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

his neck; the very heaven of repose was in the eyes she raised to his.

"My darling Lance," she said, "I can never have any fancy over you; my thoughts about you are always true." She laid one slim, white hand on his face. "Why, your face burns now," she said, and he made some little gesture of impatience, and then his heart smote him. She was so fair, so gentle, and loved him so dearly.

"Have I vexed you, Lance?" she said. "I did not mean to do so. If you do not like me to ask you where you are going, I will not, but it seems to me such a simple thing."

"How can I object, or, rather, why should I object to tell you where I go, Marion? Here is my note-book; open it and read."

But when he said the words he knew that on his note-book there was no mention of Leone's name, and again his heart smote him. It was so very easy to deceive this fair, trusting woman. Lady Chandos put the note-book back in his pocket.

"I do not want to see it, Lance. I merely asked you the question because you looked so very nice, and you have chosen such a beautiful flower. I thought you were going to pay some particular visit."

He kissed the sweet, wistful face raised to his, and changed the subject.

"Do I not always look what you ladies call 'nice'?" he asked, laughingly; and she looked admiringly at him.

"You are always nice to me, Lance; there is no one like you. I often wonder if other wives are as proud of their husbands as I am of you? Now I shall try to remember that you do not like me to ask you where you are going. The greatest pleasure I have on earth is complying with every little wish of yours."

He could not help kissing her again, she was so sweet, so gentle, so kind, yet his heart smote him. Ah, Heaven! if life had been different to him; if he had been but firmer of purpose, stronger of will! He left her with an uneasy mind and a sore heart.

Lady Marion was more than usually thoughtful after he had gone. She could not quite understand.

The time had been when he had never left the house without saying something about where he was going; now his absences were long, and she did not know where his time was spent.

Lady Lanswell noticed the unusual shadow on the girl's sweet face, and in her quick, impetuous way asked her about it.

"Marion, you are anxious or thoughtful--which is it?" she asked.

"Thoughtful," said Lady Chandos. "I am not anxious, not in the least."

"Of what are you thinking, that it brings a shadow on that dear face of yours?" said Lady Lanswell, kindly.

Lady Chandos turned to her, and in a low tone of voice said:

"Has Lance any very old or intimate friends in London?"

"No; none that I know of. He knows a great many people, of course, and some very intimately, but I am not aware of any especial friendship. Why do you ask me?"

"I fancied he had; he is so much more from home than he used to be, and does not say where he goes."

"My dear Marion," said the countess, kindly, "Lance has many occupations and many cares; he cannot possibly tell you every detail of how and where he passes the time. Let me give you a little warning; never give way to any little suspicions of your husband; that is always the beginning of domestic misery; trust him all in all. Lance is loyal and true to you; do not tease him with suspicions and little jealousies."

"I am not jealous," said Lady Chandos, "but it seems to me only natural that I should like to know where my husband passes his time."

The older and wiser woman thought to herself, with a sigh, that it might be quite as well that she should not know.


CHAPTER XLIII.


"DEATH ENDS EVERYTHING."

Madame Vanira became one of the greatest features of the day. Her beauty and her singing made her the wonder of the world. Royalty delighted to honor her. One evening after she had entranced a whole audience, keeping them hanging, as it were, on every silvery note that came from her lovely lips--people were almost wild over her--they had called her until they were tired. Popular enthusiasm had never been so aroused. And then the greatest honor ever paid to any singer was paid to her. Royal lips praised her and the highest personage in the land presented her with a diamond bracelet, worthy of the donor and the recipient. Her triumph was at its height; that night the opera in which she played was the "Crown Diamonds." Her singing had been perfection, her acting magnificent; she bad electrified the audience as no other _artiste_ living could have done; her passion, her power, her genius had carried them with her. When she quitted the stage it was as though they woke from a long trance of delight.

That evening crowned her "Queen of Song." No one who saw her ever forgot her. The next morning the papers raved about her; they prophesied a new era for music and for the stage; it was, perhaps, the most triumphant night of her great career. She had the gift which makes an actress or a singer; she could impress her individuality on people; she made a mark on the hearts and minds of those who saw her that was never effaced; her gestures, her face, her figure, her magnificent attitudes stood out vivid and clear, while they lived distinct from any others.

"Where royalty smiles, other people laugh," says the old proverb. No sooner was it known that the warmest praise kindly and royal lips could give had been given to Madame Vanira than she became at once the darling of the world of fashion.

Invitations poured in upon her, the most princely mansions in London were thrown open to her; the _creme de la creme_ of the _elite_ sought her eagerly; there was nothing like her; her beauty and her genius inthralled every one. The time came when she was the most popular and the most eagerly sought after woman in London, yet she cared little for society; her art was the one thing she lived for, and her friendship with Lord Chandos. One day she said to him:

"I have never seen Lady Marion. What is she like?"

He noticed then and afterward that she never spoke of the queen of blondes as Lady Chandos, or as "your wife," but always as Lady Marion.

This was a beautiful morning in May, and there, sitting under the great cedar-tree on the lawn, all the sweet-smelling wind wafting luscious odors from jasmine and honeysuckle, the brilliant sun shining down on them, he had been reading to her the notes of a speech by which he hoped to do wonders; she had suggested some alterations, and, as he found, improvements; then she sat silently musing. After some time she startled him with the question:

"What is Lady Marion like?"

"Did you not see her," he replied, "on the first evening we were at the opera? She was by my side, and you saw me. Nay, I remember that she told me you were looking at her, and that your eyes magnetized hers."

"I remember the evening," said Leone sadly, "but I do not remember seeing my lady. I--I saw nothing but you. Tell me what she is like. Is she very beautiful?" she asked, and the tone of her voice was very wistful.

"Yes; she is very fine and queenly," he replied; "she is very quiet, gentle, and amiable. Would you like to see her, Leone?"

A sudden flame of passion flashed in those dark eyes, and then died away.

"Yes, I should like just once to see her. She is very clever, is she not?"

"Yes, in a quiet way. She plays beautifully, and she composes pretty airs to pretty words."

Leone looked up, with vivid interest in her face.

"Does she? Ah, that is greater art than being able to sing the music another has written."

"I do not think so," he replied. "If you are thinking of Lady Marion in comparison with yourself, there is no comparison; it is like moonlight and sunlight, water and wine. She has the grace and calm of repose. You have the fire of genius, before which everything grows pale. She quiets a man's heart. You stir every pulse in it. She soothes one into forgetfulness of life. You brace and animate and brighten. You cannot compare the two characters, because they are quite different. You are smiling. What amuses you?"

"Nothing. I was not amused, Lord Chandos. I was thinking, and the thought I smiled over was not amusing."

"What was it?"

"I was thinking of how it would be the same, the end of all; all grace, gifts, and talents; all beauty and genius. I read some lines yesterday that have haunted me ever since. Shall I repeat them to you?"

"It is always a great treat to hear you recite poetry," he replied. "I shall be only too delighted."

Her beautiful face grew more beautiful and more earnest, as it always did under the influence of noble words. Her voice was sweeter than that of a singing-bird, and stirred every pulse in the heart of the listener as she recited this little poem:


"While roses are so red,
While lilies are so white,
Shall a woman exalt her face
Because it gives delight?
She's not so sweet as a rose,
A lily is straighter than she,
And if she were as red or white,
She'd be but one of three.

"Whether she flush in love's summer,
Or in its winter grow pale,
Whether she flaunt her beauty,
Or hide it in a veil;
Be she red or white,
And stand she erect or bowed,
Time will win the race he runs with her,
And hide her away in a shroud."


"Those words took my fancy, Lord Chandos," continued Leone; "they are so true, so terribly true. All grace and beauty will be hidden away some day in a shroud."

"There will be no shroud for the soul," he said.

She rose from her seat and looked round with a weary sigh.

"That is true. After all, nothing matters, death ends everything; nothing matters except being good and going to heaven."

He smiled half sadly at her.

"Those are grave thoughts for the most brilliant beauty, the most gifted singer, the most popular queen of the day," he said.

"The brilliant beauty will be a mere handful of dust and ashes some day," she said.

Then Lord Chandos rose from his seat with a shudder.

"Let us go out into the sunlight," he said; "the shade under the old cedar makes you dull. How you have changed! I can remember when you never had a dull thought."

"I can remember when I had no cause for dull thoughts," she answered. Then, fancying that the words implied some little reproach to him, she continued, hastily: "My soul has grown larger, and the larger one's soul the more one suffers. I have understood