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“Elizabeth Cavendish.”

This was probably the greatest grief of her life, and all her after energies were spent in furthering the welfare of her Cavendish children.

Now followed a period of widowhood, during which no substantial or interesting episodes bring the lady’s name to the front. But she did not lose her hold over society and the Court. Nor did she lay aside her wise, worldly habits. She was still the grand dame—dispenser of charities, recipient of Court letters, mistress of masons and woodmen and grooms, resting securely upon her hoard like the dragon in German legend, assuring herself and the world, “I lie and possess, and would slumber.” But hers was not the nature to be quiescent very long. And she had incentive enough to action. She had six children to further in the world. Daughters must be married, sons must be brought into the charmed circle of the Queen, to run the gauntlet of suspicions, favours, and coldnesses from her and bear the jealousy and competition of others till the right opportunity came for advancement. Moreover, there was Chatsworth to complete—alone. At thirty-seven, gifted with excellent good looks, an indomitable will, and a constitution robust and healthy, it was not the moment for such a woman to permit either her schemes or her zest in life to collapse. So she keeps to her road, moving no doubt daily between the old Chatsworth and the new, the beloved fabric which for her was at once the mausoleum of her greatest happiness, the eloquent witness of her aspirations for her children, and a lasting memorial of her Cavendish ambitions. So one beholds her working onward, building for the future, impatient no doubt of the present. Fully accustomed now to take command of her life and affairs, she controls every item of the building of her new house. One can picture her easily enough walking or driving to and fro, while she issues commands for the felling of wood, signs orders for the selling of coals and stone, for the transplantation of trees, the manufacture of hangings, the transport of Derbyshire marbles, the employment of artificers in mosaic, and plaster and wood. She had built six Cavendishes, bone of her bone, flesh of her flesh, and now she was building a great and perfect house for them and theirs. In it she would reign, so long as she lived, supreme. One pictures her again and again—a vigorous, vital woman, in proper and dignified weeds, with shrewd and genial face in which the lines of intrigue and sorrow had not yet deepened, moving amongst her army of workmen, fully conscious of the country life about her, though possibly not playing for a while a very active part in it. But the old zest of living, the old desire of the world, the joys of which she had tasted only at brief intervals during the babyhood of her six children, were ineradicable. She had acres and gold, she needed a helpmeet more than many women. No country gentleman of sufficient importance presented himself for whom she would think it worth while to give up the pretty delight of being addressed as “my lady.” In this dilemma Fate brought her face to face with Sir William St. Lo.