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

not jealous, Lance," she replied; "but when I am told such a story, and it proves to be true, what am I to do?"

"Say nothing, Marion, which is always the wisest thing a woman can do," he replied.

His wife gazed at him with proud indignation.

"I do not like the tone in which you speak of this; tell me frankly, is it with Madame Vanira you spend all the time which you pass away from home?"

"I shall say nothing of Madame Vanira," he replied.

She drew nearer to him; she laid one white hand on his shoulder and looked wistfully into his face.

"Lance," she said, "are we to quarrel--over a woman, too? I will not believe it. You have always been honest with me; tell me what Madame Vanira is to you?"

"She is nothing to me," he replied.

Then the remembrance of what she had been to him came over him and froze the words on his lips. His wife was quick to notice it.

"You cannot say it with truth. Oh, Lance, how you pain me."

There was such absolute, physical pain in her face that he was grieved for her.

"Say no more about it, Marion," he cried. "I did ask madame to let me row her on the river; I know she loves the river; I ought to have asked you to go with us, or to have told you about it," he said; "I know that; but people often do imprudent things. Kiss me and say no more about it."

But for the first time that sweet girl looked coldly on him. Instead of bending down to kiss him, she looked straight into his face.

"Lance," she said, "do you like Madame Vanira?"

His answer was prompt.

"Most decidedly I do," he answered; "every one must like her."

"Lady Ilfield says that you are her shadow. Is that true?"

"Lady Ilfield is a gossip, and the wife who listens to scandal about her husband lowers herself."

She did not shrink now from his words.

"I have not gossiped about you, Lance," she said; "but I wish you yourself to tell me why people talk about you and Madame Vanira."

"How can I tell? Why do people talk? Because they have nothing better to do."

But that did not satisfy her; her heart ached; this was not the manner in which she had expected him to meet the charge--so differently--either to deny it indignantly, or to give her some sensible explanation. As it was, he seemed to avoid the subject, even while he owned that it was true.

"I am not satisfied, Lance," she said; "you have made me very unhappy; if there is anything to tell me tell it now."

"What should I have to tell you?" he asked, impatiently.

"I do not know; but if there is any particular friendship or acquaintance between Madame Vanira and yourself, tell me now."

It would have been better if he had told her, if he had made an open confession of his fault, and have listened to her gentle counsel, but he did not; on the contrary, he looked angrily at her.

"If you wish to please me, you will not continue this conversation, Marion; in fact, I decline to say another word on the subject. I have said all that was needful, let it end now."

"You say this, knowing that I am dissatisfied, Lance," said Lady Marion.

"I say it, hoping that you intend to obey me," he replied.

Without another word, and in perfect silence, Lady Chandos quitted the room, her heart beating with indignation.

"He will not explain to me," she said; "I will find out for myself."

She resolved from that moment to watch him, and to find out for herself that which he refused to tell her. She could not bring herself to believe that there was really anything between her husband and Madame Vanira; he had always been so good, so devoted to herself.

But the result of her watching was bad; it showed that her husband had other interests; much of his time was spent from home; a cloud came between them; when she saw him leaving home she was too proud to ask him where he was going, and if even by chance she did ask, his reply was never a conciliatory one.

It was quite by accident she learned he went often to Highgate. In the stables were a fine pair of grays; she liked using them better than any other horses they had, and one morning the carriage came to the door with a pair of chestnuts she particularly disliked.

"Where are the grays?" she asked of the coachman.

"One of them fell yesterday, my lady," said the man, touching his hat.

"Fell--where?" asked Lady Chandos.

"Coming down Highgate Hill, my lady. It is a terrible hill--so steep and awkward," replied the man.

Then she would have thought nothing of it but for a sudden look of warning she saw flash from the groom to the coachman, from which she shrewdly guessed that they had been told to be silent about the visits to Highgate. Then she remembered that Madame Vanira lived there. She remembered how she had spoken of the hills, of the fresh air, and the distance from town; she watched again and found out that her husband went to Highgate nearly every day of his life, and then Lady Chandos drew her own conclusions and very miserable ones they were.

The cloud between them deepened--deepened daily; all her loving amiability, her gentle, caressing manner vanished; she became silent, watchful, suspicious; no passion deteriorates the human mind or the human heart more quickly than jealousy. If, during those watchful days, Lord Chandos had once told his wife the plain truth, she would have forgiven him, have taken him from the scene of his danger, and all might have gone well; as it was, all went wrong.

One day a sense of regret for her lost happiness came over her, and she determined to speak to him about it. She would destroy this shadow that lay between them; she would dispel the cloud. Surely he would do anything for her sake--she would have given up the world for him. He was alone in his study, in the gloaming of a bright day, when she went in to him and stood once more by his side.

"Lance," she said, bending her fair, sweet face over his, "Lance, I want to speak to you again. I am not happy, dear--there is a cloud between us, and it is killing me. You love me, Lance, do you not?"

"You know that I do," he said, but there was no heartiness in his voice.

"I want to tell you, dear, that I have been jealous. I am very unhappy, but I will conquer myself. I will be to you the most loving wife in all the world if you will give up Madame Vanira."

He pushed the outstretched hand away.

"You do not know what you are asking," he said, hoarsely, and his manner so alarmed her that she said no more.


CHAPTER LIII.


A QUARREL.

From that hour all pretense of peace was at an end between them. Lady Chandos was justly indignant and wounded. If her husband had trusted her all might, even then, have been well, but he did not; he said to himself that she would forget the story of her annoyance in time, and all would be well; he did not give his wife credit for the depth of feeling that she really possessed. Fiercest, most cruel jealousy had taken hold of the gentle lady, it racked and tortured her; the color faded from her face, the light from her eyes; she grew thin and pale; at night she could not sleep, by day she could not rest; all her sweetness, grace and amiability, seemed to have given way to a grave sadness; the sound of her laughter, her bright words, died away; nothing interested her. She who had never known a trouble or a care, now wore the expression of one who was heart-broken; she shrunk from all gayety, all pleasures, all parties; she was like the ghost of her former self; yet after those words of her husband's she never spoke again of Madame Vanira. The sword was sheathed in her heart and she kept it there.

There is no pain so cruel as jealousy; none that so quickly deteriorates a character; it brings so many evils in its train--suspicion, envy, hatred of life, distrust in every one and in everything; it is the most fatal passion that ever takes hold of a human heart, and turns the kindest nature to gall. There was no moment during the day in which Lady Chandos did not picture her husband with her rival; she drove herself almost mad with the pictures she made in her own mind. All the cruel pain, the sullen brooding, the hot anguish, the desolation, the jealousy seemed to surge over her heart and soul like the waves of a deadly sea. If she saw her husband silent and abstracted, she said he was thinking of Madame Vanira; if she saw him laugh and light of heart she said he was pleased because he was going to see Madame Vanira. She had sensible and reasonable grounds for jealousy, but she was unreasonably jealous.


"Trifles light as air
Are to the jealous confirmation strong
As proofs of holy writ."


It was so with Lady Marion, and her life at last grew too bitter to be borne. There was excuse for Lord Chandos, the mistake was in renewing the acquaintance; a mistake that can never be remedied.

People were beginning to talk; when Lord Chandos was mentioned, they gave significant smiles. Against Madame Vanira there had never been even the faintest rumor of scandal; but a certain idea was current in society--that Lord Chandos admired the queen of song. No one insinuated the least wrong, but significant smiles followed the mention of either name.

"Madame Vanira was at Lady Martyn's last night," one would say.

And the laughing answer was always:

"Then Lord Chandos was not very far away."

"La Vanira sung to perfection in 'Fidelio,'" would remark one.

Another would answer:

"Lord Chandos would know how to applaud."

Madame Vanira was more eagerly sought after than other women in London. She reigned queen, not only over the stage, but over the world of fashion also.

The Countess of Easton gave a grand ball--it was the most exclusive of the season. After much praying Madame Vanira had promised to go, and Lady Chandos was the belle of the ball. They had not met since the evening madame had sung for her, and Lord Chandos had many an anxious thought as to what their next meeting would be like. He knew that Leone would bear much for his sake, yet he did not know what his wife would be tempted to say.

They met on the night of Lady Easton's ball; neither knew that the other was coming. If Lady Chandos had dreamed of meeting Leone there she would not have gone. As it was, they met face to face in the beautiful ante-room that led to the ballroom.

Face to face. Leone wore a superb dress of pale amber brocade, and Lady Chandos a beautiful costume of pale-blue velvet, the long train of which was fastened with white, shining pearls.

It was like the meeting