NEITHER WIFE NOR WIDOW.
It was with some trepidation that Lord Chandos presented himself at the
gates of the Cedars, yet surely she who had loved him so well would
never refuse him admission into her house? that is, if it were Leone. As
he walked through the pretty garden and saw all the pretty flowers
blooming, he said to himself, that it was like her. She had always so
dearly loved the spring flowers, the flame of the yellow crocus, the
faint, sweet odor of the violets, the pure heads of the white
snow-drops. He had heard her say so often that she loved these modest,
sweet flowers that come in the spring more than the dainty ones that
bloom in summer-time.
It was like her, this garden, and yet, he could not tell why. Great
clusters of lilac-trees were budding, the laburnums were thinking of
flowering; but there was no song of running brook, and no ripple of
fountains, no sound of falling water; the birds were busy wooing and
they had so much to sing about.
There was a profusion of flowers, all the windows seemed full of them;
there was a picturesque look about the place that reminded him of Leone.
On the lawn stood two large cedars, from which the place derived its
name. He went to the hall door. What if she should meet him suddenly and
turn from him in indignant anger? What if it should not be Leone, but a
stranger?
A pretty housemaid, Parisian, he knew from the type, answered the door,
from whom he inquired, in his most polite fashion, if Madame Vanira was
at home.
There is no denying the fact that all women are more or less
susceptible to the charms of a handsome face, and Lord Chandos was
handsome--exceedingly. The girl looked up into the dark face and the
dark eyes that always looked admiringly when a woman was near.
"Madame Vanira sees no one," she replied.
Something passed rapidly from his hand to hers.
"You look kind," he said, "be my friend. I think that, years ago, I knew
Madame Vanira. If she be the lady whom I believe her to be, she will be
pleased to see me, and no possible blame can be attached to you. Tell me
where she is that I may find her."
"Madame is in the morning-room," said the girl, with some hesitation,
"but I shall lose my place if I admit you."
"I promise you no," said Lord Chandos; "on the contrary, your lady will
be pleased that you are able to discriminate between those whom she
would like to see, and those whom she would not."
"At least, let me announce you," pleaded the pretty housemaid, in broken
English.
"No, it would serve no purpose; that is, of course, you can go before me
and open the door--I will follow you immediately. You need only say, 'A
gentleman to see you, madame.' Will you do this?"
"Yes," said the girl, reluctantly.
As he followed her through the passage, it did occur to him that if it
were not Leone, he should be in a terrible dilemma. It occurred to him
also, that if it were Leone, what right had he there, with that fair,
sweet wife of his at home--what right had he there?
He followed the pretty maid through the hall and through a suit of
rooms, furnished with quiet elegance. They came to the door of a room
before which the maid stopped, and Lord Chandos saw that her face had
grown pale.
She opened it.
"A gentleman to see you, madame," she said, hastily.
And then the maid disappeared, and he entered the room.
Leone was standing with her face to the window when he entered, and he
had one moment in which to look round the room--one moment in which to
control the rapid beating of his heart; then she turned suddenly, and
once more they were face to face.
Ah, to see the heaven of delight and rapture that came over hers--the
light that came into her eyes; it was as though her face was suddenly
transfigured; all the past in that one moment of rapture was forgotten,
all the treachery, the perfidy, the falsity.
She uttered one word, "Lance," but it was a cry of unutterable delight.
"Lance," she repeated, and then, with all the light of heaven still
shining in her face, she hid her face on his breast. She did not
remember, she only knew that it was the face of her lost lover, the same
strong, tender arms were clasped round her, the same warm kisses were on
her face, the same passionate, loving heart was beating near her own.
Ah, Heaven, how sweet that one moment was. To die while it lasted, never
to leave the shelter of those dear arms again. She had waited for him
for years, and he had come at last.
There were a few minutes of silent, rapturous greeting, and then,
suddenly, she remembered, and sprung from him with a low cry.
"How dare you?" she cried, "I had forgotten. How dare you?"
Then the sight of the beloved face, the dear eyes, the well-remembered
figure, took all the hot anger from her.
"Oh, Lance, Lance, I ought not to speak to you or look at you, and yet I
cannot help it. God help me, I cannot help it."
He was down on his knees by her side, clasping her hands, the folds of
her dress, crying out to her to pardon him; that he had no excuse to
offer her; he had been guilty beyond all guilt; that neither in heaven
nor on earth could there be any pardon for him; that he would have died
a hundred deaths rather than have lost her.
For some five minutes it was a mad whirl of passion, love and regret.
She was the first to recollect herself, to say to him:
"Lord Chandos, you must not kneel there; remember you have a wife at
home."
The words struck him like a sharp sword. He arose and, drawing a chair
for her, stood by her side.
"I am beside myself," he said, "with the pleasure of seeing you again.
Forgive me, Leone; I will not offend. Oh, what can I say to you? How can
I look upon your face and live?"
"You were very cruel to me and very treacherous," she said; "your
treachery has spoiled my life. Oh, Lance, how could you be so cruel to
me when I loved you so--how could you?"
Tears that she had repressed for years rained down her face; all the
bitter grief that she had held in as with an iron hand, all the pride so
long triumphant, all the pain and anguish, and the desolation, that had
been in check, rushed over her, as the tempestuous waves of the sea rush
over the rocks and sands.
"How could you, Lance?" she cried, wringing her hands; "how could you?
You were cruel and treacherous to me, though I trusted you so. Ah, my
love, my love, how could you?"
The beautiful head fell forward in the very abandonment of sorrow; great
sobs shook the beautiful figure.
"Oh, Lance, I loved you so, I believed in you as I believed in Heaven. I
loved you and trusted you, you forsook me and deceived me. Oh, my love,
my love!"
His face grew white and his strong figure trembled under the pain of her
reproaches.
"Leone," he said, gently, "every word of yours is a sword in my heart.
Why did I do it? Ah me, why? I have no word of excuse for myself, not
one. I might say that I was under woman's influence, but that would not
excuse me. I take the whole blame, the whole sin upon myself. Can you
ever forgive me?"
She raised her face to his, all wet with tears.
"I ought not to forgive you," she said; "I ought to drive you from my
presence; I ought to curse you with my ruined life, but I cannot. Oh,
Lance, if I only lay under the waters of the mill-stream, dead."
The passion of her grief was terrible to see. He forgot all and
everything but her--the wife at home, the plighted vows, honor, truth,
loyalty--all and everything except the girl whom he had loved with a mad
love, and her grief. He drew her to his breast, he kissed away the
shining tears; he kissed the trembling lips.
"Leone, you will drive me mad. Great God, what have I done? I realize it
now; I had better have died," and then the strength of the strong man
gave way, and he wept like a child. "It is no excuse," he said, "to
plead that I was young, foolish, and easily led. Oh, Leone, my only
love, what was I doing when I gave you up--when I left you?"
The violence of his grief somewhat restrained hers; she was half
frightened at it.
"We are making matters worse," she said. "Lance, we must not forget that
you are married now in earnest."
"Will you ever forgive me?" he asked. "I have no excuse to offer. I own
that my sin was the most disloyal and the most traitorous a man could
commit, but forgive me, Leone. I have repented of it in sackcloth and
ashes. Say you forgive me."
The beautiful, colorless face did not soften at the words.
"I cannot," she said; "I cannot forgive that treachery, Lance; it has
wounded me even unto death. How can I forgive it?"
"My darling--Leone--say you will pardon me. I will do anything to atone
for it."
She laid one white hand on his arm.
"You see, Lance," she said, earnestly, "it is one of those things for
which you can never atone--one that can never be undone--but one which
will brand me forever. What am I? Did you stop to think of that when
your new love tempted you? What am I? not your wife--not your widow. Oh
God, what am I?"
He drew her to him again, but this time she resisted his warm kisses.
"Leone," he said sadly, "I deserve to be shot. I hate myself--I loathe
myself. I cannot imagine how I failed in my duty and loyalty to you. I
can only say that I was young and thoughtless--easily led. Heaven help
me, I had no mind of my own, but I have suffered so cruelly and so have
you, my darling--so have you."
"I?" she replied. "When you can count the leaves in the forest, or the
sands on the seashore, you will know what I have suffered, not until
then."
Her voice died away in a melancholy cadence that to him was like the
last wailing breath of the summer wind in the trees.