsome young face touched her a little, and she had
to remind herself that she was doing all she did for his own good.
"We will not talk any more about it, Lance," she said, kindly; "words
will not alter facts. Did your father tell you what we proposed about
the boat to-night?"
His lips trembled as he tried to answer her.
"I cannot throw off sorrow as you can, mother; I am talking to you about
that which will make the misery or the happiness of my life, and you
think of nothing but a boat."
"Words are so useless, Lance," repeated my lady; "they are but empty
sounds. I am going out to look for some cameos; I think I should like a
set, they are very elegant and _recherche_."
So saying, my lady left the room as though no serious thought occupied
her mind.
Then, for the first time, something like impatience with his fate came
over the young lord, something like impatience with Leone, for whose
love he had so much to suffer. He loved his proud, beautiful mother, who
had, unknown to him, such great influence over him. He could not endure
the thought of life-long separation from her. The glamour of a boy's
first mad love had fallen from him, and he saw things as they were; he
could estimate better than he had done before, what it meant to give up
father, mother and friends all for one love.
He did not recover his spirits all day, but the temptation never once
came near him to break his word or forget Leone. That night, one of the
loveliest that ever dawned on earth, they were all going to a _fete_
given by the Countess Spizia, and one part of the entertainment was that
the beautiful grounds were to be illuminated.
Lord Chandos had never seen his mother look so proud, so brilliant or so
handsome as on that night. She wore a superb dress of green velvet, with
a suit of diamonds worth a king's ransom. Lady Marion wore a dress of
rich lace, with cream color roses and green leaves. The _fete_ was well
attended; a great number of French people and English were there. The
earl had declined. Moonlit gardens and illuminated grounds had not much
attraction for him.
Lord Chandos sat for some little time by his mother's side; he was
enjoying an ice, and as he watched her he felt a sensation of pride in
her beauty--a keen sense of regret that they should ever be parted.
An involuntary cry of admiration came from the countess, and Lord
Chandos looking in the direction where her eyes were fixed, saw Lady
Erskine. Never had the great queen of blondes looked so lovely; the
fine, fairy-like web of costly lace fell in graceful folds around a
figure that stood alone for grace and symmetry. She wore nothing but
green leaves in her golden hair; her arms, bare to the shoulders, were
white, firm, and statuesque. Over her face, when she saw Lord Chandos,
came a beautiful, brilliant flush.
The countess and her son were sitting in one of the pretty _salons_,
where some of the most famous works of art were collected. There was an
exquisite bust of Clytie which attracted much attention; they had been
commenting on it, and Lady Lanswell was saying how much she would like a
copy of it.
"Here comes something more beautiful than Clytie," she said, as Lady
Marion advanced to meet them.
She made room for the young heiress by her side. Lady Marion had
schooled herself well, but her task was no easy one--she was so candid,
so loyal, so true in all her dealings, that the least attempt at
anything savoring of deception was unpleasant to her; still, she would,
of course, do anything to help Lady Lanswell. So she sat down by her
side and talked with her usual gentle grace.
She said, after a time:
"Lady Lanswell, I have a great favor to ask of you. If you do not wish
to go back to England just yet, will you join me? I am trying to
persuade Lady Cambrey to make a tour through Spain."
She drew a long breath of relief when the words were spoken, she was so
thankful to have them said and done with. She mentally resolved that
never would she promise to do anything of this kind again. Lady
Lanswell's calm restored hers.
"To Spain?" repeated the countess. "What a traveler you are, Lady
Marion. What has put Spain into your mind?"
"I have always longed to see the Alhambra," said Lady Marion, with
perfect truth. "As we are so near, it would be a pity to go back without
seeing it."
"I quite agree with you. It may be some years before you come on the
Continent again--you are quite right to go to Spain. And you really wish
us to join your party?"
"Certainly, I should be delighted; it would increase my pleasure a
hundred-fold," replied the young heiress, promptly.
"You are very kind to say so. I will go if you can persuade Lord Chandos
to go with us."
"How can I do that?" she asked, with a smile. "Teach me how to
'persuade,' Lady Lanswell. I have never been able to 'persuade' any
one."
The countess rose from her seat with a light laugh.
"I am afraid that in this case, persuasion, argument, and reason would
be in vain. Lance, take Lady Marion to see the lamps in the almond
trees--they are really very fine."
He took the soft, silken wrapper from her and wrapped it round her
shoulders.
"Let us go and see the lamps," he said, and they went.
Ah, well. The sky above was filled with pale, pure stars; the
almond-trees filled the air with delicate perfume; the nightingales were
singing in the distant trees; great floods of silver moonlight fell over
the grounds, in which the lilies gleamed palely white, and the roses
hung their heavy heads.
They went together to the grove where the lamps shone bright as huge
pearls. The path was a narrow one and he drew the white hand through his
arm. How did it come about? Ah, who shall tell? Perhaps the wind
whispered it, perhaps the nightingales sung about it, perhaps something
in the great white lily leaves suggested it, perhaps the pale, pure
stars looked disapproval; but it happened that the white hand felt the
arm, and was clasped in a warm, strong hand--a clasp such as only love
gives.
Who shall say how it happened? She raised her fair face to his in the
soft, pure moonlight, and said to him:
"Must you really go back to England, Lord Chandos?"
The voice was sweet as music--the face, so fair, so pure, so proud.
"Must you," she added, "really go?"
"Yes, I am compelled to return," he answered slowly.
"Need it be yet?" she said. "I know you must go, but the journey through
Spain will be so pleasant, and we might make a compromise. I will
shorten the journey if you will delay your return."
And before he left the almond grove Lord Chandos had promised to do so,
and as he made the promise he bent down and kissed the white hand lying
in his.