A Mad Love

"Madame Vanira," she was saying, "ask my husband to sing with you. He has a beautiful voice, not a deep, rolling bass, as one would imagine from the dark face and tall, stalwart figure, but a rich, clear tenor, sweet and silvery as the chime of bells."

Leone remembered every tone, every note of it; they had spent long hours in singing together, and the memory of those hours shone now in the eyes that met so sadly. A sudden, keen, passionate desire to sing with him once more came over Leone. It might be rash – it was imprudent.

"Mine was always a mad love," she said to herself, with a most bitter smile. "It might be dangerous – but once more."

Just once more she would like to hear her voice float away with his. She bent over the music again – the first and foremost lay Mendelssohn's beautiful duet. "Oh, would that my love." They sang it in the summer gloamings when she had been pleased and proud to hear her wonderful voice float away over the trees and die in sweetest silence. She raised it now and looked at him.

"Will you sing this?" she asked; but her eyes did not meet his, and her face was very pale.

She did not wait for an answer, but placed the music on a stand, and then – ah, then – the two beautiful voices floated away, and the very air seemed to vibrate with the passionate, thrilling sound; the drawing-room, the magnificence of Stoneland House, the graceful presence of the fair wife, faded from them. They were together once more at the garden at River View, the green trees making shade, the deep river in the distance.

But when they had finished, Lady Chandos was standing by, her face wet with tears.

"Your music breaks my heart," she said; but she did not know the reason why.

CHAPTER XLIX.

THE WOUND IN HER HEART

If Leone had been wiser after that one evening, she would have avoided Lord Chandos as she would have shunned the flames of fire; that one evening showed her that she stood on the edge of a precipice. Looking in her own heart, she knew by its passionate anguish and passionate pain that the love in her had never been conquered. She said to herself, when the evening was over and she drove away, leaving them together, that she would never expose herself to that pain again.

It was so strange, so unnatural for her – she who believed herself his wife, who had spent so many evenings with him – to go away and leave him with this beautiful woman who was really his wife. She looked up at the silent stars as she drove home; surely their pale, golden eyes must shine down in dearest pity on her. She clinched her white, soft hands until the rings made great red dents; she exhausted herself with great tearless sobs; yet no tears came from her burning eyes.

Was ever woman so foully, so cruelly wronged? had ever woman been so cruelly tortured?

"I will not see him again," she cried to herself; "I cannot bear it."

Long after the stars had set, and the crimson flush of dawn stirred the pearly tints of the sky, she lay, sobbing, with passionate tears, feeling that she could not bear it – she must die.

It would have been well if that had frightened her, but when morning dawned she said to herself that hers had always been a mad love, and would be so until the end. She made one desperate resolve, one desperate effort; she wrote to Lord Chandos, and sent the letter to his club – a little, pathetic note, with a heart-break in every line of it – to say that they who had been wedded lovers were foolish to think of being friends; that it was not possible, and that she thought they had better part; the pain was too great for her, she could not bear it.

The letter was blotted with tears, and as he read it for whom it was written, other tears fell on it. Before two hours had passed, he was standing before her, with outstretched hands, the ring of passion in his voice, the fire of passion in his face.

"Leone," he said, "do you mean this – must we part?"

They forgot in that moment all the restraints by which they had surrounded themselves; once more they were Lance and Leone, as in the old days.

"Must we part?" he repeated, and her face paled as she raised it to his.

"I cannot bear the pain, Lance," she said, wearily. "It would be better for us never to meet than for me to suffer as I did last evening."

He drew nearer to her.

"Did you suffer so much, Leone?" he asked, gently.

"Yes, more almost than I can bear. It is not many years since I believed that I was your wife, and now I have to see another woman in my place. I – I saw you kiss her – I had to go away and leave you together. No, I cannot bear it, Lance!"

The beautiful head drooped wearily, the beautiful voice trembled and died away in a wail that was pitiful to hear; all her beauty, her genius, her talent – what did it avail her?

Lord Chandos had suffered much, but his pain had never been so keen as now at this moment, when this beautiful queenly woman wailed out her sorrow to him.

"What shall I do, Leone? I would give my life to undo what I have done; but it is useless – I cannot. Do you mean that we must part?"

The eyes she raised to his face were haggard and weary with pain.

"There is nothing for it but parting, Lance," she said. "I thought we could be friends, but it is not possible; we have loved each other too well."

"We need not part now," he said; "let us think it over; life is very long; it will be hard to live without the sunlight of your presence, Leone, now that I have lived in it so long. Let us think it over. Do you know what I wanted to ask you last evening?"

"No," she replied, "what was it?"

"A good that you may still grant me," he said. "We may part, if you wish it, Leone. Leone, let us have one happy day before the time comes. Leone, you see how fair the summer is, I want you to spend one day with me on the river. The chestnuts are all in flower – the whole world is full of beauty, and song, and fragrance; the great boughs are dipping into the stream, and the water-lilies lie on the river's breast. My dear love and lost love, come with me for one day. We may be parted all the rest of our lives, come with me for one day."

Her face brightened with the thought. Surely for one day they might be happy; long years would have to pass, and they would never meet. Oh, for one day, away on the river, in the world of clear waters, green boughs and violet banks – one day away from the world which had trammeled them and fettered them.

"You tempt me," she said, slowly. "A day with you on the river. Ah, for such a pleasure as that I would give twenty years of my life."

He did not answer her, because he dared not. He waited until his heart was calm and at rest again, then he said:

"Let us go to-morrow, Leone, no one knows what twenty-four hours may bring forth. Let us go to-morrow, Leone. Rise early. How often we have gone out together while the dew lay upon the flowers and grass. Shall it be so?"

The angel of prudence faded from her presence as she answered, "Yes." Knowing how she loved him, hearing the old love story in his voice, reading it in his face, she would have done better had she died there in the splendor of her beauty and the pain of her love than have said, "Yes." So it was arranged.

"It will be a beautiful day," said Lord Chandos. "I am a capital rower, Leone, as you will remember. I will take you as far as Medmersham Abbey: we will land there and spend an hour in the ruins; but you will have to rise early and drive down to the river side. You will not mind that."

"I shall mind nothing that brings me to you," she said, with a vivid blush, and so it was settled.

They forgot the dictates of honor; he forgot his duty to his wife at home, and she forgot prudence and justice.

The morning dawned. She had eagerly watched for it through the long hours of the night; it wakes her with the song of the birds and the shine of the sun; it wakes her with a mingled sense of pain and happiness, of pleasure and regret. She was to spend a whole day with him, but the background to that happiness was that he was leaving a wife at home who had all claims to his time and attention.

"One happy day before I die," she said to herself.

But will it be happy? The sun will shine brightly, yet there will be a background; yet it shall be happy because it will be with him.

It was yet early in the morning when she drove to the appointed place at the river side. The sun shone in the skies, the birds sang in the trees, the beautiful river flashed and glowed in the light, the waters seemed to dance and the green leaves to thrill.

Ah, if she were but back by the mill-stream, if she were but Leone Noel once again, with her life all unspoiled before her; if she were anything on earth except a woman possessed by a mad love. If she could but exchange these burning ashes of a burning love for the light, bright heart of her girlhood, when the world had been full of beauty which spoke to her in an unknown tongue.

God had been so good to her; he had given to her the beauty of a queen, genius that was immortal, wit, everything life holds most fair, and they were all lost to her because of her mad love. Ah, well, never mind, the sun was shining, the river dancing far away in the sun, and she was to spend the day with him. She had dressed herself to perfection in a close-fitting dress of dark-gray velvet, relieved by ribbons of rose pink; she wore a hat with a dark-gray plume, under the shade of which her beautiful face looked doubly bewitching; the little hands, which by their royal gestures swayed multitudes, were cased in dark gray. Lord Chandos looked at her in undisguised admiration.

"The day seems to have been made on purpose for us," he said, as he helped her in the boat.

Leone laughed, but there was just the least tinge of bitterness in that laugh.

"A day made for us would have gray skies, cold rains, and bleak, bitter winds," she said.

And then the pretty pleasure boat floated away on the broad, beautiful stream.

It was a day on which to dream of heaven; there was hardly a ripple on the beautiful Thames; the air was balmy, sweet, filled with the scent of hay from the meadows; of flowers from the banks; it was as though they had floated away into Paradise.

Lord Chandos bent forward to see that the rugs were properly disposed; he opened her sunshade, but she would not use it.

"Let me see the beautiful river, the banks and the yews, while I may," she said, "the sun will not hurt me."

There was no sound save that of the oars cleaving the bright waters. Leone watched the river with loving eyes; since she had left River View – and she had loved it with something like passion – it seemed like part of that married life which had ended so abruptly. They passed by a thicket, where the birds were singing after a mad fashion of their own.

"Stop and listen," she said, holding up her hand.

He stopped and the boat floated gently with the noiseless tide.

"I wonder," said Leone, "if in that green bird kingdom there are tragedies such as take place in ours?"

Lord Chandos laughed.

"You are full of fanciful ideas, Leone," he said. "Yes, I imagine, the birds have their tragedies because they have their loves."

"I suppose there are pretty birds and plain birds, loving birds, and hard-hearted ones; some who live a happy life, filled with sunlight and song – some who die while the leaves are green, shot through the heart. In the kingdom of birds and the kingdom of men it is all just the same."

"Which fate is yours, Leone?" asked Lord Chandos.

"Mine?" she said, looking away over the dancing waters, "mine? I was shot while the sun shone, and the best part of me died of the wound in my heart."

CHAPTER L.

"AS DEAD AS MY HOPES."

The broad, beautiful river widened, and the magnificent scenery of the Thames spread out on either side, a picture without parallel in English landscapes. The silvery water, the lights and shades ever changing, the overhanging woods, the distant hill, the pretty islets, the pleasure-boats, the lawns, the great nests of water-lilies, the green banks studded with flowers, the rushes and reeds that grew even on the water's edge. On they went, through Richmond, Kew, past Hampton Court, past the picturesque old Hampton windmill, on to one of the prettiest spots on the river – the "Bells" at Ousely, and there Lord Chandos fastened the boat to a tree while they went ashore.

Ah, but it was like a faint, far-off dream of heaven – the lovely, laughing river, the rippling foliage, the gorgeous trees, the quaint old hostelry, the hundreds of blooming flowers – the golden sunlight pouring over all. Sorrow, care and death might come to-morrow, when the sky was gray and the water dull; but not to-day. Oh, lovely, happy to-day. Beautiful sun and balmy wind, blooming flowers and singing birds. Lord Chandos made a comfortable seat for Leone on the river bank, and sat down by her side. They did not remember that they had been wedded lovers, or that a tragedy lay between them; they did not talk of love or of sorrow, but they gave themselves up to the happiness of the hour, to the warm, golden sunshine, to the thousand beauties that lay around them. They watched a pretty pleasure-boat drifting slowly along the river. It was well filled with what Lord Chandos surmised to be a picnic party, and somewhat to his dismay the whole party landed near the spot where he, with Leone, was sitting. "I hope," he thought to himself, "that there is no one among them who knows me – I should not like it, for Leone's sake."

The thought had hardly shaped itself in his mind, when some one touched him on the arm. Turning hastily he saw Captain Harry Blake, one of his friends, who cried out in astonishment at seeing him there, and then looked in still greater astonishment at the beautiful face of Madame Vanira.

"Lady Evelyn is on board the Water Witch," he said. "Will you come and speak to her?"

The handsome face of Lord Lanswell's son darkened.

"No," he replied, "pray excuse me. And – Harry, say nothing of my being here. I rowed down this morning. There is no need for every one in London to hear of it before night."

Captain Harry Blake laughed; at the sound of that laugh Lord Chandos felt the greatest impulse to knock him down. His face flushed hotly, and his eyes flashed fire. Leone had not heard one word, and had persistently turned her face from the intruder, quite forgetting that in doing so she was visible to every one on the boat. Lady Evelyn Blake was the first to see her, and she knew just enough of life to make no comment. When her husband returned she said to him carelessly:

"That was Madame Vanira with Lord Chandos, I am sure."

"You had better bring stronger glasses or clearer eyes with you the next time you come," he replied, laughingly, and then Lady Evelyn knew that she was quite right in her suspicions. It was only a jest to her and she thought nothing of it. That same evening when Lady Ilfield, who was one of Lady Marion's dearest friends, spoke of Stoneland House, Lady Evelyn told the incident as a grand jest. Lady Ilfield looked earnestly at her.

"Do you really mean that you saw Lord Chandos with Madame Vanira at Ousely?" she asked. "Alone, without his wife?"

"Yes," laughed Lady Evelyn, "a stolen expedition, evidently. He looked horrified when Captain Blake spoke to him."

"I do not like it," said Lady Ilfield, who was one of the old school, and did not understand the science of modern flirtation. "I have heard already more of Lord Chandos than has pleased me, and I like his wife."

This simple conversation was the beginning of the end – the beginning of one of the saddest tragedies on which the sun ever shone.

"I am sorry that he saw me," said Lord Chandos, as the captain waved his final adieu; "but he did not see your face, Leone, did he?"

"No," she replied, "I think not."

"It does not matter about me," he said, "but I should not like to have any one recognize you."

He forgot the incident soon after. When the boat was again on the bright, dancing river, then they forgot the world and everything else except that they were together.

"Lance," said Leone, "row close to those water-lilies. I should like to gather one."

Obediently enough he went quite close to the white water-lilies, and placed the oars at the bottom of the boat, while he gathered the lilies for her. It was more like a poem than a reality; a golden sun, a blue, shining river, the boat among the water-lilies, the beautiful regal woman, her glorious face bent over the water, her white hands throwing the drops of spray over the green leaves.

It was the prettiest picture ever seen. Lord Chandos filled the boat with flowers; he heaped the pretty white water-lilies at the feet of Leone, until she looked as though she had grown out of them. Then, while the water ran lazily on, and the sun shone in golden splendor, he asked her if she would sing for him.

"One song, Leone," he said, "and that in the faintest voice. It will be clear and distinct as the voice of an angel to me."

There must have been an instinct of pride or defiance in her heart, for she raised her head and looked at him.

"Yes, I will sing for you, Lance," she replied. "Those water-lilies take me home. I will sing a song of which not one word has passed my lips since I saw you. Listen, see if you know the words:

"'In sheltered vale a mill-wheelStill sings its tuneful lay.My darling once did dwell there,But now she's far away.A ring in pledge I gave her,And vows of love we spoke —Those vows are all forgotten,The ring asunder broke.'"

The rich, beautiful voice, low and plaintive, now seemed to float over the water: it died away among the water-lilies; it seemed to hang like a veil over the low boughs; it startled the birds, and hushed even the summer winds to silence. So sweet, so soft, so low, as he listened, it stole into his heart and worked sweet and fatal mischief. He buried his face in his hands and wept aloud.

On went the sweet voice, with its sad story: he held up his hand with a gesture of entreaty.

"Hush, Leone," he said, "for God's sake, hush. I cannot bear it."

On went the sweet voice:

"'But while I hear that mill-wheelMy pains will never cease;I would the grave would hide me,For there alone is peace,For there alone is peace.'"

"I will sing that verse again," she said, "it is prophetic."

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

She bent her head as she sung the last few words, and there was silence between them – silence unbroken save for the ripple of the waters as it washed past the boat, and the song of a lark that soared high in the sky.

"Leone," said Lord Chandos, "you have killed me. I thought I had a stronger, braver heart, I thought I had a stronger nature – you have killed me."

He looked quite exhausted, and she saw great lines of pain round his mouth, great shadows in his eyes.

"Have I been cruel to you?" she asked, and there was a ring of tenderness in her voice.

"More cruel than you know," he answered. "Once, Leone, soon after I came home we went to a concert, and among other things I heard 'In Sheltered Vale.' At the first sound of the first notes my heart stood still. I thought, Leone, it would never beat again; I thought my blood was frozen in my veins; I felt the color die from my face. Lady Marion asked me what was the matter, and the countess thought that I was going to swoon. I staggered out of the room like a man who had drunk too much wine, and it was many hours before I recovered myself; and now, Leone, you sing the same words to me; they are like a death knell."

"They hold a prophecy," said Leone, sadly, "the only place where any one can find rest is the grave."

"My beautiful Leone," he cried, "you must not talk about the grave. There should be no death and no grave for one like you."

"There will be none to my love," she said, but rather to herself than to him. Then she roused herself and laughed, but the laugh was forced and bitter. "Why should I speak of my love?" she said. "Mine was a 'Mad Love.'"

The day drifted on to a golden, sunlight afternoon, and the wind died on the waters while the lilies slept. And then they went slowly home.

"Has it been a happy day, Leone?" asked Lord Chandos, as they drew near home.

"It will have no morrow," she answered, sadly. "I shall keep those water-lilies until every leaf is withered and dead; yet they will never be so dead as my hopes – as dead as my life, though art fills it and praises crown it."

"And I," he said, "shall remember this day until I die. I have often wondered, Leone, if people take memory with them to heaven. If they do, I shall think of it there."

"And I," she said, "shall know no heaven, if memory goes with me."

They parted without another word, without a touch of the hands, or one adieu; but there had been no mention of parting, and that was the last thing thought of.

CHAPTER LI.

THE CONFESSION

"I do not believe it," said Lady Marion; "it is some absurd mistake. If Lord Chandos had been out alone, or on a party of pleasure where you say, he would have told me."

"I assure you, Lady Chandos, that it is true. Captain Blake spoke to him there, and Lady Evelyn saw him. Madame Vanira was with him."

The speakers were Lady Chandos and Lady Ilfield; the place was the drawing-room at Stoneland House; the time was half past three in the afternoon; and Lady Ilfield had called on her friend because the news which she had heard preyed upon her mind and she felt that she must reveal it. Like all mischief-makers Lady Ilfield persuaded herself that she was acting upon conscientious motives; she herself had no nonsensical ideas about singers and actresses; they were quite out of her sphere, quite beneath her notice, and no good, she was in the habit of saying, ever came from associating with them. She had met Madame Vanira several times at Stoneland House, and had always felt annoyed over it, but her idea was that a singer, an actress, let her be beautiful as a goddess and talented above all other women, had no right to stand on terms of any particular friendship with Lord Chandos. Lady Ilfield persuaded herself it was her duty, her absolute Christian duty, to let Lady Chandos know what was going on. She was quite sure of the truth of what she had to tell, and she chose a beautiful, sunshiny afternoon for telling it. She wore a look of the greatest importance – she seated herself quite close to Lady Marion.

"My dear Lady Chandos," she said, "I have called on the most unpleasant business. There is something which I am quite sure I ought to tell you, and I really do not know how. People are saying such things – you ought to know them."

The fair, sweet face lost none of its tranquillity, none of its calm. How could she surmise that her heart was to be stabbed by this woman's words?

"The sayings of people trouble me but little, Lady Ilfield," she replied, with a calm smile.

"What I have to say concerns you," she said, "concerns you very much. I would not tell you but that I consider it my duty to do so. I told Lady Evelyn that she, who had actually witnessed the scene, ought to be the one to describe it, but she absolutely refused; unpleasant as the duty is, it has fallen on me."

"What duty? what scene?" asked Lady Chandos, beginning to feel something like alarm. "If you have anything to say, Lady Ilfield, anything to tell me, pray speak out; I am anxious now to hear it."

Then indeed was Lady Ilfield in her glory. She hastened to tell the story. How Captain and Lady Evelyn Blake had gone with a few friends for a river-party, and at Ousely had seen Lord Chandos with Madame Vanira, the great queen of song.

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."