A WRONGED WOMAN'S THREAT.
For some five minutes there was silence, and the two who were to be
mortal enemies looked at each other. Leone knew then that all prayers,
all pleadings were in vain; that they were worse than useless; but in
the heart of the foe there was no relenting, no pity, nothing but scorn
and hate. She had poured out the whole of her soul in that supplication
for pity, and now she knew that she had humbled herself in vain; the
mother's cruel words smote her with a pain like that of a sharp sword.
She was silent until the first smart of that pain was over, then she
said, gently:
"Why do you say anything so cruel?--why do you hate me?"
"Hate you?" replied my lady, "how can you be so mistaken? It is not you
I hate, but your class--the class to which you belong--although the word
hate is much too strong. I simply hold them in sovereign contempt."
"I cannot help my class," she said, briefly.
"Certainly not; but it is my place to see that my son takes no wife from
it. To you, yourself, I can have no dislike; personally I rather like
you; you have a pleasant face, and I should take you to be clever. But
you have not even one of the qualifications needful--absolutely
necessary for the lady whom my son calls wife."
"Yet he chose me," she said, simply.
"You have a nice face, and my son has fancied it," said the countess
contemptuously. "You ought to be grateful to me for separating you from
my son now. I am doing for him the kindest thing that any one could do.
I know Lord Chandos better than any one else, and I know that he tires
of everything in a short time. He would have wearied of you by
Christmas, and would have loathed the chains he had forged for himself.
When he was a child he tired of a new toy in half an hour--his
disposition has not changed."
"I cannot believe it," cried Leone. "I will not believe it, great lady
as you are. You are wicked to malign your own son."
"I do not malign him," said the countess, indifferently. "Many gentlemen
think it quite complimentary to be called changeable. My son has always
been known as one of the most variable of men; nothing pleases him long;
it is seldom that anything pleases him twice. You think he will always
love you; let me ask you why? You have a pretty face, granted; but there
is nothing under the sun of which a man tires sooner. You have nothing
else; you have no education, no accomplishments, no good birth; I should
say no good breeding, no position, rank, or influence. If I may speak my
mind plainly, I should say that it was a most impertinent presumption
for you, a farmer's niece, even to dream of being Lady Chandos--a
presumption that should be punished, and must be checked. You would,
without doubt, make an excellent dairy-maid, even a tolerable
housekeeper, but a countess never. The bare idea is intolerable."
She grew more angry as she spoke; for the girl's grace and beauty, the
wonderful sweetness of her voice, the passion, the power, the loveliness
of her face, began to tell upon her; she could not help owning to
herself that she had seen nothing so marvelous as this wonderful girl.
"Then," said Leone, calmly, "I have appealed to you in vain?"
"Quite in vain," replied my lady. "Remember that against you personally
I have nothing to say, neither have I any dislike; but if you have
common sense, you will see that it is utterly impossible for my son to
take the future Countess of Lanswell from a farmhouse. Now try and act
rationally--go away at once, leave my son, and I will see that you have
plenty to live upon."
"Whatever may be said of the class from which I spring," cried Leone, "I
believe in the sanctity of marriage, and I would scorn to barter my love
for anything on earth."
"Yes, that is all very pretty and very high-flown," said the countess,
with a contemptuous laugh; "but you will find a few thousand pounds a
very comfortable matter in a few years' time."
"You said you would rather see your son dead than married to me, Lady
Lanswell; I repeat that I would rather die of hunger than touch money of
yours. I did not know or believe that on the face of God's earth there
was ever a creature so utterly hard, cold and cruel as you."
The light of the setting sun had somewhat faded then, and it moved from
the proud figure of the countess to the lovely young face of Leone, but
even as the light warmed it, new pride, new energy, new passion seemed
to fill it. The prayer and the pleading died--the softened light, the
sweet tenderness left it; it was no longer the face of a loving,
tender-hearted girl, pleading with hot tears that she might not be taken
from her husband--it was the face of a tragedy queen, full of fire and
passion. She stood, with one hand upraised, like a sibyl inspired.
"I have done, Lady Lanswell," she said; "you tell me that Lord Chandos
is free to marry as he will when he is twenty-one."
"If you can find any comfort in that statement, I can verify it," she
replied; "but surely you are not mad enough to think that, when my son
is of age, he will return to you."
"I am sure of it," said Leone. "I believe in my husband's love, and my
husband's constancy, as I believe in Heaven."
"I hope your faith in Heaven will be more useful to you," sneered the
countess. "I have womanly pity enough to warn you not to let your hopes
rest on this. I prophesy that Lord Chandos will have utterly forgotten
you by next June, and that he does not see you again."
"I will not believe it, Lady Lanswell. You are my superior by birth and
fortune, but I would neither exchange mind nor heart with you. You have
sordid and mean ideas. My husband will be true, and seek me when the
time comes."
My lady laughed.
"You are very happy to have such faith in him; I have not half so much
in any creature living. You hold that one card in your hand--you seem to
think it a winning one; it may or may not be. I tell you one thing
frankly: that I have already settled in my own mind who shall be my
son's wife, and I seldom fail in a purpose."
"You are a wicked woman," cried Leone. "I have no fear of you. You may
try all that you will. I do not believe that you will take my husband
from me. You are a wicked woman, and God will punish you, Lady Lanswell.
You have parted husband and wife who loved each other."
"I am not very frightened," laughed my lady. "I consider that I have
been a kind of providence to my son. I have saved him from the effect of
his own folly. Will you allow me to say now that, having exhausted a
very disagreeable subject, this interview must be considered closed! If
you would like any refreshments my housekeeper will be pleased to----"
But the girl drew back with an imperial gesture of scorn.
"I want nothing," she said. "I have a few words to say to you in
parting. I repeat that you are a wicked woman, Lady Lanswell, and that
God will punish you for the wicked deed you have done. I say more,
whether Heaven punishes you or not, _I will_. You have trampled me under
your feet; you have insulted, outraged, tortured me. Listen to the
word--you have tortured me; you have received me with scorn and
contumely; you have laughed at my tears; enjoyed my prayers and
humiliation. I swear that I will be revenged, even should I lose all on
earth to win that revenge. I swear that you shall come and plead to me
on your knees, and I will laugh at you. You shall plead to me with
tears, and I will remind you how I have pleaded in vain. You have wrung
my heart, I will wring yours. My revenge shall be greater than your
cruelty; think, then, how great it will be."
"I repeat that I am not frightened," said the countess, but she shrunk
from the fire of those splendid eyes.
"I was mad to think I should find a woman's heart in you. When the hour
of my revenge comes, my great grief will be that I have a heart of
marble to deal with!" cried Leone.
"You cannot have such great affection for your husband, if you speak to
his mother in this fashion," said the countess, mockingly.
The girl stretched out her white arms with a despairing cry.
"Give me back my husband, and I recall my threats."
Then, seeing that mocking smile on that proud face, her arms fell with a
low sigh.
"I am mad," she said, in a low voice, "to plead to you--quite mad!"
"Most decidedly," said the countess. "It appears to me there is more
truth in that one observation than in any other you have made this
evening. As I am not particularly inclined to the society of mad men or
mad women, you will excuse me if I withdraw."
Without another word, my lady touched the bell. To the servant who
entered she said:
"Will you show this person out as far as the park gates, please?"
And, without another look at Leone, she quitted the room.
Leone followed in silence. She did not even look around the sumptuous
home one day she believed to be hers; she went to the great gates which
the man-servant held open as she passed through. The sun had set, and
the gray, sweet gloaming lay over the land. There was a sound of falling
water, and Leone made her way to it. It was a cascade that fell from a
small, but steep rock. The sound of the rippling water was to her like
the voice of an old friend, the sight of it like the face of some one
whom she loved. She sat down by it, and it sung to her the same sweet
old song:
"A ring in pledge he gave her,
And vows of love we spoke;
Those vows are all forgotten,
The ring asunder broke."
It would not be so with her, ah no! If ever the needle was true to the
pole, the flowers to the sun, the tides to the moon, the stars to the
heavens, Lord Chandos would be true to her.
So she believed, and, despite her sorrow, her heart found rest in the
belief.