Part 25 (2/2)

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

It was such a different world, this he lived in now. It was all a blaze of color and brightness, a blaze of jewels, a scene of festivity and mirth, a scene of regal splendor and ever-changing gayety. There was no time for thought or 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 he stood for a moment watching 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 times wondering how he liked it so well, it was such a contrast to the feted courtier's life he led now. He thought of its calm as he thought 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 there, 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 none to compare to her--not one.

He had intended to love her always with the same warmth and truth; he meant to be constant to her as the needle to the pole. He believed himself to be so; but insensibly the new life changed him--the gay, bright, glistening world influenced him.

After a time--even though he loved her just the same--after a time his thoughts ceased to dwell with such fervent interest on the pretty, simple home. After a time he began to feel his old keen sense of pleasure in all that the world had of the beautiful and bright; he began to feel an interest in its honors and t.i.tles.

”I have been lotus-eating,” he said to himself; ”there is nothing for it but to rouse myself.”

In a short time he became very popular in Berlin. The young English n.o.ble, 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 emba.s.sador, 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 see anything particular, but he respected the caprices of _les grandes dames_. He opened the door carelessly enough and started back in amaze. There stood his father and mother, his mother's handsome face pale with anxiety, her jeweled arms outstretched, her fine eyes full of love.

”Lance,” she said, ”my dear son, how good it is to see you again!”

With the cautious avoidance of anything like a scene that distinguishes Englishmen, 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 of their son. He bowed coldly, and his mother's jeweled arms fell by her side.

”This is a surprise, indeed,” he said. ”I should have considered some little notice more agreeable.”

”Lance, you may say what you will to me,” said 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 dearest Lance,” she said, ”children call the physician who cuts off a diseased limb cruel, yet he is most merciful. I am 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. ”You nearly broke the heart, and certainly ruined the life of the girl whom I loved. Mother, if that be what you call kindness, then I do not understand the English tongue.”

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