Her face was whiter than the face of the dead. She stood quite silent for a few minutes. In her heart, like a death-knell, sounded the words:
"Lance's little child."
Whiter and colder grew the beautiful face; more mute and silent the beautiful lips; then suddenly she said:
"Kiss me, Lady Marion, kiss me with your lips; now place your hands in mine. I promise you that I will not take your husband from you; that he shall not go to Berlin, either with me or after me. I promise you—listen and believe me—that I will never see or speak to your husband again, and this I do for the sake of Lance's little child."
"I believe you," said Lady Marion, the light deepening in her sweet eyes and on her fair face. "I believe you, and from the depth of my heart I thank you. We shall be happy, I am sure."
"In the midst of your happiness will you remember me?" asked Leone, gently.
"Always, as my best, dearest and truest friend," said Lady Marion; and they parted that summer morning never to meet again until the water gives up its dead.
Lady Marion drove home with a smile on her fair face, such as had not been seen there before. It would all come right.
She believed in Madame Vana's simple words as in the pledge of another. How it would be managed she did not know—did not think; but madame would keep her word, and her husband would be her own—would never be cool to her or seek to leave her again; it would be all well.
All that day there was a light on her face that did one's heart good to see; and when Lady Lanswell saw her that evening she knew that all was well.