"In sheltered vale a mill-wheelStill sings its busy lay.My darling once did dwell there,But now she's gone away."
"In sheltered vale a mill-wheelStill sings its busy lay.My darling once did dwell there,But now she's gone away."
The stars were shining as they shone when he sat by the mill-stream, with that beautiful head on his heart. He shuddered as he remembered her forebodings. Lady Chandos took his hand anxiously in hers.
"My dearest Lance, I am quite sure you are not well, I saw you shudder as though you were cold, and yet your hands are burning hot. What is it you say about going to your club? Nothing of the kind, my darling. You must have some white wine whey; you have taken cold. No; pray do not laugh, Lance, prevention is better than cure."
She had exactly her own way, as those very quiet, amiable wives generally have. He did not go to his club, but he sat by his dressing-room fire, and drank white wine whey. He had the satisfaction of hearing his wife say that he was the best husband in the world; then he fell asleep, to dream of the mill-stream and the song.
It grew upon him—he must know if that was Leone. Of course, he said to himself, he did not wish to renew his acquaintance with her—he would never dare, after his cruel treatment of her, even to address one word to her; but he should be quite content if he could know whether this was Leone or not. If he could know that he would be happy, his sorrow and remorse would be lessened.
He knew that the best place for hearing such details was his club—the Royal Junior—every one and everything were discussed there, no one escaped, and what was never known elsewhere was always known at the Royal Junior. He would take luncheon there and by patient listening would be sure to know. He went, although Lady Chandos said plaintively that she could not eat her luncheon alone.
"I am compelled to go," he said. "I have business, Marion, that is imperative."
"I think husbands have a reserve fund of business," said Lady Chandos. "What a mysterious word it is, and how much it covers, Lance. Lord Seafield is never at home, but whenever his wife asks him where he is going, he always says 'on business.' Now, in your case what does business mean?"
He laughed at the question.
"Parliamentary interests, my dear," he replied, as he hastened away. Such close questions were very difficult to answer.
He found the dining-rooms well filled, and, just as he had foreseen, the one subject was La Vanira. Then, indeed, did he listen to some wonderful stories. The Marquis of Exham declared that she was the daughter of an illustrious Sicilian nobleman, who had so great a love for the stage nothing could keep her from it. The Earl of Haleston said he knew for a fact she was the widow of an Austrian Jew, who had taken to the stage as the means of gaining her livelihood. Lord Bowden said she was the wife of an Austrian officer who was possessed of ample means. There were at least twenty different stories about her, and not one agreed with another.
"I wonder," said Lord Chandos, at last, "what is the real truth?"
"About what?" said a white-haired major, who sat next to him.
"About La Vanira," he replied; "every one here has a different story to tell."
"I can tell you as much truth as any one else about her," said the major, "I was with the manager last evening. La Vanira is English. I grant that she looks like a Spaniard—I never saw such dark eyes in my life; but she is English; accomplished, clever, good as gold, and has no one belonging to her in the wide world. That much the manager told me himself."
"But where does she come from?" he asked, impatiently. "Everybody comes from somewhere."
"The manager's idea is that she was brought up in the midland counties; he thinks so from a few words she said one day."
"Is she married or single?" asked Lord Chandos.
"Single," was the reply; "and in no hurry to be married. She has refused some of the best offers that could be made; and yet she wears a ring on the third finger of her left hand—perhaps it is not a wedding-ring."
"I should like to see her," said Lord Chandos.
The white-haired major laughed.
"So would half the men in London, but no one visits her—she allows no introductions. I know a dozen and more who have tried to see her in vain."
He was not much wiser after this conversation than before; but he was more determined to know. That same evening he made another excuse, and left his wife at Lady Blanchard's ball while he drove to the opera-house. The opera was almost over, but he saw the manager, to whom he briefly stated his errand.
"I believe," he said, "that in Madame Vanira I recognize an old friend. Will you introduce me to her?"
"I am sorry to say that I cannot," was the courteous reply. "I promised madame not to make any introductions to her."
"Will you take my card to her? If she is the lady I take her to be she will send word whether she wishes to see me or not."
The manager complied with his request. He soon returned.
"Madame Vanira wishes me to say that she has not the pleasure of your lordship's acquaintance, and that she is compelled to decline any introduction."
"Then it is not Leone," he said to himself, and a chill of disappointment came over him.
His heart had been beating quickly and warmly, yet he persuaded himself it was only that he was so pleased to know she was all right and safe from the frowns of the world. It was not Leone, but she was so much like Leone that he felt he must go to see her again.
"The opera to-night?" said Lady Marion, in her sweetest tones. "Why, my dear Lance, you were there three nights since."
"Yes, I know, but I thought it pleased you, Marion. We will ask my mother to go with us. It is the 'Crown Diamonds,' a very favorite opera of hers."
"Will Madame Vanira sing?" asked Lady Chandos, and her husband quietly answered:
"Yes."
He was anxious for Lady Lanswell to go, to see if she would recognize Leone, or if any likeness would strike her. As his chief wish seemed to be to give pleasure to his mother, and he expressed no desire to see the beautiful singer again, Lady Chandos was very amiable. She sent a kind little note to the countess, saying what pleasure it would give them if she would go to the opera with them, and Lady Lanswell was only too pleased. The earl had grown tired of such things and never cared to go out in the evening.
How anxiously Lord Chandos watched his mother's face. He saw delight, surprise and wonder, but no recognition—except once, and then the magnificent arms of the actress were raised in denunciation. Then something of bewilderment came over Lady Lanswell's face, and she turned to her son.
"Lance," she said, "Madame Vanira reminds me of some one, and I cannot think who it is."
"Have you seen her before, mother, do you think?" he asked.
"No, I think not; but she reminds me of some one, I cannot think whom. Her gestures are more familiar to me than her face."
Evidently the thought of Leone never entered her mind; and Lord Chandos was more puzzled than ever. The countess was charmed.
"What fire, what genius, what power! That is really acting," she said. "In all my life I have seen nothing better. There is truth in her tenderness, reality in her sorrow. I shall often come to see Vanira, Lance."
So she did, and was often puzzled over the resemblance of some one she knew; but she never once dreamed of Leone, while, by dint of earnest watching and study, Lord Chandos became more and more convinced that it was she.
He was determined to find out. He was foolish enough to think that if he could once be sure of it, his heart and mind would be at rest, but until then there was no rest for him.
What could he do—how could he know? Then the idea came, to follow her carriage home. By dint of perseverance he found, at last, that Madame Vanira had a very pretty house in Hampstead called the Cedars, and he determined to call and see her there. If he had really been mistaken, and it were not Leone, he could but apologize; if it were——
Ah, well, if it were, he would ask her forgiveness, and she would give it to him, on account of the love she bore him years ago.
It was with some trepidation that Lord Chandos presented himself at the gates of the Cedars, yet surely she who had loved him so well would never refuse him admission into her house? that is, if it were Leone. As he walked through the pretty garden and saw all the pretty flowers blooming, he said to himself, that it was like her. She had always so dearly loved the spring flowers, the flame of the yellow crocus, the faint, sweet odor of the violets, the pure heads of the white snow-drops. He had heard her say so often that she loved these modest, sweet flowers that come in the spring more than the dainty ones that bloom in summer-time.
It was like her, this garden, and yet, he could not tell why. Great clusters of lilac-trees were budding, the laburnums were thinking of flowering; but there was no song of running brook, and no ripple of fountains, no sound of falling water; the birds were busy wooing and they had so much to sing about.
There was a profusion of flowers, all the windows seemed full of them; there was a picturesque look about the place that reminded him of Leone. On the lawn stood two large cedars, from which the place derived its name. He went to the hall door. What if she should meet him suddenly and turn from him in indignant anger? What if it should not be Leone, but a stranger?
A pretty housemaid, Parisian, he knew from the type, answered the door, from whom he inquired, in his most polite fashion, if Madame Vanira was at home.
There is no denying the fact that all women are more or less susceptible to the charms of a handsome face, and Lord Chandos was handsome—exceedingly. The girl looked up into the dark face and the dark eyes that always looked admiringly when a woman was near.
"Madame Vanira sees no one," she replied.
Something passed rapidly from his hand to hers.
"You look kind," he said, "be my friend. I think that, years ago, I knew Madame Vanira. If she be the lady whom I believe her to be, she will be pleased to see me, and no possible blame can be attached to you. Tell me where she is that I may find her."
"Madame is in the morning-room," said the girl, with some hesitation, "but I shall lose my place if I admit you."
"I promise you no," said Lord Chandos; "on the contrary, your lady will be pleased that you are able to discriminate between those whom she would like to see, and those whom she would not."
"At least, let me announce you," pleaded the pretty housemaid, in broken English.
"No, it would serve no purpose; that is, of course, you can go before me and open the door—I will follow you immediately. You need only say, 'A gentleman to see you, madame.' Will you do this?"
"Yes," said the girl, reluctantly.
As he followed her through the passage, it did occur to him that if it were not Leone, he should be in a terrible dilemma. It occurred to him also, that if it were Leone, what right had he there, with that fair, sweet wife of his at home—what right had he there?
He followed the pretty maid through the hall and through a suit of rooms, furnished with quiet elegance. They came to the door of a room before which the maid stopped, and Lord Chandos saw that her face had grown pale.
She opened it.
"A gentleman to see you, madame," she said, hastily.
And then the maid disappeared, and he entered the room.
Leone was standing with her face to the window when he entered, and he had one moment in which to look round the room—one moment in which to control the rapid beating of his heart; then she turned suddenly, and once more they were face to face.
Ah, to see the heaven of delight and rapture that came over hers—the light that came into her eyes; it was as though her face was suddenly transfigured; all the past in that one moment of rapture was forgotten, all the treachery, the perfidy, the falsity.
She uttered one word, "Lance," but it was a cry of unutterable delight. "Lance," she repeated, and then, with all the light of heaven still shining in her face, she hid her face on his breast. She did not remember, she only knew that it was the face of her lost lover, the same strong, tender arms were clasped round her, the same warm kisses were on her face, the same passionate, loving heart was beating near her own. Ah, Heaven, how sweet that one moment was. To die while it lasted, never to leave the shelter of those dear arms again. She had waited for him for years, and he had come at last.
There were a few minutes of silent, rapturous greeting, and then, suddenly, she remembered, and sprung from him with a low cry.
"How dare you?" she cried, "I had forgotten. How dare you?"
Then the sight of the beloved face, the dear eyes, the well-remembered figure, took all the hot anger from her.
"Oh, Lance, Lance, I ought not to speak to you or look at you, and yet I cannot help it. God help me, I cannot help it."
He was down on his knees by her side, clasping her hands, the folds of her dress, crying out to her to pardon him; that he had no excuse to offer her; he had been guilty beyond all guilt; that neither in heaven nor on earth could there be any pardon for him; that he would have died a hundred deaths rather than have lost her.
For some five minutes it was a mad whirl of passion, love and regret. She was the first to recollect herself, to say to him:
"Lord Chandos, you must not kneel there; remember you have a wife at home."
The words struck him like a sharp sword. He arose and, drawing a chair for her, stood by her side.
"I am beside myself," he said, "with the pleasure of seeing you again. Forgive me, Leone; I will not offend. Oh, what can I say to you? How can I look upon your face and live?"
"You were very cruel to me and very treacherous," she said; "your treachery has spoiled my life. Oh, Lance, how could you be so cruel to me when I loved you so—how could you?"
Tears that she had repressed for years rained down her face; all the bitter grief that she had held in as with an iron hand, all the pride so long triumphant, all the pain and anguish, and the desolation, that had been in check, rushed over her, as the tempestuous waves of the sea rush over the rocks and sands.
"How could you, Lance?" she cried, wringing her hands; "how could you? You were cruel and treacherous to me, though I trusted you so. Ah, my love, my love, how could you?"
The beautiful head fell forward in the very abandonment of sorrow; great sobs shook the beautiful figure.
"Oh, Lance, I loved you so, I believed in you as I believed in Heaven. I loved you and trusted you, you forsook me and deceived me. Oh, my love, my love!"
His face grew white and his strong figure trembled under the pain of her reproaches.
"Leone," he said, gently, "every word of yours is a sword in my heart. Why did I do it? Ah me, why? I have no word of excuse for myself, not one. I might say that I was under woman's influence, but that would not excuse me. I take the whole blame, the whole sin upon myself. Can you ever forgive me?"
She raised her face to his, all wet with tears.
"I ought not to forgive you," she said; "I ought to drive you from my presence; I ought to curse you with my ruined life, but I cannot. Oh, Lance, if I only lay under the waters of the mill-stream, dead."
The passion of her grief was terrible to see. He forgot all and everything but her—the wife at home, the plighted vows, honor, truth, loyalty—all and everything except the girl whom he had loved with a mad love, and her grief. He drew her to his breast, he kissed away the shining tears; he kissed the trembling lips.
"Leone, you will drive me mad. Great God, what have I done? I realize it now; I had better have died," and then the strength of the strong man gave way, and he wept like a child. "It is no excuse," he said, "to plead that I was young, foolish, and easily led. Oh, Leone, my only love, what was I doing when I gave you up—when I left you?"
The violence of his grief somewhat restrained hers; she was half frightened at it.
"We are making matters worse," she said. "Lance, we must not forget that you are married now in earnest."
"Will you ever forgive me?" he asked. "I have no excuse to offer. I own that my sin was the most disloyal and the most traitorous a man could commit, but forgive me, Leone. I have repented of it in sackcloth and ashes. Say you forgive me."
The beautiful, colorless face did not soften at the words.
"I cannot," she said; "I cannot forgive that treachery, Lance; it has wounded me even unto death. How can I forgive it?"
"My darling—Leone—say you will pardon me. I will do anything to atone for it."
She laid one white hand on his arm.
"You see, Lance," she said, earnestly, "it is one of those things for which you can never atone—one that can never be undone—but one which will brand me forever. What am I? Did you stop to think of that when your new love tempted you? What am I? not your wife—not your widow. Oh God, what am I?"
He drew her to him again, but this time she resisted his warm kisses.
"Leone," he said sadly, "I deserve to be shot. I hate myself—I loathe myself. I cannot imagine how I failed in my duty and loyalty to you. I can only say that I was young and thoughtless—easily led. Heaven help me, I had no mind of my own, but I have suffered so cruelly and so have you, my darling—so have you."
"I?" she replied. "When you can count the leaves in the forest, or the sands on the seashore, you will know what I have suffered, not until then."
Her voice died away in a melancholy cadence that to him was like the last wailing breath of the summer wind in the trees.
"Lance," she said, suddenly, "or, as I ought to say, Lord Chandos—how can I forgive you? What you ask is more than any woman could grant. I cannot pardon the treachery which has ruined my life, which has stricken me, without blame or fault of mine, from the roll of honorable women—which has made me a by-word, a mark for the scorn and contempt of others, a woman to be contemned and despised. Of what use are all the gifts of Heaven to me, with the scarlet brand you have marked on my brow?"
He grew white, even to the lips, as the passionate words reached his ears.
"Leone," he cried, "for God's sake spare me. I have no defense—no excuse; spare me; your words kill me. They are not true, my darling; none of what happened was your fault—you were innocent and blameless as a child; you are the same now. Would to Heaven all women were pure and honorable as you. Say what you will to me, no punishment would be too great for me—but say nothing yourself; never one word, Leone. Could you forgive me? I have done you the most cruel wrong, and I have no excuse to offer—nothing but my foolish youth, my mad folly, my unmanly weakness. I have known it ever since I married. You are my only love; I have never had another. Ah, my darling, forgive me. If I have ruined your life, I have doubly ruined my own."
She raised her beautiful, colorless face to his.
"Lance," she said, gently, "what a prophecy that song held for us. And the running water—how true a foreboding it always murmured:
"'The vows are all forgotten,The ring asunder broken.'
"'The vows are all forgotten,The ring asunder broken.'
How true and how cruel. I hear the song and I hear the murmur of the water in my dreams."
"So do I," he replied, sadly. "My darling, I wish we never left the mill-stream. I would to Heaven we had died under the running water together."
"So do I," she said, "but we are living, not dead, and life holds duties just as death holds relief. We must remember much harm has been done—we need not do more."
"Say that you will forgive me, Leone, and then I do not care what happens. I will do anything you tell me. I will humble myself in every way. I will do anything you can desire if you will only forgive me. Do, for Heaven's sake. I am so utterly wretched that I believe if you refuse to say one word of pardon to me I shall go mad or kill myself."
There was a long struggle in her mind. Could she forgive the injury which seemed greater than man had ever inflicted on woman? She was very proud, and her pride was all in arms. How could she pardon a traitor? She had loved him better than her life, and with the first sight of his handsome, beloved face all the glamour of her love was over her again.
How could she forgive him? Yet the proud figure was bent so humbly before her, the proud head so low.
"What am I to say?" she cried. "I was a good and innocent girl—now it seems to me that the evil spirits of passion and unrest have taken possession of me. What am I to say or to do? Heaven help and teach me."
"Forgive me," he repeated. "Your refusal will send me away a madman, ready for any reckless action. Your consent will humble me, but it will make me happier. Oh, my darling, forgive me."
"Suppose that harm follows my forgiveness—we are better enemies than friends, Lord Chandos."
"We will never be enemies, and no harm can come except that I shall be happier for it. Say you will forgive me, Leone. See, I ask your pardon on my knees. For Heaven's sake, for my great love's sake, say you forgive me!"
He knelt before her humbly as a child, he bowed his handsome head until his face rested on her knees; he sobbed aloud in his sorrow and his deep regret. She stood for a few minutes quite uncertain; her clear reason and common sense told her that it would be better if she would refuse him pardon, and that they should part for all time; but love and pity pleaded, and of course love and pity won. She laid her hand on the dark head of the man whom she had once believed her husband; her beautiful face quivered with emotion.
"I forgive you," she said, "freely, frankly, fully, as I hope Heaven will forgive me all my sins. Nay, you must not kiss me, not even my hand. Your kisses belong to some one else now—not to me. I forgive you, but we must part again. Come what may—we must part, we must not meet again."
"I can never part with you," he said, in a hoarse voice. "You have been life of my life, heart of my heart too long for that."
She held up her hand with a superb gesture of warning and silence.
"Hush, Lord Chandos," she said; "if you speak to me in that strain, I shall never see you again. Remember you have a wife; you must not be false to two women—keep true to one. Neither your kisses nor your loving words belong to me now."
"I will not offend you," he said, sadly.
She leaned her beautiful arms on the table, her white hands under her chin, looking steadily at him.
"I have forgiven you," she said, musingly, "I, who have sworn such terrible oaths, such bitter revenge, I have ended by forgiving you, after the fashion of the most milk-and-water type of women. I have forgiven you, and Heaven knows how I tried to hate you, and have tried to take pleasure in the thoughts of my vengeance."
"You have had your vengeance on me, Leone, in the shape of the love that has never left me, and the memories which have haunted me. You swore vengeance against my mother, but you will forego that."
A slow smile came over her face and died away again.
"Lord Chandos," she said, "you will not be my debtor in generosity. You have asked me to pardon you; I have done so. Grant me one favor in return—tell me who influenced you to forsake me?"
He looked puzzled.
"I hardly know, Leone, I can hardly tell you."
"It was not the lady whom you have married," she continued, "of that I am sure. Who was it?"
"I think if any one influenced me it must have been my mother," he said, gently; "she was always violently opposed to it."
The beautiful lips paled and trembled.
"I thought it was your mother," she said, gravely, "No, I shall not forego my vengeance against her, although I know not when I may gain it."
"You will forget all that," he said. "You are too noble to care for vengeance."
"I am not too noble," she replied. "All that was best and noble in me died on the day you forsook me. And now, Lord Chandos, listen to me. Words of peace and pardon have passed between us. It has raised a heavy funeral pall from my life; it has, perhaps, raised a black cloud from yours. Lord Chandos, we must not meet again."
"You cannot be so cruel, Leone. Having found you, how can I lose you again?"
"You must, it is imperative," she said slowly.
"But, Leone, why should we not be friends?" he said, gently.
She laughed a hard, scornful laugh that struck him in the face like the sting of a sharp blade.
"Friends?" she repeated. "Could we who have been wedded lovers ever be friends? You do not know what words mean if you think that."
He stood before her with a stern, white face.
"Leone," he cried, "are you really going to be cruel enough to send me away out of your life again, I who have been mad with joy at finding you?"
"If I were cruel," she said, slowly, "now I would take my vengeance. I should say as you once left me so now I leave you, but I am not cruel, and that is my reason. My reason is a good and pure one; we could never remain friends, we love each other too much for that; we must live as strangers now; and remember, it is your fault, not mine."
"I cannot submit to it," he cried.
But she looked at him with a face stern, resolute, fixed as his own.
"Remember, Lord Chandos," she said, "that I am my own mistress. I can choose my friends and associates. I refuse to admit you among the number."
"You cannot prevent me from coming to see you, Leone."
"No; but I can, and shall, refuse to see you when you come," she replied; "and I shall do so."
"Oh, my love, my cruel, beautiful love," he cried.
The girl's face flushed with hot anger and indignation.
"Will you be silent?" she cried. "Shame on you, Lord Chandos, to use such words. You have a beautiful and beloved wife at home to whom all your love and fidelity belong. If you say one more such word to me I will never see you again."
"But, Leone, it seems so very hard; you might let me call at times and see you."
"No, I cannot, I cannot trust myself, even if I could trust you. I have had no other husband, no other love; you have married. I would not trust myself; my love is as great now as ever it was, but it shall not run away with me; it shall not be my master. I will master it. You must not come near me."
"But, surely, if I meet you in the street, you will not ask me to pass you by?" he said.
"No; if we meet quite by chance, quite by accident, I will always speak to you. Ah, Lance," she added, with a smile, "I know you so well, I know every look in your eyes; you are thinking to yourself you will often see me by accident. You must not; such honor as you have left me let me keep."
"If this is to be our last interview, for some time, at least," he continued, "tell me, Leone, how is it that you have become so famous?"
"Yes, I will tell you all about that; I am rather proud of my power. It is not a long story, and it dates from the day on which your mother sent me that letter."
She told him all her studies, her struggles, her perseverance, her success, finally her crowning by fame.
"It is like a romance," he said.
"Yes, only it is true," she replied.
He tried to prolong the interview, but she would close it; and he was compelled to leave her, when he would have given years of his life to have remained one hour longer.
"Lance," said the sweet voice of Lady Marion, plaintively, "I am beginning to have a faint suspicion about you."
"Indeed. Your suspicions are not faint as a rule. What is this?"
"I am afraid that you are growing just a little tired of me," said the beautiful queen of blondes.
"What makes you think so?" he asked, trying to laugh, as he would have done a few weeks since at such an accusation.
"Several reasons. You are not so attentive to me as you used to be; you do not seem to listen when I speak; you have grown so absent-minded; and then you say such strange things in your sleep."
He looked grave for half a minute, then laughed carelessly.
"Do I? Then I ought to be ashamed of myself. Men talk enough in their waking hours without talking in their sleep. What do I say, Marion?"
He asked the question carelessly enough, but there was an anxious look in his dark eyes.
"I cannot tell; I hardly remember," said Lady Chandos; "but you are always asking some one to forgive you and see you. Have you ever offended any one very much, Lance?"
"I hope not," he replied. "Dreams are so strange, and I do not think they are often true reflections of our lives. Have you any further reason for saying I am growing tired of you? It is a vexed question, and we may as well settle it now as renew the argument."
"No, I have no other reason. Lance, you are not cross with me, dear?"
"No, I am not cross; but, at the same time, I must say frankly I do not like the idea of a jealous wife; it is very distasteful to me."
Lady Marion raised her eyes in wonder.
"Jealous, Lance?" she repeated. "I am not jealous. Of whom could I be jealous? I never see you pay the least attention to any one."
"Jealous wives, as a rule, begin by accusing their husbands of cooling love, want of attention, and all that kind of thing."
"But, Lance," continued the beautiful woman, "are you quite sure that there is no truth in what I say?"
He looked at her with a dreamy gaze in his dark eyes.
"I am quite sure," he replied. "I love you, Marion, as much as ever I did, and I have not noticed in the least that I have failed in any attention toward you; if I have I will amend my ways."
He kissed the fair face bent so lovingly over him; and his wife laid her fair arms round his neck.
"I should not like to be jealous," she said; "but I must have your whole heart, Lance; I could not be content with a share of it."
"Who could share it with you?" he asked, evasively.
"I do not know, I only know that it must be all or none for me," she answered. "It is all—is it not, Lance?"
He kissed her and would fain have said yes, but it came home to him with a sharp conviction that his heart had been given to one woman, and one only—no other could ever possess it.
A few days afterward, when Lord Chandos expressed a wish to go to the opera again, his wife looked at him in wonder.
"Again?" she said. "Why, Lance, it is only two nights since you were there, and it is the same opera; you will grow tired of it."
"The only amusement I really care for is the opera," he said. "I am growing too lazy for balls, but I never tire of music."
He said to himself, that if for the future he wished to go to the opera he would not mention the fact, but would go without her.
They went out that evening: the opera was "Norma." Lord Chandos heard nothing and saw nothing but the wondrous face of Norma; every note of that music went home to his heart—the love, the trust, the reproaches. When she sang them in her grandly pathetic voice, it was as though each one were addressed to himself. Three times did Lady Chandos address him without any response, a thing which in her eyes was little less than a crime.
"How you watch La Vanira," she said. "I am sure you admire her very much."
He looked at her with eyes that were dazed—that saw nothing; the eyes of a man more than half mad.
"And now look," she said. "Why, Lance, La Vanira is looking at me. What eyes she has. They stir my very heart and trouble me. They are saying something to me."
"Marion, hush! What are you talking about?" he cried.
"La Vanira's eyes—she is looking at me, Lance."
"Nonsense!" he said, and the one word was so abruptly pronounced that Lady Chandos felt sure it was nonsense and said no more.
But after that evening he said no more about going to the opera. If he felt any wish to go, he would go; it would be quite easy for him to make some excuse to her.
And those evenings grew more and more frequent. He did not dare to disobey Leone; he did not dare to go to her house, or to offer to see her in the opera house. He tried hard to meet her accidentally, but that happy accident never occurred; yet he could not rest, he must see her; something that was stronger than himself drew him near her.
He was weak of purpose; he never resolutely took himself in hand and said:
"I am married now. I have a wife at home. Leone's beauty, Leone's talents, are all less than nothing to me. I will be true to my wife."
He never said that; he never braced his will, or his energies to the task of forgetting her; he dallied with the temptation as he had done before; he allowed himself to be tempted as he had done before; the result was that he fell as he had fallen before.
Every day his first thought was how he could possibly get away that evening without drawing particular attention to his movements; and he went so often that people began to laugh and to tease him and to wonder why he was always there.
Leone always saw him. If any one had been shrewd and quick enough to follow her, they would have seen that she played to one person; that her eyes turned to him continually; that the gestures of her white arms seemed to woo him. She never smiled at him, but there were times, when she was singing some lingering, pathetic notes, it seemed as though she were almost waiting for him to answer her.
He did not dare to go behind the scenes, to linger near the door, to wait for her carriage, but his life was consumed with the one eager desire to see her. He went night after night to the box; he sat in the same place; he leaned his arms on the same spot, watching her with eyes that seemed to flash fire as they rested on her.
People remarked it at last, and began to wonder if it could be possible that Lord Chandos, with that beautiful wife, the queen of blondes, was beginning to care for La Vanira; he never missed one night of her acting, and he saw nothing but her when she was on the stage.
Again one evening Lady Chandos said to him:
"Lance, have you noticed how seldom you spend an evening—that is, the whole of an evening—with me? If you go to a ball with me, it seems to me that you are always absent for an hour or two."
"You have a vivid imagination, my dear wife," he replied.
And yet he knew it was on the night Leone played; he could no more have kept from going to see her than he could have flown; it was stronger than himself, the impulse that led him there.
Then his nights became all fever; his days all unrest; his whole heart and soul craved with passionate longing for one half hour with her, and yet he dared not seek it. Even then, had he striven to conquer his love, and have resolutely thought of his duty, his good faith and his loyalty, he would have conquered, as any strong man can conquer when he likes; he never tried. When the impulse led him, he went; when the temptation came to him to think of her, he thought of her, when the temptation came to him to love her, he gave way to it and never once set his will against it.
Then, when the fever of his longing consumed him, and his life had grown intolerable to him, he wrote a note to her; it said simply:
"Dear Leone,—Life is very sad. Do let us be friends—why should we not? Life is so short. Let us be friends. I am very miserable; seeing you sometimes would make me happy. Let us be friends, Leone. Why refuse me? I will never speak of love—the word shall never be mentioned. You shall be to me like my dearest, best-beloved sister. I will be your brother, your servant, and your friend; only give me, for God's dear sake, the comfort of seeing you. Leone, be friends."
"Dear Leone,—Life is very sad. Do let us be friends—why should we not? Life is so short. Let us be friends. I am very miserable; seeing you sometimes would make me happy. Let us be friends, Leone. Why refuse me? I will never speak of love—the word shall never be mentioned. You shall be to me like my dearest, best-beloved sister. I will be your brother, your servant, and your friend; only give me, for God's dear sake, the comfort of seeing you. Leone, be friends."
It was one evening when she was tired that this letter was brought to her. She read it with weeping eyes; life was hard; she found it so. She loved her art, she lived in it, but she was only a woman, and she wanted the comfort of a human love and friendship.
Wearily enough she repeated the words to herself:
"Let us be friends. As he says, 'life is short.' The comfort will be small enough, Heaven knows, but it will be better than nothing. Yes, we will be friends."
So she answered the letter in a few words, telling him if he really wished what he said, she would discuss the prudence of such a friendship with him.
This letter of hers fell into the hands of Lady Marion. She looked at the fine, beautiful, clear handwriting.
"Lance, this is from a lady," she said.
When he took it from her his face flushed, for he knew the hand.
"It is from a lady," she repeated.
"It is on business," he replied, coldly, putting the envelope aside; and, to his intense delight, Lady Marion forgot it.
He was to go and see her. It was wrong to be so pleased, he knew, but he did not even try to hide his delight over it.
When should he go? He should count the hours—he could not wait longer than to-morrow. Would she be willing; or would she not? How long the hours seemed, yet they passed, and once more he was at the Cedars.
So they made the second great mistake of their lives. These two, who had been married lovers, fancied they could be friends. If it had not been so sad and so pitiful, it would have been amusing to have heard the conditions of that friendship—they were as numerous as the preliminaries of an article of peace. They made all arrangements; their friendship was to be of the purest and most platonic nature; there was to be nothing said which would remind them of the past; he was to shake hands with her when he came and when he went; he might pay her a visit twice or three times a week; if they met, they were to be on friendly terms; they would discuss art, literature, and music—anything and everything except their own story; they were to take an interest in each other's lives and fortunes.
"I shall take such a pride in your career, Leone," said Lord Chandos, in all good faith; "it will be the dearest part of my life."
She held up one white finger with a smile; that was trespassing on forbidden ground. He must not break the new code of friendship by saying such things.
"We are friends, not lovers, Lord Chandos," she said, gently; "you will annoy me if you forget that. The dearer part of your life is at home."
He apologized for the words.
"I mean," he said, "that I shall take the keenest interest in your career, and watch it with pride."
"That is right, as I shall yours, Lord Chandos. I am proud of you, I am proud when I read your speeches; it seems to me no other man ever spoke so well. I am proud when I read that the rising man of the day is Lord Chandos, that England looks to Lord Chandos as a great power and a promising statesman. Ah, yes, I am proud of you when I read those things. Your face, your eager, hopeful eyes rise before me, and I say to myself, 'Ah, yes, he is a genius, and the world knows it.' It is pleasant to have true friends, such as we shall be to each other."
"Yes," he had answered her, with a sigh; "we should have been foolish indeed, Leone, to have deprived ourselves of this, the only consolation left in life for either of us. We shall be more happy as friends, Leone; it would have been too horrible to have been always apart."
They hedged themselves round with precautions; they were to be so prudent; they were not to address each other as Lance and Leone; they were never to sing old songs together; he was not to go behind the scenes in the theater, he was not to wait for her in the evening. She said to him laughingly, that they ought to have these conditions of friendship written down as they write down the articles of war or the preliminaries of peace.
"We ought to have parchment strong as parchment can be; but, Lord Chandos, we must keep to our rules, no matter what happens."
So they intended, and neither of them had the faintest idea of ever deviating from the rules laid down. It was better than nothing, spending a few hours with her each week was refreshing as an oasis in a desert; he eagerly looked forward to those days on which he was permitted to call, and before long these visits became chiefly the event of his life—he thought of little else.
So it gradually came about that the stronger nature gained the ascendency, the stronger soul gained the upper hand in his life. The love of Leone had always been by far the strongest element in his life; it had been set aside by a series of clever maneuvers, but now it resumed its sway. He did not intend it; he was weak enough and foolish enough to think that the prudent friendship could replace mad love, and he was not very long before he found out his mistake. But at first all went well—her praise stimulated him, he gave loose to the fiery eloquence that was natural to him. Knowing that she would read and criticise every word, he took more pride and pleasure in his public life than he had ever done before; he liked to hear her criticisms on his opinions and actions; he was delighted with the interest she took in his works.
At times the visits he paid were all occupied with the discussion of these details. He would tell her of some great oration or speech that he intended to make on some important measure, she would talk it over to him, and her marvelous intelligence, her bright wit and originality always threw some new light on the matter, some more picturesque view. In this she differed from Lady Marion, who was more timid and retiring, who looked upon everything connected with public life as a dreadful ordeal, who, fond as she was of literature, could not read a newspaper, who, dearly as she loved her husband, could not interest herself in his career.
So gradually and slowly the old love threw its glamour over them, slowly the master passion took its place again in Lord Chandos' life, but just at that time it was unknown to himself. It came at last that the only real life for him was the time spent with her—the morning hours when he discussed all the topics of the day with her, and the evening when he leaned over his opera box, his eyes drinking in the marvelous beauty of her face.
Then, as a matter of course, Lady Marion began to wonder where he went. He had been accustomed, when he had finished his breakfast, always to consult her about the day's plans—whether she liked to walk, ride, or drive, and he had always been her companion; but now it often happened that he would say to her:
"Marion, drive with my mother this morning, she likes to have you with her; my father goes out so little, you know."
She always smiled with the most amiable air of compliance with his wishes, but she looked up at him on this particular morning.
"Where are you going, Lance?" she asked. Her eyes took in, in their quiet fashion, every detail of his appearance, even to the dainty exotic in his button-hole.
Lord Chandos had a habit of blushing—his dark face would flush like a girl's when any sudden emotion stirred him—it did so now, and she, with wondering eyes, noticed the flush.
"Why, Lance," she said, "you are blushing; blushing just like a girl, because I just asked you where you were going."
And though the fiery red burned the dark skin, he managed to look calmly at his wife and say:
"You are always fanciful over me, Marion, and your fancies are not always correct."
She was one of the sweetest and most amiable of women, no one ever saw her ruffled or impatient. She went up to him now with the loveliest smile, and laid her fair arms round his neck; the very heaven of repose was in the eyes she raised to his.
"My darling Lance," she said, "I can never have any fancy over you; my thoughts about you are always true." She laid one slim, white hand on his face. "Why, your face burns now," she said, and he made some little gesture of impatience, and then his heart smote him. She was so fair, so gentle, and loved him so dearly.
"Have I vexed you, Lance?" she said. "I did not mean to do so. If you do not like me to ask you where you are going, I will not, but it seems to me such a simple thing."
"How can I object, or, rather, why should I object to tell you where I go, Marion? Here is my note-book; open it and read."
But when he said the words he knew that on his note-book there was no mention of Leone's name, and again his heart smote him. It was so very easy to deceive this fair, trusting woman. Lady Chandos put the note-book back in his pocket.
"I do not want to see it, Lance. I merely asked you the question because you looked so very nice, and you have chosen such a beautiful flower. I thought you were going to pay some particular visit."
He kissed the sweet, wistful face raised to his, and changed the subject.
"Do I not always look what you ladies call 'nice'?" he asked, laughingly; and she looked admiringly at him.
"You are always nice to me, Lance; there is no one like you. I often wonder if other wives are as proud of their husbands as I am of you? Now I shall try to remember that you do not like me to ask you where you are going. The greatest pleasure I have on earth is complying with every little wish of yours."
He could not help kissing her again, she was so sweet, so gentle, so kind, yet his heart smote him. Ah, Heaven! if life had been different to him; if he had been but firmer of purpose, stronger of will! He left her with an uneasy mind and a sore heart.
Lady Marion was more than usually thoughtful after he had gone. She could not quite understand.
The time had been when he had never left the house without saying something about where he was going; now his absences were long, and she did not know where his time was spent.
Lady Lanswell noticed the unusual shadow on the girl's sweet face, and in her quick, impetuous way asked her about it.
"Marion, you are anxious or thoughtful—which is it?" she asked.
"Thoughtful," said Lady Chandos. "I am not anxious, not in the least."
"Of what are you thinking, that it brings a shadow on that dear face of yours?" said Lady Lanswell, kindly.
Lady Chandos turned to her, and in a low tone of voice said:
"Has Lance any very old or intimate friends in London?"
"No; none that I know of. He knows a great many people, of course, and some very intimately, but I am not aware of any especial friendship. Why do you ask me?"
"I fancied he had; he is so much more from home than he used to be, and does not say where he goes."
"My dear Marion," said the countess, kindly, "Lance has many occupations and many cares; he cannot possibly tell you every detail of how and where he passes the time. Let me give you a little warning; never give way to any little suspicions of your husband; that is always the beginning of domestic misery; trust him all in all. Lance is loyal and true to you; do not tease him with suspicions and little jealousies."
"I am not jealous," said Lady Chandos, "but it seems to me only natural that I should like to know where my husband passes his time."
The older and wiser woman thought to herself, with a sigh, that it might be quite as well that she should not know.
Madame Vanira became one of the greatest features of the day. Her beauty and her singing made her the wonder of the world. Royalty delighted to honor her. One evening after she had entranced a whole audience, keeping them hanging, as it were, on every silvery note that came from her lovely lips—people were almost wild over her—they had called her until they were tired. Popular enthusiasm had never been so aroused. And then the greatest honor ever paid to any singer was paid to her. Royal lips praised her and the highest personage in the land presented her with a diamond bracelet, worthy of the donor and the recipient. Her triumph was at its height; that night the opera in which she played was the "Crown Diamonds." Her singing had been perfection, her acting magnificent; she bad electrified the audience as no otherartisteliving could have done; her passion, her power, her genius had carried them with her. When she quitted the stage it was as though they woke from a long trance of delight.
That evening crowned her "Queen of Song." No one who saw her ever forgot her. The next morning the papers raved about her; they prophesied a new era for music and for the stage; it was, perhaps, the most triumphant night of her great career. She had the gift which makes an actress or a singer; she could impress her individuality on people; she made a mark on the hearts and minds of those who saw her that was never effaced; her gestures, her face, her figure, her magnificent attitudes stood out vivid and clear, while they lived distinct from any others.
"Where royalty smiles, other people laugh," says the old proverb. No sooner was it known that the warmest praise kindly and royal lips could give had been given to Madame Vanira than she became at once the darling of the world of fashion.
Invitations poured in upon her, the most princely mansions in London were thrown open to her; thecreme de la cremeof theelitesought her eagerly; there was nothing like her; her beauty and her genius inthralled every one. The time came when she was the most popular and the most eagerly sought after woman in London, yet she cared little for society; her art was the one thing she lived for, and her friendship with Lord Chandos. One day she said to him:
"I have never seen Lady Marion. What is she like?"
He noticed then and afterward that she never spoke of the queen of blondes as Lady Chandos, or as "your wife," but always as Lady Marion.
This was a beautiful morning in May, and there, sitting under the great cedar-tree on the lawn, all the sweet-smelling wind wafting luscious odors from jasmine and honeysuckle, the brilliant sun shining down on them, he had been reading to her the notes of a speech by which he hoped to do wonders; she had suggested some alterations, and, as he found, improvements; then she sat silently musing. After some time she startled him with the question:
"What is Lady Marion like?"
"Did you not see her," he replied, "on the first evening we were at the opera? She was by my side, and you saw me. Nay, I remember that she told me you were looking at her, and that your eyes magnetized hers."
"I remember the evening," said Leone sadly, "but I do not remember seeing my lady. I—I saw nothing but you. Tell me what she is like. Is she very beautiful?" she asked, and the tone of her voice was very wistful.
"Yes; she is very fine and queenly," he replied; "she is very quiet, gentle, and amiable. Would you like to see her, Leone?"
A sudden flame of passion flashed in those dark eyes, and then died away.
"Yes, I should like just once to see her. She is very clever, is she not?"
"Yes, in a quiet way. She plays beautifully, and she composes pretty airs to pretty words."
Leone looked up, with vivid interest in her face.
"Does she? Ah, that is greater art than being able to sing the music another has written."
"I do not think so," he replied. "If you are thinking of Lady Marion in comparison with yourself, there is no comparison; it is like moonlight and sunlight, water and wine. She has the grace and calm of repose. You have the fire of genius, before which everything grows pale. She quiets a man's heart. You stir every pulse in it. She soothes one into forgetfulness of life. You brace and animate and brighten. You cannot compare the two characters, because they are quite different. You are smiling. What amuses you?"
"Nothing. I was not amused, Lord Chandos. I was thinking, and the thought I smiled over was not amusing."
"What was it?"
"I was thinking of how it would be the same, the end of all; all grace, gifts, and talents; all beauty and genius. I read some lines yesterday that have haunted me ever since. Shall I repeat them to you?"
"It is always a great treat to hear you recite poetry," he replied. "I shall be only too delighted."
Her beautiful face grew more beautiful and more earnest, as it always did under the influence of noble words. Her voice was sweeter than that of a singing-bird, and stirred every pulse in the heart of the listener as she recited this little poem: