A Mad Love, Charlotte Mary Brame [read this if txt] 📗

he was sure to rage and rave; he was a spoiled child, who never in his life had been contradicted or thwarted. The more angry he was the better; she knew by experience the hotter the fire the more quickly it burns away. Had he been cool, calm, collected and silent she would have dreaded the after consequences.

"He will exhaust himself with furious words," she said to herself with a slow smile. "When he has done that, all danger will be over."

She had smiled when she heard of his rapid journeys, his fierce denunciations, his violent invectives, his repeated oaths that no power on earth should take him from his young wife.

She had smiled when the earl, whose conscience was more tender than her own, had said over and over again that it was a terrible thing to set aside a marriage, to call a religious ceremony null and void. He would not have done it himself, but my lady had firm nerves, and a will of iron; nothing daunted her. She laughed at his persuasions and arguments. She told him the day would come on which he would thank Heaven that the honor of his name and race had been saved from destruction. My lady was triumphant. Knowing her son was spending his whole time in these journeys, she had requested Mr. Sewell himself to go to the pretty little villa at Richmond, to see the young wife himself, and tell her the truth about the marriage; to speak what she was pleased to call plain English to her; to tell her that in the eyes of the law and of all honest, honorable men she was not his wife; that every hour she called herself by his name, or lived under his roof, added to her disgrace and increased her shame.

"You can tell her," said my lady, with ill-concealed contempt, "that next June he will be twenty-one, and then he can please himself; he can remarry her if he will; no one then will have the least control over him; he will be his own master and can do as he likes. In all probability," she continued, "the girl will please herself with fanciful ideas about his being true to her; do not contradict her if she believes it--she will part from him more easily; but, believe me, my son will never return to her--never!"

Mr. Sewell had tried in vain to escape the interview; he was neither particularly tender of heart nor given to sentiment, but he shrunk from seeing the young girl who called herself Lady Chandos; he shrunk from telling her the truth; but my lady was inexorable; he must do it, and no one else.

He did it, but until the day of his death he never forgot it; he could not bear to think of it, and he never mentioned it. Until the day of his death he was haunted by a beautiful, passionate face, white with terrible despair.

He was compelled to speak in what my lady called plain English, or she would never have understood him. She could not understand in the least why the fact of Lord Chandos being under twenty-one should make her marriage null and void; illegal, because contracted without his parents' consent. She had turned to him with flashing eyes.

"Are the laws of England all framed for the convenience of the rich?" she asked.

And, proud as he was of his legal knowledge, the lawyer had hesitated before the fire of her question.

She understood at last--she saw what Mr. Sewell called the justice of the case--the reasons why such a law was needful, and she knew that she was not the lawful wife of Lancelot, Lord Chandos. She looked into the stern face of her companion with eyes filled with awful despair.

"He did not know it," she said; "only tell me that, and I shall be happier. He did not know it?"

"No," said Mr. Sewell; "I am quite sure that Lord Chandos was ignorant of the fact--it never occurred to him; if it had done so, he would have deferred his marriage until he came of age."

"I shall take some comfort in that," she said, slowly. "If he has erred, it has been done in ignorance and innocence. You say that the wrong can be righted next June; that he can marry me then without the consent of either of his parents."

"Certainly he can," replied the lawyer.

Something of the shock of despair passed from her face as he uttered these words. She folded her arms over her breast with the repressed passion of a tragedy queen.

"Then I have no fear," she said. "Were the time twice as long, the cruelty twice as great, the law twice as strong, he would return to me true and faithful, as he loves me. You can tell his mother that."

"I will," said Mr. Sewell, relieved to see some of the horror fall from her face.

She would not discuss her future arrangements with him. Lady Lanswell was anxious that she should take a large sum of money and return home. She looked at him with the dignity of an outraged queen.

"Before Heaven, and in my own eyes, Lord Chandos is my husband," she said, with calm dignity; "and with him only will I discuss my future. You can tell his mother that also. No other creature living shall interfere with my fate or destiny."

She tried hard--and she was a woman of wonderful resource--she tried hard to keep her dignity, not to fail or falter before him, the cold emissary of that cruel mother; but unutterable woe looked out of her eyes at him, her white face had on it the passion of despair, her voice the ring of anguish, the small white hands on which the wedding-ring shone, trembled like leaves stirred in the summer wind; the very repression of her passionate despair made it seem more terrible. He clearly explained to her her position at last, she must consent to an immediate separation from Lord Chandos; she must give up his name, leave the shelter of his roof, or men and women, too, would brand her with the scarlet letter--would look on her as one lost and dead to all sense of honor.

"You will see for yourself," added the lawyer, "that the wisest and best plan is for you to go away at once--this very day even--then you will stand a better chance when next June comes. Even one more day spent under this roof would be fatal to your character and reputation. You must go at once."

Once more she raised her despairing eyes to him. Her voice trembled as though it were all tears.

"Tell me," she said, gently, "has this been done by Lady Lanswell's desire more than by the earl's?"

"Yes, I believe it is so," he said.

Leone continued:

"If the countess relented now, and gave her consent, could we be legally married at once?"

"If the earl and countess consent you could be remarried to-day. Nothing is wanted but their permission."

"Thank you," she said, gently. Then with pathos and dignity that touched him greatly she held out her hand to him. "I do not blame you for the message you have brought," she said; "the fault lies with Lady Lanswell and the English law, not with you. You have fulfilled your mission as kindly as you could. I forgive you what you have done and what you have said."

The white lips closed firmly, no other sound came from them, but Mr. Sewell looked back as he closed the door, and she lay then with her face on the floor. He did not go to her; he thought it was better to leave her alone. He said to himself, as he quitted the house, that not for all the wealth of the Lanswells would he pass through another such scene.

The hour came in which she raised her face once again to the sunlight, and tried to realize what had happened. She had risen that morning the happiest girl in all England, her only anxiety being to make herself more beautiful than ever in her husband's eyes. The morning itself was not more fresh and fair; everything had been _couleur de rose_.

Her husband, as she believed him, thought so little of the quarrel with his parents that she had imbibed his careless, happy ideas about it. There was no cloud in her sky, no doubt in her heart; now her heart was full of despair. She looked at the blue September sky, and asked herself if it were possible to realize what had happened. She was dazed, stunned, as though some one had struck her a violent blow. She went out of the pretty drawing-room where she had heard what seemed to her her death-warrant. She opened her white lips to breathe the pure, fresh air of heaven.

As she stood there panting for breath, one of the servants came to her, holding a letter in her hand. Leone opened it. The few hastily-written lines were from her husband. They said, simply:

"MY DARLING,--I shall not be able to return home to-day. I have
some disagreeable business in town, of which I will tell you more
anon. I shall be at home for luncheon to-morrow. Believe me, always
your loving husband,

"LANCE."

She looked at the word "husband" until the letters seemed to burn like fire. He had signed himself her husband. Ah, then, it was quite plain that he neither believed, or, perhaps, had not even heard, of what had been done. As she stood there with the fading boughs of a spreading tree over her head, the words came to her again and again:


"Those vows were all forgotten,
The ring asunder broke."


She seemed once more to hear the falling of the waters. Would the vows made to her ever be broken? Ah, no! a thousand times no!

She would go to his mother and appeal to her. A woman must, of course, be merciful to a woman. She would go herself and appeal to Lucia, Countess of Lanswell.


CHAPTER XVII.


"I WOULD RATHER SEE MY SON DEAD."

The countess stood alone in the drawing-room. The sun was setting over the trees in the park, and a warm glow filled the beautiful room with rosy light--a light that fell on costly pictures, on marble statues, on buhl and jasper, on silver and gold, on mirrors and flowers, whose fragrance was delicious even to breathe, but it fell on my lady's proud face and figure as though it liked best to linger there.

The dressing-bell had not rung, and she, waiting for it, had fallen into a reverie. She was sure she had done right, yet, without doubt, the girl would feel it keenly. What matter? "Women must weep," it was part of their lives. Whoever paused or cared for a woman's tears? Women had wept before and would weep again. She looked round on the superb home where she reigned mistress, and laughed with scorn as she tried to picture the farmer's niece queen of these ancient walls.

Right? Most certainly she had done right; let weak minds and weak hearts think as they would. The golden sunset, the rosy clouds, the soft, sweet song of the birds, the fragrance of the thousand blooming flowers, the faint whisper of the odorous wind appealed to her in vain. What was a bleeding heart and weeping eyes to her?

Yet she