Trembling and shuddering, for the lines brought back all the torture of that day, she read the succinct narrative, and found that in very truth the world had accepted her death as a fact beyond question. But a strange coincidence awaited her, for turning to the births, marriages, and deaths columns, she saw this announcement—"At Leyton Court, on the 25th instant, Martha Hale, aged 68, the faithful servant of the Earl of Ferrers."
In one and the same paper was the account of her own death, and that of the only person whom she would have to acquaint with the fact that she was living! The last link between Margaret Hale and Mary Leslie was broken, and the past had slipped away as completely as if, indeed, the tidal wave had washed her out to sea!
[CHAPTER XXI.]
It was autumn, but such an autumn as often puts summer to shame. The skies were as blue, the air as soft, as those of July; but that the leaves had changed their emerald hues for those of russet-brown and gold, one might well be tempted to believe that the summer was still with us, and the winter afar off.
The sun poured its generous warmth over the Villa Capri, laving the white stone front of the graceful house with its bright rays, and tinting the statues on the terraces, which, in Italian fashion, rose in three tiers from the smooth lawn to the salon and dining-room windows. On the highest of the three terraces, lying back in a hammock chair of velvet tapestry, was an old lady with a face of aristocratic beauty set in snow-white hair. At a little distance, pacing up and down, were two young ladies, the younger of the two with her arm round the waist of her companion, and her beautiful young face turned up with that air of pure devotion and affection which only exists in the heart of one woman for another.
The old lady was the Princess Rivani, the mother of Florence and Ferdinand; and the two girls were Margaret and Florence. It had come to pass that Margaret was an honored inmate of the Villa Capri.
The Princess Florence had fallen in love with Margaret's lovely face, and its sad, gentle smile, and still more with her sweet voice, and had taken a fancy that Margaret's presence in the villa was necessary to her existence; and as princesses' whims are born but to be gratified, Margaret was here.
The mother, who made a rule never to deny her darling child any innocent and harmless desire, welcomed Margaret with the gentle sweetness of a patrician, combined with the frank candor of an old lady.
"I am very glad to see you, Miss Leslie," she had said. "You have won my daughter's heart, and your presence seems necessary to her happiness. I trust you will not let her be a burden to you. Please consider the villa your home while it seems good to you to remain with us, and I hope that will be for a long period."