LEONE'S DETERMINATION.
Lucia, Countess of Lanswell, stood alone in the superb drawing-room at
Cawdor. It was evening, one of the warmest and brightest in September.
Nearly three months had passed since the fatal marriage which had
grieved and distressed her, and now she fondly hoped all her distress
was ended. The decree had gone forth that the marriage was null and
void; was, in fact, no marriage, Lord Chandos being under age when it
was contracted. She said to herself all was null now. True, her son was
in a most furious rage, and he had gone to consult half the lawyers in
London, but she did not care for that; he was sure to rage and rave; he
was a spoiled child, who never in his life had been contradicted or
thwarted. The more angry he was the better; she knew by experience the
hotter the fire the more quickly it burns away. Had he been cool, calm,
collected and silent she would have dreaded the after consequences.
"He will exhaust himself with furious words," she said to herself with a
slow smile. "When he has done that, all danger will be over."
She had smiled when she heard of his rapid journeys, his fierce
denunciations, his violent invectives, his repeated oaths that no power
on earth should take him from his young wife.
She had smiled when the earl, whose conscience was more tender than her
own, had said over and over again that it was a terrible thing to set
aside a marriage, to call a religious ceremony null and void. He would
not have done it himself, but my lady had firm nerves, and a will of
iron; nothing daunted her. She laughed at his persuasions and arguments.
She told him the day would come on which he would thank Heaven that the
honor of his name and race had been saved from destruction. My lady was
triumphant. Knowing her son was spending his whole time in these
journeys, she had requested Mr. Sewell himself to go to the pretty
little villa at Richmond, to see the young wife himself, and tell her
the truth about the marriage; to speak what she was pleased to call
plain English to her; to tell her that in the eyes of the law and of all
honest, honorable men she was not his wife; that every hour she called
herself by his name, or lived under his roof, added to her disgrace and
increased her shame.
"You can tell her," said my lady, with ill-concealed contempt, "that
next June he will be twenty-one, and then he can please himself; he can
remarry her if he will; no one then will have the least control over
him; he will be his own master and can do as he likes. In all
probability," she continued, "the girl will please herself with fanciful
ideas about his being true to her; do not contradict her if she believes
it--she will part from him more easily; but, believe me, my son will
never return to her--never!"
Mr. Sewell had tried in vain to escape the interview; he was neither
particularly tender of heart nor given to sentiment, but he shrunk from
seeing the young girl who called herself Lady Chandos; he shrunk from
telling her the truth; but my lady was inexorable; he must do it, and no
one else.
He did it, but until the day of his death he never forgot it; he could
not bear to think of it, and he never mentioned it. Until the day of his
death he was haunted by a beautiful, passionate face, white with
terrible despair.
He was compelled to speak in what my lady called plain English, or she
would never have understood him. She could not understand in the least
why the fact of Lord Chandos being under twenty-one should make her
marriage null and void; illegal, because contracted without his parents'
consent. She had turned to him with flashing eyes.
"Are the laws of England all framed for the convenience of the rich?"
she asked.
And, proud as he was of his legal knowledge, the lawyer had hesitated
before the fire of her question.
She understood at last--she saw what Mr. Sewell called the justice of
the case--the reasons why such a law was needful, and she knew that she
was not the lawful wife of Lancelot, Lord Chandos. She looked into the
stern face of her companion with eyes filled with awful despair.
"He did not know it," she said; "only tell me that, and I shall be
happier. He did not know it?"
"No," said Mr. Sewell; "I am quite sure that Lord Chandos was ignorant
of the fact--it never occurred to him; if it had done so, he would have
deferred his marriage until he came of age."
"I shall take some comfort in that," she said, slowly. "If he has erred,
it has been done in ignorance and innocence. You say that the wrong can
be righted next June; that he can marry me then without the consent of
either of his parents."
"Certainly he can," replied the lawyer.
Something of the shock of despair passed from her face as he uttered
these words. She folded her arms over her breast with the repressed
passion of a tragedy queen.
"Then I have no fear," she said. "Were the time twice as long, the
cruelty twice as great, the law twice as strong, he would return to me
true and faithful, as he loves me. You can tell his mother that."
"I will," said Mr. Sewell, relieved to see some of the horror fall from
her face.
She would not discuss her future arrangements with him. Lady Lanswell
was anxious that she should take a large sum of money and return home.
She looked at him with the dignity of an outraged queen.
"Before Heaven, and in my own eyes, Lord Chandos is my husband," she
said, with calm dignity; "and with him only will I discuss my future.
You can tell his mother that also. No other creature living shall
interfere with my fate or destiny."
She tried hard--and she was a woman of wonderful resource--she tried
hard to keep her dignity, not to fail or falter before him, the cold
emissary of that cruel mother; but unutterable woe looked out of her
eyes at him, her white face had on it the passion of despair, her voice
the ring of anguish, the small white hands on which the wedding-ring
shone, trembled like leaves stirred in the summer wind; the very
repression of her passionate despair made it seem more terrible. He
clearly explained to her her position at last, she must consent to an
immediate separation from Lord Chandos; she must give up his name, leave
the shelter of his roof, or men and women, too, would brand her with the
scarlet letter--would look on her as one lost and dead to all sense of
honor.
"You will see for yourself," added the lawyer, "that the wisest and best
plan is for you to go away at once--this very day even--then you will
stand a better chance when next June comes. Even one more day spent
under this roof would be fatal to your character and reputation. You
must go at once."
Once more she raised her despairing eyes to him. Her voice trembled as
though it were all tears.
"Tell me," she said, gently, "has this been done by Lady Lanswell's
desire more than by the earl's?"
"Yes, I believe it is so," he said.
Leone continued:
"If the countess relented now, and gave her consent, could we be legally
married at once?"
"If the earl and countess consent you could be remarried to-day. Nothing
is wanted but their permission."
"Thank you," she said, gently. Then with pathos and dignity that touched
him greatly she held out her hand to him. "I do not blame you for the
message you have brought," she said; "the fault lies with Lady Lanswell
and the English law, not with you. You have fulfilled your mission as
kindly as you could. I forgive you what you have done and what you have
said."
The white lips closed firmly, no other sound came from them, but Mr.
Sewell looked back as he closed the door, and she lay then with her face
on the floor. He did not go to her; he thought it was better to leave
her alone. He said to himself, as he quitted the house, that not for all
the wealth of the Lanswells would he pass through another such scene.
The hour came in which she raised her face once again to the sunlight,
and tried to realize what had happened. She had risen that morning the
happiest girl in all England, her only anxiety being to make herself
more beautiful than ever in her husband's eyes. The morning itself was
not more fresh and fair; everything had been _couleur de rose_.
Her husband, as she believed him, thought so little of the quarrel with
his parents that she had imbibed his careless, happy ideas about it.
There was no cloud in her sky, no doubt in her heart; now her heart was
full of despair. She looked at the blue September sky, and asked herself
if it were possible to realize what had happened. She was dazed,
stunned, as though some one had struck her a violent blow. She went out
of the pretty drawing-room where she had heard what seemed to her her
death-warrant. She opened her white lips to breathe the pure, fresh air
of heaven.
As she stood there panting for breath, one of the servants came to her,
holding a letter in her hand. Leone opened it. The few hastily-written
lines were from her husband. They said, simply:
"MY DARLING,--I shall not be able to return home to-day. I have
some disagreeable business in town, of which I will tell you more
anon. I shall be at home for luncheon to-morrow. Believe me, always
your loving husband,
"LANCE."
She looked at the word "husband" until the letters seemed to burn like
fire. He had signed himself her husband. Ah, then, it was quite plain
that he neither believed, or, perhaps, had not even heard, of what had
been done. As she stood there with the fading boughs of a spreading tree
over her head, the words came to her again and again:
"Those vows were all forgotten,
The ring asunder broke."
She seemed once more to hear the falling of the waters. Would the vows
made to her ever be broken? Ah, no! a thousand times no!
She would go to his mother and appeal to her. A woman must, of course,
be merciful to a woman. She would go herself and appeal to Lucia,
Countess of Lanswell.