"FORGIVE ME, LEONE."
"Lance," she said, suddenly, "or, as I ought to say, Lord Chandos--how
can I forgive you? What you ask is more than any woman could grant. I
cannot pardon the treachery which has ruined my life, which has stricken
me, without blame or fault of mine, from the roll of honorable
women--which has made me a by-word, a mark for the scorn and contempt of
others, a woman to be contemned and despised. Of what use are all the
gifts of Heaven to me, with the scarlet brand you have marked on my
brow?"
He grew white, even to the lips, as the passionate words reached his
ears.
"Leone," he cried, "for God's sake spare me. I have no defense--no
excuse; spare me; your words kill me. They are not true, my darling;
none of what happened was your fault--you were innocent and blameless as
a child; you are the same now. Would to Heaven all women were pure and
honorable as you. Say what you will to me, no punishment would be too
great for me--but say nothing yourself; never one word, Leone. Could you
forgive me? I have done you the most cruel wrong, and I have no excuse
to offer--nothing but my foolish youth, my mad folly, my unmanly
weakness. I have known it ever since I married. You are my only love; I
have never had another. Ah, my darling, forgive me. If I have ruined
your life, I have doubly ruined my own."
She raised her beautiful, colorless face to his.
"Lance," she said, gently, "what a prophecy that song held for us. And
the running water--how true a foreboding it always murmured:
"'The vows are all forgotten,
The ring asunder broken.'
How true and how cruel. I hear the song and I hear the murmur of the
water in my dreams."
"So do I," he replied, sadly. "My darling, I wish we never left the
mill-stream. I would to Heaven we had died under the running water
together."
"So do I," she said, "but we are living, not dead, and life holds duties
just as death holds relief. We must remember much harm has been done--we
need not do more."
"Say that you will forgive me, Leone, and then I do not care what
happens. I will do anything you tell me. I will humble myself in every
way. I will do anything you can desire if you will only forgive me. Do,
for Heaven's sake. I am so utterly wretched that I believe if you refuse
to say one word of pardon to me I shall go mad or kill myself."
There was a long struggle in her mind. Could she forgive the injury
which seemed greater than man had ever inflicted on woman? She was very
proud, and her pride was all in arms. How could she pardon a traitor?
She had loved him better than her life, and with the first sight of his
handsome, beloved face all the glamour of her love was over her again.
How could she forgive him? Yet the proud figure was bent so humbly
before her, the proud head so low.
"What am I to say?" she cried. "I was a good and innocent girl--now it
seems to me that the evil spirits of passion and unrest have taken
possession of me. What am I to say or to do? Heaven help and teach me."
"Forgive me," he repeated. "Your refusal will send me away a madman,
ready for any reckless action. Your consent will humble me, but it will
make me happier. Oh, my darling, forgive me."
"Suppose that harm follows my forgiveness--we are better enemies than
friends, Lord Chandos."
"We will never be enemies, and no harm can come except that I shall be
happier for it. Say you will forgive me, Leone. See, I ask your pardon
on my knees. For Heaven's sake, for my great love's sake, say you
forgive me!"
He knelt before her humbly as a child, he bowed his handsome head until
his face rested on her knees; he sobbed aloud in his sorrow and his deep
regret. She stood for a few minutes quite uncertain; her clear reason
and common sense told her that it would be better if she would refuse
him pardon, and that they should part for all time; but love and pity
pleaded, and of course love and pity won. She laid her hand on the dark
head of the man whom she had once believed her husband; her beautiful
face quivered with emotion.
"I forgive you," she said, "freely, frankly, fully, as I hope Heaven
will forgive me all my sins. Nay, you must not kiss me, not even my
hand. Your kisses belong to some one else now--not to me. I forgive you,
but we must part again. Come what may--we must part, we must not meet
again."
"I can never part with you," he said, in a hoarse voice. "You have been
life of my life, heart of my heart too long for that."
She held up her hand with a superb gesture of warning and silence.
"Hush, Lord Chandos," she said; "if you speak to me in that strain, I
shall never see you again. Remember you have a wife; you must not be
false to two women--keep true to one. Neither your kisses nor your
loving words belong to me now."
"I will not offend you," he said, sadly.
She leaned her beautiful arms on the table, her white hands under her
chin, looking steadily at him.
"I have forgiven you," she said, musingly, "I, who have sworn such
terrible oaths, such bitter revenge, I have ended by forgiving you,
after the fashion of the most milk-and-water type of women. I have
forgiven you, and Heaven knows how I tried to hate you, and have tried
to take pleasure in the thoughts of my vengeance."
"You have had your vengeance on me, Leone, in the shape of the love that
has never left me, and the memories which have haunted me. You swore
vengeance against my mother, but you will forego that."
A slow smile came over her face and died away again.
"Lord Chandos," she said, "you will not be my debtor in generosity. You
have asked me to pardon you; I have done so. Grant me one favor in
return--tell me who influenced you to forsake me?"
He looked puzzled.
"I hardly know, Leone, I can hardly tell you."
"It was not the lady whom you have married," she continued, "of that I
am sure. Who was it?"
"I think if any one influenced me it must have been my mother," he said,
gently; "she was always violently opposed to it."
The beautiful lips paled and trembled.
"I thought it was your mother," she said, gravely, "No, I shall not
forego my vengeance against her, although I know not when I may gain
it."
"You will forget all that," he said. "You are too noble to care for
vengeance."
"I am not too noble," she replied. "All that was best and noble in me
died on the day you forsook me. And now, Lord Chandos, listen to me.
Words of peace and pardon have passed between us. It has raised a heavy
funeral pall from my life; it has, perhaps, raised a black cloud from
yours. Lord Chandos, we must not meet again."
"You cannot be so cruel, Leone. Having found you, how can I lose you
again?"
"You must, it is imperative," she said slowly.
"But, Leone, why should we not be friends?" he said, gently.
She laughed a hard, scornful laugh that struck him in the face like the
sting of a sharp blade.
"Friends?" she repeated. "Could we who have been wedded lovers ever be
friends? You do not know what words mean if you think that."
He stood before her with a stern, white face.
"Leone," he cried, "are you really going to be cruel enough to send me
away out of your life again, I who have been mad with joy at finding
you?"
"If I were cruel," she said, slowly, "now I would take my vengeance. I
should say as you once left me so now I leave you, but I am not cruel,
and that is my reason. My reason is a good and pure one; we could never
remain friends, we love each other too much for that; we must live as
strangers now; and remember, it is your fault, not mine."
"I cannot submit to it," he cried.
But she looked at him with a face stern, resolute, fixed as his own.
"Remember, Lord Chandos," she said, "that I am my own mistress. I can
choose my friends and associates. I refuse to admit you among the
number."
"You cannot prevent me from coming to see you, Leone."
"No; but I can, and shall, refuse to see you when you come," she
replied; "and I shall do so."
"Oh, my love, my cruel, beautiful love," he cried.
The girl's face flushed with hot anger and indignation.
"Will you be silent?" she cried. "Shame on you, Lord Chandos, to use
such words. You have a beautiful and beloved wife at home to whom all
your love and fidelity belong. If you say one more such word to me I
will never see you again."
"But, Leone, it seems so very hard; you might let me call at times and
see you."
"No, I cannot, I cannot trust myself, even if I could trust you. I have
had no other husband, no other love; you have married. I would not trust
myself; my love is as great now as ever it was, but it shall not run
away with me; it shall not be my master. I will master it. You must not
come near me."
"But, surely, if I meet you in the street, you will not ask me to pass
you by?" he said.
"No; if we meet quite by chance, quite by accident, I will always speak
to you. Ah, Lance," she added, with a smile, "I know you so well, I know
every look in your eyes; you are thinking to yourself you will often see
me by accident. You must not; such honor as you have left me let me
keep."
"If this is to be our last interview, for some time, at least," he
continued, "tell me, Leone, how is it that you have become so famous?"
"Yes, I will tell you all about that; I am rather proud of my power. It
is not a long story, and it dates from the day on which your mother sent
me that letter."
She told him all her studies, her struggles, her perseverance, her
success, finally her crowning by fame.
"It is like a romance," he said.
"Yes, only it is true," she replied.
He tried to prolong the interview, but she would close it; and he was
compelled to leave her, when he would have given years of his life to
have remained one hour longer.