A Mad Love

"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."

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.

CHAPTER XLII.

BECOMING SUSPICIOUS

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.

CHAPTER XLIII.

"DEATH ENDS EVERYTHING."

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 other artiste living 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; the creme de la creme of the elite sought 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:

"While roses are so red,While lilies are so white,Shall a woman exalt her faceBecause it gives delight?She's not so sweet as a rose,A lily is straighter than she,And if she were as red or white,She'd be but one of three."Whether she flush in love's summer,Or in its winter grow pale,Whether she flaunt her beauty,Or hide it in a veil;Be she red or white,And stand she erect or bowed,Time will win the race he runs with her,And hide her away in a shroud."

"Those words took my fancy, Lord Chandos," continued Leone; "they are so true, so terribly true. All grace and beauty will be hidden away some day in a shroud."

"There will be no shroud for the soul," he said.

She rose from her seat and looked round with a weary sigh.

"That is true. After all, nothing matters, death ends everything; nothing matters except being good and going to heaven."

He smiled half sadly at her.

"Those are grave thoughts for the most brilliant beauty, the most gifted singer, the most popular queen of the day," he said.

"The brilliant beauty will be a mere handful of dust and ashes some day," she said.

Then Lord Chandos rose from his seat with a shudder.

"Let us go out into the sunlight," he said; "the shade under the old cedar makes you dull. How you have changed! I can remember when you never had a dull thought."

"I can remember when I had no cause for dull thoughts," she answered. Then, fancying that the words implied some little reproach to him, she continued, hastily: "My soul has grown larger, and the larger one's soul the more one suffers. I have understood more of human nature since I have tried to represent the woes of others."

He glanced at her with sudden interest.

"Which, of all the characters you represent, do you prefer?" he asked.

"I can hardly tell you. I like Norma very much – the stately, proud, loving woman, who has struggled so much with her pride, with her sense of duty, with her sacred character, who fought human love inch by inch, who yielded at last; who made the greatest sacrifice a woman could make, who risked her life and dearer than her life for her love. All the passion and power in my nature rises to that character."

"That is easily seen," he replied. "There have been many Normas, but none like you."

Her face brightened; it was so sweet to be praised by him!

"And then," she continued, "the grand tragedy of passion and despair, the noble, queenly woman who has sacrificed everything to the man she loves finds that she has a rival – a young, beautiful, beloved rival." She clasped her hands with the manner of a queen. "My whole soul rises to that," she continued; "I understand it – the passion, the anguish, the despair!"

His dark eyes, full of admiration, were riveted on her.

"Who would have thought," he said, gravely, "that you had such a marvel of genius in you?"

"You are very good to call it genius," she said. "I always knew I had something in me that was not to be described or understood – something that made me different from other people; but I never knew what it was. Do you know those two lines:

"'The poets learn in sufferingWhat they tell in song.'

"I think the passion of anguish and pain taught me to interpret the pains and joys of others. There is another opera I love – 'L'Etoile du Nord.' The grave, tender, grand character of Catherine, with her passionate love, her despair, and her madness, holds me in thrall. There is no love without madness."