Part 19 (1/2)

She read the letter, which was open in her hands, and he listened thoughtfully, leaning back in the high-backed oak chair, and watching the blue smoke from his cigarette curl upward to the ceiling.

”LONDON, _Thursday_.

”DEAR LADY ST. MAURICE: I have delayed answering your letter for some time, longer than may seem courteous to you, owing to the illness of a member of the family with whom I have been living. I trust, however, that you will not consider it too late for me to thank you heartily for your generous offer to me, which, if we can agree upon one point, I shall be most happy and grateful to accept. You have a little girl, you tell me, and no governess. If you will allow me to fill the latter position, which I believe that I am quite capable of doing, I shall be glad to come. I could not feel myself at ease in becoming one of your household on any other footing. Hoping to hear from you soon, I am, yours sincerely,

”MARGHARITA BRISCOE.”

”Did you ever hear of such a thing?” Lady St. Maurice exclaimed.

”Margharita's child, my governess. I call it very stupid pride.”

Lord St. Maurice shook his head.

”I think you are wrong, dear. After all, you must remember that you are a complete stranger to her.”

”That has been her mother's fault. Margharita never exactly blamed me for what I did at Palermo, but she always felt bitterly for her brother, and she could not forget that it was my hand which had sent him to prison. It was very unreasonable of her, but, after all, one can understand her feeling. Still, this girl of hers can have no such feeling toward me.”

”Of course not; but, none the less, as I said before, you are a complete stranger to her,” Lord St. Maurice answered. ”Her parentage is just the sort to have given her those independent ideas, and I'm inclined to think that she is quite right.”

Lady St. Maurice sighed.

”I would have been only too happy to have welcomed her as a daughter,”

she said. ”I dare say you are right, Geoff. I shall write and tell her to come.”

She walked away to the window, looking across the pine-bound cliffs to the sea. Time had dealt with her very leniently, as indeed he needs must with those whose life is like one long summer's day. Her brow was still smooth, and her hair, rich and soft as ever, had not a single tinge of gray. Her figure, too, was perfect; the lithe gracefulness of youth had only ripened into the majesty of dignified womanhood. There was not a society paper which did not sometimes allude to her as ”the beautiful Lady St. Maurice.”

But just at that moment her eyes were sad, and her face was troubled.

Her husband, looking up suddenly, saw it, and throwing down his paper, walked across the room to her side.

”Adrienne, what is it, little woman?” he asked fondly.

”I was thinking of poor Leonardo,” she answered. ”Geoffrey, it is very foolish to let it trouble me, is it not?”

”Very, darling. Why should it?”

”Do you remember how terrible he looked when they arrested him on the sands, and those fierce threatening words of his? Even now I can hear them sometimes in my ears.”

”Foolish little woman.”

”I cannot help it. This girl's letter, with its note of proud independence, brings it all back to me. Geoffrey, Leonardo di Marioni comes of a race who pride themselves more than anything upon keeping their word in love and in hate. You can scarcely understand their fierce pa.s.sionate nature. I have always felt that when the day of his release came he would remember his oath, and strive to work some evil upon us.”

Lord St. Maurice pa.s.sed his arm around his wife's waist, with a rea.s.suring smile.

”It is five-and-twenty years ago, love. Is not that enough to set your fears at rest?”

She looked at him without a smile, grave and serious.

”The five-and-twenty years are up, Geoffrey. Leonardo is free!”