"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 passion 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 noble. 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 ignoble—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 passion 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 noble thoughts and noble ideas—tell me, Leone, will you help me?"