A QUARREL.
From that hour all pretense of peace was at an end between them. Lady
Chandos was justly indignant and wounded. If her husband had trusted her
all might, even then, have been well, but he did not; he said to himself
that she would forget the story of her annoyance in time, and all would
be well; he did not give his wife credit for the depth of feeling that
she really possessed. Fiercest, most cruel jealousy had taken hold of
the gentle lady, it racked and tortured her; the color faded from her
face, the light from her eyes; she grew thin and pale; at night she
could not sleep, by day she could not rest; all her sweetness, grace and
amiability, seemed to have given way to a grave sadness; the sound of
her laughter, her bright words, died away; nothing interested her. She
who had never known a trouble or a care, now wore the expression of one
who was heart-broken; she shrunk from all gayety, all pleasures, all
parties; she was like the ghost of her former self; yet after those
words of her husband's she never spoke again of Madame Vanira. The sword
was sheathed in her heart and she kept it there.
There is no pain so cruel as jealousy; none that so quickly deteriorates
a character; it brings so many evils in its train--suspicion, envy,
hatred of life, distrust in every one and in everything; it is the most
fatal passion that ever takes hold of a human heart, and turns the
kindest nature to gall. There was no moment during the day in which Lady
Chandos did not picture her husband with her rival; she drove herself
almost mad with the pictures she made in her own mind. All the cruel
pain, the sullen brooding, the hot anguish, the desolation, the jealousy
seemed to surge over her heart and soul like the waves of a deadly sea.
If she saw her husband silent and abstracted, she said he was thinking
of Madame Vanira; if she saw him laugh and light of heart she said he
was pleased because he was going to see Madame Vanira. She had sensible
and reasonable grounds for jealousy, but she was unreasonably jealous.
"Trifles light as air
Are to the jealous confirmation strong
As proofs of holy writ."
It was so with Lady Marion, and her life at last grew too bitter to be
borne. There was excuse for Lord Chandos, the mistake was in renewing
the acquaintance; a mistake that can never be remedied.
People were beginning to talk; when Lord Chandos was mentioned, they
gave significant smiles. Against Madame Vanira there had never been even
the faintest rumor of scandal; but a certain idea was current in
society--that Lord Chandos admired the queen of song. No one insinuated
the least wrong, but significant smiles followed the mention of either
name.
"Madame Vanira was at Lady Martyn's last night," one would say.
And the laughing answer was always:
"Then Lord Chandos was not very far away."
"La Vanira sung to perfection in 'Fidelio,'" would remark one.
Another would answer:
"Lord Chandos would know how to applaud."
Madame Vanira was more eagerly sought after than other women in London.
She reigned queen, not only over the stage, but over the world of
fashion also.
The Countess of Easton gave a grand ball--it was the most exclusive of
the season. After much praying Madame Vanira had promised to go, and
Lady Chandos was the belle of the ball. They had not met since the
evening madame had sung for her, and Lord Chandos had many an anxious
thought as to what their next meeting would be like. He knew that Leone
would bear much for his sake, yet he did not know what his wife would be
tempted to say.
They met on the night of Lady Easton's ball; neither knew that the other
was coming. If Lady Chandos had dreamed of meeting Leone there she would
not have gone. As it was, they met face to face in the beautiful
ante-room that led to the ballroom.
Face to face. Leone wore a superb dress of pale amber brocade, and Lady
Chandos a beautiful costume of pale-blue velvet, the long train of which
was fastened with white, shining pearls.
It was like the meeting of rival queens. Leone's face flushed, Lady
Marion's grew deadly pale. Leone held out her hand; Lady Marion declined
to see it. They looked at each other for a brief space of time, then
Leone spoke.
"Lady Marion," she said, in a low, pained voice, "have I displeased
you?"
"Yes, you have," was the brief reply.
"You will not touch my hand?" said Leone.
"No, I decline to touch your hand," said Lady Marion; "I decline to
speak to you after this."
"Will you tell me why?" asked Leone.
Lady Marion's face flushed crimson.
"Since you ask me, I will tell you. You have been seeking my husband,
and I do not approve of it. You spent a day with him on the river--he
never told me about it. I am not a jealous wife, but I despise any woman
who would seek to take the love of a husband from his wife."
Conscience, which makes cowards of us all, kept Leone silent.
Lady Chandos continued:
"What is there between my husband and you?"
"True friendship," answered Leone, trying to speak bravely.
"I do not believe it," said Lady Chandos; "true friendship does not hide
itself, or make mystery of its actions. Madame Vanira, I loved you when
I first saw you; I take my love and my liking both from you. Now that I
find that you have acted treacherously I believe in you no more."
"Those are strong words, Lady Chandos," said Leone.
"They are true; henceforth we are strangers. My friends are honorable
women, who would seek to steal my jewels rather than seek to steal from
me my husband's love."
Leone could have retaliated; the temptation was strong; she could have
said:
"He was my husband, as I believed, before he was yours; you stole him
from me, not I from you."
The temptation was strong, the words leaped in a burning torrent from
her heart to her lips; she repressed them for his sake and bore the
crushing words without reply.
"I have always heard," she said, "that there was ample reason that
singers, even though they be queens of song, should not be admitted into
the heart of one's home; now I see the justice of it; they are not
satisfied with legitimate triumphs. You, Madame Vanira, have not been
contented with my liking and friendship, with the hospitality of my
home, but you must seek to take my husband's interest, time, affection."
"Are you not judging me harshly, Lady Chandos?" asked the singer. "You
bring all these accusations against me and give me no opportunity of
clearing myself of them."
"You cannot," said Lady Chandos; "I have no wish to hear your defense,
you can neither deny nor explain the fact that you spent a day with my
husband on the river; all the sophistry in the world cannot deny that
fact, and that fact condemns you."
"Would you say the same thing to any of your former friends?" asked
Leone--"to Lady Caldwell or Lady Blake?"
"Neither of them would do such a thing," cried Lady Chandos. "Ladies of
the class to which I belong do not spend whole days on the river with
gentlemen unknown to their wives. Madame Vanira--you and I are strangers
from this time."
"You are very hard on me," said Leone; "the day may come when you will
admit that."
"The day will never come in which I will mistake good for evil, or right
for wrong," said Lady Chandos. "Others may applaud you, you may continue
your sway over the minds and hearts of men, but I shall protest against
you, and all those like you, who would come between husbands and wives
to separate them."
It was such a satire of fate, such a satire of her own life, that
Leone's beautiful lips curled with a bitter smile. It was she who had
been parted from her husband by a quibble of the law, and this fair,
angry woman had taken him for herself.
Lady Chandos saw the smile and misunderstood it. She bowed, and would
have passed, but Leone tried to stop her.
"Will you not say one kind word to me before you go, Lady Chandos?" she
asked.
"I have not one kind word to say," was the brief reply.
She would have passed on, but fate again intervened in the person of
Lord Chandos, who was walking with his hostess, the Countess of Easton.
They stopped before the two ladies, and Lord Chandos saw at once that
something was wrong. Madame Vanira, after exchanging a few words with
the countess, went away, and as soon as he could, Lord Chandos rejoined
his wife.
"Marion," he said, curtly, "you have had some disagreeable words with
Madame Vanira. I know it by the expression of your face."
"You are right," she said; "I have told her that henceforth she and I
shall be strangers."
"You have dared!" he cried, forgetting himself at the thought of Leone's
face.
She turned her fair face proudly to him.
"I have dared," she replied; "I refuse to speak or see Madame Vanira
again--she must not cross the threshold of my door again."
Lord Chandos grew deadly pale as he heard the words.
"And I say that you wrong a good and blameless woman, Marion, when you
say such words."
"My lord, am I or am I not at liberty to choose my friends?" she asked,
haughtily.
"Certainly you are at liberty to do just as you please in that respect,"
he replied.
"Then among them I decline to receive Madame Vanira," she said.
"As you refuse to see my friends, I must go to meet them," said Lord
Chandos.
And then between husband and wife began one of those scenes which leave
a mark on both their lives--cruel, hard, unjust and bitter words--hard
and cruel thoughts.
Then Lady Chandos had her carriage called and went home.