Kitabı oku: «A Mad Love», sayfa 10

CHAPTER XXVII.
"TELL ME YOUR SECRET."

The sunny summer days at Nice – who can tell of their beauty, the glory of the sunny blue sky, the glory of the foliage, the sweet, balmy breath of the wind, which seemed daily to bring with it the perfume from a hundred new flowers? How did the time pass? No one knew; it was a long roll of pleasure and gayety. There was pleasure enough in being out-of-doors; a picnic there was a very simple matter. They heard of a very beautiful spot, drove there, remained there so long as it suited them, then went back again. There were, as there always are, some very nice English people at Nice, but none like fair, sweet Lady Marion.

As the charm of her sweet character grew upon him, Lord Chandos liked her more and more. He enjoyed her society. She was not witty, she could not amuse a whole room full of people, she could not create laughter, she was not the cause of wit in others, nor did talking to her awake the imagination and arouse all the faculties of one's mind.

Talking to her was rest, grateful as the shade of green trees after the glare of the summer's sun. The sweet voice, the clear, refined accent, the gracious and gentle thoughts, the apt quotations, all were something to remember. She was by no means a genius, but she was well read, and had the power of remembering what she read, had the gift of making most of her knowledge. If you wished for an hour's interesting conversation, there was no one like Lady Marion. She had such curious odds and ends of information; her reading had been universal. She had some knowledge on every point. She had her own ideas, too, clearly defined and straightforward, not liable to vary with every paper she read, and in these days one learns to be thankful for consistency. On those warm, lovely, life-giving days, when the sun and sky, earth and air, flower and tree did their best, it was Lord Chandos who liked to linger under the vines talking to this fair girl whose very face was a haven of rest.

He never thought of love at all in connection with her, he felt so sure of the one great fact that he loved his wife; he forgot that there could be such a thing as danger or temptation. Lady Marion had grown to love him; it was impossible to help it; he had great and grave faults, as all men have, but he was so brave and fearless, so gallant and generous, so kind and chivalrous, no one could help loving him; his faults were lovable, a fact that was much to be regretted; since, if they had been disagreeable, he might have been cured of them.

Lady Marion, in her quiet, gentle fashion, had learned to love him. She appealed to him continually; the reading of a book, the singing of a song, the arrangement of a day's plans, the choosing of acquaintances, on each and all of these points she made him her confidant and guide; it was so gently and so naturally done that he insensibly guided her whole life without knowing it. What Lord Chandos said or thought was her rule. It was such a pleasure to guide and advise her, she was so yielding, so gentle, she took such a pride in obeying him; she would apologize to him at times and say:

"I told you, Lord Chandos, that I must always have a stronger mind than my own to lean upon."

He listened to the words with a smile, but it did just occur to him that she would not have his mind to lean upon much longer, for he must go home to England to Leone. Once or twice lately he had been much struck with Lady Marion's manner. She was so gracious, so charming with him. When he had suddenly entered the room where she was sitting he had seen the crimson blush that rose over her white neck and brow. He noticed too, that she had rarely, if ever, raised her eyes to his face until that blush had passed away, lest they should tell their own secret. And one day he said to her:

"Why do you never give me a frank, open look, Lady Marion – such as you gave me always when I knew you first? now you turn your face away, and your eyes droop. Have I displeased you?"

"No," she replied, gently; "it is not that; you could not displease me."

"Then you are keeping some secret from me," he said, and she smiled a slow, sweet, half-sad smile that stirred his heart with curious power.

"I have no secret," she said; "or if I have it matters little to any one but myself."

"Tell me your secret, Lady Marion," he said, with a sigh.

"I will answer you in the words of my favorite poet," she said; "listen, Lord Chandos."

They were standing under the shade of a clustering vine, the wind that kissed both fair young faces was full of perfume, the flowers that bloomed around them were full of sweetest odors, the whisper of the odorous wind was no sweeter than the voice in which she quoted the words:

 
"'Perhaps some languid summer day,
When drowsy birds sing less and less,
And golden fruit is ripening to excess;
If there's not too much wind or too much cloud,
And the warm wind is neither still nor loud,
Perhaps my secret I may say,
Or – you may guess.'"
 

"What beautiful words," he cried. "It seems to me, Lady Marion, that you have a whole storehouse full of the most apt and beautiful quotations. You ought to have been a poet yourself."

"No," she replied, "I can appreciate, but I cannot invent. I can make the words and the thoughts of a poet my own, but I cannot invent or create; I have no originality."

"You have what is rarer, still," he cried; "a graceful humility that raises you higher than any other gift could do."

He spoke so warmly that she looked up in wonder, but Lord Chandos turned abruptly away; there might be danger if he said more.

So the lovely, leafy month of May ended, and June began. Then Lord Chandos began to think of home – his birthday was on the thirtieth of June, and he knew what he had promised for that day. He could see the pretty, flower-covered window – the roses which must be thrust aside – the gate he had promised to open; he remembered every detail. Well, it was all very pretty and very pleasant; but, he could not tell why, the bloom of the romance was gone, that was quite certain. He had learned to associate poetry with the pale moonlight and golden hair, with a very fair face and a soft ripple of sweet speech. Still he intended most honorably to keep his promise; he took great delight, too, in thinking of Leone's passionate happiness, of her beautiful face, of the ecstasy of welcome she would give him. Then, of course, he must marry her; the very day after that would be the first of July, and, for the first time, he thought of his coming marriage with a sigh – it would separate him so entirely from his mother, and from Lady Marion; in all probability he would never see much of her again. He thought more of her loss than of his own.

"How she will miss me," he said to himself; "she will have no one to consult, no one to advise her. I wish we could always be the same good friends as now."

Then it occurred to him that perhaps, after all, his wife would not care to know that he was on such confidential terms with any one but herself.

He would have felt far less sure of either his return or his marriage if he had overheard a slight conversation that took place between his mother and Lady Marion. The Countess of Lanswell called one day and took the young heiress out for a drive with her; when they were seated, driving through scenery so beautiful one could hardly believe it to be a fallen world, the countess in her sweetest manner, which she knew how to make quite irresistible, said:

"Lady Marion, I want you to help me to do something, if you will."

"You know I will do anything I can for you, Lady Lanswell," said the girl, gently; "I could have no greater pleasure."

She did not add, because I love your son, but this was in her mind, and the countess quite understood it.

She continued:

"You know how I love my dear and only son, how anxious I am for his welfare, how devoted to his interests."

"I can imagine it all," said Lady Marion, warmly.

The countess went on:

"He has an idea, a quixotic, foolish and most unhappy one, one that if carried out will mar his life and ruin his prospects, and in the end break his heart. Now, I want you to help me break off this idea; he thinks of returning to England in June, and if he does, all hope is over. He never allows himself to be coerced or persuaded; as to the word 'marriage' it would be a fatal one, but we might, I am sure, influence him – that is, if you will help me."

"I will do all I can," said Lady Marion, earnestly; her sweet face had grown very pale.

"He must not go back to England," said the countess: "we must keep him here until August – how can we do it?"

"Ask him to stay," said the young girl, simply; "that seems the most straightforward plan."

"Yes, but it would not be of the least use; he must be influenced. Now I think that he prefers your society to any other; suppose you plan a tour through Spain, and ask him to go with us."

The pale face flushed.

"I will if you think he would agree," she replied.

"I believe he would; if he seems inclined to refuse, and you are in the least degree disturbed over it, I believe firmly that he will go. I do not think that he knows the strength of his own feelings for you. Let us try it. You can speak to me about it before him, then I will leave you with him and you can finish your good work."

"He is not likely to be vexed, is he?" asked Lady Marion, timidly.

"Vexed, my dear child, no; he will consider himself highly favored. You see it is in this way. I cannot show any eagerness for it, and you can. My son would suspect my motive; he knows yours must be a good one, and will feel sure that it is liking for his society – you do like it, do you not, Lady Marion?"

"Yes, I cannot deny it," replied the young girl, "and I will help you all I can. You do not wish him to return to England in June. I will do my best to keep him away."

And the question was – would she succeed?

CHAPTER XXVIII.
HOW IT HAPPENED

"Mother," said Lord Chandos, "I never knew a month pass as this has done – the days have wings. It is the sixteenth to-day, and it does not seem to be twenty-four hours since it was the first."

"That shows, at least, that life has been pleasant to you," said the countess.

"Yes, it has been very pleasant," he replied, and then he sighed deeply.

"Why do you sigh, Lance? The future can be as pleasant as the past, can it not?"

He looked up half impatiently.

"I sigh to think that my share in it is all ended. I must be in England by the end of June."

"Make the most of the time left," said my lady; "there's another week, at least. Let us go everywhere and see everything. In all probability, we shall not meet at Nice again."

He had expected contradiction, he had expected his mother to oppose his desire of returning home, and he was slightly piqued to find that so far from opposing him, she seemed to fall into the idea as though it were the most natural one.

"I think," he pursued, "that if I leave here on the twenty-seventh that will be soon enough."

"Yes," said the countess, quietly. "It is not such a long journey, after all."

So she would not oppose him, she would not argue with him, but left him to take his own way. The handsome face grew shadowed, the frank eyes troubled. It is very hard when a man cannot force any one to contradict him. He rose from his chair, he walked uneasily up and down the room; he spoke almost nervously on one or two points and then he said:

"Mother, I suppose you know what I intend doing."

She looked up at him with the blandest smile and the sweetest air.

"Doing, Lance – about the boat to-night, do you mean?"

She purposely affected to misunderstand him.

"The boat?" he repeated. "No, I mean about – my – my – future – my marriage."

"I cannot say that I know what you intend doing, Lance, but I am quite sure you will never again have the bad taste to offend your father and me. I can trust you so far."

He looked still more uncomfortable; he could always manage the countess better when she was angry than when she was amiable. He stopped abruptly before her, and looking at her said:

"I must marry Leone, mother, I must."

"Very well, Lance. When you are twenty-one, you can do as you like."

"Oh, mother," cried the young lord, "be more humane, do not be so frigid and cold; speak to me about it. I am your only son, surely my marriage is a matter of some importance to you."

There was a passion of entreaty in his voice, and Lady Lanswell looked kindly at him.

"Certainly your marriage is of more importance than anything else on earth; but you cannot expect me to look with favor on that tempestuous young person who ranted at me like a third-rate actress from a traveling theater; you must excuse me, Lance, but there are limits to human endurance, and she is beyond mine."

"Mother, let me be happy, let me go and marry her, let me bring her back here and we shall all be happy together."

"My dear Lance, I should not consider a person of her position a fit companion for my maid; for myself, I quite declare I shall not oppose your marriage with the girl – it is quite useless, since you are of age, to do as you like; but I shall never see you or speak to you again; when you leave me here for that purpose our good-bye will last beyond death. Still you understand I do not seek to win you from your purpose, you are free to do as you will."

The misery on his handsome young face touched her a little, and she had to remind herself that she was doing all she did for his own good.

"We will not talk any more about it, Lance," she said, kindly; "words will not alter facts. Did your father tell you what we proposed about the boat to-night?"

His lips trembled as he tried to answer her.

"I cannot throw off sorrow as you can, mother; I am talking to you about that which will make the misery or the happiness of my life, and you think of nothing but a boat."

"Words are so useless, Lance," repeated my lady; "they are but empty sounds. I am going out to look for some cameos; I think I should like a set, they are very elegant and recherche."

So saying, my lady left the room as though no serious thought occupied her mind.

Then, for the first time, something like impatience with his fate came over the young lord, something like impatience with Leone, for whose love he had so much to suffer. He loved his proud, beautiful mother, who had, unknown to him, such great influence over him. He could not endure the thought of life-long separation from her. The glamour of a boy's first mad love had fallen from him, and he saw things as they were; he could estimate better than he had done before, what it meant to give up father, mother and friends all for one love.

He did not recover his spirits all day, but the temptation never once came near him to break his word or forget Leone. That night, one of the loveliest that ever dawned on earth, they were all going to a fete given by the Countess Spizia, and one part of the entertainment was that the beautiful grounds were to be illuminated.

Lord Chandos had never seen his mother look so proud, so brilliant or so handsome as on that night. She wore a superb dress of green velvet, with a suit of diamonds worth a king's ransom. Lady Marion wore a dress of rich lace, with cream color roses and green leaves. The fete was well attended; a great number of French people and English were there. The earl had declined. Moonlit gardens and illuminated grounds had not much attraction for him.

Lord Chandos sat for some little time by his mother's side; he was enjoying an ice, and as he watched her he felt a sensation of pride in her beauty – a keen sense of regret that they should ever be parted.

An involuntary cry of admiration came from the countess, and Lord Chandos looking in the direction where her eyes were fixed, saw Lady Erskine. Never had the great queen of blondes looked so lovely; the fine, fairy-like web of costly lace fell in graceful folds around a figure that stood alone for grace and symmetry. She wore nothing but green leaves in her golden hair; her arms, bare to the shoulders, were white, firm, and statuesque. Over her face, when she saw Lord Chandos, came a beautiful, brilliant flush.

The countess and her son were sitting in one of the pretty salons, where some of the most famous works of art were collected. There was an exquisite bust of Clytie which attracted much attention; they had been commenting on it, and Lady Lanswell was saying how much she would like a copy of it.

"Here comes something more beautiful than Clytie," she said, as Lady Marion advanced to meet them.

She made room for the young heiress by her side. Lady Marion had schooled herself well, but her task was no easy one – she was so candid, so loyal, so true in all her dealings, that the least attempt at anything savoring of deception was unpleasant to her; still, she would, of course, do anything to help Lady Lanswell. So she sat down by her side and talked with her usual gentle grace.

She said, after a time:

"Lady Lanswell, I have a great favor to ask of you. If you do not wish to go back to England just yet, will you join me? I am trying to persuade Lady Cambrey to make a tour through Spain."

She drew a long breath of relief when the words were spoken, she was so thankful to have them said and done with. She mentally resolved that never would she promise to do anything of this kind again. Lady Lanswell's calm restored hers.

"To Spain?" repeated the countess. "What a traveler you are, Lady Marion. What has put Spain into your mind?"

"I have always longed to see the Alhambra," said Lady Marion, with perfect truth. "As we are so near, it would be a pity to go back without seeing it."

"I quite agree with you. It may be some years before you come on the Continent again – you are quite right to go to Spain. And you really wish us to join your party?"

"Certainly, I should be delighted; it would increase my pleasure a hundred-fold," replied the young heiress, promptly.

"You are very kind to say so. I will go if you can persuade Lord Chandos to go with us."

"How can I do that?" she asked, with a smile. "Teach me how to 'persuade,' Lady Lanswell. I have never been able to 'persuade' any one."

The countess rose from her seat with a light laugh.

"I am afraid that in this case, persuasion, argument, and reason would be in vain. Lance, take Lady Marion to see the lamps in the almond trees – they are really very fine."

He took the soft, silken wrapper from her and wrapped it round her shoulders.

"Let us go and see the lamps," he said, and they went.

Ah, well. The sky above was filled with pale, pure stars; the almond-trees filled the air with delicate perfume; the nightingales were singing in the distant trees; great floods of silver moonlight fell over the grounds, in which the lilies gleamed palely white, and the roses hung their heavy heads.

They went together to the grove where the lamps shone bright as huge pearls. The path was a narrow one and he drew the white hand through his arm. How did it come about? Ah, who shall tell? Perhaps the wind whispered it, perhaps the nightingales sung about it, perhaps something in the great white lily leaves suggested it, perhaps the pale, pure stars looked disapproval; but it happened that the white hand felt the arm, and was clasped in a warm, strong hand – a clasp such as only love gives.

Who shall say how it happened? She raised her fair face to his in the soft, pure moonlight, and said to him:

"Must you really go back to England, Lord Chandos?"

The voice was sweet as music – the face, so fair, so pure, so proud.

"Must you," she added, "really go?"

"Yes, I am compelled to return," he answered slowly.

"Need it be yet?" she said. "I know you must go, but the journey through Spain will be so pleasant, and we might make a compromise. I will shorten the journey if you will delay your return."

And before he left the almond grove Lord Chandos had promised to do so, and as he made the promise he bent down and kissed the white hand lying in his.

CHAPTER XXIX.
WAITING FOR HIM

Never had June seen such roses, never had lilies opened such white chalices, never had the trees looked so green, or the grass so long and thick, never had the birds sung as they sung this June, never had the light of the sun been so golden bright. The smile of the beautiful summer lay over the land, but in no place was it so fair as in River View. It was a scene like fairyland.

So Leone thought it as she watched day by day the beauty of blossom and leaf. It was in the month of May she first began to watch the signs of coming summer; with the first breath of the hawthorn, her heart grew light and a new beauty of hope came in her face. It was May and he was coming in June. She worked harder than ever. She rose early and retired late; these months of hard study and hard reading had changed her more than she knew herself. One year ago she had risen a beautiful, strong, healthy girl, full of fire, and life, and power. Now she was a refined, intellectual woman, full of genius and talent, full of poetry and eloquence, full of originality and wit; then she was a girl to be admired, now she was a woman who could rule a kingdom, whose power was unlimited.

She had acquired more in these few months of study than some people learn in years. She knew how great his delight would be, and she smiled to think how entirely at her ease she should be, even with his stately lady mother; she should feel no great awe of her in the future, for if Heaven had not given her the position of a lady by birth, she had made herself one by study and refinement.

So he was coming, and their real married life was to begin. She thought with a shudder of the pain she had passed through, of the horror of that terrible discovery. It was all over now, thank Heaven. It had never been any brand or stigma to her; she had never felt any false shame over it; she had never bowed her bright head as though a blight had passed over her. She said to herself it was not her fault, she was not in the least to blame. She had believed herself in all honor to be the wife of Lord Chandos, and she could not feel that the least shadow of blame rested on her.

He was coming home. Through the long hours of the summer day, she thought of nothing else. True, since the month of June, his letters had been very few and much cooler. True, it had been a severe shock to her, to hear that he had gone to Nice; but, as his letter said nothing of Lady Marion, and she knew nothing even of the existence of such a person, that did not matter. Why had he gone to Nice when June was so near? She wrote to him to ask the question, but his answer was: Because his parents had gone there. Then she said no more; that seemed quite natural. The only thing that occurred to her was, he would have a longer journey in June; he would come to her as he had promised, but he would take a longer time in traveling.

Lose faith in him! She flung back her head, with a bright, proud laugh. No, nothing could shake her faith in him; his proud lady mother had managed to get him under her influence – what did that matter? He loved her and her alone. She remembered the words spoken on her wedding-day; when she had asked him if he was quite sure their marriage was legal, his answer was, "Yes, and that nothing could part them except death."

How well she remembered those words, "except death"! He had taken her in his arms and kissed her, as though even death itself should not claim her. No shadow of fear entered her mind. She knew that he would come, as surely as she knew that the sun would rise and the day would dawn.

The thirtieth of June. No gift of second sight came to her, to tell her that on the twenty-seventh of June Lord Chandos had sat down and wrote her a very long letter, telling her that it was impossible for him to be at home on the thirtieth of June, as he had promised to go with his parents to Spain. A large party were going, and he must join them; but his heart would be with her on that day. He should think of her from morning dawn until sunset, and he would be with her soon. He was vexed that he had to take the journey; it was quite against his will, yet he had been over-persuaded. He should soon see her now; and, whatever he did, she must not feel in the least degree distressed, or put about. Their happiness was only delayed for a short time.

A long letter. She had no gift of second sight; she could not see that his face burned with a shameful flush as he wrote it; that for himself he had no pity; that his heart went out to her with a warmer love than ever, but that the fear of his mother's taunts and the pain on Lady Marion's face kept him where he was.

Then, when the long letter was written, he directed it and sent it by his valet to post; nor could she see how that same valet intended going to post it at once, but was prevented, and then laid it aside for an hour, as he thought, and forgot it for two whole days; then, fearing his master's anger, said nothing about it, trusting that the delay might be attributed to something wrong in the post; and so, on the very day it should have been given to her, it was put into the post-office, three days too late. She could not know all this, and she longed for the thirtieth of June as the dying long for cold water, as the thirsty hart for the clear spring.

It came. She had longed for it, waited for it, prayed for it, and now it was here. She awoke early in the morning; it was to her as though a bridegroom were coming; the song of the birds woke her, and they seemed to know that he was coming – they were up and awake in the earliest dawn. Then a great flood of golden sunlight came to welcome her; she hastened to the window to see what the day was like, and whether the sky was blue. It seemed to her that every little bird sung, "He is coming."

Here were the roses laughing in at the window, nodding as though they would say, "This is the thirtieth of June." There flashed the deep, clear river, hurrying on to the great sea over which he must have crossed; the wind whispered among the leaves, and every leaf had a voice. "He is coming to-day," they all said – "coming to-day."

There was a great stir even at that early hour in the morning between the white and purple butterflies; there was a swift, soft cooing from the wood-pigeons; the world seemed to laugh in the warm embrace of the rising sun. She laughed too – a sweet, happy laugh that stirred the rose leaf and jasmine.

"Oh, happy day!" she cried – "oh, kindly sun and kindly time, that brings my love back to me."

She looked at the gate through which he would pass – at the rose tree from which he would gather the rose; and she stretched out her hands with a great, longing cry.

"Send him quickly – oh, kind Heaven!" she cried. "I have waited so long, my eyes ache to look at him. I thirst for his presence as flowers thirst for dew."

She looked at her watch, it was but just six – the laborers were going to the field, the maids to the dairy, the herdsmen to their flocks. She could see the hay-makers in the meadow, and the barges dropped lazily down the stream. The time would soon pass and he would be here before noon. Could it be possible that she should see him so soon?

"In six hours," she repeated, "she should see him in six hours."

Ah, well, she had plenty to do. She went round the pretty villa to see if everything was as he liked best to see it, then she occupied herself in ordering for his enjoyment every dish that she knew he liked; and then she dressed herself to sit and wait for him at the window. She looked as though she had been bathed in dew and warmed by the golden sun, so bright, so sparkling, so fresh and brilliant, her eyes radiant with hope and love, the long, silken lashes like fringe, the white lids half-drooping, her face, with its passionate beauty heightened by the love that filled her heart and soul. She wore a dress of amber muslin with white lace, and in the rich masses of her dark hair lay a creamy rose. Fair and bright as the morning itself she took her place at the window to watch the coming of him who was so many miles away. It is thus women believe men, it is thus that men keep the most solemn vows that they can make.

The maid who brought her tea wondered why her young mistress chose to sit at the window to drink it; indeed, she started with wonder at the brilliant beauty of the face turned to her.

It struck her now that she might in very truth begin to expect him; the sun was growing warmer, the flowers were wide awake, the brown bees were busy among the carnations, the birds had done half their day's work; some of the tall-plumed lilacs were beginning to droop, and the white acacia blossoms had fallen on the long grass. Her whole soul in her eyes, and those eyes fixed longingly on the white gate, she sat there until noon.

Great city bells rang out the hour; in the villages it was told by sweet old chimes. The hay-makers sat down to rest, the butterflies rested in the great hearts of the red roses, the bees settled in the carnations, the languid, odorous wind was still while the strokes rang out one after another – fragrant, sunny, golden noon.

He had not come; but every moment was bringing him nearer. Some one brought her a glass of wine, some fruit and biscuits. She would not touch them because she would not take her eyes from the white gate through which he had to pass.