A Mad Love

"I have lost no time, as you see," she said. "What is all this nonsense, Ross?"

He did not answer until they stood together in the library, with the door closed, and then she repeated the words. Something in her husband's face dismayed her.

"Speak, Ross; I dislike suspense. Tell me at once; what has the boy done?"

"He is married," said the earl, solemnly.

"Great Heaven!" cried my lady. "Married! You cannot mean it. Married – how – whom – when?"

"You will be dreadfully distressed," he began, slowly.

My lady stamped her foot.

"I can bear distress better than suspense. Tell me quickly, Ross, has he disgraced himself?"

"I am afraid so," was the brief reply.

"And I loved him so – I trusted him so; it is impossible; tell me, Ross."

"He has married a farmer's niece. The girl is beautiful. I have seen no one so beautiful; she seems to be well educated and refined. Her uncle has a farm at Rashleigh."

"A farmer's niece," cried my lady; "you cannot possibly mean it. There must be some mistake – the boy has been playing a practical joke on you."

"It is no joke; I only wish it were. Lance gave me the details. He was married yesterday morning by the Reverend Mr. Barnes, at the Church of St. Barnabas, at Oheton, a village somewhere near Rashleigh."

"Married – really and actually married," cried my lady. "I will not believe it."

"Unhappily, it is true. He expected, I think, to make his home here; he had no idea of leaving Dunmore House; but I told him that I could not receive him or her."

"Her! You do not mean to say that he had the audacity to bring her here, Ross?"

"Yes, they came together last night; but I would not receive her. I told them plainly that you must settle the matter, as I could not."

"I should think not," said my lady, with emphasis.

"I must own, though," continued the earl, "that I was rather sorry for Lance; he had trusted entirely to my good offices and seemed to think it very cruel of me to refuse to plead for him."

"And the girl," said my lady, "what of her?"

"You will think I am weak and foolish, without doubt," he said, "but the girl distressed me even more than Lance. She is beautiful enough to arouse the admiration of the world; and she spoke so well for him."

"A farmer's niece – an underbred, forward, designing, vulgar country girl – to be Countess of Lanswell," cried my lady, in horror.

"Nay," said the earl, "she is a farmer's niece, it is true, but she is not vulgar."

"It is not possible that she can be presentable," said my lady. "We must move heaven and earth to set the marriage aside."

"I had not thought of that," said the earl, simply.

Then my lady took the lace mantilla from her shoulders, and sat down at the writing-table.

"I will send for Mr. Sewell," she said. "If any one can give us good advice, he can."

Mr. Sewell was known as one of the finest, keenest, and cleverest lawyers in England; he had been for more than twenty years agent for the Lanswells of Cawdor. He knew every detail of their history, every event that happened; and the proud countess liked him, because he was thoroughly conservative in all his opinions. She sent for him now as a last resource; the carriage was sent to his office, so that he might lose no time. In less than an hour the brisk, energetic lawyer stood before the distressed parents, listening gravely to the story of the young heir's marriage.

"Have you seen the girl?" he asked.

"Yes, I have seen her," said the earl.

"Is she presentable?" he inquired. "Would any degree of training enable her to take her rank – "

Lady Lanswell interrupted him.

"The question need never be asked," she said, proudly. "I refuse ever to see her, or acknowledge her. I insist on the marriage being set aside."

"One has to be careful, my lady," said Mr. Sewell.

"I see no need for any great care," she retorted. "My son has not studied us; we shall not study him. I would rather the entail were destroyed, and the property go to one of Charles Seyton's sons, than my son share it with a low-born wife."

My lady's face was inflexible. The earl and the lawyer saw that she was resolved – that she would never give in, never yield, no matter what appeal was made to her.

They both knew that more words were useless. My lady's mind was made up, and they might as well fight the winds and the waves. Lord Lanswell was more inclined to pity and to temporize. He was sorry for his son, and the beautiful face had made some impression on him; but my lady was inflexible.

"The marriage must be set aside," she repeated.

The earl looked at her gravely.

"Who can set aside a thoroughly legal marriage?" he asked.

"You will find out the way," said my lady, turning to Mr. Sewell.

"I can easily do that, Lady Lanswell; of course it is for you to decide; but there is no doubt but that the marriage can easily be disputed – you must decide. If you think the girl could be trained and taught to behave herself – perhaps the most simple and honorable plan would be to let the matter stand as it is, and do your best for her."

"Never!" cried my lady, proudly. "I would rather that Cawdor were burned to the ground than to have such a person rule over it. It is useless to waste time and words, the marriage must be set aside."

The lawyer looked from one to the other.

"There can be no difficulty whatever in setting the marriage aside," said Mr. Sewell. "In point of fact, I must tell you what I imagined you would have known perfectly well."

My lady looked at him with redoubled interest.

"What is that?" she asked, quickly.

The earl listened with the greatest attention.

"It is simply this, Lady Lanswell, that the marriage is no marriage; Lord Chandos is under age – he cannot marry without your consent; any marriage that he contracts without your consent is illegal and invalid – no marriage at all – the law does not recognize it."

"Is that the English law?" asked Lady Lanswell.

"Yes, the marriage of a minor, like your son, without the consent of his parents, is no marriage; the law utterly ignores it. The remedy lies, therefore, in your own hands."

Husband and wife looked at each other; it was a desperate chance, a desperate remedy. For one moment each thought of the sanctity of the marriage tie, and all that was involved in the breaking of it. Each thought how terribly their only son must suffer if this law was enforced.

Then my lady's face hardened and the earl knew what was to follow.

"It remains for us, then, Mr. Sewell," she said, "to take the needful steps."

"Yes, you must make an appeal to the High Court, and the marriage will be at once set aside," said Mr. Sewell. "It is a terrible thing for the young wife, though."

"She should have had more sense than to have married my son," cried my lady. "I have pity for my son – none for her."

"I think it would be more fair to tell Lord Chandos what you intend doing," said Mr. Sewell. "Not that he could make either resistance or defense – the law is absolute."

"What will the end be?" asked my lady.

"The marriage will be declared null and void; they will be compelled to separate now; but again he has the remedy in his own hand. If he chooses to remain true and constant to her, the very next day after he becomes of age he can remarry her, and then she becomes his lawful wife; if he forgets her the only remedy for her would be money compensation."

"It shall be the business of my life to see that he does forget her," said my lady.

"You can commence proceedings at once," said Mr. Sewell. "You can file your petition to-morrow."

"It will make the whole matter public," hesitated my lady.

"Yes, that is the one drawback. After all it does not matter," said Mr. Sewell, "many young men make simpletons of themselves in the same way. People do not pay much attention."

Lord Lanswell looked at his wife's handsome, inflexible face.

"It is a desperate thing to do, Lucia," he said, "for Lance loves her very dearly."

"It was a desperate action on his part to marry without consulting us," said my lady.

"He will be of age next June," said the earl, "do you think that he will be true to her?"

"No," said the countess, proudly. "I can safely pledge you my word that he will not."

CHAPTER XII.

"THEY WILL NOT FORGIVE ME."

"Thank Heaven," said the countess, "that the matter can be set straight. If there had been no remedy I should have lost my reason over it. The boy must have been mad or blinded, or very probably drawn into it in some disgraceful fashion or other."

My lady was triumphant, her handsome face lighted with satisfaction, but the earl looked grave. The lawyer had taken his leave, and they still remained to discuss matters. Lord Lanswell did not seem so well pleased; he went up to my lady where she was standing.

"Lucia," he began, "do you think that if we succeed in parting these two we shall do quite right?"

"Right," cried my lady. "I shall think it one of the most virtuous actions of my life."

"Well," said the earl, "I am sorry that I cannot quite agree with you. No doubt this marriage is vexatious enough, but whether it is well to obliterate all traces of it, or rather to do away with it altogether, is quite another thing."

"I am the best judge of what is right in this case," said my lady, haughtily; "I will have no interference. The business part of it must be attended to at once."

"At least you will write to Lance and tell him what you intend doing?"

"Yes, I have no objection to that," she replied; "it can make no possible difference to him."

"He may try to make some compromise," said Lord Lanswell, whose heart smote him as he thought of the passionate, beautiful face.

"There can be no compromise; he must give her up at once, and marry some one in his own rank," said the countess. "I will write the letter at once, and I must ask you, Ross, not to be weak. A weak man is the most contemptible object in creation."

"I will try not to be weak, my dear," said the earl, submissively; "but I am concerned for Lance."

"Lance must take his chance," said my lady, too angry to be conscious of the rhyme; "he has done wrong, and he must suffer for it. He will thank Heaven in a year's time from now that I have saved him."

Still Lord Lanswell looked at his wife with a grave expression of doubt.

"You think, then, Lucia, that in a year's time he will have forgotten that poor young wife?"

"I am quite sure of it. Long before I had heard of this foolish affair I had decided in my own mind whom he should marry, and I see no reason for changing my plans."

Lord Lanswell thought with regret and sympathy of the young wife. Could it be possible, he thought, that his son would be so disloyal, so unfaithful as to forget in twelve short months the wife he had risked so much to win? He looked at the countess.

"The matter then lies in a nutshell and depends entirely upon whether Lance continues true to his love or not. If he remains true, your scheme for parting them will have but little effect; if he prove false, why then all will be well, according to your way of thinking."

"We will finish with the subject," she said. "You may make your mind quite easy about it. I guarantee all my knowledge of the world that he will not only have forgotten her in twelve months' time, but that he will be ashamed of having ever fancied himself in love with her."

Lord Lanswell went, in obedience to his wife's command, to assist in the commencement of the proceedings, and as soon as my lady was left alone, she sat down to write to her son. She told him, in the plainest possible words, that his marriage was not only unlawful, but invalid, as he, being minor, could not contract a legal marriage without the consent of his parents. My lady had faith enough in herself to add openly:

"You can, of course, please yourself, as soon as you are of age; you can then remarry the young person without our consent if you will; but my opinion is you will not."

The time which had passed so unpleasantly for the earl and countess was bright and light for the young bride and bridegroom. Leone had shed some bitter tears when they left Dunmore House, but Lord Chandos laughed; he was angry and irritated, but it seemed to him that such a state of things could not last. His father and mother had indulged him in everything – surely they would let him have his way in marriage. He kissed the tears from his young wife's face, and laughed away her fears.

"It will be all right in the end," he said. "My father may hold out for a few days, but he will give way; in the meantime, we must be happy, Leone. We will stay at the Queen's Hotel until they invite us to Cawdor. It will not be long; my mother and father cannot get on without me. We will go to the opera to-night, that will distract your thoughts."

The opera had been but hitherto an empty word to Leone. She had a vague idea that it consisted of singing. After all there was some compensation to be found; her young husband was devoted to her, she was magnificently dressed, and was going in a beautiful closed carriage to the opera.

She uttered no word of surprise, but her whole soul was filled with wonder. The highest festivity and the greatest gayety she had ever witnessed was a choir tea-party. She had a most beautiful voice; in fact, neither herself nor any of those around her knew the value of her voice or appreciated it.

On great occasions the choir were entertained by the rector – once during the summer when they made merry out in the green woods, and once in the winter when they were entertained in the school-room. Leone had thought these parties the acme of grandeur and perfection; now she sat in that brilliant circle and wondered into what world she had fallen.

Before the curtain was raised she was engrossed in that brilliant circle. She had never seen such dresses, such diamonds, such jewels, faces so beautiful, toilets so exquisite; it was all quite new to her. The beautiful and poetic side of it appealed to her. Her beautiful face flushed with delight, her dark eyes were lustrous and radiant.

Lord Chandos, looking round the opera-house, where some of the handsomest women in England were, said to himself that among all these fair and noble faces there was not one so beautiful as Leone's.

She herself was quite unconscious of the admiration she excited; she did not see how the opera-glasses were turned to her face; she could not hear people asking: "Who is that with Lord Chandos? What a beautiful face, what a lovely girl! Who is she?" Lord Chandos saw it, and was not only proud, but flattered by it.

"My mother will yield at once when she sees her," he thought; "she will be pleased that the most beautiful woman in England is my wife."

He made no introductions, though many of his friends bowed to him, with a secret hope that he would ask them into his box. But he had arranged his own plans. His mother – the proud, exclusive, haughty Countess of Lanswell – should be the one to introduce his beautiful wife to the world; that of itself would be a passport for her. So that he was careful not to ask any one into his box, or even to exchange a word with any of the people he knew.

From the time the curtain was drawn up until the opera ended, Leone was in a trance. Quite suddenly she had entered this new and beautiful world of music and art – a world so bright and dazzling that it bewildered her.

Lord Chandos watched her with keen delight – her lustrous eyes, the intense face, the parted lips.

The opera was one of the most beautiful – "Norma" – and the part of Norma was taken by the greatest prima donna of her time. Leone's eyes filled with tears as those passionate reproaches were sung; she knew nothing of the language, but the music was full of eloquence for her. She turned suddenly to her husband; her whole soul seemed awake and thrilling with dramatic instinct.

"Lance," she said in a low voice, "I could do that; I do not mean that I could sing so well, but I could feel the jealousy she feels. I could utter those reproaches. Something seems to have awoke in my soul that never lived before; it is all new to me, yet I understand it all; my heart is on fire as I listen."

"And you have enjoyed it?" he said, when the curtain fell on the last grand scene.

She answered him with a low sigh of perfect content.

So it was that to her her wedding-day became the most marked day of her life, for on it she awoke to the knowledge of the world of art and music.

There was nothing for it but to remain at the hotel.

Lord Chandos merely laughed at the notion of his parents holding out against him. He was wonderfully sanguine.

"We shall hear the carriage stop some fine morning," he said, "and they will be here to seek a reconciliation."

He laughed when the waiter gave him my lady's letter; he turned triumphantly to his wife.

"This is from my mother," he said; "I knew she would relent, it is probably to ask us to Cawdor."

But as he read it his face changed; the smile and the triumph died from it. He said no word to Leone, but tore the letter into shreds. She looked on with a wistful face.

"Is it from your mother, Lance?" she asked.

He took her in his arms and kissed her.

"My darling, do not trouble about them; you are all the world to me. They will not forgive me; but it does not matter. I am proud of what I have done. I am quite independent. I shall take a pretty little villa at Richmond, and we shall live there until they come to their senses."

"That will be giving up all the world for me," she said.

"The world will be well lost, Leone. We will go to-morrow and find a pretty little house where we shall be quite happy. Remember one thing always – that my mother will love you when she sees you."

"Then let her see me now, Lance, at once," she cried, eagerly, "if you think so. Why wait? I should be more happy than any one else in the world if you would do that."

"It is too soon yet," he replied; "all will be right in time."

She wished that he had offered to show her his mother's letter; but she did not like to ask what the contents were.

Lord Chandos dare not tell her, besides which he laughed in scorn at the idea. They might threaten as they would; but he felt quite certain there was no power on earth which could set aside his marriage, therefore he should not trouble himself about it. He would go to Richmond and look out for a house there.

CHAPTER XIII.

A PERFECTLY HAPPY WOMAN

"They would never dare do it," Lord Chandos repeated to himself with a laugh of contempt. Set his marriage aside. They were mad to think of such a thing.

From time to time strange-looking documents came to him; he thrust them aside without even looking at them. He only laughed at the notion. Part him from Leone. It was not in the power of any one on earth to do it. He never mentioned the matter to Leone at all; it was not worth while to disturb her.

They had been to Richmond, and had found there a villa so beautiful it seemed to have been built for them – a quaint, picturesque, old English house, full of pretty nooks and corners, with large latticed windows, over which roses and jasmine hung in abundance; a smooth, green lawn on which stood a superb cedar-tree; beautiful grounds that reached down to the river. The views from the windows were superb. It was worth anything to stand on that green lawn and watch the sunset on the Thames.

Leone was delighted with it; she had never dreamed of a home so beautiful. Lord Chandos furnished it with the utmost luxury, and there the first few happy months of their life was spent. Lord Chandos did not wish exactly that his marriage should be kept secret, but he did not want it known to the world in general until his mother was willing to introduce and receive his wife.

To Leone that life that opened to her was like a heaven on earth; her husband surrounded her with "kind observances;" he purchased for her a wardrobe that was a marvel of beauty and elegance; he found a French lady's-maid, who understood all the duties of the toilet. What was more, he had the best masters in London to instruct her. Her voice was one of the finest ever heard, her taste for music so great that she was soon proficient.

He taught her himself to ride. There was one thing singular, every master who attended her was aware of a great hidden power within her, they said among each other that she was something wonderful – that the world would hear of her some day. There was an innate sense of power, a grand dramatic instinct, a keen sense of everything beautiful, noble and great. There were times when an electric flash of genius made them marvel.

"It is a thousand pities," said the music-master to himself, "that she has married a nobleman. If she had been dependent on her own exertions, I could have made her one of the finest singers in the world."

Again, the drawing-master said:

"If I had the training of Lady Chandos I would make her the finest artist in England."

None of them had discovered the real secret of her genius, or what was the true fire that every now and then seemed to brighten them all as it flashed over them.

A few weeks completely changed her; she had that keen, quick insight into everything, that wondrous tact and intelligence which make some women seem as though they were magicians.

When she went first to River View, she had some traces of her rustic training. Before six weeks had passed over it had all disappeared. Lord Chandos himself had taught her; her intonation and accent were clear and refined, her words well chosen, her expressions always poetical and full of grace; no one meeting her then could have told that she had spent her life in the rural shades of Rashleigh.

New beauty came to her with this development of mind; new, spiritual, poetical loveliness; and Lord Chandos, looking at his peerless young wife, felt always quite confident that when his mother saw her all would be well – she would be proud of her.

While Leone seemed to have gone straight to heaven, she could not realize that this was the same life she rebelled against with such fierce rebellion. Now the days were not long enough to hold in them all the happiness that fell to her share. The birds woke her with their singing; the sun with its shining; another beautiful day had dawned for her – a day that was full of beauty and love. They passed like a dream.

She took breakfast always with her husband; perhaps the happiest hour of the day was that. The windows of the pretty breakfast-room looked over a wilderness of flowers; the windows were always open. The soft, sweet summer air came in, parting the long, white curtains, bringing with it the breath of roses and the odor of a hundred flowers.

She looked as fresh and fair as the morning itself. Lord Chandos wondered more and more at her radiant loveliness. Her soul was awake now, and looked out of her dark eyes into the world she found so beautiful.

Then Lord Chandos went up to town for a few hours, while Leone took her different lessons and studied. They met again at lunch, and they spent the afternoon out-of-doors. An ideal life – an idyl in itself. Leone, while she lived, retained a vivid remembrance of those afternoons, of the shade of the deep woods, of the ripple of the river through the green banks, of the valleys where flowers and ferns grew, of the long alleys where the pleasant shade made a perfect paradise. She remembered them – the golden glow, the fragrance, the music of them, remained with her until she died. All the most pleasant times of our lives are dreams.

Then they dined together; and in the evening Lord Chandos took his beautiful young wife to the opera or the play, to concert or lecture.

"As soon as I am of age," he would say, "I shall take you on the Continent; there is no education we get like that we get by traveling one year on the Continent; and you will be at home on every subject, Leone," he would say; and Leone longed for the time to come.

"When I am of age," was his universal cry.

When Leone expressed any anxiety or sorrow over his separation from his parents, he would laugh and answer:

"Never mind, my darling, it will be all right when I am of age. Never mind, darling, you will have my mother asking for the pleasure of knowing you then – the tables will be turned; let the great world once see you, and you will be worshiped for your beauty, your grace, and your talent."