THE LIONESS AND THE LAMB.
Ah, he who turns the courses
Of the streamlet in the glen,
And the river of great waters,
Can turn the hearts of men.—_Whittier._
Again, in that small chamber, in the persons of those two women, the
powers of good and evil, of love and hate, met!
In Adelaide, all bright wisdom, all warm affection, all good purpose
shone.
In Lionne, alas! dark, monomaniac, fierce passion, vindictive resolution
burned.
On the brow of the first beamed the mild radiance of a pitying seraph.
On the front of the second lowered the “glory obscured” of a fallen
angel.
With her blue eyes fixed appealingly upon the face of her fierce
antagonist, Adelaide waited a few moments, and then said, gently:
“Pray, tell me, freely and kindly, what you would have of me.”
“Lady” began Lionne, in a tone in which irony struggled with a certain
irresistible honor she was beginning to feel for the gentle woman into
whose presence she had intruded—“Lady, you will credit me when I tell
you that I came not into your presence _unannounced_, however unwelcome!
The servant who opened the door for me breathed my name, though both you
and your companion were too much occupied to hear it.”
“And—_you_ overheard our conversation?”
“Certainly not; only _your_ last words. I entered by one door as _he_
went out by the other.”
“And now you will tell me what I can do for you?”
“Or rather why I came.—Yes. I came hither in fulfilment of a tryst,
promise, or threat, whichever you may please to call it, made to—Orville
Deville. There! his name is uttered! it will not choke me again!”
Adelaide shrank from the terrible convulsion that distorted the
countenance of Lionne in uttering these words. The unhappy woman
continued:
“He who laid waste my life, leaving it a blasted desert, _he_ brought to
the theatre three nights ago, a young girl, at the sight of whom my
heart, so long cold, stony, dead in my bosom, warmed to life again—I
seemed to live again the sweet, humane life, so long lost!—to breathe
the pure air, to bask in the bright sunshine, to inhale the fragrance of
the old forest, to feel my relations with nature, to taste all the
sweetness of my long-lost innocent life!”
The stern voice of the speaker faltered, the dark splendor of her eyes
were quenched in tears.
“Most strange!” murmured Adelaide, as sympathetic moisture dimmed her
mild, blue eyes.
“Ay, strange! inexplicable! Unparalleled, I think. I knew not how it
should be so. I only know ‘there are more things in heaven and earth
than are dreamed of in our philosophy.’”
She might well say that; for already the pure sphere of Adelaide, with
her attendant angels, was influencing her. She continued:
“With the withdrawal of this young girl, life, and light, and warmth
went out from me. Again I felt myself the disconnected, troubled spirit
that I had been for years; without human love, or joy, or sympathy. From
warmth and light, and life, cast out into the ‘outer darkness!’”
“You speak thus! You, the beautiful, the resplendent star of the east
and the west. You, the idol of all genius-worshippers! _You_ speak of
coldness, darkness, and deadness, invested, as you are, with the
dazzling blaze of this world’s most radiant glory!”
“_It does not enter here_,” answered Lionne, mournfully, pressing her
hand upon her heart. Then pointing through the window to the full moon
just risen in the east, she said:
“Look! that satellite is my type! the direct rays of the sun surrounds
her with a glory that reflected, lights up all our night! Yet that glory
irradiates without penetrating, without blessing her! Under the mild
splendor of that light all is scathed, blasted, blackened!—a horrible
hades! Such, under the glory of fame, am I!”
The deep despair of her words, her tones, and her looks, touched the
sensitive heart of Adelaide, who arose, went to her, dared to lay her
hand upon the glittering dark ringlets, the lioness’s mane, and whisper:
“Oh, Lionne, my cousin, for you _are_ such, you fill me with the most
painful sympathy. Would I could help you to banish from your soul the
sorrowful memory of wrong and the sinful hope of revenge, for with those
grievous passions would go all the suffering of your life. Peace would
come; you would take your proper high position in the world; your
splendid genius, now worse than wasted, would bless mankind instead of
blighting yourself. Oh, Lionne! oh, my cousin, save yourself!”
“I cannot! I cannot!” exclaimed the wretched woman, wildly throwing off
the caressing hand of her better angel—“I cannot! I cannot! this bitter
memory of wrong; this burning hope of revenge; it is a disease, a
frenzy! I suffer from an inward anguish, a living death, from which
there is no relief but in the thought and the pursuit of vengeance!”
Lady Adelaide placed her hands soothingly upon her shoulder, and would
have addressed some words of comfort and counsel.
“Be still! I will not hear you! You would wile me from my purpose!”
“I would save you from yourself,” pleaded the gentle lady.
“You would save your husband! You cannot! The consummation of my life’s
purpose is at hand! Tell that man from me that I came here seeking
_him_, to warn him that, as he has disobeyed my injunction, I have
accomplished my threat!”
Lady Adelaide turned ghastly pale, dropped her hold upon Lionne, and
sank half fainting into the chair. Too well she knew what that threat
had been.
“Tell him,” continued Lionne, vehemently, “that had he shown mercy to
the last human love that bloomed in my blasted bosom, had he given me
that strayed child, to whom I felt so strangely attracted, it might have
been otherwise! Now all is over! all is lost! lost! lost!” and throwing
her arms wildly into the air, the wretched woman, almost a maniac,
rushed from the room, before the astounded Lady Adelaide could interfere
to change her purpose.