AT THE BALL.
"I like Madame Vanira," said the Countess of Lanswell, a few days after
the introduction. "She is not only the most gifted singer of the present
day, but she is an uncommon type of woman. Who or what was she?"
My lady was seated in her own drawing-room in the midst of a circle of
morning callers. Lord Chandos was there, and he listened with some
amusement to the conversation that followed. The countess was speaking
to Major Hautbois, who was supposed to know the pedigree of everybody.
She looked at him now for the information he generally gave readily, but
the major's face wore a troubled expression.
"To tell the truth," he replied, "I have heard so many conflicting
stories as to the lady's origin that I am quite at a loss which to
repeat."
Lady Lanswell smiled at the naive confession.
"Truth does wear a strange aspect at times," she said. "When Major
Hautbois has to choose between many reports, I should say that none of
them were true. Myself," she continued, "I should say that Madame Vanira
was well-born--she has a patrician face."
Lord Chandos thought of the "dairy-maid," and sighed while he smiled.
Ah, if his mother could but have seen Leone with the same eyes with
which she saw Madame Vanira all would have been well.
It was quite evident that my lady did not in the least recognize
her--there could be no doubt of it. She continued to praise her.
"I have always," she said, "been far above what I consider the
littleness of those people who think to show their superiority by
abusing the stage, or rather by treating with supercilious contempt
those who ornament the stage. Something," she added, with an air of
patronage, "is due to queens."
And again Lord Chandos smiled bitterly to himself. If his mother had but
owned these opinions a short time before, how different life might have
been. Lady Lanswell turned to her son.
"Madame Vanira will be at Lady Marion's ball on Tuesday," she said: "I
am sorry that I shall not meet her."
"Are you not coming, mother?" he asked, with a certain secret hope that
she was not.
"No; the earl has made an engagement for me, which I am compelled to
keep," she said, "much to my regret."
And she spoke truthfully. The proud and haughty countess found herself
much impressed by the grace, genius, and beauty of Madame Vanira.
Leone had looked forward to the evening of the ball as to an ordeal that
must be passed through. She dreaded it, yet longed for it. She could not
rest for thinking of it. She was to enter as a guest the house where she
should have reigned mistress. She was to be the visitor of the woman who
had taken her place. How should she bear it? how would it pass? For the
first time some of the terrible pain of jealousy found its way into her
heart--a pain that blanched her face, and made her tremble; a new pain
to her in the fire of its burning.
When the night of the ball came it found her with a pale face; her usual
radiant coloring faded, and she looked all the lovelier for it. She
dressed herself with unusual care and magnificence.
"I must look my best to-night," she said to herself, with a bitter
smile. "I am going to see the home that should have been my own. I am
going to visit Lady Chandos, and I believed myself to be Lady Chandos
and no other. I must look my best."
She chose a brocade of pale amber that looked like woven sunbeams; it
was half covered with point lace and trimmed with great creamy roses.
She wore a _parure_ of rubies, presented by an empress, who delighted in
her glorious voice; on her beautiful neck, white and firm as a pillar,
she wore a necklace of rubies; on her white breast gleamed a cross of
rubies, in which the fire flashed like gleams of light.
She had never looked so magnificently beautiful. The low dress showed
the white shining arms and shoulders like white satin. The different
emotions that surged through her whole heart and soul gave a softened
tenderness to the beautiful, passionate face.
She was a woman at whose feet a man could kneel and worship; who could
sway the heart and soul of a man as the wind sways the great branches of
strong trees.
On the morning of the day of the ball, a bouquet arrived for her, and
she knew that it held her favorite flowers, white lilies-of-the-valley,
with sweet hanging bells and gardenias that filled the whole room with
perfume. She had nerve enough to face the most critical audience in the
world.
She sung while kings and queens looked on in wonder; the applause of
great multitudes had never made her heart beat or her pulses thrill; but
as she drove to Stoneland House a faint, languid sensation almost
overcame her; how should she bear it? What should she do? More than once
the impulse almost mastered her to return, and never see Lord Chandos
again; but the pain, the fever and the longing urged her on.
It was like a dream to her, the brilliantly-lighted mansion, the rows of
liveried servants, the spacious entrance-hall lined with flowers, the
broad white staircase with the crimson carpet, the white statues holding
crimson lamps.
She walked slowly up that gorgeous staircase, every eye riveted by her
queenly beauty. She said to herself:
"All this should have been mine."
Yet, it was not envy of the wealth and magnificence surrounding her, it
was the keen pain of the outrageous wrong done to her which stung her to
the quick. Brilliantly dressed ladies passed her, and she saw that more
deference was paid to her than would have been paid to a duchess.
Then, in the drawing-room that led to the ballroom, she saw Lady Marion
in her usual calm, regal attitude, receiving her guests. The queen of
blondes looked more than lovely; her dress was of rich white lace over
pale blue silk, with blue forget-me-nots in her hair. Leone had one
moment's hard fight with herself as she gazed at this beautiful woman.
"She stands in my place, she bears my name; on her finger shines the
ring that ought to shine on mine; she has taken the love I believed to
be mine for life," said Leone to herself; "how shall I bear it?"
As she stood among the brilliant crowd, a strong impulse came over her
to go up to Lady Marion and say:
"Stand aside; this is my place. Men cannot undo the laws of God. Stand
aside, give me my place."
Words were still burning from her heart to her lips when she saw Lady
Marion holding out her hand in kindliest greeting to her; all the bitter
thoughts melted at once in the sunshine of that fair presence; her own
hand sought Lady Marion's, and the two women, whose lives had crossed
each other's so strangely, stood for one moment hand locked in hand,
their eyes fixed on each other.
Lady Marion spoke first, and she seemed to draw her breath with a deep
sigh as she did so.
"I am so pleased to see you, Madame Vanira," she said, eagerly. "We must
find time for a long talk this evening."
With a bow Leone passed on to the ballroom, where the first person to
meet her was Lord Chandos; he looked at the bouquet she carried.
"You have honored my flowers, madame," he said. "I remember your love
for lilies-of-the-valley. You will put my name down for the first
waltz?"
There was a world of reproach in the dark eyes she raised to his.
"No, I will not waltz with you," she replied, gently.
"Why not?" he asked, bending his handsome head over her.
"I might make false excuses, but I prefer telling you the truth," she
answered; "I will not trust myself."
And when Leone took that tone Lord Chandos knew that further words were
useless.
"You will dance a quadrille, at least?" he asked, and she consented.
Then he offered her his arm and they walked through the room together.
The ballroom at Stoneland House was a large and magnificent apartment;
many people thought it the finest ballroom in London; the immense dome
was brilliantly lighted, the walls were superbly painted, and tier after
tier of superb blossoms filled the room with exquisite color and
exquisite perfume.
The ballroom opened into a large conservatory, which led to a fernery,
and from the fernery one passed to the grounds. Leone felt embarrassed;
she longed to praise the beautiful place, yet it seemed to her if she
did so it would be like reminding him that it ought to have been hers;
while he, on the contrary, did not dare to draw her attention to
picture, flower, or statue, lest she should remember that they had been
taken from her by a great and grievous wrong.
"We are not very cheerful friends," he said, trying to arouse himself.
"I begin to think we have done wrong in ever thinking of friendship at
all," she replied.
Lord Chandos turned to her suddenly.
"Leone," he said, "you have quite made a conquest of my mother--you do
not know how she admires you!"
A bitter smile curled the beautiful lips.
"It is too late," she said sadly. "It does not seem very long since she
refused even to tolerate me."
Lord Chandos continued:
"She was speaking about you yesterday, and she was quite animated about
you; she praised you more than I have ever heard her praise any one."
"I ought to feel flattered," said Leone; "but it strikes me as being
something wonderful that Lady Lanswell did not find out any good
qualities in me before."
"My mother saw you through a haze of hatred," said Lord Chandos; "now
she will learn to appreciate you."
A sudden glow of fire flashed in those superb eyes.
"I wonder," she said, "if I shall ever be able to pay my debt to Lady
Lanswell, and in what shape I shall pay it?"
He shuddered as he gazed in the beautiful face.
"Try to forget that, Leone," he said; "I never like to remember that you
threatened my mother."
"We will not discuss it," she said, coldly; "we shall never agree."
Then the band began to play the quadrilles. Lord Chandos led Leone to
her place. He thought to himself what cruel wrong it was on the part of
fate, that the woman whom he had believed to be his wedded wife should
be standing there, a visitor in the house which ought to have been her
home.