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

me so heartlessly. If he goes to Berlin, Lady Chandos will appeal to the Duke of Lester, who has just obtained for my son the greatest honor that can be conferred on an English gentleman--the Order of the Garter. In plain words, Leone, if my son follows you to Berlin, he will lose his wife, he will lose his good name, he will lose caste, his social position, his chance of courtly honors, the respect of his own class. He will be laughed at as a dupe, as a man who has given up all the honors of life to dance attendance on an actress; in short, if he goes either with you, or after you, to Berlin, he is, in every sense of the word, a ruined man!" and my lady's voice faltered as she said the words.

"Why not tell Lord Chandos all this himself, and see what he says?" asked Leone.

Perfect desperation brings about perfect frankness--my lady knew that it was quite useless to conceal anything.

"I have said all this and more to my son, but he will not even listen to me."

A scornful smile curved those lovely lips.

"He persists in going to Berlin, then?" said Leone, quietly.

"Yes," replied my lady, "he persists in it."

"Then why come to me? If your son persists in a certain course of action, why come to me?"

"Because you can influence him. I ask you to be noble beyond the nobility of women, I ask you to be generous beyond the generosity of women, I ask you to forget the past and forbid my son to follow you to Berlin. You know the end must be a bad one--forbid it. I ask you with the warmest of prayers and of tears!"

It was then that Leone rose in righteous wrath, in not indignation, in angry passion; rose and stood erect before the woman who had been her enemy.

"I refuse," she said. "Years ago I went to you a simple-hearted, loving girl, and I prayed you for Heaven's sake to have mercy on me. You received me with scorn and contumely; you insulted, outraged, tortured me; you laughed at my tears, you enjoyed my humiliation. I told you then that I would have my revenge, even should I lose everything on earth to obtain that revenge. Now it lays in my hands, and I grasp it--I glory in it. Your son shall follow me, shall lose wife, home, friends, position, fair name, as I lost all years ago at your bidding. Oh, cruel and wicked woman, behold my revenge! I repay you now. Oh, God," she continued, with a passionate cry, "I thank Thee that I hold my vengeance in my hand; I will slay and spare not!"

Then she stood silent for some minutes, exhausted by the passion of her own words.


CHAPTER LIX.


USELESS PLEADINGS.

"You cannot possibly know what you are saying," said Lady Lanswell; "you must be mad."

"No; I am perfectly sane; if I am mad at all it is with delight that the very desire of my heart has been given to me. Do you forget when you trampled my heart, my life, my love under your feet that day? Do you forget what I have sworn?"

"I have never thought of it since," said the countess, trying to conciliate still.

"Then I will remind you," said Leone. "I swore to be avenged, no matter what my vengeance cost. I swore that you should come and plead to me on your knees and I would laugh at you. I do so. I swore that you should plead to me, and I would remind you how I pleaded in vain. You wrung my heart--I will wring yours, and my only regret is that it is so hard and cold I cannot make you suffer more."

"You are mad," said my lady; "quite mad."

"No," said Leone, "I am sane, but mine was a mad love."

"You cannot know the consequence to yourself if you persist in this conduct," said my lady, serenely.

"Did you think of them for me when you set aside my marriage with your son, because you did not think me good enough to be a countess?" she asked. "Lady Lanswell, the hour of vengeance has come and I embrace it. Your son shall lose his wife, his home, his position, his honors; I care not what," she cried, with sudden recklessness--"I care not what the world says of me, I will do that which I shall do, less because I love your son than because I desire to punish you."

Lady Lanswell grew very pale as she listened.

"Yours is a terrible revenge," she said, gently. "I wish that you could invent some vengeance that would fall on my head--and on mine alone, so as to spare those who are dear to me. Could you not do that? I would willingly suffer anything to free my son and his fair, loving wife."

"No one spared me, nor will I in my turn spare," she said. "You shall know what it means to plead for dear life and plead in vain."

"Can I say nothing that will induce you to listen to me?" said the countess, "will you deliberately persist in the conduct that will ruin three lives?"

"Yes, deliberately and willfully," said Leone. "I will never retract, never go back, but go on to the bitter end."

"And that end means my son's disgrace," said Lady Lanswell.

"It would be the same thing if it meant his death," said Leone; "no one withheld the hand that struck death to me--worse than death."

"You have nothing but this to say to me," said Lady Lanswell as she rose with stately grace from her seat.

"No; if I knew anything which would punish you more, which would more surely pay my debts, which would more fully wreak my vengeance, I would do it. As for three lives, as for thirty, I would trample them under my feet. I will live for my vengeance, no matter what it costs me; and, Lady Lanswell, you ruined my life. Good-bye. The best wish I can form is that I may never look on your face again. Permit me to say farewell."

She went out of the room leaving the countess bewildered with surprise and dismay.

"What she says she will do," thought Lady Lanswell; "I may say good-bye to every hope I have ever formed for my son."

She went away, her heart heavy as lead, with no hope of any kind to cheer it.

Leone went to her room, her whole frame trembling with the strong passion that had mastered her.

"What has come over me?" she said; "I no longer know myself. Is it love, vengeance, or jealousy that has hold of me? What evil spirit has taken my heart? Would I really hurt him whom I have loved all my life--would I do him harm? Would I crush that fair wife of his who wronged me without knowing it? Let me find out for myself if it be true."

She tried to think, but her head was in a whirl--she could not control herself, she could not control her thoughts; the sight of Lady Lanswell seemed to have set her heart and soul in flame--all the terrible memory of her wrongs came over her, the fair life blighted and ruined, the innocent girlhood and dawning womanhood all spoiled. It was too cruel--no, she could never forgive it.

And then it seemed to her that her brain took fire and she went mad.

She saw Lord Chandos that same evening; they met in a crush on the staircase at one of the ducal mansions, where a grand dinner-party preceded a _soiree_, and the crowd was so great they were unable to stir. It is possible to be quite alone in a great crowd, as these two were now.

Leone had on a dress of white satin trimmed with myrtle, the rich folds of which trailed on the ground. They shook hands in silence; it was Lord Chandos who spoke first.

"I am so glad to see you, Leone; but you are looking ill--you must not look like that. Has anything happened to distress you?"

He saw great trouble in the dark eyes raised to his.

"Is Lady Marion here?" she asked.

"No," he replied. "She was to have come with my mother, but at the last moment she declined; I do not know why."

She was debating in her own mind whether she would tell him about his mother's visit or not; then she decided it would be better. He bent over her.

"I came," he said, "in the hope of seeing you. I heard you say last night that you should be here."

In a low tone she said to him:

"Your mother has been to see me; talk about dramatic scenes, we had one. Has she told you anything about it?"

"No," he replied: "she does not speak to me; I am in disgrace; my lady passes me in silent dignity. She was just going to Lady Marion's room when I came away, but she did not speak to me. What was the object of her visit, Leone?"

"It was about Berlin," she said, in a low voice.

He started.

"Has she been to you about that?" he asked. "I thought she had exhausted all the remarks she had to make on that subject."

The green foliage and crimson flowers of a huge camellia bent over them. Lord Chandos pushed aside the crimson flowers so that he might more clearly see his companion's face.

"What has my mother said to you about Berlin, Leone?" he asked.

"She came to beg of me to forbid you to go. She says if you go either with me or after me you will be a ruined man."

"It will be a most sweet ruin," he whispered.

"Lance," said Leone, "do you know that while Lady Lanswell was talking to me I went mad--I am quite sure of it. I said such dreadful things to her; did I mean them?"

"How should I know, my--Leone; but we will not talk about it; never mind what my mother says, I do not wish to hear it. She came between us once, but she never will again. She parted us once, she shall never part us again--never. There can be no harm in my going to Berlin, and there I shall go--that is, always with your consent and permission."

"That you have. But, Lance, is it true that Lady Marion does not wish you to go to Berlin, and threatens to leave you if you do--is it true?"

"Let us talk about something else, Leone," he said. "We have but a few moments together."

"But I cannot think of anything else," she said; "because my heart is full of it."

What else she would have said will never be known, for at that moment there was a stir in the crowd, and they were separated.

She took home with her the memory of his last look--a look that said so plainly, "I love you and will go to Berlin for your sake." She took home with her the memory of that look, and lay sleepless through the whole night, wondering which of the evil spirits had taken possession of her.

The countess had gone in search of Lady Marion. She found her in her boudoir--the beautiful room she had shown with such pride to Madame Vanira.