A Mad Love by Charlotte Mary Brame (online e book reading TXT) 📖

in half an hour--his disposition has not changed."

"I cannot believe it," cried Leone. "I will not believe it, great lady as you are. You are wicked to malign your own son."

"I do not malign him," said the countess, indifferently. "Many gentlemen think it quite complimentary to be called changeable. My son has always been known as one of the most variable of men; nothing pleases him long; it is seldom that anything pleases him twice. You think he will always love you; let me ask you why? You have a pretty face, granted; but there is nothing under the sun of which a man tires sooner. You have nothing else; you have no education, no accomplishments, no good birth; I should say no good breeding, no position, rank, or influence. If I may speak my mind plainly, I should say that it was a most impertinent presumption for you, a farmer's niece, even to dream of being Lady Chandos--a presumption that should be punished, and must be checked. You would, without doubt, make an excellent dairy-maid, even a tolerable housekeeper, but a countess never. The bare idea is intolerable."

She grew more angry as she spoke; for the girl's grace and beauty, the wonderful sweetness of her voice, the passion, the power, the loveliness of her face, began to tell upon her; she could not help owning to herself that she had seen nothing so marvelous as this wonderful girl.

"Then," said Leone, calmly, "I have appealed to you in vain?"

"Quite in vain," replied my lady. "Remember that against you personally I have nothing to say, neither have I any dislike; but if you have common sense, you will see that it is utterly impossible for my son to take the future Countess of Lanswell from a farmhouse. Now try and act rationally--go away at once, leave my son, and I will see that you have plenty to live upon."

"Whatever may be said of the class from which I spring," cried Leone, "I believe in the sanctity of marriage, and I would scorn to barter my love for anything on earth."

"Yes, that is all very pretty and very high-flown," said the countess, with a contemptuous laugh; "but you will find a few thousand pounds a very comfortable matter in a few years' time."

"You said you would rather see your son dead than married to me, Lady Lanswell; I repeat that I would rather die of hunger than touch money of yours. I did not know or believe that on the face of God's earth there was ever a creature so utterly hard, cold and cruel as you."

The light of the setting sun had somewhat faded then, and it moved from the proud figure of the countess to the lovely young face of Leone, but even as the light warmed it, new pride, new energy, new passion seemed to fill it. The prayer and the pleading died--the softened light, the sweet tenderness left it; it was no longer the face of a loving, tender-hearted girl, pleading with hot tears that she might not be taken from her husband--it was the face of a tragedy queen, full of fire and passion. She stood, with one hand upraised, like a sibyl inspired.

"I have done, Lady Lanswell," she said; "you tell me that Lord Chandos is free to marry as he will when he is twenty-one."

"If you can find any comfort in that statement, I can verify it," she replied; "but surely you are not mad enough to think that, when my son is of age, he will return to you."

"I am sure of it," said Leone. "I believe in my husband's love, and my husband's constancy, as I believe in Heaven."

"I hope your faith in Heaven will be more useful to you," sneered the countess. "I have womanly pity enough to warn you not to let your hopes rest on this. I prophesy that Lord Chandos will have utterly forgotten you by next June, and that he does not see you again."

"I will not believe it, Lady Lanswell. You are my superior by birth and fortune, but I would neither exchange mind nor heart with you. You have sordid and mean ideas. My husband will be true, and seek me when the time comes."

My lady laughed.

"You are very happy to have such faith in him; I have not half so much in any creature living. You hold that one card in your hand--you seem to think it a winning one; it may or may not be. I tell you one thing frankly: that I have already settled in my own mind who shall be my son's wife, and I seldom fail in a purpose."

"You are a wicked woman," cried Leone. "I have no fear of you. You may try all that you will. I do not believe that you will take my husband from me. You are a wicked woman, and God will punish you, Lady Lanswell. You have parted husband and wife who loved each other."

"I am not very frightened," laughed my lady. "I consider that I have been a kind of providence to my son. I have saved him from the effect of his own folly. Will you allow me to say now that, having exhausted a very disagreeable subject, this interview must be considered closed! If you would like any refreshments my housekeeper will be pleased to----"

But the girl drew back with an imperial gesture of scorn.

"I want nothing," she said. "I have a few words to say to you in parting. I repeat that you are a wicked woman, Lady Lanswell, and that God will punish you for the wicked deed you have done. I say more, whether Heaven punishes you or not, _I will_. You have trampled me under your feet; you have insulted, outraged, tortured me. Listen to the word--you have tortured me; you have received me with scorn and contumely; you have laughed at my tears; enjoyed my prayers and humiliation. I swear that I will be revenged, even should I lose all on earth to win that revenge. I swear that you shall come and plead to me on your knees, and I will laugh at you. You shall plead to me with tears, and I will remind you how I have pleaded in vain. You have wrung my heart, I will wring yours. My revenge shall be greater than your cruelty; think, then, how great it will be."

"I repeat that I am not frightened," said the countess, but she shrunk from the fire of those splendid eyes.

"I was mad to think I should find a woman's heart in you. When the hour of my revenge comes, my great grief will be that I have a heart of marble to deal with!" cried Leone.

"You cannot have such great affection for your husband, if you speak to his mother in this fashion," said the countess, mockingly.

The girl stretched out her white arms with a despairing cry.

"Give me back my husband, and I recall my threats."

Then, seeing that mocking smile on that proud face, her arms fell with a low sigh.

"I am mad," she said, in a low voice, "to plead to you--quite mad!"

"Most decidedly," said the countess. "It appears to me there is more truth in that one observation than in any other you have made this evening. As I am not particularly inclined to the society of mad men or mad women, you will excuse me if I withdraw."

Without another word, my lady touched the bell. To the servant who entered she said:

"Will you show this person out as far as the park gates, please?"

And, without another look at Leone, she quitted the room.

Leone followed in silence. She did not even look around the sumptuous home one day she believed to be hers; she went to the great gates which the man-servant held open as she passed through. The sun had set, and the gray, sweet gloaming lay over the land. There was a sound of falling water, and Leone made her way to it. It was a cascade that fell from a small, but steep rock. The sound of the rippling water was to her like the voice of an old friend, the sight of it like the face of some one whom she loved. She sat down by it, and it sung to her the same sweet old song:


"A ring in pledge he gave her,
And vows of love we spoke;
Those vows are all forgotten,
The ring asunder broke."


It would not be so with her, ah no! If ever the needle was true to the pole, the flowers to the sun, the tides to the moon, the stars to the heavens, Lord Chandos would be true to her.

So she believed, and, despite her sorrow, her heart found rest in the belief.


CHAPTER XIX.


LEONE'S PROPHECY.

No words could do justice to the state of mind in which Lord Chandos found himself after that interview at Cawdor. He rushed back to London. Of the three previous days remaining he spent one in hunting after the shrewdest lawyers in town. Each and all laughed at him--there was the law, plain enough, so plain that a child could read and understand it. They smiled at his words, and said, half-contemptuously, they could not have imagined any one so ignorant of the law. They sympathized with him when he spoke of his young wife, but as for help, there was none.

The only bright side to it was this, he could remarry her on the day he came of age. Of that there was and could be no doubt, he said, but he was bent on finding some loop-hole, and marrying her at once, if it were really needful for the ceremony to be performed again. It could not be, and there was nothing for it but to resign himself to the inevitable. He did not know that Leone had heard the terrible sentence, and he dreaded having to tell her. He was worn out with sorrow and emotion. In what words was he to tell her that she was not his wife in the eyes of the law, and that if they wished to preserve her character unspotted and unstained she must leave him at once?

He understood his mother's character too well to dare any delay. He was sure that if Leone remained even one day under his roof, when the time came that he should introduce her to the world as his wife, his mother would bring the fact against her, and so prevent her from even knowing people.

There was no help for it--he must tell her. He wrote a letter telling her he would be at River View for luncheon on the following day; he knew that he must leave that same evening for the Continent.

He would have given the world to have been able to renounce the royal favor, of which he had felt so proud, but he could not. To have done so would have been to have deprived him not only of all position, but to have incurred disgrace. To have refused a favor so royally bestowed would have been an act of ingratitude which would have deprived him of court favor for life.

He must go; and when the first pain was over, he said to himself it was, perhaps, the best thing that could have happened. He could not have borne to know