"I WOULD RATHER SEE MY SON DEAD."
The countess stood alone in the drawing-room. The sun was setting over
the trees in the park, and a warm glow filled the beautiful room with
rosy light--a light that fell on costly pictures, on marble statues, on
buhl and jasper, on silver and gold, on mirrors and flowers, whose
fragrance was delicious even to breathe, but it fell on my lady's proud
face and figure as though it liked best to linger there.
The dressing-bell had not rung, and she, waiting for it, had fallen into
a reverie. She was sure she had done right, yet, without doubt, the girl
would feel it keenly. What matter? "Women must weep," it was part of
their lives. Whoever paused or cared for a woman's tears? Women had wept
before and would weep again. She looked round on the superb home where
she reigned mistress, and laughed with scorn as she tried to picture the
farmer's niece queen of these ancient walls.
Right? Most certainly she had done right; let weak minds and weak hearts
think as they would. The golden sunset, the rosy clouds, the soft, sweet
song of the birds, the fragrance of the thousand blooming flowers, the
faint whisper of the odorous wind appealed to her in vain. What was a
bleeding heart and weeping eyes to her?
Yet she was but a woman; and these sweet voices of nature could not
leave her quite unsoftened. She wondered where Lance was. She remembered
him a fair-haired, laughing, defiant boy, playing there under the trees
when the red light fell. She started suddenly when one of her
well-trained footmen opened the door, and said a lady wished to see her.
The countess looked at him in haughty vexation.
"Why do you bring a message so vague? I see no lady who gives neither
card nor name."
"I beg pardon, my lady," said the man, humbly. "I did not forget. The
lady herself said you did not know her, but that her business was most
important."
"You must say that I decline to see any one who gives neither name nor
card," said the countess. Then, seeing the man look both anxious and
undecided, she added, sharply: "Is it a lady?"
He looked greatly relieved.
"It is, my lady. She is young and beautiful," he would have added, if he
had dared.
"You would surely be able to discriminate between a lady and--a person
of any other description?" said the countess.
The man bowed.
"The lady wishes me to add that her business was of great importance,
and that she had traveled some distance to see you."
"Show her in here," said the countess.
The red light of the setting sun had moved then, and fell over her in
great gleams on her dark velvet dress, on her exquisite point lace, and
fine, costly gems. She looked regally proud, haughty, and unbending--the
type of an English aristocratic matron, true to her class, true to her
order, intolerant of any other. As she stood in the heart of the rosy
light the door opened, and this time the countess of Lanswell was
startled out of her calm. There entered the most beautiful girl she had
ever beheld--tall, slender, graceful, exquisitely dressed, moving with
the most perfect grace and harmony; her face like some grand, passionate
poem--a girl lovely as a houri, who walked up to her with serene and
queenly calm, saying:
"Lady Lanswell, I am your son's wife."
The countess, taken so entirely by surprise, looked long and keenly into
that beautiful face--looked at the clear, bright eyes, so full of fire
and passion--at the lovely, imperial mouth, and the whole face so full
of tragedy and beauty; then in a clear, distinct voice, she answered:
"My son has no wife."
Leone drew the glove from her left hand, holding it before my lady's
eyes.
"Will you look at my wedding-ring?" she asked.
A scornful smile played round my lady's lips.
"I see a ring," she said, "but not a wedding-ring. There can be no
wedding-ring where there is no marriage."
"Do you believe that marriages are known in Heaven?" Leone asked. "Do
you believe that if a marriage had been contracted in the presence of
Heaven, witnessed by the angels, do you suppose that a mere legal
quibble can set it aside?"
"You choose your arguments badly," said the countess. "If you appeal to
Heaven, so can I. One of the greatest commandments given from there
says, 'Children, obey your parents.' My son is commanded by a divine
voice to obey me, and I forbid him to marry until he is of age."
"You have not the power!" cried Leone.
"You are mistaken; not only the power is mine, but I have used it. The
foolish ceremony you choose to call your marriage is already set aside."
Leone drew one step nearer to her with flashing eyes.
"You know that in your heart you cannot believe it. You cannot think
it," she cried. "You know that I am your son's wife. You have brought
the great strong arm of the law upon me. You have taken from me my
husband's name. Yet neither you, nor any human power can make me less
his wife. He married me," she continued, her eyes flashing, her face
flushing, "he married me before God, and I say that you cannot undo that
marriage. I defy you."
"True, I could not undo it, but the law both can and has done so.
Half-educated young ladies, who wish to make such grand marriages,
should have common sense first. No youth under age, like my son, can
legally marry without the consent of his parents."
The flush faded from the beautiful face, and gave place to a white
horror. Leone looked at the countess.
"You do not surely think that I married your son for any other reason
except that I loved him?" she cried.
"Pray, believe that I have never troubled myself in the least to think
of your motive," said my lady.
"I loved him, Lady Lanswell, you could never know how much. You are
proud and haughty; you love a hundred things. I loved but him. I love
him with my whole heart and soul. If he had been a peasant, instead of
an earl, being what he is, I should have loved him just the same."
Lady Lanswell's face darkened with scorn.
"I am willing to listen to anything you may wish to say, but I beg of
you leave all such nonsense as love out of the discussion. You have
probably come to see me because you want money. Let us come to the point
at once."
The pride that flushed the beautiful face of the girl startled the
haughty patrician who stood before her.
"Money," cried Leone, "I have never thought of money. I do not
understand. Why should I want money from you?"
To do her justice, the countess shrunk from the words.
"I should suppose," she said, "that you will require some provision made
for you, now that you are leaving my son?"
It was with difficulty that Leone controlled herself. Her whole frame
trembled with indignation. Then the color receded from her face and left
her white, silent, and motionless.
"I have been too hard," thought the countess, "no one can suffer beyond
her strength."
She motioned the girl to take a chair, sitting down herself for the
first time since the interview began. There was no feeling of pity in
her heart, but she felt there were certain things to be said, and the
best way would be to say them and have it all over.
Leone did not obey. She stood silent for a few minutes. Then she said,
simply:
"I would never take money from you, Lady Lanswell, not even if I were
dying of hunger. You do not like me; you are cruel to me."
Lady Lanswell interrupted her with a superb gesture of scorn.
"I could not possibly like or dislike you," she said; "you are less than
nothing to me. It was natural that I should think you came to me for
money. If that be not your object, may I ask what it is?"
"Yes; I will tell you. I thought, as you were a woman, I might appeal to
you."
My lady smiled haughtily.
"You are the first that has ever ventured to address me as a woman. What
appeal do you want to make to me?"
The passion of despair seemed to die away from her. A great calm came
over her. She went up to Lady Lanswell, and knelt at her feet. The
countess would have given much for the power of moving away, but there
was that in the beautiful, colorless face raised to hers which compelled
her to listen.
"I humble myself to you," pleaded the sweet voice. "I pray of you, who
are so great, so powerful, so mighty, to have pity upon your son and
upon me. One word from you will go so far; you can undo all that has
been done. If you will give your consent all will be well."
Lady Lanswell looked at her in silent wonder. Leone went on:
"I plead to you. I pray to you, because I love him so. In my heart I am
as proud as you, may be prouder; but I lay my pride under my feet, I
humble myself. I pray of you to take pity upon your son, and on myself.
I love him so well, he loves me too. Life would hold nothing for either
of us if we are parted. For the sake of all the love you have ever felt
for husband, father, brother, son--for God's sake, I pray you to take
pity on us, and do not separate us."
The passionate torrent of words stopped for one minute; tears streamed
down the beautiful upraised face; then she went on:
"I would do all that you wished me; I would try hard to improve myself;
I would work so hard and work so well that no one would even guess, ever
so faintly, that I belonged to a different class. I would be the most
devoted of daughters to you; I would live only to please you, I----"
The countess held up her hand with a warning gesture.
"Hush!" she said; "you are talking the most arrant nonsense."
But Leone this time would not be controlled. All the passion and love
within her seemed to find vent in the next few words. They might have
burned the lips which uttered them, but they fell unheeded on the ears
of the proudest woman in England.
"Hush," she said again. "Neither pleading nor prayers will avail with
me. I speak the simple truth when I say that I would rather see my son
dead than see you his wife."