THE CONFESSION.
"I do not believe it," said Lady Marion; "it is some absurd mistake. If
Lord Chandos had been out alone, or on a party of pleasure where you
say, he would have told me."
"I assure you, Lady Chandos, that it is true. Captain Blake spoke to him
there, and Lady Evelyn saw him. Madame Vanira was with him."
The speakers were Lady Chandos and Lady Ilfield; the place was the
drawing-room at Stoneland House; the time was half past three in the
afternoon; and Lady Ilfield had called on her friend because the news
which she had heard preyed upon her mind and she felt that she must
reveal it. Like all mischief-makers Lady Ilfield persuaded herself that
she was acting upon conscientious motives; she herself had no
nonsensical ideas about singers and actresses; they were quite out of
her sphere, quite beneath her notice, and no good, she was in the habit
of saying, ever came from associating with them. She had met Madame
Vanira several times at Stoneland House, and had always felt annoyed
over it, but her idea was that a singer, an actress, let her be
beautiful as a goddess and talented above all other women, had no right
to stand on terms of any particular friendship with Lord Chandos. Lady
Ilfield persuaded herself it was her duty, her absolute Christian duty,
to let Lady Chandos know what was going on. She was quite sure of the
truth of what she had to tell, and she chose a beautiful, sunshiny
afternoon for telling it. She wore a look of the greatest
importance--she seated herself quite close to Lady Marion.
"My dear Lady Chandos," she said, "I have called on the most unpleasant
business. There is something which I am quite sure I ought to tell you,
and I really do not know how. People are saying such things--you ought
to know them."
The fair, sweet face lost none of its tranquillity, none of its calm.
How could she surmise that her heart was to be stabbed by this woman's
words?
"The sayings of people trouble me but little, Lady Ilfield," she
replied, with a calm smile.
"What I have to say concerns you," she said, "concerns you very much. I
would not tell you but that I consider it my duty to do so. I told Lady
Evelyn that she, who had actually witnessed the scene, ought to be the
one to describe it, but she absolutely refused; unpleasant as the duty
is, it has fallen on me."
"What duty? what scene?" asked Lady Chandos, beginning to feel something
like alarm. "If you have anything to say, Lady Ilfield, anything to tell
me, pray speak out; I am anxious now to hear it."
Then indeed was Lady Ilfield in her glory. She hastened to tell the
story. How Captain and Lady Evelyn Blake had gone with a few friends for
a river-party, and at Ousely had seen Lord Chandos with Madame Vanira,
the great queen of song.
Lady Marion's sweet face colored with indignation. She denied it
emphatically; it was not true. She was surprised that Lady Ilfield
should repeat such a calumny.
"But, my dear Lady Chandos, it is true. I should not have repeated it if
there had been a single chance of its being a falsehood. Lady Evelyn saw
the boat fastened to a tree, your husband and Madame Vanira sat on the
river bank, and when the captain spoke to Lord Chandos he seemed quite
annoyed at being seen."
Lady Marion's fair face grew paler as she listened; the story seemed so
improbable to her.
"My husband--Lord Chandos--does not know Madame Vanira half so well as I
do," she said; "it is I who like her, nay, even love her. It is by my
invitation that madame has been to my house. Lord Chandos was introduced
to her by accident. I sought her acquaintance. If people had said she
had been out for a day on the river with me there would have been some
sense in it."
Lady Ilfield smiled with the air of a person possessed of superior
knowledge.
"My dear Lady Chandos," she said, "it is time your eyes were opened; you
are about the only person in London who does not know that Lord Chandos
is Madame Vanira's shadow."
"I do not believe it," was the indignant reply. "I would not believe it,
Lady Ilfield, if all London swore it."
Lady Ilfield laughed, and the tinge of contempt in that laugh made the
gentle heart beat with indignation. She rose from her seat.
"I do not doubt," she said, "that you came to tell me this with a
good-natured intention. I will give you credit for that always, Lady
Ilfield, when I remember this painful scene, but I have faith in my
husband. Nothing can shake it. And if the story you tell be true, I am
quite sure Lord Chandos can give a good explanation of it. Permit me to
say good-morning, Lady Ilfield, and to decline any further conversation
on the matter."
"For all that," said Lady Ilfield to herself, "you will have to suffer,
my lady; you refuse to believe it, but the time will come when you will
have to believe it and deplore it."
Yet Lady Ilfield was not quite satisfied when she went away.
While to Lady Chandos had come the first burst of an intolerable pain,
her first anguish of jealousy, her only emotion at the commencement of
the conversation was one of extreme indignation. It was a calumny, she
told herself, and she had vehemently espoused her husband's cause; but
when she was alone and began to think over what had been said her faith
was somewhat shaken.
It was a straightforward story. Captain and Lady Evelyn Blake were quite
incapable of inventing such a thing. Then she tried to remember how
Tuesday had passed. It came back to her with a keen sense of pain that
on Tuesday she had not seen him all day. He had risen early and had gone
out, leaving word that he should not return for luncheon. She had been
to a morning concert, and had stayed until nearly dinner-time with the
countess. When she returned to Stoneland House he was there; they had a
dinner-party, and neither husband nor wife had asked each other how the
day was spent. She remembered it now. Certainly so far his absence
tallied with the story; but her faith in her husband was not to be
destroyed by the gossip of people who had nothing to do but talk.
What was it Lady Ilfield had said? That she was the only person in
London who did not know that her husband was Madame Vanira's shadow.
Could that be true? She remembered all at once his long absences, his
abstraction; how she wondered if he had any friends whom he visited long
and intimately.
Madame Vanira's beautiful face rose before her with its noble eloquence,
its grandeur and truth. No, that was not the woman who would try to rob
a woman of her husband's love. Madame Vanira, the queen of song, the
grand and noble woman who swayed men's hearts with her glorious voice;
Madame Vanira, who had kissed her face and called herself her friend. It
was impossible. She could sooner have believed that the sun and the moon
had fallen from the skies than that her husband had connived with her
friend to deceive her. The best plan would be to ask her husband. He
never spoke falsely; he would tell her at once whether it were true or
not. She waited until dinner was over and then said to him:
"Lance, can you spare me a few minutes? I want to speak to you."
They were in the library, where Lord Chandos had gone to write a letter.
Lady Marion looked very beautiful in her pale-blue dinner dress and a
suit of costly pearls. She went up to her husband, and kneeling down by
his side, she laid her fair arms round his neck.
"Lance," she said, "before I say what I have to say I want to make an
act of faith in you."
He smiled at the expression.
"An act of faith in me, Marion?" he said. "I hope you have all faith."
Then, remembering, he stopped, and his face flushed.
"I have need of faith," she said, "for I have heard a strange story
about you. I denied it, I deny it now, but I should be better pleased
with your denial also."
"What is the story?" he asked, anxiously, and her quick ear detected the
anxiety of his voice.
"Lady Ilfield has been here this afternoon, and tells me that last
Tuesday you were with Madame Vanira at Ousely, that you rowed her on the
river, and that Captain Blake spoke to you there. Is it true?"
"Lady Ilfield is a mischief-making old----" began Lord Chandos, but his
wife's sweet, pale face startled him.
"Lance," she cried, suddenly, "oh, my God, it is not true?"
The ring of pain and passion in her voice frightened him; she looked at
him with eyes full of woe.
"It is not true?" she repeated.
"Who said it was true?" he asked, angrily.
Then there was a few minutes of silence between them; and Lady Marion
looked at him again.
"Lance," she said, "is it true?"
Their eyes met, hers full of one eager question. His lips parted; her
whole life seemed to hang on the word that was coming from his lips.
"Is it true?" she repeated.
He tried to speak falsely, he would have given much for the power to say
"No." He knew that one word would content her--that she would believe it
implicitly, and that she would never renew the question. Still with that
fair, pure face before him--with those clear eyes fixed on him--he could
not speak falsely, he could not tell a lie. He could have cried aloud
with anguish, yet he answered, proudly:
"It is true, Marion."
"True?" she repeated, vacantly, "true, Lance?"
"Yes, the gossips have reported correctly; it is quite true."
But he was not prepared for the effect of the words on her. Her fair
face grew pale, her tender arms released their hold and fell.
"True?" she repeated, in a low, faint voice, "true that you took Madame
Vanira out for a day, and that you were seen by these people with her?"
"Yes, it is true," he replied.
And the poor child flung her arms in the air, as she cried out:
"Oh, Lance, it is a sword in my heart, and it has wounded me sorely."