A lady of France

Front matter

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Chapter I

‘‘Hear my prayer, oh Heaven, and grant me relief! The very thought of it overcomes me. Jealousy, revenge, misunderstanding, grief from loss of my beloved husband! A multitude of woes! Oh! how can I bear it? Oh, thou Ruler of the Universe — God of all creation — great God of love — it is more than I can endure. Do Thou, in thy mercy, soothe my aching heart. Do Thou smite the tongues that add this agony of bitter pain to my already overcharged heart and brain.’’

Such was the tempest of words that poured forth from the lips of a sweet lady, lovely as a Hebe, who, overcome by sorrow and outraged pride, knelt in grief in the boudoir of her magnificent home. She presented a most beautiful picture. Clothed in deepest mourning, she was pale from the outburst of grief and prayer, and her dark, soulful eyes were made unusually bright by tears. Her lips, formed rather for smiles and kisses, were trembling with excitement ; her hair lay over her shoulders, a disheveled golden shower.

She rises weak and feapful, a white hand resting across her heart as if to still its beating forever. She lifts her mournful, tear-stained eyes toward Heaven, as in close communion with the great God of love 5 whom she so piteously called to a moment before for aid and strength, when she felt that she was too weak and crushed to endure all alone and live. A half-sad smile flits across her pale, fair face, giving evidence that she has faith in God, and that she knows He will stretch forth the arm of love and compassion to a woman in sorrow. She stands and gazes mournfully out of the window overlooking the lawn.

“Why am I so persecuted? I, who was loved so much, who thought the world so bright, so beautiful, so good to live in? When he whom I loved was taken to his eternal rest, I felt then I could not live on and endure it, but God in his mercy placed his hand on my aching heart and said: ‘Foolish heart, be still — it is only a few years, months or days, when I will take you too unto my haven of rest where parting will be no more.’

“A great gentleness came over me. I answered : ‘Dear Lord, I will not rebel, but live in submission to Thy will;’ the — ah Heaven! how can I bear it and live? The ones I loved best plotting against me! Did I hear aright?”

She places her hands on her throbbing brow, as if to collect her scattered thoughts. “She hates me! Yes, I heard it distinctly; hates me because Winton loved me! Can I believe what my own ears hear? And does he, the duke of Orloff, love me? Oh, no, no, not that — I could not endure his love — I will never look upon his wicked face again!” She stands in earnest meditation.

Suddenly she lifts her head with a proud gesture, and says in a faint whisper — “Yes, dear, I will do it. I will go this very night ; I will flee from persecution ; their evil plotting then cannot touch me.” She rings for her maid, Jessica.

‘‘You may brush my hair; brush it well, then I shall retire. I am tired, Jessica.”

Jessica looks in some alarm at her mistress who was still so pale and seemed so fragile. As she brushes the beautiful hair, her fingers caress it tenderly, for she loved her beautiful mistress dearly. Her deft hands soon complete their customary work.

“Good night, dear lady; if you should want me, ring — I shall sleep in the next room tonight, to be near you should you call me.”

Chapter II

Sir Winton Charlston was a politician and statesman — his name a tower of strength in the land. The time came when men rejoiced to see him the head of the mightiest party; when he became the very hope of the nation through his clear, calm judgment, his earnest truth and marvelous talents.

The history of progress is a history of great ideas, taking hold on the minds of men and compelling them to action in art, in literature, in religion, and in politics. The efficient man is he who has assimilated intellectuality and morality; who stands for an idea and knows he is right. Such a man was Sir Charlston, one of the master forces of his generation. The study of conditions and popular impulses made Sir Charlston a force in national and international politics, so much does it avail for the making of history, for the right man to say the right thing at the right time. Loved by his friends, he could command the greatest respect from his opponents.

He was tall, well built, with a commanding presence; he had a noble patrician face, gray eyes that would light up and smile when he was speaking. Yet no man living had suffered so much from humiliation as Sir Charlston. He had twice been married, his first marriage proving such a mesalliance as to bring his proud head down to the very dust, as it were. The woman, Elizabeth Steenrood, was of German descent, and so coarse, vulgar and homely, people wondered what had happened to Sir Winton to make him so far forget who he was as to stoop to such folly.

Some friends who knew and loved him best extended the hand of pity; others at the time looked at him with contempt and disdain, believing him voluntarily to have taken the first step downward.

No one could say that he was not the same proud statesman; his speeches were just as fiery. His one cry seemed to be — work ! toil ! labor ! — anything that could teach him to forget. He plunged into the hottest fray of political life, his voice rang through all England, men named him with deepest admiration. He was a power in the state; but no one ever asked if he was happy amidst it all.

He could not lift his wife up to his standard. If he noticed she was barred from society or snubbed by his friends and acquaintances, he never complained or murmured. No one believed her to be his equal or treated her as such. Though he was popular and well liked, he was on her account socially ignored.

Strangers called him proud and cold, reserved and silent; but he realized what he had done, the mistake he had made, and he alone, knew what he had suffered. Two years after the marriage a son was born who had no resemblance to the father, but favored the mother’s people.

If he felt proud of his offspring no one ever knew ; he was still the same proud, silent man. But years after, things became altogether wrong; the coarse, uneducated woman who was his wife began to long for her own class and kind. She soon found them; a fact which Sir Winton, despite his forebearance, would not stand. He finally appealed to the higher courts and was granted a legal separation.

Now everyone was ready to extend to him the hand of friendship and good will; in a few short years invitations of every description were extended to him. Why not? He was Sir Winton Charlston, rich, handsome and free. It is true his was not the face of a happy man, but he was popular, eminently distinguished and honored.

Many a time he was feted as a celebrity at the most brilliant receptions ever accorded a public man. The guests smiled upon him and courted his favor. He was very much sought after by the ladies, and for that reason perhaps a little spoiled. As there are spots on the sun, so even the most perfect character has its foibles. He liked all women with a reverential affection, for he was true as steel. But still with all his honest admiration it was never said of him that he had ever knowingly made one heart ache or deceived any creature who trusted him. His respect and affection for women, so truly chivalrous, was commonly rewarded in the society in which he mingled.

Lady Westhall seldom gave balls; they were too frivolous for her taste. She enjoyed with greatest pleasure the conversation, when it floated like musical waves through her reception rooms. Dancing was a waste of time compared with this. She invited young and beautiful women, who, for once during the whirl of a London season, found time to learn there were far higher worlds than those of fashion and gayety.

There arose some little discussion when Lady Westhall examined the cards of invitation. She referred to her daughter and counselor, Lady Marie Westhall, who had the whole map of the fashionable world at her finger’s end.

‘‘Girls may not care so much for it, mamma, because there is no dancing, but be it said, there is no better set in London than at Westhall House, and Sir Winton Charlston always attends these soirees.”

Lady Westhall smiled as she heard, for Sir Winton was the very man out of the whole world she would have chosen for her daughter; she liked him better than anyone she had ever met.

As for Lady Marie — listen, oh! angels who have fled 1 Listen, oh dark and evil spirits that remain ! A soul was in the balance only for a moment, and it was lost. Life had all changed for her; she lived like one dazzled by brightest sunlight, for whom the shadows had passed forevermore. Her soul was awakened, she loved Sir Winton Charlston with a passion and intensity that almost frightened herself ; all other men were indeed shadows to her, she lived entirely in the thought of him. She was absorbed in him as the dew is drawn by the sun.

There were times when Lady Westhall felt something like fear when she saw her daughter’s profound love for Sir Winton, and try as she would, she could only find Sir Winton courteous, gentle and kind to Lady Marie as to other women for whom he had a friendly liking.

‘‘Have a care, Marie!” she said to her one day, “have a care, my darling! Of all things that exist in this world, love is the best; but we must not adore greatness too much. You remember, Marie, that first and greatest of all commands, ‘Thou shalt love the Lord, thy God, with all thy soul and with all thy heart ; Him shalt thou worship!’ Sometimes, darling, when I see you with Sir Winton I fear you love him not knowing if he loves you in return.” Lady Marie answered not a word.

That evening Lady Marie stood before her toilet table, the loveliest picture that poet or artist could paint. Her dress was of dead white silk, with clouds of beautiful, rare lace, trimmed with hawthorn. The gown was after the latest fashion; the round white arms were bare; the beautiful neck and throat whiter even than the pearls that clasped them ; her face had a rare and dainty color — and such irresistible dimples ! — the ripples of golden hair were fastened with sprays of pearls.

She had never looked so fair, so beautiful, so graceful. A smile came to her lips as she glanced at herself. She held her arms above her head, watching the grace of her own attitude:

*T am glad I am so fair,” she said, ‘T am worthy of any man’s love.”

Sir Winton was one of the first men she saw in the reception room ; he came to meet her with a smile.

‘T dare not pass on,” he said, “lest I miss you. I have been here one-half hour, and I have heard more topics touched upon than I should have thought possible to introduce in that length of time.”

She will never remember how — or when — she will never remember any detail of that interview with him ; but she knew now, what she had never so plainly known before — the calm was broken, never to be regained; she loved him better than her own life. The conviction shocked her; she was frightened, as good women are sometimes, by the vehemence of her own passion.

A calm, kindly affection was all he seemed to give in return for this pitiful worship. He admired and liked Lady Marie, thinking her a bright, beautiful woman, but as for loving her, — he never dreamed of it.

As they walked through the magnificent suite of rooms, he talked to her, in his gentle, chivalrous fashion, of flowers, books, poetry, of everything save love.

That word he did not, could not utter, and why? Because his whole heart was given to another.

No one guessed the sweet story shut up in his breast. He lived on it. To him it seemed impossible that anyone should ever understand that mad love of his ; people called him proud and cold, reserved and silent; they never dreamed of the fire beneath the ice.

One morning in June, while Sir Winton was riding along in sunny France, enjoying the silence and beauty of nature, his thoughts went back to the dreaded past ; he had never forgotten his one mistake in life ; it was before him day and night. But he felt its weight had grown less, his life had not been all in vain, he had won great honors ; he was admired and respected by all, though his one terrible mistake had been a thorn in his heart and had to a certain extent saddened his whole life.

He thought of the child born to him through his marriage. Though he loved him little, Sir Winton assured himself that it was his duty to do his best by him, and this he was doing, as far as money and good instructions could serve.

The solemn grandeur of nature gave him other thoughts, ‘^Everything did not begin and end in this world,” he told himself. He had done no wrong, and he knew not why this mysterious burden of sorrow had been laid upon him.

High and Infinite Wisdom controlled every event of his life, and he found comfort in the thought of resignation.

“The evils of this world are lost in the shadows of the everlasting hills. Why am I so sad and depressed this lovely morning ? My thoughts are certainly out of harmony with my beautiful surroundings.’’ He quickly raised his head, for he heard the sound of low, musical laughter ; he turned and saw before him a picture that he was never to forget while he lived.

Some women are born sirens ; Candace Clinton was one of them. It was not merely her beautiful, smiling face, her great, dark, liquid, laughing eyes that won all hearts, — there was a charm about her, a fascination that is in itself a gift ten thousand times more fatal than beauty. Plain women have it sometimes, and men forget they are plain.

She had a voice that was like the softest sigh of the summer’s wind; she had a smile that seemed to deepen in her eyes and die away on her lips; she had the most charming and subtle grace of women, she was irresistable ; her very caprice had a charm lacking in the virtue of other women. Her face was perfect in its loveliness and her eyes told of the soul within. Her hair a rich golden brown, her figure slender and beautifully rounded, her hands were gems by themselves.

When Candace Clinton set herself to win a heart it behooved a man to pray for himself. She was gay; her lips moved to the sound of brilliant repartee.

This beautiful woman with shining eyes was smiling into his; the whole scene had lasted but a moment — Sir Winton was dazed, as the man who drinks a delicious draught of rare wine. It was a glorious day, full of life, happy sunshine, and music piped from the threats of many birds; all the tenors, and contraltos of the air seemed to have joined in one vast concert, and were filling the woods with melody. In the very center of the great lawn that stretched beyond the pleasure grounds stood a mighty oak ; its high branches threw their arms far and wide, making a shelter beneath them for all who might choose to come and seek their shade. Around its base, pretty rustic chairs were standing in carelessly scattered order, while on its topmost boughs birds are swinging and singing as the soft wind rushed by, making dark blotches upon the brilliant green.

Beneath this huge oak, amidst the enchanting scenery, with her hand lovingly resting on the head of a great St. Bernard dog stood Candace Clinton when Sir Winton’s eyes first fell on her. As he looked at the two earnest eyes, half smiling, half unsure, that look proved his undoing.

It was all over in a moment; he had stared at her, and as he stared defenceless, mindless of armor, she walked unconsciously into his heart. She stood just a little way from him, full of lovely indecision ; the air was full of indescribable melody and fragrance, the birds sang, the flowers bloomed and the hawthorn shone white upon the hedges.

All was fresh, fair and beautiful — Heaven seemed smiling upon the bright glorious face, he thinking her a lovely apparition, she wondering who the handsome stranger could be.

He advanced toward her, holding his hat in his hand, and bowing reverentially, as though she were a princess.

‘‘I beg you to forgive me if I have alarmed you ; I want to find the main road to Lyons. Will you have the kindness to point it out to me ?”

^^The one to the left,’’ she replied, thinking she had the handsomest, and noblest face she had ever seen. He should have bowed and left her, and she should have walked away, but the sun shone and the birds sang; he never forgot her as she stood then; he lingered until he knew he must go ; he longed to tell her how beautiful, how fair, how modest she was, and that he could never forget her. His eyes were riveted upon her exquisite face, his ears were charmed by the sound of her voice. He could have stood there, he thought, forever; was ever a picture so fair? But he did none of these things, — he bowed as he would have done to a queen, and left her. Something new and beautiful came into Candace’s thoughts by day and in her dreams by night ; life had all changed for her ; the sound of his voice had never left her ears, each word he had spoken lingered in her heart.

The handsome stranger had looked at her with a strange look in his gray eyes, and in her dreams and fancies he took a principal part. If ever in years to come, someone was to care for her, she hoped that he would be like this handsome stranger. Candace went to rest that evening but not to sleep ; for the first time in her life, she had seen a face which had impressed her and haunted her ; and she felt that she would give almost anything for the happiness of seeing him again.

Chapter III

Situated a few miles from Lyons, France, lies a picturesque but dilapidated estate formerly belonging to Hon. John Clinton. He died some few years ago, leaving one daughter, Candace, then a child twelve years of age, who gave promise of being a very beautiful woman.

His last request was that Candace should be reared and educated by his maiden sister, but he left little or no money with which to care for the “Villa Leavelands’’ (as his estate was called), and to educate this child. But Josephine Clinton was not a woman to shirk from duty; she became more than a mother to the little orphan girl. Candace Clinton grew into womanhood, not only beautiful in face and form, but with a mind and soul, bright and pure like those of the angels in Heaven.

She had not known a care, was petted and loved by all. Having lost her mother soon after she was born, Candace was left to the care of her aunt because her father was wholly devoted to business and politics; he could find little time to spare to his motherless child. Now, at twenty, we find her highly educated, brilliantly accomplished, a very lily-flower of womanhood.

If one entered a room filled with people and she were there, her face would strike one first, — it would be remembered the longest. It was a face indicative of capability, she had plenty of character, plenty of spirit-life, activity and energy.

“Candace,” said her aunt a few days later, “We are to dine at Major Waring’s tomorrow evening, and he is expecting a very dear friend of his who is now staying for a short time in France, and will be with the Major for a few days. The Major and Mrs. Waring will entertain at dinner tomorrow evening, and a dance is to follow. I want you to look your best, dear.”

“I will try. Auntie,” she answered, and tripped lightly down the steps, calling her pet and companion in her daily rambles.

“Berno, come, Berno ;” and patting the great friendly old Berno on the head, she said, “We are remiss today, dear old Berno ; the birds are out, the concert begun, they will miss us !” and away then went, she tripping lightly over the velvety lawn, book and sunshade in her hand, gathering flowers as she flitted by, and singing in her rich, mellow contralto voice —

“Leave us not, leave us not.

Say not adieu!

Have we not been to thee Tender and true?

Too sad our love would be,

If thou wert gone!

Turn to us, leave us not.

Thou art our own.”

“ ’Tis true, is it not, dear old Berno ? The birds, the flowers, the bright sunshine all belong to us — art our very own,” she trilled.

She wandered on to the spreading oak, took her favorite seat beneath its branches. Then her thoughts flew to the handsome stranger, and she mused who he was, and she murmured, “I am quite sure he does not belong in these parts.”

LADY OF FRANCE

Never did the fine old mansion of Falkland look fairer than in the leafy month of June. It made a picture that gladdened one’s heart — the quaint gray towers, covered with clinging ivy, — the oriel windows almost hidden by a mass of greenery, the square, oddshaped turrets. The picturesque building seemed to defy and yet accord with all the rules of art; it rose noble and lofty, a perfect picture of harmonious coloring. The foliage that surrounded it was magnificent. The Falkland woods stretched out far and wide; antlered deer reclined in their shade. Always full of music, where blue-bells, wild hyacinths and primroses grew at the foot of the trees, a home for ferns, this was the loveliest of all nooks in France.

On the other side of the fine old mansion lay rich, fertile lands, pleasure gardens, a fine old vineyard, a long line of glass houses, undulating, fast-ripening wheat fields and clover fields where the cattle browse in the sunshine. During this June, “Falklands” was looking its fairest, the trees were in fullest leaf; the rich scent of the clover came over the land. The interior of the fine old mansion was none the less attractive, none the less delightful.

It was a lovely evening when Candace and Miss Josephine Clinton reached the fine old castle; the moon was shining full on the trees and turrets. When the carriage stopped at the great entrance, Candace paused to look at the flowers, then with a gesture of haughty pride, all her own, she swept into the house.

‘‘Miss Clinton! Miss Candace Clinton!” were announced, and the next moment she was standing before the handsome stranger she had met under the shade of the great oak tree. His face paled with emotion and his strong figure trembled with delight, at once more beholding her.

The delicate yet imperial loveliness of the graceful woman, the proud manliness of the man, whose heart was touched for the first time in his life, made a picture fair to look upon. She read emotion in his noble, patrician face, she could see the fiery flame of love and delight flash in his eyes, — even the proud mouth seemed to quiver.

Candace never remembered the first words of the greeting, her eyes drooped before his; the white eyelids with their dark, silken fringe covered them. Sir Winton thought he had never seen anything so sweet, so modest, he could have cried out in admiration, but he restrained himself.

They were speaking of the dance when Candace came to herself.

Only last week! It seemed to her quite incredible, quite impossible; she had spent hours thinking of the handsome stranger, wishing yet never expecting to see him again, and now here he was, under the same roof with her, by her side — ^her father’s dearest friend’s guest! Could it be possible, or was she dreaming again that she saw and talked with him?

She looked at him again. Yes, it was he! and her heart beat all the faster, because his eyes were looking into hers and smiling. Sir Winton was bewilderingly and completely happy, as he talked to her for a few moments. Then more guests were announced. How he hated them!

‘‘Drawling men, and chattering women,” he called them in his own mind.

Candace looked very lovely in her evening dress; it was of white — white that shone and gleamed with picturesque trimmings of scarlet; she wore white and scarlet flowers. He had thought her beautiful before, but now with her white neck, shoulders and rounded arms all shown she looked, he thought, magnificent. Major and Mrs. Waring were the most amiable host and hostess. Major Waring was in the eyes of the whole state one of its most distinguished men; it had conferred upon him the highest dignities in its gift. He had some great virtues, — he was generous, he was earnest in everything he did; he was trustworthy, his word being as good as another man’s oath. He had a fine mind, was well cultivated and an excellent scholar. He was a man who had labored hard for his fellowmen. He had been the closest, dearest friend of Joseph Clinton, and since his death he and his wife had always had a great love and care for Candace. Mrs. Waring was a kind, stately woman, with the beauty and vivacity which distinguishes so many of her country-women. She, perhaps through having no children of her own, was exceedingly fond of young people, and for Candace, she had an honest, true affection, and was her chief friend and counselor.

During the few moments that preceded dinner while they were in the drawing-room. Major Waring found the time in which to tell Candace about his friend. He told her of his respect and friendship for him, of his fame as statesman and orator, of his wealth, and regretted that he could not see more of him.

The dinner passed with eclat. As hostess Mrs. Waring was simply perfect; altogether it was a large party, harmonious and well selected. While Sir Winton, occupying a seat by Candace’s side, conversed with her he was every moment as much charmed by her bright wit, as by her great beauty.

The suite of entertaining rooms were superbly decorated with flowers, and lighted with wax tapers; the conservatory was illuminated, — the beautiful women, the stately men, the light and flowers were superb.

There was no formality in the drawing-room when dinner was over ; there were music and cards for those who preferred such amusement; and the long French windows were opened wide for those who chose to step out and enjoy the peaceful beauty of the moonlit gardens.

When the gentlemen entered the rooms, Mrs. Waring looked at Sir Winton with a smile, as he came to her side, and said, “You have been talking politics; whenever the gentlemen leave the dinner table looking very much in earnest, and very determined, I know they have been talking politics.”

“But we agreed to differ after a most amiable fashion,” laughingly replied Sir Winton.

In politics Major Waring and Sir Winton were rivals, Sir Winton a very earnest Conservative, Major Waring an equally earnest Liberalist. The conversation had no more than become general, when the sound of carriage wheels was heard and more visitors for the dance were announced. Soon, music echoed through the rooms — for the opening dance. Sir Winton invited Miss Josephine Clinton to join him, but as she did not dance he remained by her side for a few moments, talking to her in his own charming way. Miss Clinton was delighted with the chivalrous, knightly stranger who had come among them, and listened attentively to his remarks. She invited him to call at her home, for she felt the deepest admiration for his gifts as an orator and statesman. She was pleased with his chivalrous air toward women, and studied the fine profile as he turned for a moment to glance indifferently around the room. He looked upon the faces of fair women, on rich jewels, costly dresses, exquisite flowers, and as he reached Candace in her simple dress of white, his heart quivered with delight, in his heart he voted her the most beautiful object in the room.