A Mad Love
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Lady Marion's sweet face colored with indignation. She denied it emphatically; it was not true. She was surprised that Lady Ilfield should repeat such a calumny.
"But, my dear Lady Chandos, it is true. I should not have repeated it if there had been a single chance of its being a falsehood. Lady Evelyn saw the boat fastened to a tree, your husband and Madame Vanira sat on the river bank, and when the captain spoke to Lord Chandos he seemed quite annoyed at being seen."
Lady Marion's fair face grew paler as she listened; the story seemed so improbable to her.
"My husband – Lord Chandos – does not know Madame Vanira half so well as I do," she said; "it is I who like her, nay, even love her. It is by my invitation that madame has been to my house. Lord Chandos was introduced to her by accident. I sought her acquaintance. If people had said she had been out for a day on the river with me there would have been some sense in it."
Lady Ilfield smiled with the air of a person possessed of superior knowledge.
"My dear Lady Chandos," she said, "it is time your eyes were opened; you are about the only person in London who does not know that Lord Chandos is Madame Vanira's shadow."
"I do not believe it," was the indignant reply. "I would not believe it, Lady Ilfield, if all London swore it."
Lady Ilfield laughed, and the tinge of contempt in that laugh made the gentle heart beat with indignation. She rose from her seat.
"I do not doubt," she said, "that you came to tell me this with a good-natured intention. I will give you credit for that always, Lady Ilfield, when I remember this painful scene, but I have faith in my husband. Nothing can shake it. And if the story you tell be true, I am quite sure Lord Chandos can give a good explanation of it. Permit me to say good-morning, Lady Ilfield, and to decline any further conversation on the matter."
"For all that," said Lady Ilfield to herself, "you will have to suffer, my lady; you refuse to believe it, but the time will come when you will have to believe it and deplore it."
Yet Lady Ilfield was not quite satisfied when she went away.
While to Lady Chandos had come the first burst of an intolerable pain, her first anguish of jealousy, her only emotion at the commencement of the conversation was one of extreme indignation. It was a calumny, she told herself, and she had vehemently espoused her husband's cause; but when she was alone and began to think over what had been said her faith was somewhat shaken.
It was a straightforward story. Captain and Lady Evelyn Blake were quite incapable of inventing such a thing. Then she tried to remember how Tuesday had passed. It came back to her with a keen sense of pain that on Tuesday she had not seen him all day. He had risen early and had gone out, leaving word that he should not return for luncheon. She had been to a morning concert, and had stayed until nearly dinner-time with the countess. When she returned to Stoneland House he was there; they had a dinner-party, and neither husband nor wife had asked each other how the day was spent. She remembered it now. Certainly so far his absence tallied with the story; but her faith in her husband was not to be destroyed by the gossip of people who had nothing to do but talk.
What was it Lady Ilfield had said? That she was the only person in London who did not know that her husband was Madame Vanira's shadow. Could that be true? She remembered all at once his long absences, his abstraction; how she wondered if he had any friends whom he visited long and intimately.
Madame Vanira's beautiful face rose before her with its noble eloquence, its grandeur and truth. No, that was not the woman who would try to rob a woman of her husband's love. Madame Vanira, the queen of song, the grand and noble woman who swayed men's hearts with her glorious voice; Madame Vanira, who had kissed her face and called herself her friend. It was impossible. She could sooner have believed that the sun and the moon had fallen from the skies than that her husband had connived with her friend to deceive her. The best plan would be to ask her husband. He never spoke falsely; he would tell her at once whether it were true or not. She waited until dinner was over and then said to him:
"Lance, can you spare me a few minutes? I want to speak to you."
They were in the library, where Lord Chandos had gone to write a letter. Lady Marion looked very beautiful in her pale-blue dinner dress and a suit of costly pearls. She went up to her husband, and kneeling down by his side, she laid her fair arms round his neck.
"Lance," she said, "before I say what I have to say I want to make an act of faith in you."
He smiled at the expression.
"An act of faith in me, Marion?" he said. "I hope you have all faith."
Then, remembering, he stopped, and his face flushed.
"I have need of faith," she said, "for I have heard a strange story about you. I denied it, I deny it now, but I should be better pleased with your denial also."
"What is the story?" he asked, anxiously, and her quick ear detected the anxiety of his voice.
"Lady Ilfield has been here this afternoon, and tells me that last Tuesday you were with Madame Vanira at Ousely, that you rowed her on the river, and that Captain Blake spoke to you there. Is it true?"
"Lady Ilfield is a mischief-making old – " began Lord Chandos, but his wife's sweet, pale face startled him.
"Lance," she cried, suddenly, "oh, my God, it is not true?"
The ring of pain and passion in her voice frightened him; she looked at him with eyes full of woe.
"It is not true?" she repeated.
"Who said it was true?" he asked, angrily.
Then there was a few minutes of silence between them; and Lady Marion looked at him again.
"Lance," she said, "is it true?"
Their eyes met, hers full of one eager question. His lips parted; her whole life seemed to hang on the word that was coming from his lips.
"Is it true?" she repeated.
He tried to speak falsely, he would have given much for the power to say "No." He knew that one word would content her – that she would believe it implicitly, and that she would never renew the question. Still with that fair, pure face before him – with those clear eyes fixed on him – he could not speak falsely, he could not tell a lie. He could have cried aloud with anguish, yet he answered, proudly:
"It is true, Marion."
"True?" she repeated, vacantly, "true, Lance?"
"Yes, the gossips have reported correctly; it is quite true."
But he was not prepared for the effect of the words on her. Her fair face grew pale, her tender arms released their hold and fell.
"True?" she repeated, in a low, faint voice, "true that you took Madame Vanira out for a day, and that you were seen by these people with her?"
"Yes, it is true," he replied.
And the poor child flung her arms in the air, as she cried out:
"Oh, Lance, it is a sword in my heart, and it has wounded me sorely."
CHAPTER LII.
A GATHERING CLOUD
It was strange that she should use the same words which Leone had used.
"I cannot bear it, Lance," she said. "Why have you done this?"
He was quite at a loss what to say to her; he was grieved for her, vexed with those who told her, and the mental emotions caused him to turn angrily round to her.
"Why did you take her? What is Madame Vanira to you?" she asked.
"My dear Marion, can you see any harm in my giving madame a day's holiday and rest, whether on water or on land?"
She was silent for a minute before she answered him.
"No," she replied, "the harm lay in concealing it from me; if you had told me about it I would have gone with you."
Poor, simple, innocent Lady Marion! The words touched him deeply; he thought of the boat among the water-lilies, the beautiful, passionate voice floating over the water, the beautiful, passionate face, with its defiance as the words of the sweet, sad song fell from her lips.
"Lance, why did you not tell me? Why did you not ask me to go with you? I cannot understand."
When a man has no proper excuse to make, no sensible reason to give, he takes refuge in anger. Lord Chandos did that now; he was quite at a loss what to say; he knew that he had done wrong; that he could say nothing which could set matters straight; obviously the best thing to do was to grow angry with his wife.
"I cannot see much harm in it," he said. "I should not suppose that I am the first gentleman in England who has taken a lady out for a holiday and felt himself highly honored in so doing."
"But, Lance," repeated his fair wife, sorrowfully, "why did you not take me or tell me?"
"My dear Marion, I did not think that I was compelled to tell you every action of my life, everywhere I went, everything I did, every one I see; I would never submit to such a thing. Of all things in the world, I abhor the idea of a jealous wife."
She rose from her knees, her fair face growing paler, and stood looking at him with a strangely perplexed, wondering gaze.
"I cannot argue with you, Lance," she said, gently; "I cannot dispute what you say. You are your own master; you have a perfect right to go where you will, and with whom you will, but my instinct and my heart tell me that you are wrong. You have no right to take any lady out without telling me. You belong to me, and to no one else."
"My dear Marion, you are talking nonsense," he said, abruptly; "you know nothing of the world. Pray cease."
She looked at him with more of anger on her fair face than he had ever seen before.
"Lord Chandos," she said, "is this all you have to say to me? I am told that you have spent a whole day in the society of the most beautiful actress in the world, perhaps, and when I ask for an explanation you have none to give me."
"No," he replied, "I have none."
"Lance, I do not like it," she said, slowly; "and I do not understand. I thought Madame Vanira was so good and true?"
"So she is," he replied. "You must not say one word against her."
"I have no wish; but if she is so good why should she try to take my husband from me?"
"She has not done so," he replied, angrily. "Marion, I will not be annoyed by a jealous wife."
"I am not jealous, Lance," she replied; "but when I am told such a story, and it proves to be true, what am I to do?"
"Say nothing, Marion, which is always the wisest thing a woman can do," he replied.
His wife gazed at him with proud indignation.
"I do not like the tone in which you speak of this; tell me frankly, is it with Madame Vanira you spend all the time which you pass away from home?"
"I shall say nothing of Madame Vanira," he replied.
She drew nearer to him; she laid one white hand on his shoulder and looked wistfully into his face.
"Lance," she said, "are we to quarrel – over a woman, too? I will not believe it. You have always been honest with me; tell me what Madame Vanira is to you?"
"She is nothing to me," he replied.
Then the remembrance of what she had been to him came over him and froze the words on his lips. His wife was quick to notice it.
"You cannot say it with truth. Oh, Lance, how you pain me."
There was such absolute, physical pain in her face that he was grieved for her.
"Say no more about it, Marion," he cried. "I did ask madame to let me row her on the river; I know she loves the river; I ought to have asked you to go with us, or to have told you about it," he said; "I know that; but people often do imprudent things. Kiss me and say no more about it."
But for the first time that sweet girl looked coldly on him. Instead of bending down to kiss him, she looked straight into his face.
"Lance," she said, "do you like Madame Vanira?"
His answer was prompt.
"Most decidedly I do," he answered; "every one must like her."
"Lady Ilfield says that you are her shadow. Is that true?"
"Lady Ilfield is a gossip, and the wife who listens to scandal about her husband lowers herself."
She did not shrink now from his words.
"I have not gossiped about you, Lance," she said; "but I wish you yourself to tell me why people talk about you and Madame Vanira."
"How can I tell? Why do people talk? Because they have nothing better to do."
But that did not satisfy her; her heart ached; this was not the manner in which she had expected him to meet the charge – so differently – either to deny it indignantly, or to give her some sensible explanation. As it was, he seemed to avoid the subject, even while he owned that it was true.
"I am not satisfied, Lance," she said; "you have made me very unhappy; if there is anything to tell me tell it now."
"What should I have to tell you?" he asked, impatiently.
"I do not know; but if there is any particular friendship or acquaintance between Madame Vanira and yourself, tell me now."
It would have been better if he had told her, if he had made an open confession of his fault, and have listened to her gentle counsel, but he did not; on the contrary, he looked angrily at her.
"If you wish to please me, you will not continue this conversation, Marion; in fact, I decline to say another word on the subject. I have said all that was needful, let it end now."
"You say this, knowing that I am dissatisfied, Lance," said Lady Marion.
"I say it, hoping that you intend to obey me," he replied.
Without another word, and in perfect silence, Lady Chandos quitted the room, her heart beating with indignation.
"He will not explain to me," she said; "I will find out for myself."
She resolved from that moment to watch him, and to find out for herself that which he refused to tell her. She could not bring herself to believe that there was really anything between her husband and Madame Vanira; he had always been so good, so devoted to herself.
But the result of her watching was bad; it showed that her husband had other interests; much of his time was spent from home; a cloud came between them; when she saw him leaving home she was too proud to ask him where he was going, and if even by chance she did ask, his reply was never a conciliatory one.
It was quite by accident she learned he went often to Highgate. In the stables were a fine pair of grays; she liked using them better than any other horses they had, and one morning the carriage came to the door with a pair of chestnuts she particularly disliked.
"Where are the grays?" she asked of the coachman.
"One of them fell yesterday, my lady," said the man, touching his hat.
"Fell – where?" asked Lady Chandos.
"Coming down Highgate Hill, my lady. It is a terrible hill – so steep and awkward," replied the man.
Then she would have thought nothing of it but for a sudden look of warning she saw flash from the groom to the coachman, from which she shrewdly guessed that they had been told to be silent about the visits to Highgate. Then she remembered that Madame Vanira lived there. She remembered how she had spoken of the hills, of the fresh air, and the distance from town; she watched again and found out that her husband went to Highgate nearly every day of his life, and then Lady Chandos drew her own conclusions and very miserable ones they were.
The cloud between them deepened – deepened daily; all her loving amiability, her gentle, caressing manner vanished; she became silent, watchful, suspicious; no passion deteriorates the human mind or the human heart more quickly than jealousy. If, during those watchful days, Lord Chandos had once told his wife the plain truth, she would have forgiven him, have taken him from the scene of his danger, and all might have gone well; as it was, all went wrong.
One day a sense of regret for her lost happiness came over her, and she determined to speak to him about it. She would destroy this shadow that lay between them; she would dispel the cloud. Surely he would do anything for her sake – she would have given up the world for him. He was alone in his study, in the gloaming of a bright day, when she went in to him and stood once more by his side.
"Lance," she said, bending her fair, sweet face over his, "Lance, I want to speak to you again. I am not happy, dear – there is a cloud between us, and it is killing me. You love me, Lance, do you not?"
"You know that I do," he said, but there was no heartiness in his voice.
"I want to tell you, dear, that I have been jealous. I am very unhappy, but I will conquer myself. I will be to you the most loving wife in all the world if you will give up Madame Vanira."
He pushed the outstretched hand away.
"You do not know what you are asking," he said, hoarsely, and his manner so alarmed her that she said no more.
CHAPTER LIII.
A QUARREL
From that hour all pretense of peace was at an end between them. Lady Chandos was justly indignant and wounded. If her husband had trusted her all might, even then, have been well, but he did not; he said to himself that she would forget the story of her annoyance in time, and all would be well; he did not give his wife credit for the depth of feeling that she really possessed. Fiercest, most cruel jealousy had taken hold of the gentle lady, it racked and tortured her; the color faded from her face, the light from her eyes; she grew thin and pale; at night she could not sleep, by day she could not rest; all her sweetness, grace and amiability, seemed to have given way to a grave sadness; the sound of her laughter, her bright words, died away; nothing interested her. She who had never known a trouble or a care, now wore the expression of one who was heart-broken; she shrunk from all gayety, all pleasures, all parties; she was like the ghost of her former self; yet after those words of her husband's she never spoke again of Madame Vanira. The sword was sheathed in her heart and she kept it there.
There is no pain so cruel as jealousy; none that so quickly deteriorates a character; it brings so many evils in its train – suspicion, envy, hatred of life, distrust in every one and in everything; it is the most fatal passion that ever takes hold of a human heart, and turns the kindest nature to gall. There was no moment during the day in which Lady Chandos did not picture her husband with her rival; she drove herself almost mad with the pictures she made in her own mind. All the cruel pain, the sullen brooding, the hot anguish, the desolation, the jealousy seemed to surge over her heart and soul like the waves of a deadly sea. If she saw her husband silent and abstracted, she said he was thinking of Madame Vanira; if she saw him laugh and light of heart she said he was pleased because he was going to see Madame Vanira. She had sensible and reasonable grounds for jealousy, but she was unreasonably jealous.
"Trifles light as airAre to the jealous confirmation strongAs proofs of holy writ."It was so with Lady Marion, and her life at last grew too bitter to be borne. There was excuse for Lord Chandos, the mistake was in renewing the acquaintance; a mistake that can never be remedied.
People were beginning to talk; when Lord Chandos was mentioned, they gave significant smiles. Against Madame Vanira there had never been even the faintest rumor of scandal; but a certain idea was current in society – that Lord Chandos admired the queen of song. No one insinuated the least wrong, but significant smiles followed the mention of either name.
"Madame Vanira was at Lady Martyn's last night," one would say.
And the laughing answer was always:
"Then Lord Chandos was not very far away."
"La Vanira sung to perfection in 'Fidelio,'" would remark one.
Another would answer:
"Lord Chandos would know how to applaud."
Madame Vanira was more eagerly sought after than other women in London. She reigned queen, not only over the stage, but over the world of fashion also.
The Countess of Easton gave a grand ball – it was the most exclusive of the season. After much praying Madame Vanira had promised to go, and Lady Chandos was the belle of the ball. They had not met since the evening madame had sung for her, and Lord Chandos had many an anxious thought as to what their next meeting would be like. He knew that Leone would bear much for his sake, yet he did not know what his wife would be tempted to say.
They met on the night of Lady Easton's ball; neither knew that the other was coming. If Lady Chandos had dreamed of meeting Leone there she would not have gone. As it was, they met face to face in the beautiful ante-room that led to the ballroom.
Face to face. Leone wore a superb dress of pale amber brocade, and Lady Chandos a beautiful costume of pale-blue velvet, the long train of which was fastened with white, shining pearls.
It was like the meeting of rival queens. Leone's face flushed, Lady Marion's grew deadly pale. Leone held out her hand; Lady Marion declined to see it. They looked at each other for a brief space of time, then Leone spoke.
"Lady Marion," she said, in a low, pained voice, "have I displeased you?"
"Yes, you have," was the brief reply.
"You will not touch my hand?" said Leone.
"No, I decline to touch your hand," said Lady Marion; "I decline to speak to you after this."
"Will you tell me why?" asked Leone.
Lady Marion's face flushed crimson.
"Since you ask me, I will tell you. You have been seeking my husband, and I do not approve of it. You spent a day with him on the river – he never told me about it. I am not a jealous wife, but I despise any woman who would seek to take the love of a husband from his wife."
Conscience, which makes cowards of us all, kept Leone silent.
Lady Chandos continued:
"What is there between my husband and you?"
"True friendship," answered Leone, trying to speak bravely.
"I do not believe it," said Lady Chandos; "true friendship does not hide itself, or make mystery of its actions. Madame Vanira, I loved you when I first saw you; I take my love and my liking both from you. Now that I find that you have acted treacherously I believe in you no more."
"Those are strong words, Lady Chandos," said Leone.
"They are true; henceforth we are strangers. My friends are honorable women, who would seek to steal my jewels rather than seek to steal from me my husband's love."
Leone could have retaliated; the temptation was strong; she could have said:
"He was my husband, as I believed, before he was yours; you stole him from me, not I from you."
The temptation was strong, the words leaped in a burning torrent from her heart to her lips; she repressed them for his sake and bore the crushing words without reply.
"I have always heard," she said, "that there was ample reason that singers, even though they be queens of song, should not be admitted into the heart of one's home; now I see the justice of it; they are not satisfied with legitimate triumphs. You, Madame Vanira, have not been contented with my liking and friendship, with the hospitality of my home, but you must seek to take my husband's interest, time, affection."
"Are you not judging me harshly, Lady Chandos?" asked the singer. "You bring all these accusations against me and give me no opportunity of clearing myself of them."
"You cannot," said Lady Chandos; "I have no wish to hear your defense, you can neither deny nor explain the fact that you spent a day with my husband on the river; all the sophistry in the world cannot deny that fact, and that fact condemns you."
"Would you say the same thing to any of your former friends?" asked Leone – "to Lady Caldwell or Lady Blake?"
"Neither of them would do such a thing," cried Lady Chandos. "Ladies of the class to which I belong do not spend whole days on the river with gentlemen unknown to their wives. Madame Vanira – you and I are strangers from this time."
"You are very hard on me," said Leone; "the day may come when you will admit that."
"The day will never come in which I will mistake good for evil, or right for wrong," said Lady Chandos. "Others may applaud you, you may continue your sway over the minds and hearts of men, but I shall protest against you, and all those like you, who would come between husbands and wives to separate them."
It was such a satire of fate, such a satire of her own life, that Leone's beautiful lips curled with a bitter smile. It was she who had been parted from her husband by a quibble of the law, and this fair, angry woman had taken him for herself.