The newspapers had already given many details of Madame Vanira. For many long years there had been nothing seen like her. They said her passion and power, her dramatic instinct, her intensity were so great, that she was like electric fire. One critic quoted of her what was so prettily said of another great actress:

"She has a soul of fire in a body of gauze."

No one who saw her ever forgot her; even if they only saw her once, her face lived clear, distinct, and vivid in their memory forever afterward. No one knew which to admire most, her face or her voice. Her face was the most wondrously beautiful ever seen on the stage, and her voice was the most marvelous ever heard—it thrilled you, it made you tremble; its grand pathos, its unutterable sadness, its marvelous sweetness; those clear, passionate tones reached every heart, no matter how cold, how hardened it might be—one felt that in listening to it that it was the voice of a grand, passionate soul. It was full, too, of a kind of electricity; when Madame Vanira sung she could sway the minds and hearts of her hearers as the winter winds sway the strong boughs. She drew all hearts to herself and opened them. When she sung, it was as though she sung the secret of each heart to its owner.

They said that her soul was of fire and that the fire caught her listeners; she had power, genius, dramatic force enough in her to electrify a whole theater full of people, to lift them out of the commonplace, to take them with her into the fairyland of romance and genius, to make them forget everything and anything except herself.

Such a woman comes once in a century, not oftener. They called her a siren, a Circe. She was a woman with a passionate soul full of poetry; a genius with a soul full of power; a woman made to attract souls as the magnet attracts the needle.

She made her debut in the theater of San Carlo, in Naples, and the people had gone wild over her; they serenaded her through the long starlit night; they cried out her name with every epithet of praise that could be lavished on her; they raved about her beautiful eyes, her glorious face, her voice, her acting, her attitudes.

Then a royal request took her to Russia; a still warmer welcome met her there; royal hands crowned her with diamonds, royal voices swelled her triumph; there was no one like La Vanira. She was invited to court and all honors were lavished on her.

From there she went to Vienna, where her success was as great; to Paris, where it was greater, and now she was to make her debut before the most critical, calm, appreciative audience in Europe. The papers for weeks had been full of her; they could describe her grand, queenly beauty, her wonderful acting, her genius, which was alone in the world, her jewels, her dresses, her attitudes; but there was nothing to say about her life.

Even the society journals, usually so well informed, had nothing to say about Madame Vanira. Whether she were single, or married, or a widow, none of them knew; of what town, of what nation, even of what family, none of them knew.

She seemed to be quite alone in the world, and against her even the faintest rumor had never been heard; she was of irreproachable propriety, nay, more, she was of angelic goodness—generous, truthful, charitable and high-minded. There was not a whisper against her good name—not one. She had a legion of admirers, none of whom could boast of a favor; she answered no letters; she gave no interviews; she accepted no invitations; she visited among some of the most exclusive circles, where she was received as an equal; she had had offers of marriage that would have made any other woman vain; she refused them all; she seemed to live for her art, and nothing else. Such a description naturally excited the curiosity of people, and the result was a house so crowded that it was almost impossible to find room.

"We may think ourselves fortunate," said Lady Chandos. "I have never seen the house so crowded, and, do not laugh, Lance, I do not see a prettier toilet than my own."

Lady Chandos was always well pleased when her husband complimented her on her dress; if he forgot it, she generally reminded him of it. She looked very beautiful this evening; her dress was of white satin, effectively trimmed with dead gold, and she wore diamonds with rubies—no one there looked better than the queen of blondes.

"I am quite impatient to see La Vanira," she said to her husband. "I wonder why she has chosen this opera, 'L'Etoile du Nord;' it is not the usual thing for a debutante."

Then the words died on her lips and for some minutes she said no more. The curtain was drawn up and Madame Vanira appeared. There was a dead silence for some few minutes, then there was a storm of applause; her beautiful face won it, her grand figure, her eyes, with their fire of passion, seemed to demand it.

Of all characters, perhaps that of the loving, impassionate Star of the North suited her best. In it she found expression for love, her passion and despair. She stood before what was perhaps the most critical audience in the world, and she thrilled them with her power. It was no more a woman; she seemed more like an inspired sibyl; her audience hung on every note, on every word from those wonderful lips; while she charmed all ears she charmed all eyes; the beauty of her magnificent face, the beauty of her superb figure, the grandeur of her attitudes, the inimitable grace of her actions were something new and wonderful. From the first moment the curtain rose until it fell the whole audience was breathless.

Lady Chandos laid down her jeweled opera-glass while she drew a breath of relief, it was so wonderful to her, this woman all fire, and genius and power.

"Lance," she said to her husband, "what a wonderful face it is. Have you looked well at it?"

She glanced carelessly at her husband as she spoke, then started at the change in him; his whole face had altered, the expression of careless interest had died, the color and light had died, his dark eyes had a strained, bewildered look; they were shadowed as though by some great doubt or fear.

"Lance," said his wife, "are you not well? You look so strange—quite unlike yourself."

He turned away lest she should see his face more plainly, and then she continued:

"If you are not well, we will go home, dear; nothing will interest me without you."

He made a great effort and spoke to her; but the very tone of his voice was altered, all the sweetness and music had gone out of it.

"I am well," he said, "pray do not feel anxious over me; the house is very full and very warm."

"What do you think of La Vanira?" continued Lady Chandos; "how very different she is to any one else."

He laughed, and the sound was forced and unnatural.

"I think she is very wonderful," he replied.

"And beautiful?" asked Lady Marion, with a look of eager anxiety.

He was too wise and too wary to reply with anything like enthusiasm.

"Beautiful for those who like brunettes," he answered coldly, and his wife's heart was at rest. If he had gone into raptures she would have been disgusted.

"If she would but leave me in peace," thought Lord Chandos to himself.

He was bewildered and confused. Before him stood the great and gifted singer whom kings and emperors had delighted to honor, the most beautiful and brilliant of women; yet surely those dark, lustrous eyes had looked in his own; surely he had kissed the quivering lips, over which such rich strains of music rolled; surely he knew that beautiful face. He had seen it under the starlight, under the shade of green trees by the mill-stream; it must be the girl he had loved with such mad love, and had married more than four years ago. Yet, how could it be? Of Leone he had never heard one syllable.

Mr. Sewell had written to Lady Lanswell to tell her of her indignant rejection of all help, of her disappearance, how she never even returned to River View for anything belonging to her, and after some time the countess had told her son. He went to River View and he found the house closed and the servants gone; he made some inquiries about Leone, but never heard anything about her. He deplored the fact—it added to his misery over her. If he could have known that he left her well provided for he would not have suffered half so much.

All these years he had never heard one word of her. He had thought of her continually, more than any one would have imagined; he never knew what it was to forget her for one minute. His heart was always sad, his soul sorrowful, his mind ill at ease. The more he thought of it, the more despicable his own conduct seemed. He hated the thought of it, he loathed the very memory.

And here was the face he had seen by the mill-stream, the face which had haunted him, the face he loved so well—here it was alight with power, passion and genius. Could this brilliant, gifted singer be Leone, or was he misled by a wonderful likeness? He could not understand it, he was bewildered.

He had wondered a thousand times a day what had become of Leone; he remembered her wonderful talent, how she read those grand old tragedies of Shakespeare until she knew them by heart; but could it be possible that Leone had become the finest singer and the grandest actress in the world?

It was in the last grandly pathetic scene that their eyes met, and for one half moment the gifted woman, on whose lightest breath that vast crowd hung, swayed to and fro as though she would have fallen; the next minute she was pouring out the richest streams of melody, and Lady Chandos said:

"Is it my fancy, Lance, or was La Vanira looking at you?"

"I should say it was your fancy, Marion—La Vanira sees nothing lower than the skies, I think."

And then the opera ended.