THE NOVELIST.

New Zealand Herald, Volume XVI, Issue 5520, 26 July 1879, Page 3

THE NOVELIST.

A MAD LOT®,

BT BERTHA M. CLAY. Authorew of *' A. Bitter Atonement," "AN amolMs Sin," " Thorn in Her He»rt." &C. CHAPTER XIX. lfonh's prophecy. LEON* followed in silence. She did not even look round the sumptuous house, one day she believed to be hers ; she went to the ereat gates which the man-servant held open as she passed through. The sun h£d set, and the gray, sweet gloaming lay over the land. There was a sound of falling water, and Leone made her wav to it. It was a cascade that fell from from a small, but steep rock. The .sound of the rippling water was to her like the voice of an old friend, the sight of it like tho face of some one whom she loved. She 3at down by it, and it sang to her the same sweet old song : •• A rin(t, in pledge, I s»vo htr. And vow- of I vc we spoke, Those vows are all forgotten, The ring asunder broke." It would not be bo with her, ah no ! If ever the needle was true to the pole, the flowers to the sun, the tides to the moon, the stars to tho hoavens, Lord Chasdos would be true to her. So she believed, and, despite her sorrow, her heart found rest in the belief. No words could do justice to the state of mind to which Lord (Jhandos found himself after that interview at Cawdor. He rushed back to London. Of the three precious days remaining he spent one in hunting after the shrewdest lawyers in town. Each aud all laughed at him —there was the law, plain enough so plain that a child can read and understand it. They smiled at his lovrng, and gaid, half contemptously, they cculd r.ot have imagined any person so ignorant of the law- they sympathized'with him when he spoke of his young wife, but as for help there Wis none. _ . , The only bright side to it was this, he could re-marry her the day he came of age. Of that there was and could be no doubt, he said, but he was bent on finding some loophole, and marrying her at once, if it were realy needful for the ceremony to be performed again. It could not be, and there was nothing for it but to resign himself to the inevitable. He did not know that Leone had heard the terrible sentence, and he dreaded having to tell her. He was worn out with sorrow and emotion. In what words was he to tell her that she was not bis wife in the eyes of the law, and that if Bhe wished to preserve her character unspotted and unstained she must leave him at once? He understood his mother's character too well to dare any delay. He was sure if Leone remained even one day under his roof, when the time came that he should introduce her to the world as his wife, his mother would bring the fact against her, and so prevent her from ever even knowing people. There was no help for it—he must tell her. He wrote a letter telling her would be at River View for luncheon on the following day ; he knew that he must leave the town that evening for the Continent. He would have given the world to have renounced the royal favour, of which he had felt so proud, but he could not. To have done so would have been to have deprived him not only of all position, but to have incurred disgrace. To have refused a favour so loyally bestowed would have been an act of ingratitude which would have deprived him of court favour for life. He must go and when the first pain was over, he said to himself it was, perhaps, the best thing that could have happened. He could not have borne to know that Leone was near him yet not see her or speak to her. It was all for the best, painful as it was. If for these long months they must be parted, it was better'for him to be abroad—he dare not have trusted himself at home. He loved Leone so well that he knew hiß love would have broken down the barriers which the law had placed between them. He would go to River View, and, let it pain him as it it would, he would tell her all, he would leave her as happy as was possible under the circumstances. He would stay away until the time was over; then, the very day he came of age, he would return and remarry her. He laughed to scorn his mother's prophecy. He prove untrue to his darling ! The heavens must fall first. Not for him the mill-wheel story—not for him the broken vows and the broken ring. How happy they would be then, when the time passed, and be could introduce Leone as his beloved wife to the whole world. He would try and think of that time without dwelling more than he conld help on the wretched present. He went home to River View, but the first glance at Leone's face told him she knew all. It was not so much that the beauty had gone from it, that the beautiful eyes were dim with long, passionate weeping, or that the lips trembled as she tri«d to smile. Her whole face had changed so completely ; its tragic intensity, the power of its despair, overmastered him.

Lord Chando3 clasped her in his arms, and' covered the sad yonng face with kisses and "My darling," he said, "you know all; I can see yon know all." The ring of happy music had quite died from her voice—he hardly Tecogaiaed it. "Yes," she answered, " I knowall." "My darling," he cried, "it is not my fault. You will think that I ought to have known it; but I swear to Heaven I never even thought of or suspected it. I would rather have been dead than have put you in x false position, Leone —you know that.*' She laid her fair arms on his neck, and hid her white face on his breast.

"I am snre of it," Bhe said, gently; "I ( have never thought of that. I know that i you intended to make me your wife." j " So yon are my wife, let who will say to i the contrary—so you are, my beloved, revered, 1 honoured wife, Leone. Why, my darling, all the strength has left you ! Look up, Leone. They have done the worst they can s do, and what is it ? They have parted us for i j few months. When the parting is ended, ! we shall be together for life." t She tightened the clasp of her fair arms c round his neck. . . ' " I know; I have faith in you; but it is i so hard to bear, Lance. We were so happy, 1 and you were all the world to me. How i shall I live through the long months to come ? Lance, perhaps you will be angry with me— c I have done something that perhaps you will I not like."- 1 " That would not be possible, Leone. I < must always like everything you do. Why, 1 my darling, how you tremble. Sit down, 1 there in nothing in all the world to fear." " No; let me tell you what I have to say ' with my head here on your breast. You must not be angry with me, Lance. When I had "seen Mr. Sewell I felt that I could not ' bear it, and I went down to Cawdor and saw Lady Lanswell." _ _ J He started with surprise. She raised her faoe to his, longing to see if he were angry, i yet half afraid. 1 " Yon went to Cawdor to see my mother," he repeated. " My darling, it was a strong measure. What did she say or do ?" 1 " Yon ara not angry with me for it, i Lance ?" she asked gently. ' "I angry, my darling? No; a thousand times no. I could never be angry you. Why did you go—for what purpose!" 1 "I went to ask her to have pity on us ; i not to enforce this cruel sentence; to be pitiful to me, because I love you so dearly." ; "And her answer 1" asked Lord Chandos, eagerly. "Her answer was everything that was cruel and wicked. Ah ! forgive me, Lance. She is your mother, I know, but she has taken into her crnel hands a Divine power. She has parted us, and I prayed her to be merciful. I told her how dearly we loved each other, but she had no pity, no mercy —no woman's kindness, no sympathy. She was cold, crnel, proud, haughty. She insulted, humiliated, and outraged me. She refused to hear one word, and when I left her I swore to be revenged on her." The slender form trembled with passion. He drew her even more closely to hia breast. " My darling, you need not think of vengeance," he said. " I am grieved that my mother "was unkind to you. Had you consulted me, I should most certainly have said go. Mind, I am not angry or annoyeO, only so far as this, that I would not have yon. irritated for the world. A must Bay I had always felt that if my could see J7OU our c&UBe was won. X did not believe (ihat any creature living could resist that Taoe." She looked up at him with unutterable love. "Do you really care io much for it, Lance? Have you never seen a face you like as well ?" " No, and never shall see one, my darling; when we are parted it will live in my heart bricht and fair until we meet again." Then the tender anna dung more tightly '""Must we be parted,lajoe V> .he whiipered. " We were married, in the Bight of

Heaven—must we leave each other T Oh, Lance, it cannot be true • no one can »ay that I am not your wife." Quietly and calmly trying to command himself, he told her then how inevitable it was that they mnst submit to the voice of the law during the next few months, so as to insure their future happiness and fair name. And then ho told her of the favour conferred upon him, and how he was compelled to accept it or never to hope for court favour again. She listened with a faoe that seemed turned to stone. Slowly the tender arms unwound themselves and fell by her side ; slowly the beautiful eyes filled with despair. He tried to console her.

"You see, my darling," he said, "that in any case we must have parted; though this appointment is a mark of royal regard, still it is imperative. I could not have refused it without ruin to my future career, and I could not have taken you with me, so that for a time we must have parted."

"I see," she said, gently; but her hands fell, and a shudder that she could not control passed over her.

" Leone," said Lord Chandos, l( we have not long to be together, and we have much to arrange. Tell me, first, what you thought of my mother ?" " She is very beautiful, very proud, and very haughty, cold, and cruel — if not wicked," said the young girl, slowly. "That is not very flattering," said Lord Chandos.

"I could have loved and worshipped her if she had been kind to me," said Leone; " but she was cruel, and some time or other I shall have my revenge." He looked gravely at her. "I do not like to hear that, my darling. How can you be revenged ?" A light came over her face. "I do not know. I have a prophetic insight at times into the future. As I stand here, I know the time will come when your mother will weep to me as bitterly as I wept to her, and just as much in vain." " I hope not," he answered. t( All will be well for us, Leone. But, revenge, my darling, is a horrible word, and does not suit those sweet lips at all. Let me kiss away the sound of it."

He bent his handsome head and kissed her lips, with love that seemed stronger than death, and true as eternity.

CHAPTER XX, THE PAHTIXO.

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 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 ber interview with Mr. Sewell and Lady Lanswell. Then he said to himself it was high time they made some arrangement over the future. "So we are to live apart until next June, Leone," he said, gently. "Itis a terrible sentence, but the time will soon pass. Tell me, my darling, where would you like to live until June comes t" 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 shonld never Bee you again." "My darling, this is all fancy—nothing but fancy. No matter where you are, my birthday comes on the thirtieth of June, and on that day I shall return to you, to make you what I have always believed you to be —my wife." "If 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 share my heart and life." " On the thirtieth 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 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 all be torture." i " The time will soon pass, Leene, my

" On the thirtieth 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 turn my face from the light o£ day and not open my eyes until they rest on you again. I shall have to live through every hour and every minute, and thej will all be torture." " The time will soon pass, Leene, 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, yoti will say, 'June is nearwhen the rosea laugh and the lilies bloom, when the brooks sing in the woods, and the corn grows ripe in the meadows, you will say, ' June has 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 I that 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 day 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 clond on it, but with the half-golden light one sees in Jnne skies. You can see that picture, Leone?" " "5c es," she replied, drawing nearer to 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 boaom, and the garden there will be filled with the flowers we love best. You see that picture, too, my love ?"

" Yes, I see it," she whispers. " Wherever.l may be," ha continued, "1 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 roses climb in the summer. My darling, rise early on the thirtieth of June, and watch that gate. Even shduld 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 shall part the clustering roses ; I shall gather the sweetest, together with the fairest lily that bloomß, and bring them to you as emblems of your own dearest self. sfou 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 and kissed the loving lips. "It will come," he said. " Let me finish the picture. I Bhall have a special license with me, so that we may be re-married on that day, and then the world shall know who is Lady Chandos. Then my lady mother Bhall seek you who have sought her ; then she shall ask to know you, my darling ; and this hideons past shall be to us a dream, nothing more. Leoue, 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 Bee, my love—whom I shall so soon call again by the beautiful name of wife—you see that your life doeß not lie in ruins around 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, 11 said Lord Chandos ; " but it will eoon be over, Leone. You can go on living here ; it is no unusual thing for a lady to live alone when her husband ia abroad. You can keep the same servants; you need not make the least alteration in your life in any way. Only remain here in silenoe 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 ? lam only a simple village girl, with nothing, your mother says, to rec«mmend me; but I love you—l love you 1 You will be true to me 1" " My dearest Leone, yau may as well aßk 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 own soul. It would be easier for me to die than to be false to you, my love 1"

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 siag the words of the song ?" "Yes, r remember it; but those words will never come true over üb—never, Leone 1 I shall never bret& my vows, nor you yours." " No ; yet how the water snng it, over and over again—

•ThoseTOWSaroall 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," ho 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 Bhall 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, 1 found myself by the old mill stream. 1. thought that I had been driven there by some pain too great for words, and X flung myself into the stream. Oh, Lance, my love—Lance 1 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. 'Lanoe,' 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 eyes to his again. "Lance," she asked, gently, "do you think that any one —any creature has ever loved another so well a> I love you 7 lof ben wonder about it. I see wives happy and contented, and I wonder if their husbands' smile makes heaven to them as yours does 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 aB 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 yon 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 iu Germany I may not always be able to write."

"1 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 tho moments of parting had come, both failed her. She clung to him, weeping passionate tears— it was so cruelly hard, for Bhe loved him so well. Her tears rained on his faoe, her trembling lips could utter no words for the bitter sobs. Never was sorrow so great, or • despair so pitful. She kissed his face with all the passion of her love. " Good-by, my love 1" 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—l cannot go until I have seen one." She tried. He kissed the white lips and the weeping eyes. "Good-by, my beloved," he said. " Think of the thirtieth of June, and the roses I shall bring back with me." And then he was gone. CHAPTER XXI. WAITING FOR THE DAY, How the days of that dreary autumn S passed, Leone never knew; the keenest smart of the pain came afterward. At first Bhe was too utterly stunned and bewildered by the suddeness of the blow to realize what had happened. It was impossible to believe that her marriage had been set aside, and that her husband, as she called him, had gone away; but, as the days rolled on, she slowly but surely realized it. There was no break in the terrible monotony. The voice that made such music in her ears was silent, the footstep that made her heart beat, and her pulse thrill, was heard no more ; the handsome face, always brightensd with most tender love for her, no longer brought sunshine and warmth; it was as though the very light had gone out of her life, and left it all bleak, dark, and cold. I

For some dayß the proud heart, the proud unyielding Bpirit gave way, and she longed for death ; life without Lance seemed so utterly unbearable. Then youth and a naturally strong constitution triumphed. She began to think how much she could learn, so as to surprise him on his return. Her soul was tired with ambition ; in a few months she could achieve wonders. She set herself so much; she would become proficient on the piano and the harp ; she would improve her siuging; Bhe would practice drawing ; ahe would take lessons in French and Italian.

" 1 can learn if I will," she said to herself. " I feel power without limit in myself. If I fix my own will on attaining a certain object 1 shall not fail. Lance shall find an accomplished wife when, he returns." She resolved to give her whole time and attention to it. Thanks to the old books in Farmer .Noel's house, she was better read than tho generality of ladies. No toil, no trouble daunted her. She rose ia the morning loug hours before the rest of the family were awake, and she read for hours after they were asleep. Tho masters who attended her, not knowing her motive, wondered at her marvellous industry. They wondered tGO, at the great gifts nature had bestowed on her, at the grand voice, capable of such magnificent cultivation, at the superb dramatic instinct which raised hor so completely above the commonplace ; at the natural grace, the beauty of face and attitude, the love of the beautiful and picturesque. They wondered why so many great gifts, such remarkable beauty and talent should have been lavished upon one creature. They strove with her the more she learned the more they tried to teach her, the harder she worked the harder they worked with her. As the weeks passed on her progress was wonderful. She was often amazed at herself. It was so sweet to study for his sake, to rise in the early morning and work for him.

She watched with the keenness of love and hope the last leaves fall from the trees—she watched with the keen avidity of love for the white snow and the wail of wintry winds, for the long dark nights and grey cold dawn, Each one brought her nearer and nearer, every day was a pain passed and a near joy. Welcome to the nipping frost and the northern winds ; welcome the hail, the rain, the aloet— : it brought him nearer. How she prayed for him with the loving simplicity of a child. If Heafen would but spare him, would save him from all dangers, would send, him sunny skies aud favourable winds, would work miracles in his behalf, would avert all accident by rail and road, would bring him back to h*r longiiig, loving arms—ah, if the kind, dear Heaven would do this 1 When she went out for her daily walks Bhe met the poor, the wretched—she would give liberal alms, and when they said :

" God bless your bonnie face, my lady;" she would say, " No, not mine ; ask Him to bless some one else—some one whom 1 love, and who in far away." It seemed to her the turning point of a lifetime when Chiiatmaa Day was paßsed. Now for the glad new year which was to bring him back to her ! The first days of tho year were months to her. This year was to bring her love, her marriage, her husband—all, blessed new year. When the bells chimed on the first day she went to church, and, kneeling with those true of heart and simple of faith as herself, she prayed the new year might bring him home. It waß pitiful to see how the one precious hour of the day was the hour in which she wrote to him those long loviDg letters that were in themselves poems. He wrote, but not so often ; and she saw from the newspaper reports of all that he did and where he went.

She will never forget the day on which she saw the first snow-drop. It was like a message from him—a lovely, modest flower, raising its white head as though it would say to her, "No more tears ; he is coming." She went into a very ecstasy of delight then. • Golden primroses and pale cowslips came, the sweet violets bloomed, the green leaves budded, the birds began to sing—it was spring, delicate, beautilul spring, and in June he would come.

She wai almost ready for him. It was April now, and she had worked without intermission. She loved to think of his pleasure when he should find her so improved. She delighted in picturing what he would say, and bow ho would reward her with kisses and caresiies —how he wonld praise her for her effort!!, how proud even he wonld be of her.

" I want yon to tell me the exact truth," she said one day to one of the masters. " I will tell any truth that you wish to hear," he said. " I want you to tell me this. If you met me anywhere, and did not know that in my youth I had received-no training, should you from anything in my manner find it out 7" "No," he replied, frankly ; "Iwoulddefy any one to know that you have not been born the daughter of a duke. Permit me to say, and believe that I am sincere, your manner and conversation are perfection." She wail happy after that; people would not; be able to laugh at him and say | he had married a loW;bom wlfe.BShe would

bo equal to any lady; in the land when she waa Lady Chandos.

The spring was giving place to the laughing, golden-hued summer. He had gone ta Italy ; hii parents were there ; they had been spending the spring in Borne, and he had joined them. Nothing, Leone thought, could be more natural. His letters from Italy were not so frequent or so long, but that was no matter ; he had leaa time, perhaps, and being with his parents, not so much opportunity. Her faith in him never lessened, never faltered, never wavered. True, she wondered at times why he had gone to his parents, why he had joined them, after the cruel way in which they had behaved. She could not quite understand.

It seemed to her at times almost like disrespect to her that he should associate with them until they had apologized to her, and made amends for the wrong done; bat then, she said to herself) he kDew best, all he did was well done, and there was nothing to fear.

Then May came ; so short the time was growing. Everything he had spoken of was here—the green leaves, the singing birds, the soaring lark, the cooing woodpigeon. Only a few more weeks now ; and the girl grew more beautiful every day as her hope grew nearer its fulfilment.

She was much struck by a conversation she had one day with Signor Corli, her singiugmaster. She bad sung, to his delight and satisfaction, one of the most difficult and beautiful cavatinas from " Dar Freischutz," and he marvelled at her wonderful voice and execution.

" It is ten thousand pities," he said, " that you have a position which forbids you to think of the stage."

She laughed at the time. " The stage !" she repeated. " Why, ■ignor J" "Because you have the genius which would make you the finest singer in the world," ke replied; " you would be the very queen of song. I repeat it, it is ten thousand pities you have been placed in such a position the stage could never attract you."

"No, it certainly will not," she said, " but do you think I have really talent for it, signor ?" "No, not talent," ho replied, "but genius. Once in every hundred years such a. one is given to the world. If you went on the stage, X venture to prophesy you would drive the world mad." She laughed. " It is just as well, then, that the world is saved from madness," Bhe said. "It is not well for the world of art," said Signor Corli. She smiled after he had gone, half-flattered by his words, yet half-amazed. Could what he said be true ? Was this dramatit power, as he called it, the power she had felt within herself which made her different to others * Then she laughed again. What did it matter to her ?— her life would be spent under the shelter of her husband's lore—the husband who was to claim her in June. '

CHAPTER XXir. THE RECONCILIATION. Those few months had been filled with excitement for Lord Chandos. The pain he had felt at leaving his wife had been so great and hard to bear, but life differs so greatly for men and women. Women must sit at home and weep. For them oomes no great field of action, no stir of battle, no rush of fight; their sorrow weighs them down because they have nothing to shake it off. With men it is so different; they rußh into action and so forget it. Leone was for some days prostrate with the pains of her sorrow. Lord Chandos suffered acutely for a few hours; then came the excitement of his journey, the whirl of travel and adventure, the thousand sources of interest and pleasure. He was compelled to take his thoughts from Leone. He had a hundred other interests ; not that he loved or cared for her less, but that he was compelled to give biß attention to the duties intrusted to him. He was compelled to set his sorrow aside. " I must work now," he said to himself ; "I shall have time to think afterward." He would have time to look his sorrow in the face—now it must stand aside.

When he really brought himself faoe to face with the world it was impossible to help feeling flattered by the position he held. Every one congratulated him. "Youj start to-morrow," one would say. " Glad to bear you have been chosen," said another. One prophesied continual court favour. Another that he would receive great honours. Every one seemed to consider him quite a favourite of fortune. No one even ever so faintly alluded to his marriage, to the lawsuit, or the decision. He wasjdivided between gratitude for the relief and irritation that what had been of such moment to him had been nothing to others. Yet it was a relief to find his darling's name held sacred. He had dreaded to hear about it—to have the matter discussed in any way or shape ; but it seemed as though the world had formed one grand conspiracy not to mention it.

Then came the excitement of travelling. His companion, Lord Dunferline, one of the most famous statesmen and noblest peers in England, was some years older than himself. He was a keen, Bhrewd, clever man, full of practical knowledge and common sense; he was the best friend who could have been chosen for the young lord, and Lady Lanswell congratulated herself on that as a magnificent piece of business. Lord Dunferline had not an iota of sentiment in his whole composition ; hia idea was that people come into this world to make the very best use they can of it—to increase in wealth, prosperity, and fortune ; he believed in buying well, selling well, doing everything well, making the best use of life while it is ours to enjoy ; he believed in always being comfortable, bright, cheery ; he knew nothing of . trouble; sickness, poverty, loss of friends, were all unknown evils to him; he had led a prosperous, busy, happy life. He was one on whom no honour was ever lost, wasted, or thrown away. He made the most of everything; he was rigid in the observance of etiquette, and exacted the utmost deference in his turn. He talked ao long and so grandly of the honour conferred upon them both that at last Lord Chandoß began to find the importance of it too.

The marriage was to take place at Berlin, and they were received with something like royal honours. Society opened its arms to them ; the elite of Berlin vied with each other in giving fetes of all kinds to the English nobleman who represented the English queen.

Still Lord Chandos made time for his letters ; he would rather have gone without food than have missed that daily letter from Leone ; he wrote to her as often as possible, and hiß letters would have satisfied ev6n the most loving and sensitive heart. He told her how he loved her, how he missed her, how empty the world seemed, in Bpite of all its grandeur, because she was not near him— words that comforted her when she read them. Were they trne or false T Who shall tell?

Then, when the wedding festivities were held, it was not possible for him to write often, his time waß so fully occupied. He wrote one sentence that consoled her, and it was this—that although he waß surrounded by some of the loveliest women in Europe, there was not a face or figure which could compare with hers. How she kitaed the words as she read them, and believed them as women do the written words of the men they love.

It was such a different world this in which he lived now. It was all a blaze of colour and brightness, a blaze of jewels, a scene of regal Bplendour and ever-changing gaiety. There was no time for thought of reflection, Lord Chandos was always either being feted or feting others.

The few hasty words dashed off home said but little—it was a different world, if ever at night he found himself under the light of the stars, if he heard the ripple of water, if be Btood for a moment to watch the swaying of green boughs, his thoughts at once flew to her—the happy, simple home-life at Richmond was like some quiet, beautiful dream, the very memory of which gives rest. He found himself at timeß wondering how he had liked it so well, it was Buch a contrast to the feted courtier's life he led now; he thought of its calm as one thinks of a far-off summer lake.

There had been no flash of jewels, no sheen of cloth-of-gold there, no grand uniforms, no thrones, no crowns, no kings or queens—Leone and himself; yet how happy they had been. How he loved her, and his young heart warmed with his love.

What would the world say when she came forth in her imperial loveliness ? —he liked to think about it. There were many handsome women and beautiful girls, but nono to compare to her—not one.

He had intended to love her always with the eame warmth and truth ; he had meant to be constant to her as the needle to the pole. He believed himself to be so, bat insensibly the new life changed him —the gay, bright, glistening world influenoed him. After a time—even though ho lovad her just the same—after m time bin thoughts

ceased to dwell with such fervent interest on the pretty, simple home. . After a time he began to feel bis old keen sense of pleasure in all'that the world had of the beautiful and bright—lie began to feel an eager interest in its nonoro and titles.

''I have been lotas-eating," he said to himself. " There is nothing for it bat to rouse .myself." -

In a short time he became very popular in Borlin. The young English noble, Lord Chandos, was as popular as any young sovereign, and there was little need to hurry home.

He went one evening to a very select ball given by the wife of the English ambassador, Lady Baden. She smiled when she saw him.

"I have a surprise for you," she said, warmly. " I have what I know to be a most charming surprise. Will you go to the little salon, the third on the left. The door is closed—open it, and you will see what you will see."

Lord Chandos bowed, and went in the direction she indicated. He did not expect to s«e anything particular, but he respected the capricoß of la grandes dames. He opened the door carelessly enough, but started back in wonder and amazement. There stood his mother and father; his mother's handsome face pale with anxiety, her jewelled arms outstretched, her fine eyes full of love 1 " Lance," she said, "my dear son, how good it is to see you again 1" With the cautious avoidance of anything like a scene that distinguishes the Englishman, Lord Chandos turned first and carefully closed the door. Then the earl spoke— " My dear boy," he said, " I am so pleased to see you !" But there was no response for either on the face oftheir son. He bowed coldly, and his mother's arms fell by her side. " This ia a surprise, indeed," he said. " 1 should have thought some little notice more agreeable." " Lance, you may say what you will to me,"cried the earl; " but remember—not one word to your mother." " My mother was very cruel to me," he said, coldly, turning from her. But my lady had recovered herself. She held out her hands with charming grace ; she looked at her son with a charming smile.

"My denreat Lance," she said, " children call the physician who cuts off a diseased limb cruel, yet he is most merciful. lam even more merciful than he. I did what I did in the spirit of truest kindness to you, my son." " Let there be no mention of the word kindness between us," he said. " Vou nearly broke the heart, and certainly nearly ruined the life of the girl whom I loved. Mother, if that l)B what you call kindness, then I do not understand the English tongue." "I did it for your sake, my dearest Lance," said my lady, caressingly. "One would have thought that, knowing I loved the girl with all my heart, for my sake yon would have loved her also." "Love plays but a'poor part in life, Lance," said the Counteas of Lanswell. '' Vou have too much sense to mar one of the brightest futures a man could have before him for the sake of sentimental nonsense called love."

"Mother," said the young lord, "I shall marry her on my twenty-first birthday—l shall not delay one hour. You understand that clearly ?" The Countess of Lansmere Bhrugged her graoeful shoulders. "You will certainly be able to do as you like then," she said; "but we need not quarrel over it in the perspective—we can wait until the event happens; then it will be quite time enough to discuss what we shall do."

"I am quite resolved," said Lord Chandos; "no persuasion, no argument, shall induce me to change." " I have no arguments to use," said my lady, with a proud laugh. " When you «i**e of age you shall do as you like, marry whom you will—no interference of mine will avail; but let us wait until the time comes. My object in coming here is to seek a reconciliation with you. You are our ouly son, and though you think me proud and cold, I still love you. Let us be friends, Lance —at least until you are of age." She held out her hands again, with a smile that he could not resist.

"I tell you fraDkly," continued my lady, " that the young person has been to see ma. We had quito a melo-dramatic interview. I do not wish to vex you, Lance, but she would make a capital fifth-rate actress for a tragedy in a barn." " Come, my lady, that is too bad," said the earl.: The countess laughed. " It. was really sensational," Bhe said. "The conclusion of the interview was a very solemn threat on her part that she would be revenged upon me, so that I must be prepared for war; But, Lance, let it be as it may, we must be friends. You will not refuse your own mother when she asks a favour —and it is the firat favour, mind." 11 1 cannot refuse," he replied. " I will be friends, -as you phrase it, mother ; but you must change your opinion about Leone. " Another time," paid my lady, with a wave of the hand. " Kiss me now. Lance, and bo friends. Shake hands with your father. We are staying at the Hotel France. When the ball is over, join us atsrpper." And in that' way the solemn reconciliation was effeoted'.'!

CHAPTER XXIII. A SHREWD SCHEME. There had been nothing very sentimental in the reconciliation scene between parents and ; son# Tho t Earl and. Lord , Chandos walked home through the quiet streets of Berlin while my lady drove. They smoked the cigar of peace,, while Lord Chandos reported his social' triumphs to his father. No moro passed'between them on the moat important of all subjects—his love, his marriage, and the: lawsuit;'they Bpoke of anything and everything else. The only words which wenfcj from the heart of the father to the heart <)£ the son were these :— " I am glad you have made friends with my lady, Lance. She. has pined after you ; and she is so proud; She says nothing, but I know that she has felkthe separation from you moßt keenly. lam glad it is all right. You must not vex her again, Lance." I "I will not, if I can help it, father," I replied the young lord,'ah dso the conversation ended. r "'

Lord Chandos was a clever man, but he was in the hands of - a-far more clever woman. When a woma'n haa the gift of strategy she excels in it, and the countess added this to lier other,, accomplishments. She was a magnificent Her manoeuvres were of tho finest; quite beyond the power of any one less,gifted to detect. A man, in her Bkilful was a toy, to be played with as ahe would. The strongest, the wisest, the honest, the best, was but as war in her hands. She did justjas she would with them, and It was so cleverly done, bo skilfully managed, that they never had the faintest idea my lady was twining them round her little linger. She had two modes of strategy. One was by grand moves — one alone of which waß enough to carry a nation. The other means was by a series of the finest possible details of intrigue, '' She said to herself that her eo'n'a marriage with this person should be set aaidein some fashion or other, and, in the end, she prevailed. That was by one grand move. She was equally resolved that her son should marry Lady Marion Erskine, the beauty, belle, and wealthiest heiress of the season, and by a series of fine, well-directed manoauvres, she was determined to accomplish that.

The fates were propitious to her. (Lady Marion Erskine was the niece and .ward of Lady Cambrey, and Lady Cambrey,'. though guardian of one of the wealthiest heiresses in Europe, was herself poor and almost needy. She was a distant relative of Lady Marion's mother, who had asked her to undertake the charge of her child, and .Lady Cambrey had only been too pleased to l undertake it. It was arranged that she should remain with Lady Marion Erskine until .her marriage, and Lady Cambrey was wise enough to know that she must find hor fnture fortune from the marriage. She must usa all her influence in favour of the loyer, who offered her the greatest advantage)?,"; and Lady Lanswell was the only woman in' England who had the wit to find it out. ' '

That was the darling wish of her life, that' her son should marry Lady Marion Erskine,, the belle, beanty and heiress; and she saw the,beginning of her tactics from this fact,' that Lady Cambrey's influence would go with' the most munificent lover.

They had one interview in London. The Countess of Lanswell invited Lady Cambrey to a cozy five o'clock tea. 'f We have hardly met this year," said the countess. " We are staying in London for a. week or two; though it ia quite out of due aeaaon, and I am 10 pleased to see you. Is Ladv Erskine in town ?" . f So ; I merely oame up to give for the re-decoration of ; Erslune House. Ladv Marion ia tired of it »o J® 18 ■ "i: call it a apeoial providence that yon £S£U7 ''Iwhen X

heard of it. There is nothing I enjoy more than a cup of tea and a chat with a congenial friend."

This- from the countess, to whom champagne and politics were baby-play, was refreshing. Lady Cambrey was delighted; and before long the two ladies had opened their hearts to each other. The countess, in the most ingenuous manner possible, told her friend the sad history of her dear boy's entanglement and infatuation; how, in his simplicity, he had positively married the girl, and bow fortunately the law had freed him.

" Ton know, my dear Lady Cambrey," she said, " it might have been his ruin, but now, thank Heaven," she added, piously, " it is all over, and my boy is free. I have looked all round England to find a suitable wife for him, and there is no one 1 should like him to marry half so well as Lady Marion Erskine. You see that I Bhcw you the cards in my hand very freely." "It would be a very good match," said Lady Cambrey, thoughtfully. "If you will use your influence, you will not find me ungrateful," continued the countess, "indeed I should consider myßelf bound to assist yon in every way—my home, carriages, purse, would always be at your service." " You are very kind," Baid Lady Cambrey, and in those few words they perfectly understood each other. ■ \ The mother knew thatWe had virtually sold the honour and loyalty of her son, as La<ly Cambrey bad sold the free will of her niece. They then enjoyed a cup of tsa, after wh : ich the lady became more confidential. " Promise," she said, "to persuade Lady Marion to spend the winter in Rome, and I shall be quite content." " She will do it if I advise it," said Lady Cambrey. " She is very docile." " We can decide upon our pi ins of action when we meet there," said the countesß. "The chief thing ia to keep ail idea of ' our idea' from my son. Instead of drawing his attention to Lady Marion, we must seem to avoid bringing them together. I understand men. The first result of that will be an intense anxiety on his part to see her. Do you understand J"

" Quite," said Lady Cambrey. "It is realiy a pleasure to meet anyone who understands human nature as well as you do, Lady Lanswell."

The countess smiled graciously at the compliment, feeling that it was, indeed, well deserved.

So it was and Lady Cambrey's part of the plat .was *■ very easy. She had but to suggest ±6 her- nieee that) she should spend the wmter'in\Komo,~ - and she would at once fall in with her wish'.

Lady LanSweil had settled in her own mind the plaq of t.he whole campaign. She intended to go toXßerlin, there to seek a re-conciLiatiou-with her sf>n}- and persuade him to go to Rome with them. \ She managed it all so well, sayiDg-nothing at first of their intended journey, but making herself very agreeable to her son. She brought to him all the flattering things said of him. She studied every little whim, or wish, or caprice. She put him on a pedestal and made an idol of him. ■ She was all that was gay, pleasant, amiable, and kind. She made herself not only his. friend and companion, but everything else in. the world to him. She was gay, gracious, amiable, witty. With her Btill beautiful face and fine figuse she made herself .so attractive and charming that Lord Chandos was soon entirely under her influence.

How many mothers might have taken a hint for the management of their sons from her. She found no fault with cigars aud latch-keys.,. She wasjtbe essence of all that was kind, yet at. the' same time she was so animated, anil so l witty that the time spent with her passed quickly as a dream. Lord Chandos did not even like to think of parting from her; and then, when she was most kind and most attentive to him, she mentioned Home. "We are going to Rome, Lance, for the winter," said the countess to her son. He looked up from the papei' he was reading in blank amazement. "To Rome, mother ! Why, what is taking you th(;re ?" . "I find v tbeVefjwilt be\some very nice English people" there," Bhe said. "I am tired of Paris ; it is one eternal glare ; I long for the mysterious quiet and the dreamy silence of JRome. It will be a pleasant change. I really like » nice circle of English people out of England." That was the beginning. She was too wise and diplomatic to ask him to go with them. She contented herself by speaking before him of the gaiotiea they expected, the pleasure they anticipated ; then one day, as they were discussing their plans, she turned to him and said :

"Lance, what do you'intend doing this winter ? .Are you going bade to'Englaud to think over the fogs ?" . " I am not quite sure," he said ; and then he wondered why she said nothing about him going to Rome with them. At last, when she saw the time had come, she said carelessly : ' \ " Lance, it you do not care about returning to England, come with us to Home." " I Bhall be delighted." He lookeiup with an air of relief. After all, he could not Bee Leane until the summer ; why return to England and melancholy 1 He might just as well enjoy himself in Home. He knew what select and brilliant circles his mother drew around her. Better, for him to be the centre of one of those, than alone arid solitary in England. 1 f of course," said the countess, diplomatically, " I will not urge yon, I leave it entirely to you. If you think what the fashion of the day calls your duties demand that you should return, do not let me detain you, even for one day;" "I have no particular duties," he said, half gleomily. He would have liked his mother to have insisted on his goinp, to have j been more imperative ; but bb she left it so entirely to him he thought her indifferent over the matter.

He was a true man. If Bhe had pressed him to go, urged him, tried to persuade him, he would have gone back to England, and the tragedy of after years would never have | happened. As it occurred to him that his j mother simply gave him the invitation out of | politeness, and did not care whether he accepted it or not, he decided on going. So, when the festivities of Berlin were all ended, he wrote to Leone, saying that he was going to spend the winter with his parents in Home, that if he could not spend it with her it mattered little enough to him where it was; but that he was longing with all his heart for the thirtieth of June.

CHAPTER XXIV. IN THE HANDS OF A CLEVER WOMAN. " In Eotne," 'said Lady Marion Erskine to her cousin,. " how strange it seems to be really here. Do you know that when I was a little girl, and learned Roman history, I always thought it a grand fable. I never believed such a. place really existed. Rome is a link between the old world and the new." " Yes," replied Lady Cambrey; "it is quite true,.my dear." She had-no notion, even ever so vague, of what her beautiful young kinswoman meant. Lady Oainbrey was not "given, to the cultivation of ideas, but she was always most amiably disposed to please Lady Marion. It was something Very delightful to be the chaperons of a beautiful young heiress like Lady Erskine, and she was always delighted to agree with' Lady Marion's words, opinions, and ideas..... Lady Marion was submissive and gentle by nature. She was one of the class of women born to' be rilled and not to rule. She could, .never govern, but she could obey. She could never coramand, but she could carry out the wishes'of others to the last letter. : Lady Cambrey, from motives of her own, wanted her to go to Rome. She had managed it without the least trouble. "Marion,"she said, "have you decided where to spend the winter ?" " No," "was the quiet reply. ' " I'have not thought much'about it,"Aunt Jane; have you T" Tho words were so sweetly and placidly spoken. " Yes, I have thought a great deal about it. I hear that a- great many very nice English people have gone to Rome. They Bay that there will be one of the nicest circles in Europe there." "In Rome ?" eaid Lady Marion, musingly. " Do I know many of those who are going ? " Yea ; some of our own set. One of the great Roman princes, Dorio, has just married a beautiful English girl, so that for this year at least the English will be aU the rage m Koine. I should like to go there. I know ? bme of the JDorio. family, bat not the one you would like it wo will go thdrs," eaid" Lady. Manon. "X shall be Ladv Jane Cambrey, settled in Rome for the winter They took a beautifully-furnished villa, called "The Villa Borgazi," near to

some famous gardens* Lady Cambrey took care that, while she revelled in Italian luxuries, no English comfort Bhould be wanting —the Villa Borgazi soon bad in it all the comforts of an English home. She came home one morning, after many hours of shopping, with a look of some importance on her face.

"Marion," she said, "I have heard that the Lanswells are here. I am very pleased. I thought of calliDg this afternoon —if you are tired, I will go alone." And from the tone of her voice, rather than her words, Lady Marion fancied that she would prefer to pay her visit alone. " You remember the Countess of Lwswell? —she was la grande dame far excellence in London last season. She admired you very much, if yen recollect."

, "I remember her," said Lady Marion; then, with some interest, she added : "it was her son, I.ord Chandos, who got himßelf into such difficulties, was it not ?" Lady Cambrey was slightly taken by surprise ; her ward had always shown such a decided distaste for gossip of all kinds, that she trusted she had never even heard of this little escapade. However, Lady Marion's question must be answered. She shook her head gravely.

" It was not hia fault, poor boy," she said ; "his mother has told me all about it—l am very sorry for him."

" Why does he deserve so much pity ?" she asked.

And Lidy Cambrey answered : ' 1 He was but a boy at the time, and Bhe— this person, a dairymaid, I believe —took advantage of his generosity, and cither persuaded him to marry her or wrung trom hiin some promise of marriage when he should be of age."

" 1 thought," said straightforward Lady Marion, "that he was married, and his parents had petitioned that the mariage be considered null and void, as he was under age."

"I think, my dear," said the diplomatic aunt, " that it would be as well not to mention this. Two things are certain, if Lord Chandos had been properly married his marriage could never have been set aside; the other is, that the countess can never endure the mention of her son's misfortune."

"Do you know Lord Chandos?" asked Lady Marion, after a time.

"Yes, I kgow him, and I consider him one of the most charming men I have ever met, a perfeot cavalier and chivalrous gentleman."

" That is high praise,* said Lady Marion, thoughtfully.

"1 know ol none Higher," said her aant, and then with ber usual tact changed the subjeot ; but ihore than Once that day Lady Marion thought of the man who was a cavalier and a gentleman.

Meanwhile the time passed pleasantly for the countess and her son. They were staying at the grand palace of the Falconis— once the home of princes, but now let by the year to the highest bidder. Lady Lanswell took good care that her son should be well amused; every morning a delicious little sketch of a day's amusement was placed before him ; the oountess laid herself out to please him, as man had never been pleased before.

The conntess saw that he received letters from England continually. She was above all vulgar intrigue, or she might have destroyed more than half which came without his seeing them ; she would not do that, the war she carried into the enemy's camp was of the most refined and thorough-going kind. She would set aside a marriage on a mere quibble, but she would not destroy a letter. She had said openly and defiantly, to her son's face, that she felt sure that he would not re-marry Leoue in June, but she would stoop to no vulgar way of preventing it. It often happened that the countess herself opened the letter bag. When she did so, and there was a letter from Leone, she always gave it to her son with a smile, in which there was just a Bhade of contempt. " Another letter," she would say. "My dear Lance, you contribute quite your share to the inland revenue."

She never alluded to Leone; but she did permit herself, at rare intervals, to relate some ludicrous anecdotes of people who had suffered from a severe attack of love.

Lord Chandos found the time pass very pleasantly ; he said to himself that he might as well remain in Rome and enjoy himself, as go back to England and be miserable. Wherever he went he could not see Leone. He would not trust himself : he loved her too much, if he were in the same land, not to be near hear.

Being in Rome he did as the Komans did; he amused himwif to the very utmost of his power; he seized every golden hour that passed, and, though he loved Leone as much as ever, he ceased to feel the keen pain which their separation had caused him at first. One morning, from the Countess of Lausmere to Lady Jaue Cambrey, the repassed a little note. It said simply :

"Shall we take the first step to-night? BriDg Lady Marion to the Princess Galea's concert, and leave the rest to me."

Lady Cambrey lost no time. She Bought her ward, and said so much to her about the concert, for which they both had invitations, that Lady Marion was eager to go.

"I must superintend your toilet, Marion —aa it is your first appearance in Boman society you must make a favourable impression." She selected one of the loveliest toilets that could have been chosen—a white brocade, embroidered with flowers of the palest blue.

" You must wear pearls and pale blue flowers," she said, "and you will find that to-morrow everyone will be talking of the new beauty that has risen over Home."

Lady Marion looked perfectly beautiful— she was perfect in her style, the. very queen of blondes, with fair, soft, shining hair, and eyes blue as the summer Bkies. Her face was the purest mixture of .rose and white, with the dainty, delicate colour described in that one line— " Crimson shell, with white sea foam." She had a beautiful fresh mouth, a dimpled chin, a neck and shoulders white as ivory, arms so rounded and white it was a treat to see them.' She was of the queenly type— tall, with the promise of a grand womanhood; her white throat was firm, her arms rounded and strong; she was the ideal of an English gentlewoman; her pure, proud : face, clear eyes, and sweet lips were beautifnl beyond words. When she was dressed that evening for the princess's concert she looked most charming. Lady Cambrey had said truly that among the dark-eyed daughters of Italy she would shine white and fair as a white dove among coloured ones.

Her dress waa the perfection of taste—it was trimmed' with pale-blue forget-me-nots and white heath; a string of pearls was twisted in her fair hair, and another round her white throat.

" If he does not fall in love with her," said Lady Cambrey to herself, "it will be because he has no admiration left in him fcr anyone except his'dairymaid.'"

Lady Lanswell had been very successful in her diplomacy. She had spoken of the : concert before her son, who had received an' invitation, but said nothing about his going. He listened in silence, wondering if she would aßk him to go with her, saying to himself that he should decline, for he did not like concert-going. Then, as she did not aßk him, he began to feel piqued over it, and wonder why.

After a short time he volunteered to go, and my lady took it very coolly, reminding him how often he had grown tired of a hot concert-room. Then he resolved to go, and made arrangements accordingly, his mother smiling sweetly all the time. When all was settled, and he had quitted the room, my lady laughed quietly. It was wonderful how, with that bland sweetness and fine tact she managed men. She could lead her son as though he were deaf, blind, and dumb, yet of all men he believed himself most firm and secure in his own opinion. Heaven help the man who falls hopelessly into the hands of a clever woman 1 [To be continued.]

The Bev. M. Sauppe, a great bee-master in Luckendorf, makes the following calculation, intending to prove the eminent afp-icul-tural and economical importance oi the rearing of bees Of each of. 17,000 hives to be met with in Saxony, 10,000 bees fly out per diem—equal to 170 millions—each bee four times; equal to 6SO millions, or hundred days equal to 68,000 millions. E* flowe»woul 3 d 4 beThe^urt! 3 : I reward for the fertilisation of 5,000 flowers, to be one German pfennig, the uKnted bees of Saxony have obtained per annum a sum of 68, 000,000 pfennige—6Bo,ooo marks (£34,000 sterling). Each hive represents in this way. a valueof l £liflt<srJi»>g.., r-, - . When a lady by accident discovers that her photographer has'put Her picture in his show-case, she goes home and makes a terrible fuss over it, bst doesn't order it to be taken cat. I