There was a world of reproach in the dark eyes she raised to his.

"No, I will not waltz with you," she replied, gently.

"Why not?" he asked, bending his handsome head over her.

"I might make false excuses, but I prefer telling you the truth," she answered; "I will not trust myself."

And when Leone took that tone Lord Chandos knew that further words were useless.

"You will dance a quadrille, at least?" he asked, and she consented.

Then he offered her his arm and they walked through the room together.

The ballroom at Stoneland House was a large and magnificent apartment; many people thought it the finest ballroom in London; the immense dome was brilliantly lighted, the walls were superbly painted, and tier after tier of superb blossoms filled the room with exquisite color and exquisite perfume.

The ballroom opened into a large conservatory, which led to a fernery, and from the fernery one passed to the grounds. Leone felt embarrassed; she longed to praise the beautiful place, yet it seemed to her if she did so it would be like reminding him that it ought to have been hers; while he, on the contrary, did not dare to draw her attention to picture, flower, or statue, lest she should remember that they had been taken from her by a great and grievous wrong.

"We are not very cheerful friends," he said, trying to arouse himself.

"I begin to think we have done wrong in ever thinking of friendship at all," she replied.

Lord Chandos turned to her suddenly.

"Leone," he said, "you have quite made a conquest of my mother—you do not know how she admires you!"

A bitter smile curled the beautiful lips.

"It is too late," she said sadly. "It does not seem very long since she refused even to tolerate me."

Lord Chandos continued:

"She was speaking about you yesterday, and she was quite animated about you; she praised you more than I have ever heard her praise any one."

"I ought to feel flattered," said Leone; "but it strikes me as being something wonderful that Lady Lanswell did not find out any good qualities in me before."

"My mother saw you through a haze of hatred," said Lord Chandos; "now she will learn to appreciate you."

A sudden glow of fire flashed in those superb eyes.

"I wonder," she said, "if I shall ever be able to pay my debt to Lady Lanswell, and in what shape I shall pay it?"

He shuddered as he gazed in the beautiful face.

"Try to forget that, Leone," he said; "I never like to remember that you threatened my mother."

"We will not discuss it," she said, coldly; "we shall never agree."

Then the band began to play the quadrilles. Lord Chandos led Leone to her place. He thought to himself what cruel wrong it was on the part of fate, that the woman whom he had believed to be his wedded wife should be standing there, a visitor in the house which ought to have been her home.



CHAPTER XLVII.

THE COMPACT OF FRIENDSHIP.

The one set of quadrilles had been danced, and Leone said to herself that there was more pain than pleasure in it, when Lady Marion, with an unusual glow of animation on her face, came to Leone, who was sitting alone.

"Madame Vanira," she said, "it seems cruel to deprive others of the pleasure of your society, but I should like to talk to you. I have some pretty things which I have brought from Spain, which I should like to show you. Will it please you to leave the ballroom and come with me, or do you care for dancing?"

Leone smiled sadly; tragedy and comedy are always side by side, and it seemed to her, who had had so terrible a tragedy in her life, who stood face to face with so terrible a tragedy now, it seemed to her absurd that she should think of dancing.

"I would rather talk to you," she replied, "than do anything else." The two beautiful, graceful women left the ballroom together. Leone made some remark on the magnificence of the rooms as they passed, and Lady Chandos smiled.

"I am a very home-loving being myself. I prefer the pretty little morning-room where we take breakfast, and my own boudoir, to any other place in the house; they seem to be really one's own because no one else enters them. Come to my boudoir now, Madame Vanira, and I will show you a whole lot of pretty treasures that I brought from Spain."

"From Spain." She little knew how those words jarred even on Leone's heart. It was in Spain they had intrigued to take her husband from her, and while Lady Marion was collecting art treasures the peace and happiness of her life had been wrecked, her fair name blighted, her love slain. She wondered to herself at the strange turn of fate which had brought her into contact with the one woman in all the world that she felt she ought to have avoided. But there was no resisting Lady Marion when she chose to make herself irresistible. There was something childlike and graceful in the way in which she looked up to Madame Vanira, with an absolute worship of her genius, her voice, and her beauty. She laid her white hand on Leone's.

"You will think me a very gushing young lady, I fear, Madame Vanira, if I say how fervently I hope we shall always be friends; not in the common meaning of the words, but real, true, warm friends until we die. Have you ever made such a compact of friendship with any one?"

Leone's heart smote her, her face flushed.

"Yes," she replied; "I have once."

Lady Chandos looked up at her quickly.

"With a lady, I mean?"

"No," said Leone; "I have no lady friends; indeed, I have few friends of any kind, though I have many acquaintances."

Lady Marion's hand lingered caressingly on the white shoulder of Leone.

"Something draws me to you," she said; "and I cannot tell quite what it is. You are very beautiful, but it is not that; the beauty of a woman would never win me. It cannot be altogether your genius, though it is without peer. It is a strange feeling, one I can hardly explain—as though there was something sympathetic between us. You are not laughing at me, Madame Vanira?"

"No, I am not laughing," said Leone, with wondering eyes. How strange it was that Lance's wife, above all other women, should feel this curious, sympathetic friendship for her!

They entered the beautiful boudoir together, and Lady Marion, with pardonable pride, turned to her companion.

"Lord Chandos arranged this room for me himself. Have you heard the flattering, foolish name for me that the London people have invented? They call me the Queen of Blondes."

"That is a very pretty title," said Leone, "they call me a queen, the Queen of Song."

And the two women who were, each in her way, a "queen," smiled at each other.

"You see," continued Lady Chandos, "that my husband used to think there was nothing in the world but blondes. I have often told him if I bring a brunette here she is quite at a disadvantage; everything is blue, white, or silver."

Leone looked round the sumptuous room; the ceiling was painted by a master hand; all the story of Endymion was told there; the walls were superbly painted; the hangings were of blue velvet and blue silk, relieved by white lace; the carpet, of rich velvet pile, had a white ground with blue corn-flowers, so artistically grouped they looked as though they had fallen on the ground in picturesque confusion. The chairs and pretty couch were covered with velvet; a hundred little trifles that lay scattered over the place told that it was occupied by a lady of taste; books in beautiful bindings, exquisite drawings and photographs, a jeweled fan, a superb bouquet holder, flowers costly, beautiful, and fragrant; a room that was a fitting shrine for a goddess of beauty.

"My own room," said Lady Chandos, with a smile, as she closed the door; "and what a luxury it is, Madame Vanira—a room quite your own! Even when the house is full of visitors no one comes here but Lord Chandos; he always takes that chair near those flowers while he talks to me, and that is, I think, the happiest hour in the day. Sit down there yourself."

Leone took the chair, and Lady Chandos sat down on a footstool by her side. It was one of the most brilliant and picturesque pictures ever beheld; the gorgeous room, with its rich hangings, the beautiful, dark-eyed woman, with the Spanish face, her dress like softened sunbeams, the fire of her rubies like points of flame, her whole self lovely as a picture, and the fair Queen of Blondes, with the golden hair and white roses—a picture that would have made an artist's fortune.

"How pleasant this is," said Lady Chandos, "a few minutes' respite from the music and dancing! Do you love the quiet moments of your life, Madame Vanira?"

Leone looked down on the fair, lovely face with a deep sigh.

"No, I think not," she replied; "I like my stage life best."

Lady Chandos asked, in a half pitying tone:

"Why did you go on the stage? Did you always like it?"

And Leone answered, gravely:

"A great sorrow drove me there."

"A great sorrow? How strange! What sorrow could come to one so beautiful, so gifted as you?"

"A sorrow that crushed all the natural life in me," said Leone; "but we will not speak of it. I live more in my life on the stage than in my home life; that is desolate always."

She spoke unconsciously, and the heart of the fair woman who believed herself so entirely beloved warmed with pity and kindness to the one whose heart was so desolate.

"A great sorrow taught you to find comfort in an artificial life," she said, gently; "it would not do that to me."

And her white hand, on which the wedding-ring shone, caressed the beautiful white arm of Madame Vanira.

"What would it do to you?" asked Leone, slightly startled.

"A really great trouble," replied Lady Chandos, musingly, "what would it do for me? Kill me. I have known so little of it; I cannot indeed remember what could be called trouble."

"You have been singularly fortunate," said Leone, half enviously.

And the fair face of the Queen of Blondes grew troubled.

"Perhaps," she said, "all my troubles are to come. I should not like to believe that."

She was quite silent for some few minutes, then, with a sigh, she said:

"You have made me feel nervous, and I cannot tell why. What trouble could come to me? So far as I see, humanly speakingly, none. No money troubles could reach me; sickness would hardly be a trouble if those I loved were round me. Ah, well, that is common to every one." A look of startled intelligence came over her face. "I know one, and only one source of trouble," she said; "that would be if anything happened to Lord Chandos, to—to my husband; if he did not love me, or I lost him."

She sighed as she uttered the last words, and the heart of the gifted singer was touched by the noblest, kindest pity; she looked into the fair, flower-like face.

"You love your husband then?" she said, with a gentle, caressing voice.

"Love him," replied Lady Chandos, her whole soul flashing in her eyes—"love him? Ah, that seems to me a weak word! My husband is all the world, all life to me. It is strange that I should speak to you, a stranger, in this manner; but, as I told you before, my heart warms to you in some fashion that I do not myself understand. I am not like most people. I have so few to love. No father, no mother, no sisters, or brothers. I have no one in the wide world but my husband; he is more to me than most husbands are to most wives—he is everything."

Leone looked down on that fair, sweet face with loving eyes; the very depths of her soul were touched by those simple words; she prayed God that she might always remember them. There was infinite pathos in her voice and in her face when she said:

"You are very happy, then, with your husband, Lady Marion?"

"Yes, I am very happy," said the young wife, simply. "My husband loves me, I have no rivals, no jealousies, no annoyances; I may say I am perfectly happy."

"I pray God that you may always be so!" said Leone, gently.

And with an impulse she could not resist she bent down and kissed the sweet face.

Then Lady Chandos looked up.

"I am afraid," she said, "that our pleasant five minutes' chat is ended. We must go back to the ballroom. I am afraid all your admirers will be very angry with me, Madame Vanira."

"That is a matter of perfect indifference?" she replied. "I know you better, Lady Marion, for those five minutes spent here than I should have done during a century in ballrooms."

"And you promise that we shall always be friends," said the fair woman who called herself Lady Chandos.

"I promise, and I will keep my word," said the beautiful singer, who had believed herself to be his wife.

And with those words they parted.



CHAPTER XLVIII.

THE HUSBAND'S KISS.

Lady Marion never did anything by halves. It was seldom that her calm, quiet nature was stirred, but when that happened she felt more deeply, perhaps, than people who express their feelings with great ease and rapidity. She was amused herself at her own great liking for Madame Vanira; it was the second great love of her life; the first had been for her husband, this was the next. She talked of her incessantly, until even Lord Chandos wondered and asked how it was.

"I cannot tell," she replied; "I think I am infatuated. I am quite sure, Lance, that if I had been a gentleman, I should have followed Madame Vanira to the other side of the world. I think her, without exception, the most charming woman in the world."

She raised her eyes with innocent tenderness to his face.

"Are you jealous because I love her so much?" she asked.

He shuddered as he heard the playful, innocent words, so different from the reality.

"I should never be jealous of you, Marion," he replied, and then turned the conversation.

Nothing less than a visit to Madame Vanira would please Lady Chandos. She asked her husband if he would go to the Cedars with her, and wondered when he declined. The truth was that he feared some chance recognition, some accidental temptation; he dared not go, and Lady Marion looked very disappointed.

"I thought you liked Madame Vanira," she said. "I am quite sure, Lance, that you looked as if you did."

"My dear Marion, between liking persons and giving up a busy morning to go to see them there is an immense difference. If you really wish me to go, Marion, you know that I will break all my appointments."

"I would not ask you to do that," she replied, gently, and the result of the conversation was that Lady Chandos went alone.

She spent two hours with Leone, and the result was a great increase of liking and affection for her. Leone sang for her, and her grand voice thrilled through every fiber of that gentle heart; Leone read to her, and Lady Chandos said to herself that she never quite understood what words meant before. When it was time to go, Lady Chandos looked at her watch in wonder.

"I have been here two hours," she said, "and they have passed like two minutes. Madame Vanira, I have no engagement to-morrow evening, come and see me. Lord Chandos has a speech to prepare, and he asked me to forego all engagements this evening."

"Perhaps I should be in the way," said Leone; but Lady Marion laughed at the notion. She pleaded so prettily and so gracefully that Leone consented, and it was arranged that she should spend the evening of the day following at Stoneland House.

She went—more than once. She had asked herself if this intimacy were wise? She could not help liking the fair, sweet woman who had taken her place, and yet she felt a great undercurrent of jealous indignation and righteous anger—it might blaze out some day, and she knew that if it ever did so it would be out of her control. It was something like playing with fire, yet how many people play with fire all their lives and never get burned!

She went, looking more beautiful and regal than ever, in a most becoming dress of black velvet, her white arms and white shoulders looking whiter than ever through the fine white lace.

She wore no jewels; a pomegranate blossom lay in the thick coils of her hair; a red rose nestled in her white breast.

She was shown into the boudoir she had admired so much, and there Lady Chandos joined her.

Lord Chandos had been busily engaged during the day in looking up facts and information for his speech. He had joined his wife for dinner, but she saw him so completely engrossed that she did not talk to him, and it had not occurred to her to tell him that Madame Vanira was coming, so that he was quite ignorant of that fact.

The two ladies enjoyed themselves very much—they had a cup of orange Pekoe from cups of priceless china, they talked of music, art, and books.

The pretty little clock chimed ten. Lady Chandos looked at her companion.

"You have not tried my piano yet," she said. "It was a wedding present from Lord Chandos to me; the tone of it is very sweet and clear."

"I will try it," said Madame Vanira. "May I look through the pile of music that lies behind it?"

Lady Chandos laughed at the eagerness with which Leone went on her knees and examined the music.

Just at that moment, when she was completely hidden from view, the door suddenly opened, and Lord Chandos hastily entered. Seeing his wife near, without looking around the room, in his usual caressing manner, he threw one arm round her, drew her to him, and kissed her.

It was that kiss which woke all the love, and passion, and jealousy in Leone's heart; it came home to her in that minute, and for the first time, that the husband she had lost belonged to another—that his kisses and caresses were never more to be hers, but would be given always to this other.

There was one moment—only one moment of silence; but while it lasted a sharp sword pierced her heart; the next, Lady Chandos, with a laughing, blushing face, had turned to her husband, holding up one white hand in warning.

"Lance," she cried, "do you not see Madame Vanira?"

She wondered why the words seemed to transfix him—why his face paled and his eyes flashed fire.

"Madame Vanira!" he cried, "I did not see that she was here."

Then Leone rose slowly from the pile of music.

"I should ask pardon," she said; "I did not know that I had hidden myself so completely."

It was like a scene from a play; a fair wife, with her sweet face, its expression of quiet happiness in her husband's love; the husband, with the startled look of passion repressed; Leone, with her grand Spanish beauty all aglow with emotion. She could not recover her presence of mind so as to laugh away the awkward situation. Lady Chandos was the first to do that.

"How melodramatic we all look!" she said. "What is the matter?"

Then Lord Chandos recovered himself. He knew that the kiss he had given to one fair woman must have stabbed the heart of the other, and he would rather have done anything than that it should have happened. There came to him like a flash of lightning the remembrance of that first home at River View, and the white arms that were clasped round his neck when he entered there; and he knew that the same memory rankled in the heart of the beautiful woman whose face had suddenly grown pale as his own.

The air had grown like living flame to Leone; the pain which stung her was so sharp she could have cried aloud with the anguish of it. It was well nigh intolerable to see his arm round her, to see him draw her fair face and head to him, to see his lips seek hers and rest on them. The air grew like living flames; her heart beat fast and loud; her hands burned. All that she had lost by woman's intrigue and man's injustice this fair, gentle woman had gained. A red mist came before her eyes; a rush, as of many waters, filled her ears. She bit her lips to prevent the loud and bitter cry that seemed as though it must escape her.

Then Lord Chandos hastened to place a chair for her, and tried to drive from her mind all recollection of the little incident.

"You are looking for some music, madame," he said, "from which I may augur the happy fact that you intended to sing. Let me pray that you will not change your intention."

"Lady Chandos asked me to try her piano," she said shyly.

"I told Madame Vanira how sweet and silvery the tone of it is, Lance," said Lady Chandos.

And again Leone shrunk from hearing on another woman's lip the word she had once used. It was awkward, it was intolerable; it struck her all at once with a sense of shame that she had done wrong in ever allowing Lord Chandos to speak to her again. But then he had pleaded so, he had seemed so utterly miserable, so forlorn, so hopeless, she could not help it. She had done wrong in allowing Lady Marion to make friends with her; Lady Marion was her enemy by force of circumstances, and there ought not to have been even one word between them. Yet she pleaded so eagerly, it had seemed quite impossible to resist her.

She was roused from her reverie by the laughing voice of Lady Marion, over whose fair head so dark a cloud hung.

"Madame Vanira," she was saying, "ask my husband to sing with you. He has a beautiful voice, not a deep, rolling bass, as one would imagine from the dark face and tall, stalwart figure, but a rich, clear tenor, sweet and silvery as the chime of bells."

Leone remembered every tone, every note of it; they had spent long hours in singing together, and the memory of those hours shone now in the eyes that met so sadly. A sudden, keen, passionate desire to sing with him once more came over Leone. It might be rash—it was imprudent.

"Mine was always a mad love," she said to herself, with a most bitter smile. "It might be dangerous—but once more."

Just once more she would like to hear her voice float away with his. She bent over the music again—the first and foremost lay Mendelssohn's beautiful duet. "Oh, would that my love." They sang it in the summer gloamings when she had been pleased and proud to hear her wonderful voice float away over the trees and die in sweetest silence. She raised it now and looked at him.

"Will you sing this?" she asked; but her eyes did not meet his, and her face was very pale.

She did not wait for an answer, but placed the music on a stand, and then—ah, then—the two beautiful voices floated away, and the very air seemed to vibrate with the passionate, thrilling sound; the drawing-room, the magnificence of Stoneland House, the graceful presence of the fair wife, faded from them. They were together once more at the garden at River View, the green trees making shade, the deep river in the distance.

But when they had finished, Lady Chandos was standing by, her face wet with tears.

"Your music breaks my heart," she said; but she did not know the reason why.



CHAPTER XLIX.

THE WOUND IN HER HEART.

If Leone had been wiser after that one evening, she would have avoided Lord Chandos as she would have shunned the flames of fire; that one evening showed her that she stood on the edge of a precipice. Looking in her own heart, she knew by its passionate anguish and passionate pain that the love in her had never been conquered. She said to herself, when the evening was over and she drove away, leaving them together, that she would never expose herself to that pain again.

It was so strange, so unnatural for her—she who believed herself his wife, who had spent so many evenings with him—to go away and leave him with this beautiful woman who was really his wife. She looked up at the silent stars as she drove home; surely their pale, golden eyes must shine down in dearest pity on her. She clinched her white, soft hands until the rings made great red dents; she exhausted herself with great tearless sobs; yet no tears came from her burning eyes.

Was ever woman so foully, so cruelly wronged? had ever woman been so cruelly tortured?

"I will not see him again," she cried to herself; "I cannot bear it."

Long after the stars had set, and the crimson flush of dawn stirred the pearly tints of the sky, she lay, sobbing, with passionate tears, feeling that she could not bear it—she must die.

It would have been well if that had frightened her, but when morning dawned she said to herself that hers had always been a mad love, and would be so until the end. She made one desperate resolve, one desperate effort; she wrote to Lord Chandos, and sent the letter to his club—a little, pathetic note, with a heart-break in every line of it—to say that they who had been wedded lovers were foolish to think of being friends; that it was not possible, and that she thought they had better part; the pain was too great for her, she could not bear it.

The letter was blotted with tears, and as he read it for whom it was written, other tears fell on it. Before two hours had passed, he was standing before her, with outstretched hands, the ring of passion in his voice, the fire of passion in his face.

"Leone," he said, "do you mean this—must we part?"

They forgot in that moment all the restraints by which they had surrounded themselves; once more they were Lance and Leone, as in the old days.

"Must we part?" he repeated, and her face paled as she raised it to his.

"I cannot bear the pain, Lance," she said, wearily. "It would be better for us never to meet than for me to suffer as I did last evening."

He drew nearer to her.

"Did you suffer so much, Leone?" he asked, gently.

"Yes, more almost than I can bear. It is not many years since I believed that I was your wife, and now I have to see another woman in my place. I—I saw you kiss her—I had to go away and leave you together. No, I cannot bear it, Lance!"

The beautiful head drooped wearily, the beautiful voice trembled and died away in a wail that was pitiful to hear; all her beauty, her genius, her talent—what did it avail her?

Lord Chandos had suffered much, but his pain had never been so keen as now at this moment, when this beautiful queenly woman wailed out her sorrow to him.

"What shall I do, Leone? I would give my life to undo what I have done; but it is useless—I cannot. Do you mean that we must part?"

The eyes she raised to his face were haggard and weary with pain.

"There is nothing for it but parting, Lance," she said. "I thought we could be friends, but it is not possible; we have loved each other too well."

"We need not part now," he said; "let us think it over; life is very long; it will be hard to live without the sunlight of your presence, Leone, now that I have lived in it so long. Let us think it over. Do you know what I wanted to ask you last evening?"

"No," she replied, "what was it?"

"A good that you may still grant me," he said. "We may part, if you wish it, Leone. Leone, let us have one happy day before the time comes. Leone, you see how fair the summer is, I want you to spend one day with me on the river. The chestnuts are all in flower—the whole world is full of beauty, and song, and fragrance; the great boughs are dipping into the stream, and the water-lilies lie on the river's breast. My dear love and lost love, come with me for one day. We may be parted all the rest of our lives, come with me for one day."

Her face brightened with the thought. Surely for one day they might be happy; long years would have to pass, and they would never meet. Oh, for one day, away on the river, in the world of clear waters, green boughs and violet banks—one day away from the world which had trammeled them and fettered them.

"You tempt me," she said, slowly. "A day with you on the river. Ah, for such a pleasure as that I would give twenty years of my life."

He did not answer her, because he dared not. He waited until his heart was calm and at rest again, then he said:

"Let us go to-morrow, Leone, no one knows what twenty-four hours may bring forth. Let us go to-morrow, Leone. Rise early. How often we have gone out together while the dew lay upon the flowers and grass. Shall it be so?"

The angel of prudence faded from her presence as she answered, "Yes." Knowing how she loved him, hearing the old love story in his voice, reading it in his face, she would have done better had she died there in the splendor of her beauty and the pain of her love than have said, "Yes." So it was arranged.

"It will be a beautiful day," said Lord Chandos. "I am a capital rower, Leone, as you will remember. I will take you as far as Medmersham Abbey: we will land there and spend an hour in the ruins; but you will have to rise early and drive down to the river side. You will not mind that."

"I shall mind nothing that brings me to you," she said, with a vivid blush, and so it was settled.

They forgot the dictates of honor; he forgot his duty to his wife at home, and she forgot prudence and justice.

The morning dawned. She had eagerly watched for it through the long hours of the night; it wakes her with the song of the birds and the shine of the sun; it wakes her with a mingled sense of pain and happiness, of pleasure and regret. She was to spend a whole day with him, but the background to that happiness was that he was leaving a wife at home who had all claims to his time and attention.

"One happy day before I die," she said to herself.

But will it be happy? The sun will shine brightly, yet there will be a background; yet it shall be happy because it will be with him.

It was yet early in the morning when she drove to the appointed place at the river side. The sun shone in the skies, the birds sang in the trees, the beautiful river flashed and glowed in the light, the waters seemed to dance and the green leaves to thrill.

Ah, if she were but back by the mill-stream, if she were but Leone Noel once again, with her life all unspoiled before her; if she were anything on earth except a woman possessed by a mad love. If she could but exchange these burning ashes of a burning love for the light, bright heart of her girlhood, when the world had been full of beauty which spoke to her in an unknown tongue.

God had been so good to her; he had given to her the beauty of a queen, genius that was immortal, wit, everything life holds most fair, and they were all lost to her because of her mad love. Ah, well, never mind, the sun was shining, the river dancing far away in the sun, and she was to spend the day with him. She had dressed herself to perfection in a close-fitting dress of dark-gray velvet, relieved by ribbons of rose pink; she wore a hat with a dark-gray plume, under the shade of which her beautiful face looked doubly bewitching; the little hands, which by their royal gestures swayed multitudes, were cased in dark gray. Lord Chandos looked at her in undisguised admiration.

"The day seems to have been made on purpose for us," he said, as he helped her in the boat.

Leone laughed, but there was just the least tinge of bitterness in that laugh.

"A day made for us would have gray skies, cold rains, and bleak, bitter winds," she said.

And then the pretty pleasure boat floated away on the broad, beautiful stream.

It was a day on which to dream of heaven; there was hardly a ripple on the beautiful Thames; the air was balmy, sweet, filled with the scent of hay from the meadows; of flowers from the banks; it was as though they had floated away into Paradise.

Lord Chandos bent forward to see that the rugs were properly disposed; he opened her sunshade, but she would not use it.

"Let me see the beautiful river, the banks and the yews, while I may," she said, "the sun will not hurt me."

There was no sound save that of the oars cleaving the bright waters. Leone watched the river with loving eyes; since she had left River View—and she had loved it with something like passion—it seemed like part of that married life which had ended so abruptly. They passed by a thicket, where the birds were singing after a mad fashion of their own.

"Stop and listen," she said, holding up her hand.

He stopped and the boat floated gently with the noiseless tide.

"I wonder," said Leone, "if in that green bird kingdom there are tragedies such as take place in ours?"

Lord Chandos laughed.

"You are full of fanciful ideas, Leone," he said. "Yes, I imagine, the birds have their tragedies because they have their loves."

"I suppose there are pretty birds and plain birds, loving birds, and hard-hearted ones; some who live a happy life, filled with sunlight and song—some who die while the leaves are green, shot through the heart. In the kingdom of birds and the kingdom of men it is all just the same."

"Which fate is yours, Leone?" asked Lord Chandos.

"Mine?" she said, looking away over the dancing waters, "mine? I was shot while the sun shone, and the best part of me died of the wound in my heart."



CHAPTER L.

"AS DEAD AS MY HOPES."

The broad, beautiful river widened, and the magnificent scenery of the Thames spread out on either side, a picture without parallel in English landscapes. The silvery water, the lights and shades ever changing, the overhanging woods, the distant hill, the pretty islets, the pleasure-boats, the lawns, the great nests of water-lilies, the green banks studded with flowers, the rushes and reeds that grew even on the water's edge. On they went, through Richmond, Kew, past Hampton Court, past the picturesque old Hampton windmill, on to one of the prettiest spots on the river—the "Bells" at Ousely, and there Lord Chandos fastened the boat to a tree while they went ashore.

Ah, but it was like a faint, far-off dream of heaven—the lovely, laughing river, the rippling foliage, the gorgeous trees, the quaint old hostelry, the hundreds of blooming flowers—the golden sunlight pouring over all. Sorrow, care and death might come to-morrow, when the sky was gray and the water dull; but not to-day. Oh, lovely, happy to-day. Beautiful sun and balmy wind, blooming flowers and singing birds. Lord Chandos made a comfortable seat for Leone on the river bank, and sat down by her side. They did not remember that they had been wedded lovers, or that a tragedy lay between them; they did not talk of love or of sorrow, but they gave themselves up to the happiness of the hour, to the warm, golden sunshine, to the thousand beauties that lay around them. They watched a pretty pleasure-boat drifting slowly along the river. It was well filled with what Lord Chandos surmised to be a picnic party, and somewhat to his dismay the whole party landed near the spot where he, with Leone, was sitting. "I hope," he thought to himself, "that there is no one among them who knows me—I should not like it, for Leone's sake."

The thought had hardly shaped itself in his mind, when some one touched him on the arm. Turning hastily he saw Captain Harry Blake, one of his friends, who cried out in astonishment at seeing him there, and then looked in still greater astonishment at the beautiful face of Madame Vanira.

"Lady Evelyn is on board the Water Witch," he said. "Will you come and speak to her?"

The handsome face of Lord Lanswell's son darkened.

"No," he replied, "pray excuse me. And—Harry, say nothing of my being here. I rowed down this morning. There is no need for every one in London to hear of it before night."

Captain Harry Blake laughed; at the sound of that laugh Lord Chandos felt the greatest impulse to knock him down. His face flushed hotly, and his eyes flashed fire. Leone had not heard one word, and had persistently turned her face from the intruder, quite forgetting that in doing so she was visible to every one on the boat. Lady Evelyn Blake was the first to see her, and she knew just enough of life to make no comment. When her husband returned she said to him carelessly:

"That was Madame Vanira with Lord Chandos, I am sure."

"You had better bring stronger glasses or clearer eyes with you the next time you come," he replied, laughingly, and then Lady Evelyn knew that she was quite right in her suspicions. It was only a jest to her and she thought nothing of it. That same evening when Lady Ilfield, who was one of Lady Marion's dearest friends, spoke of Stoneland House, Lady Evelyn told the incident as a grand jest. Lady Ilfield looked earnestly at her.

"Do you really mean that you saw Lord Chandos with Madame Vanira at Ousely?" she asked. "Alone, without his wife?"

"Yes," laughed Lady Evelyn, "a stolen expedition, evidently. He looked horrified when Captain Blake spoke to him."

"I do not like it," said Lady Ilfield, who was one of the old school, and did not understand the science of modern flirtation. "I have heard already more of Lord Chandos than has pleased me, and I like his wife."

This simple conversation was the beginning of the end—the beginning of one of the saddest tragedies on which the sun ever shone.

"I am sorry that he saw me," said Lord Chandos, as the captain waved his final adieu; "but he did not see your face, Leone, did he?"

"No," she replied, "I think not."

"It does not matter about me," he said, "but I should not like to have any one recognize you."

He forgot the incident soon after. When the boat was again on the bright, dancing river, then they forgot the world and everything else except that they were together.

"Lance," said Leone, "row close to those water-lilies. I should like to gather one."

Obediently enough he went quite close to the white water-lilies, and placed the oars at the bottom of the boat, while he gathered the lilies for her. It was more like a poem than a reality; a golden sun, a blue, shining river, the boat among the water-lilies, the beautiful regal woman, her glorious face bent over the water, her white hands throwing the drops of spray over the green leaves.

It was the prettiest picture ever seen. Lord Chandos filled the boat with flowers; he heaped the pretty white water-lilies at the feet of Leone, until she looked as though she had grown out of them. Then, while the water ran lazily on, and the sun shone in golden splendor, he asked her if she would sing for him.

"One song, Leone," he said, "and that in the faintest voice. It will be clear and distinct as the voice of an angel to me."

There must have been an instinct of pride or defiance in her heart, for she raised her head and looked at him.

"Yes, I will sing for you, Lance," she replied. "Those water-lilies take me home. I will sing a song of which not one word has passed my lips since I saw you. Listen, see if you know the words:

"'In sheltered vale a mill-wheel Still sings its tuneful lay. My darling once did dwell there, But now she's far away. A ring in pledge I gave her, And vows of love we spoke— Those vows are all forgotten, The ring asunder broke.'"

The rich, beautiful voice, low and plaintive, now seemed to float over the water: it died away among the water-lilies; it seemed to hang like a veil over the low boughs; it startled the birds, and hushed even the summer winds to silence. So sweet, so soft, so low, as he listened, it stole into his heart and worked sweet and fatal mischief. He buried his face in his hands and wept aloud.

On went the sweet voice, with its sad story: he held up his hand with a gesture of entreaty.

"Hush, Leone," he said, "for God's sake, hush. I cannot bear it."

On went the sweet voice:

"'But while I hear that mill-wheel My pains will never cease; I would the grave would hide me, For there alone is peace, For there alone is peace.'"

"I will sing that verse again," she said, "it is prophetic."

"'I would the grave would hide me, For there alone is peace.'"

She bent her head as she sung the last few words, and there was silence between them—silence unbroken save for the ripple of the waters as it washed past the boat, and the song of a lark that soared high in the sky.

"Leone," said Lord Chandos, "you have killed me. I thought I had a stronger, braver heart, I thought I had a stronger nature—you have killed me."

He looked quite exhausted, and she saw great lines of pain round his mouth, great shadows in his eyes.

"Have I been cruel to you?" she asked, and there was a ring of tenderness in her voice.

"More cruel than you know," he answered. "Once, Leone, soon after I came home we went to a concert, and among other things I heard 'In Sheltered Vale.' At the first sound of the first notes my heart stood still. I thought, Leone, it would never beat again; I thought my blood was frozen in my veins; I felt the color die from my face. Lady Marion asked me what was the matter, and the countess thought that I was going to swoon. I staggered out of the room like a man who had drunk too much wine, and it was many hours before I recovered myself; and now, Leone, you sing the same words to me; they are like a death knell."

"They hold a prophecy," said Leone, sadly, "the only place where any one can find rest is the grave."

"My beautiful Leone," he cried, "you must not talk about the grave. There should be no death and no grave for one like you."

"There will be none to my love," she said, but rather to herself than to him. Then she roused herself and laughed, but the laugh was forced and bitter. "Why should I speak of my love?" she said. "Mine was a 'Mad Love.'"

The day drifted on to a golden, sunlight afternoon, and the wind died on the waters while the lilies slept. And then they went slowly home.

"Has it been a happy day, Leone?" asked Lord Chandos, as they drew near home.

"It will have no morrow," she answered, sadly. "I shall keep those water-lilies until every leaf is withered and dead; yet they will never be so dead as my hopes—as dead as my life, though art fills it and praises crown it."

"And I," he said, "shall remember this day until I die. I have often wondered, Leone, if people take memory with them to heaven. If they do, I shall think of it there."

"And I," she said, "shall know no heaven, if memory goes with me."

They parted without another word, without a touch of the hands, or one adieu; but there had been no mention of parting, and that was the last thing thought of.



CHAPTER LI.

THE CONFESSION.

"I do not believe it," said Lady Marion; "it is some absurd mistake. If Lord Chandos had been out alone, or on a party of pleasure where you say, he would have told me."

"I assure you, Lady Chandos, that it is true. Captain Blake spoke to him there, and Lady Evelyn saw him. Madame Vanira was with him."

The speakers were Lady Chandos and Lady Ilfield; the place was the drawing-room at Stoneland House; the time was half past three in the afternoon; and Lady Ilfield had called on her friend because the news which she had heard preyed upon her mind and she felt that she must reveal it. Like all mischief-makers Lady Ilfield persuaded herself that she was acting upon conscientious motives; she herself had no nonsensical ideas about singers and actresses; they were quite out of her sphere, quite beneath her notice, and no good, she was in the habit of saying, ever came from associating with them. She had met Madame Vanira several times at Stoneland House, and had always felt annoyed over it, but her idea was that a singer, an actress, let her be beautiful as a goddess and talented above all other women, had no right to stand on terms of any particular friendship with Lord Chandos. Lady Ilfield persuaded herself it was her duty, her absolute Christian duty, to let Lady Chandos know what was going on. She was quite sure of the truth of what she had to tell, and she chose a beautiful, sunshiny afternoon for telling it. She wore a look of the greatest importance—she seated herself quite close to Lady Marion.

"My dear Lady Chandos," she said, "I have called on the most unpleasant business. There is something which I am quite sure I ought to tell you, and I really do not know how. People are saying such things—you ought to know them."

The fair, sweet face lost none of its tranquillity, none of its calm. How could she surmise that her heart was to be stabbed by this woman's words?

"The sayings of people trouble me but little, Lady Ilfield," she replied, with a calm smile.

"What I have to say concerns you," she said, "concerns you very much. I would not tell you but that I consider it my duty to do so. I told Lady Evelyn that she, who had actually witnessed the scene, ought to be the one to describe it, but she absolutely refused; unpleasant as the duty is, it has fallen on me."

"What duty? what scene?" asked Lady Chandos, beginning to feel something like alarm. "If you have anything to say, Lady Ilfield, anything to tell me, pray speak out; I am anxious now to hear it."

Then indeed was Lady Ilfield in her glory. She hastened to tell the story. How Captain and Lady Evelyn Blake had gone with a few friends for a river-party, and at Ousely had seen Lord Chandos with Madame Vanira, the great queen of song.

Lady Marion's sweet face colored with indignation. She denied it emphatically; it was not true. She was surprised that Lady Ilfield should repeat such a calumny.

"But, my dear Lady Chandos, it is true. I should not have repeated it if there had been a single chance of its being a falsehood. Lady Evelyn saw the boat fastened to a tree, your husband and Madame Vanira sat on the river bank, and when the captain spoke to Lord Chandos he seemed quite annoyed at being seen."

Lady Marion's fair face grew paler as she listened; the story seemed so improbable to her.

"My husband—Lord Chandos—does not know Madame Vanira half so well as I do," she said; "it is I who like her, nay, even love her. It is by my invitation that madame has been to my house. Lord Chandos was introduced to her by accident. I sought her acquaintance. If people had said she had been out for a day on the river with me there would have been some sense in it."

Lady Ilfield smiled with the air of a person possessed of superior knowledge.

"My dear Lady Chandos," she said, "it is time your eyes were opened; you are about the only person in London who does not know that Lord Chandos is Madame Vanira's shadow."

"I do not believe it," was the indignant reply. "I would not believe it, Lady Ilfield, if all London swore it."

Lady Ilfield laughed, and the tinge of contempt in that laugh made the gentle heart beat with indignation. She rose from her seat.

"I do not doubt," she said, "that you came to tell me this with a good-natured intention. I will give you credit for that always, Lady Ilfield, when I remember this painful scene, but I have faith in my husband. Nothing can shake it. And if the story you tell be true, I am quite sure Lord Chandos can give a good explanation of it. Permit me to say good-morning, Lady Ilfield, and to decline any further conversation on the matter."

"For all that," said Lady Ilfield to herself, "you will have to suffer, my lady; you refuse to believe it, but the time will come when you will have to believe it and deplore it."

Yet Lady Ilfield was not quite satisfied when she went away.

While to Lady Chandos had come the first burst of an intolerable pain, her first anguish of jealousy, her only emotion at the commencement of the conversation was one of extreme indignation. It was a calumny, she told herself, and she had vehemently espoused her husband's cause; but when she was alone and began to think over what had been said her faith was somewhat shaken.

It was a straightforward story. Captain and Lady Evelyn Blake were quite incapable of inventing such a thing. Then she tried to remember how Tuesday had passed. It came back to her with a keen sense of pain that on Tuesday she had not seen him all day. He had risen early and had gone out, leaving word that he should not return for luncheon. She had been to a morning concert, and had stayed until nearly dinner-time with the countess. When she returned to Stoneland House he was there; they had a dinner-party, and neither husband nor wife had asked each other how the day was spent. She remembered it now. Certainly so far his absence tallied with the story; but her faith in her husband was not to be destroyed by the gossip of people who had nothing to do but talk.

What was it Lady Ilfield had said? That she was the only person in London who did not know that her husband was Madame Vanira's shadow. Could that be true? She remembered all at once his long absences, his abstraction; how she wondered if he had any friends whom he visited long and intimately.

Madame Vanira's beautiful face rose before her with its noble eloquence, its grandeur and truth. No, that was not the woman who would try to rob a woman of her husband's love. Madame Vanira, the queen of song, the grand and noble woman who swayed men's hearts with her glorious voice; Madame Vanira, who had kissed her face and called herself her friend. It was impossible. She could sooner have believed that the sun and the moon had fallen from the skies than that her husband had connived with her friend to deceive her. The best plan would be to ask her husband. He never spoke falsely; he would tell her at once whether it were true or not. She waited until dinner was over and then said to him:

"Lance, can you spare me a few minutes? I want to speak to you."

They were in the library, where Lord Chandos had gone to write a letter. Lady Marion looked very beautiful in her pale-blue dinner dress and a suit of costly pearls. She went up to her husband, and kneeling down by his side, she laid her fair arms round his neck.

"Lance," she said, "before I say what I have to say I want to make an act of faith in you."

He smiled at the expression.

"An act of faith in me, Marion?" he said. "I hope you have all faith."

Then, remembering, he stopped, and his face flushed.

"I have need of faith," she said, "for I have heard a strange story about you. I denied it, I deny it now, but I should be better pleased with your denial also."

"What is the story?" he asked, anxiously, and her quick ear detected the anxiety of his voice.

"Lady Ilfield has been here this afternoon, and tells me that last Tuesday you were with Madame Vanira at Ousely, that you rowed her on the river, and that Captain Blake spoke to you there. Is it true?"

"Lady Ilfield is a mischief-making old——" began Lord Chandos, but his wife's sweet, pale face startled him.

"Lance," she cried, suddenly, "oh, my God, it is not true?"

The ring of pain and passion in her voice frightened him; she looked at him with eyes full of woe.

"It is not true?" she repeated.

"Who said it was true?" he asked, angrily.

Then there was a few minutes of silence between them; and Lady Marion looked at him again.

"Lance," she said, "is it true?"

Their eyes met, hers full of one eager question. His lips parted; her whole life seemed to hang on the word that was coming from his lips.

"Is it true?" she repeated.

He tried to speak falsely, he would have given much for the power to say "No." He knew that one word would content her—that she would believe it implicitly, and that she would never renew the question. Still with that fair, pure face before him—with those clear eyes fixed on him—he could not speak falsely, he could not tell a lie. He could have cried aloud with anguish, yet he answered, proudly:

"It is true, Marion."

"True?" she repeated, vacantly, "true, Lance?"

"Yes, the gossips have reported correctly; it is quite true."

But he was not prepared for the effect of the words on her. Her fair face grew pale, her tender arms released their hold and fell.

"True?" she repeated, in a low, faint voice, "true that you took Madame Vanira out for a day, and that you were seen by these people with her?"

"Yes, it is true," he replied.

And the poor child flung her arms in the air, as she cried out:

"Oh, Lance, it is a sword in my heart, and it has wounded me sorely."



CHAPTER LII.

A GATHERING CLOUD.

It was strange that she should use the same words which Leone had used.

"I cannot bear it, Lance," she said. "Why have you done this?"

He was quite at a loss what to say to her; he was grieved for her, vexed with those who told her, and the mental emotions caused him to turn angrily round to her.

"Why did you take her? What is Madame Vanira to you?" she asked.

"My dear Marion, can you see any harm in my giving madame a day's holiday and rest, whether on water or on land?"

She was silent for a minute before she answered him.

"No," she replied, "the harm lay in concealing it from me; if you had told me about it I would have gone with you."

Poor, simple, innocent Lady Marion! The words touched him deeply; he thought of the boat among the water-lilies, the beautiful, passionate voice floating over the water, the beautiful, passionate face, with its defiance as the words of the sweet, sad song fell from her lips.

"Lance, why did you not tell me? Why did you not ask me to go with you? I cannot understand."

When a man has no proper excuse to make, no sensible reason to give, he takes refuge in anger. Lord Chandos did that now; he was quite at a loss what to say; he knew that he had done wrong; that he could say nothing which could set matters straight; obviously the best thing to do was to grow angry with his wife.

"I cannot see much harm in it," he said. "I should not suppose that I am the first gentleman in England who has taken a lady out for a holiday and felt himself highly honored in so doing."

"But, Lance," repeated his fair wife, sorrowfully, "why did you not take me or tell me?"

"My dear Marion, I did not think that I was compelled to tell you every action of my life, everywhere I went, everything I did, every one I see; I would never submit to such a thing. Of all things in the world, I abhor the idea of a jealous wife."

She rose from her knees, her fair face growing paler, and stood looking at him with a strangely perplexed, wondering gaze.

"I cannot argue with you, Lance," she said, gently; "I cannot dispute what you say. You are your own master; you have a perfect right to go where you will, and with whom you will, but my instinct and my heart tell me that you are wrong. You have no right to take any lady out without telling me. You belong to me, and to no one else."

"My dear Marion, you are talking nonsense," he said, abruptly; "you know nothing of the world. Pray cease."

She looked at him with more of anger on her fair face than he had ever seen before.

"Lord Chandos," she said, "is this all you have to say to me? I am told that you have spent a whole day in the society of the most beautiful actress in the world, perhaps, and when I ask for an explanation you have none to give me."

"No," he replied, "I have none."

"Lance, I do not like it," she said, slowly; "and I do not understand. I thought Madame Vanira was so good and true?"

"So she is," he replied. "You must not say one word against her."

"I have no wish; but if she is so good why should she try to take my husband from me?"

"She has not done so," he replied, angrily. "Marion, I will not be annoyed by a jealous wife."

"I am 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 of rival queens. Leone's face flushed, Lady Marion's grew deadly pale. Leone held out her hand; Lady Marion declined to see it. They looked at each other for a brief space of time, then Leone spoke.

"Lady Marion," she said, in a low, pained voice, "have I displeased you?"

"Yes, you have," was the brief reply.

"You will not touch my hand?" said Leone.

"No, I decline to touch your hand," said Lady Marion; "I decline to speak to you after this."

"Will you tell me why?" asked Leone.

Lady Marion's face flushed crimson.

"Since you ask me, I will tell you. You have been seeking my husband, and I do not approve of it. You spent a day with him on the river—he never told me about it. I am not a jealous wife, but I despise any woman who would seek to take the love of a husband from his wife."

Conscience, which makes cowards of us all, kept Leone silent.

Lady Chandos continued:

"What is there between my husband and you?"

"True friendship," answered Leone, trying to speak bravely.

"I do not believe it," said Lady Chandos; "true friendship does not hide itself, or make mystery of its actions. Madame Vanira, I loved you when I first saw you; I take my love and my liking both from you. Now that I find that you have acted treacherously I believe in you no more."

"Those are strong words, Lady Chandos," said Leone.

"They are true; henceforth we are strangers. My friends are honorable women, who would seek to steal my jewels rather than seek to steal from me my husband's love."

Leone could have retaliated; the temptation was strong; she could have said:

"He was my husband, as I believed, before he was yours; you stole him from me, not I from you."

The temptation was strong, the words leaped in a burning torrent from her heart to her lips; she repressed them for his sake and bore the crushing words without reply.

"I have always heard," she said, "that there was ample reason that singers, even though they be queens of song, should not be admitted into the heart of one's home; now I see the justice of it; they are not satisfied with legitimate triumphs. You, Madame Vanira, have not been contented with my liking and friendship, with the hospitality of my home, but you must seek to take my husband's interest, time, affection."

"Are you not judging me harshly, Lady Chandos?" asked the singer. "You bring all these accusations against me and give me no opportunity of clearing myself of them."

"You cannot," said Lady Chandos; "I have no wish to hear your defense, you can neither deny nor explain the fact that you spent a day with my husband on the river; all the sophistry in the world cannot deny that fact, and that fact condemns you."

"Would you say the same thing to any of your former friends?" asked Leone—"to Lady Caldwell or Lady Blake?"

"Neither of them would do such a thing," cried Lady Chandos. "Ladies of the class to which I belong do not spend whole days on the river with gentlemen unknown to their wives. Madame Vanira—you and I are strangers from this time."

"You are very hard on me," said Leone; "the day may come when you will admit that."

"The day will never come in which I will mistake good for evil, or right for wrong," said Lady Chandos. "Others may applaud you, you may continue your sway over the minds and hearts of men, but I shall protest against you, and all those like you, who would come between husbands and wives to separate them."

It was such a satire of fate, such a satire of her own life, that Leone's beautiful lips curled with a bitter smile. It was she who had been parted from her husband by a quibble of the law, and this fair, angry woman had taken him for herself.

Lady Chandos saw the smile and misunderstood it. She bowed, and would have passed, but Leone tried to stop her.

"Will you not say one kind word to me before you go, Lady Chandos?" she asked.

"I have not one kind word to say," was the brief reply.

She would have passed on, but fate again intervened in the person of Lord Chandos, who was walking with his hostess, the Countess of Easton. They stopped before the two ladies, and Lord Chandos saw at once that something was wrong. Madame Vanira, after exchanging a few words with the countess, went away, and as soon as he could, Lord Chandos rejoined his wife.

"Marion," he said, curtly, "you have had some disagreeable words with Madame Vanira. I know it by the expression of your face."

"You are right," she said; "I have told her that henceforth she and I shall be strangers."

"You have dared!" he cried, forgetting himself at the thought of Leone's face.

She turned her fair face proudly to him.

"I have dared," she replied; "I refuse to speak or see Madame Vanira again—she must not cross the threshold of my door again."

Lord Chandos grew deadly pale as he heard the words.

"And I say that you wrong a good and blameless woman, Marion, when you say such words."

"My lord, am I or am I not at liberty to choose my friends?" she asked, haughtily.

"Certainly you are at liberty to do just as you please in that respect," he replied.

"Then among them I decline to receive Madame Vanira," she said.

"As you refuse to see my friends, I must go to meet them," said Lord Chandos.

And then between husband and wife began one of those scenes which leave a mark on both their lives—cruel, hard, unjust and bitter words—hard and cruel thoughts.

Then Lady Chandos had her carriage called and went home.



CHAPTER LIV.

A MOTHER'S APPEAL.

"She would not bear it—she could not bear it," this was Lady Marion's conclusion in the morning, when the sunbeams peeping in her room told her it was time to rise. She turned her face to the wall and said it would be easier to die—her life was spoiled, nothing could give her back her faith and trust in her husband or her love for him.

Life held nothing for her now. It was noon before she rose, and then she went to her boudoir. Lord Chandos had gone out, leaving no message for her. She sat there thinking, brooding over her sorrow, wondering what she was to do, when the Countess of Lanswell was announced.

Lady Marion looked up. It was as though an inspiration from Heaven had come to her; she would tell Lady Lanswell, and hear what she had to say.

"You have been crying," said the countess, as she bent over her daughter-in-law. "Crying, and how ill you look—what is the matter?"

"There is something very wrong the matter," said Lady Marion. "Something that I cannot bear—something that will kill me if it is not stopped."

"My dearest Marion," said the countess, "what is wrong? I have never seen you so distressed before. Where is Lance?"

"I never know where he is now," she said. "Oh, Lady Lanswell, I am so miserable, so unhappy that I wish I were dead."

This outbreak from Lady Marion, who was always so calm, so high-bred, so reticent in expressing her feelings, alarmed Lady Lanswell. She took the cold, trembling hands in her own.

"Marion," she said, "you must calm yourself; you must tell me what is the matter and let me help you."

Lady Chandos told her all, and the countess listened in wondering amaze.

"Are you quite sure?" she said. "Lady Ilfield exaggerates sometimes when she repeats those gossiping stories."

"It must be true, since my husband acknowledged it himself, and yet refused to give me any explanation of it. Some time since, I found that he passed so much of his time away from home I asked you if he had any friends with whom he was especially intimate, and you thought not. Now I know that it was Madame Vanira he went to see. She lives at Highgate, and he goes there every day."

"I should not think much of it, my dear, if I were you," said the countess. "Madame Vanira is very beautiful and very accomplished—all gentlemen like to be amused."

"I cannot argue," said Lady Chandos; "I can only say that my own instinct and my own heart tell me there is something wrong, that there is some tie between them. I know nothing of it—I cannot tell why I feel this certain conviction, but I do feel it."

"It is not true, I am sure, Marion," said the countess, gravely. "I know Lance better than any one else; I know his strength, his weakness, his virtues, his failings. Love of intrigue is not one, neither is lightness of love."

"Then if he cares nothing for Madame Vanira, and sees me unhappy over her, why will he not give her up?"

"He will if you ask him," said Lady Lanswell.

"He will not. I have asked him. I have told him that the pain of it is wearing my life away; but he will not. I am very unhappy, for I love my husband."

"And he loves you," said the countess.

"I do not think so. I believe—my instinct tells me—that he loves Madame Vanira."

"Marion, it is wicked to say such things," said the countess, severely. "Because your husband, like every other man of the world, pays some attention to the most gifted woman of her day, you suspect him of infidelity, want of love and want of truth. I wonder at you."

Lady Marion raised her fair, tear-stained face.

"I cannot make you understand," she said slowly, "nor do I understand myself. I only know what I feel, what my instinct tells me, and that is that between my husband and Madame Vanira there is something more than I know. I feel that there is a tie between them. He looks at her with different eyes; he speaks to her with a different voice; when he sung with her it was as though their souls floated away together."

"Marion," interrupted the countess, "my dear child, I begin to see what is the matter with you—you are jealous."

"Yes, I am jealous," said the unhappy wife, "and not without cause—you must own that. Ah, Lady Lanswell, you would be sorry for me if you knew all. See, it is wearing me away; my heart beats, my hands tremble, and they burn like fire. Oh, my God, how I suffer!"

The Countess of Lanswell, in her superb dress of black velvet, sat by in silence; for the first time in her life she was baffled; for the first time in her life she was face to face with a human passion. Hitherto, in her cold, proud presence all passion had veiled itself; this unhappy wife laid hers bare, and my lady was at a loss what to say. In her calm, proud life there had been no room for jealousy; she had never known it, she did not even understand the pain.

If her husband had gone out for a day with the most beautiful woman on earth, she would either have completely ignored the fact, or, with a smiling satire, have passed it by. She did not love the earl well enough to be jealous of him; she did not understand love or jealousy in others. She sat now quite helpless before the unhappy wife, whose grief annoyed her.

"This will not do, Marion," she said, "you will make yourself quite ill."

"Ill," repeated Lady Marion, "I have been ill in heart and soul for many days, and now I am sick unto death. I wish I could die; life has nothing left for me."

"Die, my dear, it seems such a trifle, such a trifle; one day spent together on a river. Is that anything for you to die about?"

The sweet blue eyes raised wistfully to hers were full of pain.

"You do not see, you do not understand. Only think how much intimacy there must have been between them before he would ask her to go, or she consent to go. If they are but strangers, or even every-day friends, what could they find to talk about for a whole day?"

The countess shrugged her shoulders.

"I am surprised," she said, "for I thought Madame Vanira so far above all coquetry. If I were you, Marion, I would forget it."

"I cannot forget it," she cried. "Would to God that I could. It is eating my heart away."

"Then," said my lady, "I will speak to Lance at once, and I am quite sure that at one word from me he will give up the acquaintance, for the simple reason that you do not like it."

And with this promise the countess left her daughter-in-law. Once before, not by her bidding, but by her intrigues, she had persuaded him to give up one whom he loved; surely a few words from her now would induce him to give up her whom he could not surely love. It never occurred to her to dream that they were the same.

She saw him as she was driving home, and, stopping the carriage, asked him to drive with her.

"Lance, I have something very serious to say to you. There is no use beating about the bush, Marion is very ill and very unhappy."

"I am sorry for it, mother, but add also she is very jealous and very foolish."

"My dear Lance, your wife loves you—you know it, she loves you with all her heart and soul. If your friendship with Madame Vanira annoys her, why not give it up?"

"I choose to keep my independence as a man; I will not allow any one to dictate to me what friends I shall have, whom I shall give up or retain."

"In some measure you are right, Lance," said the countess, "and so far as gentleman friends are concerned, I should always choose my own; but as this is a lady, of whom Lady Marion has certain suspicions, I should most certainly give her up."

"My wife has no right to be jealous," he said angrily; "it does not add to my love for her."

"Let me speak seriously to you, Lance," said the countess. "Marion is so unhappy that I should not wonder if she were really ill over it; now why not do as she wishes? Madame Vanira can be nothing to you—Marion is everything. Why not give her up?"

A certain look of settled determination that came to her son's face made the countess pause and wonder. She had seen it there for the first and last time when she had asked her son to renounce his young wife, and now she saw it again. Strange that his next words should seem like an answer to her thoughts.

"Mother," he said, "do not ask me; you persuaded me to give up all the happiness of my life, years ago—do not try me a second time. I refuse, absolutely refuse, to gratify my wife's foolish, jealous wish. I say, emphatically, that I will not give up my friendship for Madame Vanira."

Then my lady looked fixedly at him.

"Lance," she said, "what is Madame Vanira to you?"

He could not help the flush that burned his handsome, angry face, and that flush aroused his mother's curiosity. "Have you known her long? Did you know her before your marriage, Lance? I remember now that I was rather struck by her manner. She reminds me forcibly of some one. Poor Marion declares there is some tie between you. What can it be?"

She mused for some minutes, then looked into her son's face.

"Great Heaven, Lance, it can never be!" she cried. "A horrible idea has occurred to me, and yet it is not possible."

He made no answer, but a look of more dogged defiance came into his face.

"It can never be, and yet I think it is so. Can it be possible that Madame Vanira is the—the dairy-maid to whom you gave your young affections?"

"Madame Vanira is the girl I loved, mother, and whom I believed to be my wife—until you parted us."

And my lady fell back in her carriage with a low cry of "Heaven have mercy on us!"



CHAPTER LV.

"WAR TO THE KNIFE."

Lucia, Countess of Lanswell, was in terrible trouble, and it was the first real trouble of her life. Her son's marriage had been rather a difficulty than a trouble—a difficulty that the law had helped her over. Now no law could intervene, and no justice. Nothing could exceed her surprise in finding Madame Vanira, the Queen of Song, the most beautiful, the most gifted woman in England, positively the "dairy-maid," "the tempestuous young person," the artful, designing girl from whom by an appeal to the strong arm of the law she had saved her son. She paused in wonder to think to herself what would have happened if the marriage had not been declared null and void. In that case, she said to herself, with a shrug of the shoulders, in all probability the girl would not have taken to the stage at all. She wondered that she had not sooner recognized her. She remembered the strong, dramatic passion with which Leone had threatened her. "She was born an actress," said my lady to herself, with a sneer. She determined within herself that the secret should be kept, that to no one living would she reveal the fact that the great actress was the girl whom the law had parted from her son.

Lord Chandos, the Duke of Lester, the world in general, must never know this. Lord Chandos must never tell it, neither would she. What was she to do? A terrible incident had happened—terrible to her on whose life no shadow rested. Madame Vanira had accepted an engagement at Berlin, the fashionable journals had already announced the time of her departure, and bemoaned the loss of so much beauty and genius. Lord Chandos had announced his intention of spending a few months in Berlin, and his wife would not agree to it.

"You know very well," she said, "that you have but one motive in going to Berlin, and that is to be near Madame Vanira."

"You have no right to pry into my motives," he replied, angrily; and she retorted that when a husband's motives lowered his wife, she had every reason to inquire into them.

Hot, bitter, angry words passed between them. Lord Chandos declared that if it pleased him to go to Berlin he should go; it mattered little whether his wife went or not; and Lady Chandos, on her side, declared that nothing should ever induce her to go to Berlin. The result was just what one might have anticipated—a violent quarrel. Lady Chandos threatened to appeal to the duke. Her husband laughed at the notion.

"The duke is a great statesman and a clever man," he replied; "but he has no power over me. If he interfered with my arrangements, in all probability we should not meet again."

"I will appeal to him," cried Lady Marion; "he is the only friend I have in the world."

The ring of passionate pain in her voice startled him; a sense of pity came over him. After all, this fair, angry woman was his wife, whom he was bound to protect.

"Marion, be reasonable," he said. "You go the wrong way to work; even supposing I did care for some one else, you do not go the way to make me care for you; but you are mistaken. Cease all these disagreeable recriminations, and I will be the kindest of husbands and the best of friends to you. I have no wish, believe me, Marion, to be anything else."