AN ACT OF PERFIDY.
So--inch by inch, little by little, step by step--Lord Chandos was
influenced to give up his faith, his promise, his loyalty. I, who write
the story, offer no excuse for him--there is none for the falseness and
perfidy of men--yet it is of so common occurrence the world only jests
about it--the world makes poetry of it and sings, cheerfully:
"One foot on land and one on shore,
Men were deceivers ever."
A promise more or less, a vow more or less, a broken heart, a ruined
life, a lost soul, a crime that calls to Heaven for vengeance--what is
it? The world laughs at "Love's perfidies;" the world says that it
serves one right. The girl is slain in her youth by a worse fate than
early death, and the man goes on his way blithely enough.
Lord Chandos could not quite trample his conscience under foot; under
the influence of his mother he began to see that his love for Leone had
been very unfortunate and very fatal; he had begun to think that if one
of two women must be miserable it had better be Leone. That which was
present influenced him most. He loved his mother, he was flattered by
Lady Marion's love for him. So many influences were brought to bear upon
him, the earl and countess were so devoted to him, Lady Marion charmed
him so much with her grace and kindness of manner, her sweetness of
disposition, her wonderful repose, that his faith grew weak and his
loyalty failed.
There came an evening when they two--Lord Chandos and Lady Marion--stood
alone in one of the most beautiful courts of the Alhambra. The whole
party had been visiting that marvelous palace, and, more by accident
than design, they found themselves alone. The sun was setting--a hundred
colors flamed in the western sky; the sun seemed loath to leave the
lovely, laughing earth; all the flowers were sending her a farewell
message; the air was laden with richest odors; the ripple of green
leaves made music, and they stood in the midst of the glories of the
past and the smile of the present.
"I can people the place," said Lady Marion, in her quiet way. "I can see
the cavaliers in their gay dresses and plumes, the dark-eyed senoras
with veil and fan. How many hearts have loved and broken within these
walls, Lord Chandos!"
"Hearts love and break everywhere," he said, gloomily.
She went on:
"I wonder if many dreams of this grand Alhambra came to Queen Catharine
of Arragon, when she lay down to rest--that is, if much rest came to
her?"
"Why should not rest come to her?" asked Lord Chandos, and the fair
face, raised to answer him, grew pale.
"Why? What a question to ask me. Was she not jealous and with good
cause? How can a jealous woman know rest? I am quite sure that she must
have thought often with longing and regret, of her home in sunny
Granada."
"I have never been jealous in my life," said Lord Chandos.
"Then you have never loved," said Lady Marion. "I do not believe that
love ever exists without some tinge of jealousy. I must say that if I
loved any one very much, I should be jealous if I saw that person pay
much attention to any one else."
He looked at her carelessly, he spoke carelessly; if he had known what
was to follow, he would not have spoken so.
"But do you love any one very much?" he said.
The next moment he deeply repented the thoughtless words. Her whole face
seemed on fire with a burning blush. She turned proudly away from him.
"You have no right to ask me such a question," she said. "You are cruel
to me, Lord Chandos."
The red blush died away, and the sweet eyes filled with tears.
That was the _coup de grace_; perhaps if that little incident had never
happened, this story had never been written; but the tears in those
sweet eyes, and the quiver of pain in that beautiful face, was more than
he could bear. The next moment he was by her side, and had taken her
white hands in his.
"Cruel! how could I be cruel to you. Lady Marion? Nothing could be
further from my thoughts. How am I cruel?"
"Never mind," she said, gently.
"But I do mind very much indeed. What did I say that could make you
think me cruel? Will you not tell me?"
"No," she replied, with drooping eyes, "I will not tell you."
"But I must know. Was it because I asked you, 'if you ever loved any one
very much?' Was that cruel?"
"I cannot deny, but I will not affirm it," she said. "We are very
foolish to talk about such things as love and jealousy; they are much
better left alone."
There was the witchery of the hour and the scene to excuse him; there
was the fair loveliness of her face, the love in her eyes that lured
him, the trembling lips that seemed made to be kissed; there was the
glamour that a young and beautiful woman always throws over a man; there
was the music that came from the throats of a thousand birds, the
fragrance that came from a thousand flowers to excuse him. He lost his
head, as many a wiser man has done; his brain reeled, his heart beat;
the warm white hand lay so trustingly in his own, and he read on her
fair, pure face the story of her love. He never knew what madness
possessed him; he who had called himself the husband of another; but he
drew her face to his and kissed her lips, while he whispered to her how
fair and how sweet she was. The next moment he remembered himself, and
wished the deed undone. It was too late--to one like Lady Marion a kiss
meant a betrothal, and he knew it. He saw tears fall from her eyes; he
kissed them away, and then she whispered to him in a low, sweet voice:
"How did you guess my secret?"
"Your secret," he repeated, and kissed her again, because he did not
know what to say.
"Yes; how did you find out that I loved you?" she asked, simply. "I am
sure I have always tried to hide it."
"Your beautiful eyes told it," he said; and then a sudden shock of
horror came to him. Great Heaven! what was he doing? where was Leone?
She did not perceive it, but raised her blushing face to his.
"Ah, well," she said, sweetly, "it is no secret since you have found it
out. It is true, I do love you, and my eyes have not told you falsely."
Perhaps she wondered that he listened so calmly, that he did not draw
her with passionate words and caresses to his heart, that he did not
speak with the raptures lovers used. He looked pale and troubled, yet he
clasped her hand more closely.
"You are very good to me," he said. "I do not deserve it, I do not merit
it. You--you--shame me, Marion."
She looked at him with a warm glow of happiness on her face.
"It would not be possible to be too good to you; but I must not tell you
of all I think of you, or you will grow vain. I think," she continued,
with a smile that made her look like an angel, "I think now that I know
how much you love me I shall be the happiest woman on the face of the
earth."
He did not remember to have said how much he loved her, or to have
spoken of his love at all, but evidently she thought he had, and it came
to the same thing.
"How pleased Lady Lanswell will be!" said the young heiress, after a
time. "You will think me very vain to say so, but I believe she loves
me."
"I am sure of it; who could help it?" he said, absently.
He knew that he had done wrong, he repented it, and made one desperate
effort to save himself.
"Lady Marion," he said, hurriedly, "let me ask you one question. You
have heard, of course, the story of my early love?"
He felt the trembling of her whole figure as she answered, in a low
voice:
"Yes; I know it, and that makes me understand jealousy. I am very weak,
I know, but if you had gone to England, I should have died of pain."
He kissed her again, wondering whether for his perfidy a bolt from
Heaven would strike him dead.
"You know it," he said; "then tell me--I leave it with you. Do you
consider that a barrier between us, between you and me? You shall
decide?"
She knew so little about it that she hastily answered:
"No; how can it be? That was folly. Lady Lanswell says you have
forgotten it. Shall a mere folly be a barrier between us? No; love
levels all barriers, you know."
He kissed her hands, saying to himself that he was the greatest coward
and the greatest villain that ever stood on earth. Words he had none.
Then they heard Lady Cambrey calling for her niece.
"Let me tell her," whispered the beautiful girl; "she will be so
pleased, she likes you so much." Then, as they passed out of the court,
she looked at the grand old walls. "I shall always love this place," she
said, "because it is here that you have first said that you loved me."
And the pity is that every girl and every woman disposed to give her
whole chance of happiness in a man's hand was not there to see how women
believe men, and how men keep the promises they make.
He told his mother that same night.
"I have done it," he said; "circumstances have forced me into it, but I
have forsworn myself. I have lost my self-respect, and I shall never be
happy again while I live."
But she embraced him with eager delight.
"You have done well," she said; "you have risen above the shackles of a
miserable promise, and have proved yourself a noble man by daring to
undo the mad act of folly which might have blighted your life. I approve
of what you have done, and so will any other sensible person."
And that was his consolation, his reward for the greatest act of perfidy
that man ever committed, or a woman sanctioned.