Kitabı oku: «A Mad Love», sayfa 21

CHAPTER LIX.
USELESS PLEADINGS

"You cannot possibly know what you are saying," said Lady Lanswell; "you must be mad."

"No; I am perfectly sane; if I am mad at all it is with delight that the very desire of my heart has been given to me. Do you forget when you trampled my heart, my life, my love under your feet that day? Do you forget what I have sworn?"

"I have never thought of it since," said the countess, trying to conciliate still.

"Then I will remind you," said Leone. "I swore to be avenged, no matter what my vengeance cost. I swore that you should come and plead to me on your knees and I would laugh at you. I do so. I swore that you should plead to me, and I would remind you how I pleaded in vain. You wrung my heart – I will wring yours, and my only regret is that it is so hard and cold I cannot make you suffer more."

"You are mad," said my lady; "quite mad."

"No," said Leone, "I am sane, but mine was a mad love."

"You cannot know the consequence to yourself if you persist in this conduct," said my lady, serenely.

"Did you think of them for me when you set aside my marriage with your son, because you did not think me good enough to be a countess?" she asked. "Lady Lanswell, the hour of vengeance has come and I embrace it. Your son shall lose his wife, his home, his position, his honors; I care not what," she cried, with sudden recklessness – "I care not what the world says of me, I will do that which I shall do, less because I love your son than because I desire to punish you."

Lady Lanswell grew very pale as she listened.

"Yours is a terrible revenge," she said, gently. "I wish that you could invent some vengeance that would fall on my head – and on mine alone, so as to spare those who are dear to me. Could you not do that? I would willingly suffer anything to free my son and his fair, loving wife."

"No one spared me, nor will I in my turn spare," she said. "You shall know what it means to plead for dear life and plead in vain."

"Can I say nothing that will induce you to listen to me?" said the countess, "will you deliberately persist in the conduct that will ruin three lives?"

"Yes, deliberately and willfully," said Leone. "I will never retract, never go back, but go on to the bitter end."

"And that end means my son's disgrace," said Lady Lanswell.

"It would be the same thing if it meant his death," said Leone; "no one withheld the hand that struck death to me – worse than death."

"You have nothing but this to say to me," said Lady Lanswell as she rose with stately grace from her seat.

"No; if I knew anything which would punish you more, which would more surely pay my debts, which would more fully wreak my vengeance, I would do it. As for three lives, as for thirty, I would trample them under my feet. I will live for my vengeance, no matter what it costs me; and, Lady Lanswell, you ruined my life. Good-bye. The best wish I can form is that I may never look on your face again. Permit me to say farewell."

She went out of the room leaving the countess bewildered with surprise and dismay.

"What she says she will do," thought Lady Lanswell; "I may say good-bye to every hope I have ever formed for my son."

She went away, her heart heavy as lead, with no hope of any kind to cheer it.

Leone went to her room, her whole frame trembling with the strong passion that had mastered her.

"What has come over me?" she said; "I no longer know myself. Is it love, vengeance, or jealousy that has hold of me? What evil spirit has taken my heart? Would I really hurt him whom I have loved all my life – would I do him harm? Would I crush that fair wife of his who wronged me without knowing it? Let me find out for myself if it be true."

She tried to think, but her head was in a whirl – she could not control herself, she could not control her thoughts; the sight of Lady Lanswell seemed to have set her heart and soul in flame – all the terrible memory of her wrongs came over her, the fair life blighted and ruined, the innocent girlhood and dawning womanhood all spoiled. It was too cruel – no, she could never forgive it.

And then it seemed to her that her brain took fire and she went mad.

She saw Lord Chandos that same evening; they met in a crush on the staircase at one of the ducal mansions, where a grand dinner-party preceded a soiree, and the crowd was so great they were unable to stir. It is possible to be quite alone in a great crowd, as these two were now.

Leone had on a dress of white satin trimmed with myrtle, the rich folds of which trailed on the ground. They shook hands in silence; it was Lord Chandos who spoke first.

"I am so glad to see you, Leone; but you are looking ill – you must not look like that. Has anything happened to distress you?"

He saw great trouble in the dark eyes raised to his.

"Is Lady Marion here?" she asked.

"No," he replied. "She was to have come with my mother, but at the last moment she declined; I do not know why."

She was debating in her own mind whether she would tell him about his mother's visit or not; then she decided it would be better. He bent over her.

"I came," he said, "in the hope of seeing you. I heard you say last night that you should be here."

In a low tone she said to him:

"Your mother has been to see me; talk about dramatic scenes, we had one. Has she told you anything about it?"

"No," he replied: "she does not speak to me; I am in disgrace; my lady passes me in silent dignity. She was just going to Lady Marion's room when I came away, but she did not speak to me. What was the object of her visit, Leone?"

"It was about Berlin," she said, in a low voice.

He started.

"Has she been to you about that?" he asked. "I thought she had exhausted all the remarks she had to make on that subject."

The green foliage and crimson flowers of a huge camellia bent over them. Lord Chandos pushed aside the crimson flowers so that he might more clearly see his companion's face.

"What has my mother said to you about Berlin, Leone?" he asked.

"She came to beg of me to forbid you to go. She says if you go either with me or after me you will be a ruined man."

"It will be a most sweet ruin," he whispered.

"Lance," said Leone, "do you know that while Lady Lanswell was talking to me I went mad – I am quite sure of it. I said such dreadful things to her; did I mean them?"

"How should I know, my – Leone; but we will not talk about it; never mind what my mother says, I do not wish to hear it. She came between us once, but she never will again. She parted us once, she shall never part us again – never. There can be no harm in my going to Berlin, and there I shall go – that is, always with your consent and permission."

"That you have. But, Lance, is it true that Lady Marion does not wish you to go to Berlin, and threatens to leave you if you do – is it true?"

"Let us talk about something else, Leone," he said. "We have but a few moments together."

"But I cannot think of anything else," she said; "because my heart is full of it."

What else she would have said will never be known, for at that moment there was a stir in the crowd, and they were separated.

She took home with her the memory of his last look – a look that said so plainly, "I love you and will go to Berlin for your sake." She took home with her the memory of that look, and lay sleepless through the whole night, wondering which of the evil spirits had taken possession of her.

The countess had gone in search of Lady Marion. She found her in her boudoir – the beautiful room she had shown with such pride to Madame Vanira.

Lady Chandos looked up eagerly as the countess entered.

"Have you good news for me?" she cried, eagerly.

And my lady could not destroy the lingering hope she saw in that fair face.

"Not yet," she cried, "but you must be patient, Marion."

"Patience is so difficult when so much is at stake. Tell me – you had some plan, some resource; I saw that when you left me. Have you tried it?"

"Yes, I have tried it," replied Lady Lanswell, sadly.

"Has it succeeded or failed?" she asked, eagerly.

"It has failed," answered the countess, dreading to see the effect of her reply.

But to her surprise, a tender, dreamy smile came over the fair face.

"Why are you smiling, Marion?" she asked.

"Because I, too, have a plan," she replied; "one quite of my own; and I pray Heaven it may succeed."

"Will you tell it me?" asked Lady Lanswell.

And the fair, young wife's answer was a quietly whispered:

"No."

Late that night, while the London streets were darkened by the cloud of sin that seems to rise as the sun sets; while the crowded ballrooms were one scene of gayety and frivolity; while tired souls went from earth to Heaven; while poverty, sickness, sorrow and death reigned over the whole city, Lady Marion, with her golden head bent and her white hands clasped, knelt praying. There was peace on her face and holy, happy love.

"God help me," she said; "I will put all my trust in Him. My husband will love me when he knows."

She prayed there until the sun rose in the morning sky, and she watched the first beams with a tender smile.

"It will be a day of grace for me," she said, as she laid her fair head on the pillow to sleep.

CHAPTER LX.
"THIS WOMAN SHALL NEVER KNOW."

Leone stood alone in her pretty drawing-room, the room from which she could see the hills and the trees, and catch glimpses of pretty home scenery that were unrivaled. She stood looking at it now, her eyes fixed on the distant hills, her heart re-echoing the words: "In the grave alone is peace." In her heart and mind all was dross; she seemed to have lost the power of thinking; she had an engagement to sing in her favorite opera on the evening previous. Hundreds had assembled to hear her, and at the last moment they were compelled to find a substitute. Leone could not sing; it was not that her voice failed her, but to her inexpressible sorrow, when she began to tell the woes of another her mind wandered off into her own. In vain she tried to collect herself, to save herself from the terrible whirl of her brain. "Surely I am not going mad." She bent her head on her hands, and sighed deeply; if she could but save herself, if she could but tell what to do. The night before, only a few hours previous, it seemed to her her heart and brain had been on fire, first with jealousy, then with love, then with anger. By accident, as she was going to her wardrobe, her hands fell on a large, beautiful copy of the Bible. She opened it carelessly, and her eyes fell on the words: "For the wicked there shall be no abiding-place, neither shall they find rest forever."

Rest, that was what she wanted, and if she were wicked she would not find it for evermore. What was being wicked? People had behaved wickedly to her, they had taken from her the one love that would have been the stay of her life; they had made her most solemn vows nothing. She had been wickedly treated, but did it follow that she must be wicked?

"I could never be a sinner," she said; "I have not the nerve, I have not the strength. I could never be a sinner."

Lightly enough she turned those pages; she saw the picture of Ruth in the corn-field – simple, loving Ruth, whose words have stood the finest love-story ever written since she uttered them. There was another picture of Queen Esther fainting in the awful presence of Ahasuerus the king; another of a fair young Madonna holding in her arms a little child; another of the Magdalen, her golden hair wet with tears; another of a Sacred Head bent low in the agonies of death. She looked long at that, for underneath it was written, "For our sins." Wickedness meant sin. Standing there, her hand resting on the page, all the truth seemed to come home to her. It would be a sin to cause disunion between husband and wife; it would be a sin to cause the husband of another woman to love her; it would be a sin to give way to the desire of vengeance that was burning her heart away, and these words were so pathetic, "For our sins." She had laid her face on that picture of the Crucifixion, and burning tears fell from her eyes over it.

"God have mercy on me," she had prayed, "and save me from myself."

Then she had slept, and here was the morrow, a lovely summer day with the air all fragrance, the birds all song, and she was still doing hard battle with herself, for, as she had said to herself, hers was "a mad love – a cruel, mad love."

And as she stood watching the distant hills, wondering if in the blue sky that hung over them there was peace, a servant once more entered the room, holding a card in her hand.

"Lady Chandos," said Leone, wonderingly; "ask her in here."

She looked in surprise, almost too great for words, at the little card. Lance's wife, who had refused to speak to her, who had disdained to touch her outstretched hand – Lance's wife coming to speak to her.

What could it mean? Were the whole race of the Lanswells coming to her?

The next moment a fair, sweet face was smiling into hers, a face she had seen last darkened with anger, but which was fair and bright now, with the light of a holy love.

Leone looked at her in amaze. What had happened? It looked as though a new life, a new soul, had been given to Lady Marion. And hush, she was speaking to her in a low, sweet voice, that thrilled through the great singer like the softest cords from an Eolian harp.

"You are surprised to see me," Lady Marion was saying, "yet I have done right in coming. All last night, while the stars were shining, I prayed Heaven to tell me what it was best for me to do, and I shall always think that the white-winged angels, who they say carry prayers to Heaven, sent me to you. I refused to touch your hand the other day. Will you give it to me now? Will you listen to me?"

Leone's whole heart and soul had risen in hot rebellion and fierce hate against the Countess of Lanswell. They went out in sweetest love and compassion to her fair faced rival now. The sweet voice went on:

"I cannot tell why I have come to you – some impulse has sent me. Another woman in my place would have looked on you as a successful rival and have hated you. I cannot. The soul that has stirred other souls cannot be base; you must be noble and good or you would not influence the hearts and souls of men. Oh, madame, I have come to you with two lives in my hands. Will you listen to me?"

The dark, beautiful head of the gifted singer was bent for a few moments over the golden head of her rival. Then Leone raised her eyes to Marion's face.

"You are trembling," she said; "you shall speak to me as you will, but you shall speak to me here."

Some warm, loving irresistible impulse came to her; she could not hate or hurt this fair, gentle lady whom the countess had put in her place, and whom her husband did not love; a great impulse of pity came over her, a sweet and generous compassion filled her heart.

"You shall speak to me here," she repeated, clasping her arms round the trembling figure and laying the golden head on her breast. She kissed the fair, sad face with a passion of love. "There," she said, "Lady Marion, if I had wronged you even in the least, I should not dare do that. Now tell me what you have come to say. Do not tremble so," and the tender arms tightened their clasp. "Do not be afraid to speak to me."

"I am not afraid, for Heaven sent me," said Lady Marion. "I know that you will tell me the truth. I am as certain of that as I am of my own life. I have been very unhappy over you, Madame Vanira, for my husband seems to have cared more for you than for me."

"Has your husband ever told you anything about me?" asked Leone, gently.

And the answer was:

"No, nothing, except that, like everyone else, he admired you very much."

"Nothing more?" asked Leone.

"No, nothing more."

"Then," said Leone to herself, "the secret that he has kept I will keep, and this fair, tender woman shall never know that I once believed myself his wife."

Lady Marion wondered why she bent down and kissed her with all the fervor of self-sacrifice.

"I have been very unhappy," continued Lady Marion. "I loved and admired you. I never had the faintest suspicion in my mind against you, until some one came to tell me that you and my husband had spent a day on the river together. I know it was true, but he would not explain it."

"Let me explain it," said Leone, sadly. "I trust you as you trust me. I have had a great sorrow in my love; greater – oh, Heaven! – than ever fell to the lot of woman. And one day, when I saw your husband, the bitterness of it was lying heavily on me. I said something to him that led him to understand how dull and unhappy I felt. Lady Chandos, he took me on the river that he might give me one happy day, nothing more. Do you grudge it to me, dear? Ah, if I could give you the happiness of those few fleeting hours I would."

And again her warm, loving lips touched the white brow.

"I understand," said Lady Marion. "Why did my husband not speak as you have done? Does he care for you, madame? You will tell me the truth, I know."

And the fair face looked wistfully in her own.

Leone was silent for a few minutes; she could not look in those clear eyes and speak falsely.

"Yes," she answered, slowly; "I think Lord Chandos cares very much for me; I know that he admires and likes me."

Lady Marion looked very much relieved. There could surely be no harm in their friendship if she could speak of it so openly.

"And you, madame – oh, tell me truly – do you love him? Tell me truly; it seems that all my life hangs on your word."

Again the beautiful face drooped silently before the fair one.

"It would be so easy for me to tell you a falsehood," said Leone, while a great crimson flush burned her face, "but I will not. Yes, I – I love him. Pity me, you who love him so well yourself; he belongs to you, while I – ah, pity me because I love him."

And Lady Marion, whose heart was touched by the pitiful words, looked up and kissed her.

"I cannot hate you, since you love him," she said. "He is mine, but my heart aches for you. Now let me tell you what I have come to say. You are good and noble as I felt you were. I have come to ask a grace from you, and it is easier now that I know you love him. How strange it seems. I should have thought that hearing you say that you loved my husband would have filled my heart with hot anger, but it does not; in some strange way I love you for it."

"If you love him, madame, his interests must be dear to you."

"They are dear to me," she whispered. "How strange," repeated Lady Marion, "that while the world is full of men you and I should love the same man."

"Ah, life is strange," said Leone; "peace only comes with death."

CHAPTER LXI.
A SACRIFICE

Lady Marion raised herself so that she could look into the face of her beautiful rival.

"Now I will tell you," she said; "you are going to Berlin; you have an engagement at the Royal Opera House there, and my husband wishes to go there, too. But we all oppose it; his parents for social reasons, and I – I tell you frankly, because I am jealous of you, and cannot bear that he should follow you there. I have asked him to give up the idea, but he refuses – he will not listen to me. I have said that if he goes there, I will never see him or speak to him again, and I must keep my word. So, madame, I have come to you; I appeal to you, do not let him go: you can prevent it if you will."

Leone's dark eyes flashed fire.

"There is no harm in our friendship," she said; "would you take from me the only gleam of happiness I have in the world?"

But Lady Marion did not seem to hear the wild words; the same raptures of holy love had come over her face, and she blushed until she looked like a lovely, glowing rose.

"Think how I trust you," she said; "I have come to tell you that which I have told to no one. I have come to tell you that which, if ever there has been any particular friendship between you and my husband, must end it. I have come to tell you that which will show that now – now you must not take my husband from me.

"Bend down lower," continued the sweet voice, "that I may whisper to you. I have been married nearly four years now, and the one desire of my heart has been to have a little child. I love little children so dearly. And I have always thought that if I could give to my husband children to love he would love me better. I have prayed as Rachel prayed, but it seemed to me the heavens were made of brass – no answer came to my prayers. I have wept bitter tears when I have seen other mothers caressing their children. When my husband has stopped to kiss a child or play with it, my heart has burned with envy, and now, oh, madame, bend lower, lower – now Heaven has been so good to me, and they tell me that in a few months I shall have a darling little child, all my own. Oh, madame, do you see that now you must not take my husband from me; that now there must be no mischief between us; that we must live in peace and love because Heaven has been so good to us."

The sweet voice rose to a tone of passionate entreaty; and Lady Marion withdrew from the clasp of her rival's arms, and knelt at her feet. The face she raised was bright and beautiful as though angel's wings shadowed it.

"I plead with you," she said, "I pray to you. You hold my life in your hands. If it were only myself I would be glad to die, so that if my husband loves you best he might marry you, but it is for my little child. Do you know that when I say to myself, 'Lance's little child,' the words seem to me sweeter than the sweetest music."

But the beautiful woman who had been no wife, turned deadly pale as she listened to the words. She held up her hand with a terrible cry.

"For Heaven's sake, hush," she said hoarsely, "I cannot bear it!"

For one minute it was as though she had been turned to stone. Her heart seemed clutched by a cold, iron hand. The next, she had recovered herself and raised Lady Marion, making her rest, and trying to still the trembling of the delicate frame.

"You must calm yourself," she said. "I have listened to you, now will you listen to me?"

"Yes; but, madame, you will be good to me – you will not let my husband leave me? We shall be happy, I am sure, when he knows; we shall forget all this sorrow and this pain. He will be to me the same as he was before your beautiful face dazed him. Ah, madame, you will not let him leave me."

"I should be a murderess if I did," she said, in a low voice.

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.

"Lance's little child!" The words had been a death-knell to Leone. She had seen his wife and lived – she had seen him in his home with that same fair wife by his side, and she had lived; but at the thought of her rival's children in his arms her whole soul died.

Died – never to live again. She sat for some time just where Lady Marion left her, and she said to herself a thousand times over and over again those words – "Lance's little child." Only God knows the anguish that came over her, the piercing sorrow, the bitter pain – the memory of those few months when she had believed herself to be Lance's wife. She fell on her knees with a great, passionate cry.

"Oh, Heaven," she cried, "save me from myself!"

The most beautiful woman in Europe, the most gifted singer on the stage, the idol of the world of fashion – she lay there helpless, hopeless, despairing, with that one cry rising from her lips on which a world had hung:

"Heaven have mercy on me, and save me from myself!"

When she woke, the real world seemed to have vanished from her. She heard the sound of running water; a mill-wheel turning in a deep stream; she heard the rush and the foaming of water, the song of the birds overhead, the rustle of the great boughs, the cooing of the blue and white pigeons. Why, surely, that was a dream of home.

Home – the old farmhouse where Robert Noel lived, the kind, slow, stolid farmer. She could hear him calling, "Leone, where are you?" and the pigeons deafened her as they whirled round her head. She struggled for a time with her dazed, bewildered senses; but she could not tell which was the real life, whether she was at home again in the old farmhouse, and had dreamed a long, troubled dream, or whether she was dreaming now.

Her brain burned – it was like liquid fire; and she seemed to see always a golden-haired child.

"Lance's little child." Yes, there he was holding mother and child both in his arms, kissing them, while she lay there helpless and despairing.

"Mine was always a mad love," she said to herself – "a mad love."

Then she heard a sound of music – softest, sweetest music – floating through the room, and woke to reason with a terrible shudder to find that she was singing the old, sweet song:

 
"I would the grave would hide me,
For there alone is peace."
 

"I have been mad," she said to herself; "those words drove me mad, 'Lance's little child.'"

She went to her room and bathed her head in ice-cold water. The pain grew less, but not the burning heat.

The idea became fixed in her mind that she must go back to the old mill-stream; she did not know why, she never asked herself why; that was her haven of rest, by the sound of rushing waters. Within sight of the mill-wheel, and the trees, and the water lilies, all would be well, the cloud would pass from her mind, the fire from her brain, the sword from her heart.

She had two letters to write, one to the manager with whom her engagement expired in two nights, telling him she was ill and had gone away for her health, and that he would not probably hear of her for some time; and another to Lord Chandos. It was simple and sad:

"Good-bye. I am going – not to Berlin – but away from Europe, and I shall never return; but before I leave I shall go to the mill-stream to look at and listen to the waters for the last time. Good bye, Lance. In heaven you will know how much I have loved you, never on earth. In heaven you will know why I have left you. Be kind, and true, and good to all who are dear to you. Lance, if I die first, I shall wait inside the golden gates of heaven for you."

She did one thing more, which proved that her reason was still clear. She paid off all her servants, and to the most trusted one left power to give up her house in her name, as she was leaving it.

And far off the mill-wheel turned in the stream, and the water-lilies stirred faintly us the white foam passed them by.