Lady Lanswell bent forward.

"Will you not forget that?" she said. "Let the past die. I will own now that I was harsh, unjust, even cruel to you; but I repent it--I have never said as much before--I repent it, and I _apologize_ to you! Will you accept my apology?"

The effort was so great for a proud woman to make, that the countess seemed almost to struggle for breath as she said the words. Leone looked on in proud, angry scorn.

"You apologize, Lady Lanswell! You think that a few words can wash away the most cruel wrong one woman did to another? Do you know what you did?--you robbed me of my husband, of a man I loved as I shall love no other; you blighted my fair name. What was I when that marriage was set aside? You--you tortured me--you broke my heart, you slew all that was best in me, and now all these years afterward you come to me, and think to overwhelm me with faint, feeble words of apology. Why, if you gave me your heart's blood, your very soul, even, it would not atone me! I had but one life, and you have spoiled it! I had but one love, you trampled on it with wicked, relentless feet! Ah, why do I speak? Words are but sound. No, Lady Lanswell, I refuse your apology now or at any time! We are enemies, and shall remain so until we die!"

The countess shrunk from the pa.s.sion of her indignant words.

"You are right in some measure," she said, sadly. "I was very hard, but it was for my son's sake! Ah, believe me, all for him."

"Your son," retorted Leone; "you make your son the excuse for your own vanity, pride, and ambition. What you did, Lady Lanswell, proved how little you loved your son; you parted us knowing that he loved me, knowing that his whole heart was bound up in me, knowing that he had but one wish, and it was to spend his whole life with me; you parted us knowing that he could never love another woman as he loved me, knowing that you were destroying his life, even as you have destroyed mine. Did love for your son actuate you then?"

"What I believed to be my love for my son and care for his interests alone guided me," said Lady Lanswell.

"Love for your son!" laughed Leone. "Have you ever read the story of the mother of the Maccabees, who held her twin sons to die rather than they live to deny the Christian faith? Have you read of the English mother who, when her fair-haired son grew pale at the sound of the first cannon, cried, 'Be brave, my son, death does not last one minute--glory is immortal.' I call such love as that the love of a mother for her son--the love that teaches a man to be true, if it cost his life; to be brave, if courage brings him death; to be loyal and n.o.ble. True motherly love shows itself in that fashion, Lady Lanswell."

The proud head of Lucia, Countess of Lanswell, drooped before this girl as it had never done before any power on earth.

"What has your love done for your son, Lady Lanswell?" she asked. "Shall I tell you? You made him a traitor, a coward, a liar--through your intrigues, he perjured himself. You made him disloyal and ign.o.ble--you made him _false_. And yet you call that love! I would rather have the love of a pagan mother than such as yours.

"What have you done for him?" she continued, the fire of her pa.s.sion rising--"what have you done for him? He is young and has a long life before him. Is he happy? Look at his face--look at his restless, weary eyes--listen to the forced bitter laugh! Is he happy, after all your false love has done for him? You have taken from him the woman he loves, and you have given him one for whom he cares so little he would leave her to-morrow! Have you done so well, Lady Lanswell for your son?"

"No, indeed I have not!" came with a great sigh from Lady Lanswell's lips. "Perhaps, if it were to be--but no, I will not say that. You have n.o.ble thoughts and n.o.ble ideas--tell me, Leone, will you help me?"

"Help you in what?" she asked, proudly.

The countess flung aside the laces and ribbons that seemed to stifle her.

"Help me over my son!" she cried; "be generous to me. Many people in my place would look on you as an enemy--I do not. If you have ever really loved my son you cannot be an enemy of mine. I appeal to the higher and n.o.bler part of you. Some people would be afraid that you should triumph over them--I am not. I hold you for a generous foe."

"What appeal do you wish to make to me?" asked Leone, quite ignoring all the compliments which the countess paid her.

Lady Lanswell looked as she felt--embarra.s.sed; it was one thing to carry this interview through in fancy, but still another when face to face with the foe, and that foe a beautiful, haughty woman, with right on her side. My lady was less at ease than she had ever been in her life before, her eyes fell, her lips trembled, her gemmed fingers played nervously with her laces and ribbons.

"That I should come to you at all, Leone, proves that I think you a n.o.ble woman," she said; "my trouble is great--the happiness of many lives lies in your hands."

"I do not understand how," said Leone.

"I will tell you," continued the countess. "You are going to Berlin, are you not?"

She saw a quiver of pain pa.s.s over the beautiful face as she asked the question.

"Yes," replied Leone; "I have an engagement there."

"And Lord Chandos, my son, has said something about going there, too?"

"Yes," replied Leone; "and I hope he will; he knows the city well, and I shall be glad to see a familiar face."

There was a minute's silence, during which Lady Lanswell brought all her wit and courage to bear on the situation. She continued:

"Lady Chandos does not wish my son to go to Berlin. I suppose it is no secret from you that she entirely disapproves of her husband's friendship with you?"

Leone bowed her proud, beautiful head.

"That is a matter of little moment to me," she said.

My lady's face flushed at the words.

"I may tell you," she went on, "that since Lady Chandos heard of this friendship, she has been very unhappy."

"No one cared when I was unhappy," said Leone; "no one pleaded for me."

"I do plead for Lady Marion," said the countess, "whatever you may think of me. She has done you no harm; why should you make mischief between her and her husband?"

"Why did you make mischief between me and mine?" retorted Leone; and my lady shrunk as she spoke.

"Listen to me, Leone," she said; "you must help me, you must be my friend. If my son goes to Berlin against his wife's prayers and wishes, she has declared that she will never speak to him or see him again."

"That cannot concern me," said Leone.

"For Heaven's sake listen, and do not speak to me so heartlessly. If he goes to Berlin, Lady Chandos will appeal to the Duke of Lester, who has just obtained for my son the greatest honor that can be conferred on an English gentleman--the Order of the Garter. In plain words, Leone, if my son follows you to Berlin, he will lose his wife, he will lose his good name, he will lose caste, his social position, his chance of courtly honors, the respect of his own cla.s.s. He will be laughed at as a dupe, as a man who has given up all the honors of life to dance attendance on an actress; in short, if he goes either with you, or after you, to Berlin, he is, in every sense of the word, a ruined man!" and my lady's voice faltered as she said the words.

"Why not tell Lord Chandos all this himself, and see what he says?"

asked Leone.

Perfect desperation brings about perfect frankness--my lady knew that it was quite useless to conceal anything.

"I have said all this and more to my son, but he will not even listen to me."

A scornful smile curved those lovely lips.

"He persists in going to Berlin, then?" said Leone, quietly.

"Yes," replied my lady, "he persists in it."

"Then why come to me? If your son persists in a certain course of action, why come to me?"

"Because you can influence him. I ask you to be n.o.ble beyond the n.o.bility of women, I ask you to be generous beyond the generosity of women, I ask you to forget the past and forbid my son to follow you to Berlin. You know the end must be a bad one--forbid it. I ask you with the warmest of prayers and of tears!"

It was then that Leone rose in righteous wrath, in not indignation, in angry pa.s.sion; rose and stood erect before the woman who had been her enemy.

"I refuse," she said. "Years ago I went to you a simple-hearted, loving girl, and I prayed you for Heaven's sake to have mercy on me. You received me with scorn and contumely; you insulted, outraged, tortured me; you laughed at my tears, you enjoyed my humiliation. I told you then that I would have my revenge, even should I lose everything on earth to obtain that revenge. Now it lays in my hands, and I grasp it--I glory in it. Your son shall follow me, shall lose wife, home, friends, position, fair name, as I lost all years ago at your bidding. Oh, cruel and wicked woman, behold my revenge! I repay you now. Oh, G.o.d," she continued, with a pa.s.sionate cry, "I thank Thee that I hold my vengeance in my hand; I will slay and spare not!"

Then she stood silent for some minutes, exhausted by the pa.s.sion of her own words.