USELESS PLEADINGS.
"You cannot possibly know what you are saying," said Lady Lanswell; "you
must be mad."
"No; I am perfectly sane; if I am mad at all it is with delight that the
very desire of my heart has been given to me. Do you forget when you
trampled my heart, my life, my love under your feet that day? Do you
forget what I have sworn?"
"I have never thought of it since," said the countess, trying to
conciliate still.
"Then I will remind you," said Leone. "I swore to be avenged, no matter
what my vengeance cost. I swore that you should come and plead to me on
your knees and I would laugh at you. I do so. I swore that you should
plead to me, and I would remind you how I pleaded in vain. You wrung my
heart--I will wring yours, and my only regret is that it is so hard and
cold I cannot make you suffer more."
"You are mad," said my lady; "quite mad."
"No," said Leone, "I am sane, but mine was a mad love."
"You cannot know the consequence to yourself if you persist in this
conduct," said my lady, serenely.
"Did you think of them for me when you set aside my marriage with your
son, because you did not think me good enough to be a countess?" she
asked. "Lady Lanswell, the hour of vengeance has come and I embrace it.
Your son shall lose his wife, his home, his position, his honors; I care
not what," she cried, with sudden recklessness--"I care not what the
world says of me, I will do that which I shall do, less because I love
your son than because I desire to punish you."
Lady Lanswell grew very pale as she listened.
"Yours is a terrible revenge," she said, gently. "I wish that you could
invent some vengeance that would fall on my head--and on mine alone, so
as to spare those who are dear to me. Could you not do that? I would
willingly suffer anything to free my son and his fair, loving wife."
"No one spared me, nor will I in my turn spare," she said. "You shall
know what it means to plead for dear life and plead in vain."
"Can I say nothing that will induce you to listen to me?" said the
countess, "will you deliberately persist in the conduct that will ruin
three lives?"
"Yes, deliberately and willfully," said Leone. "I will never retract,
never go back, but go on to the bitter end."
"And that end means my son's disgrace," said Lady Lanswell.
"It would be the same thing if it meant his death," said Leone; "no one
withheld the hand that struck death to me--worse than death."
"You have nothing but this to say to me," said Lady Lanswell as she rose
with stately grace from her seat.
"No; if I knew anything which would punish you more, which would more
surely pay my debts, which would more fully wreak my vengeance, I would
do it. As for three lives, as for thirty, I would trample them under my
feet. I will live for my vengeance, no matter what it costs me; and,
Lady Lanswell, you ruined my life. Good-bye. The best wish I can form is
that I may never look on your face again. Permit me to say farewell."
She went out of the room leaving the countess bewildered with surprise
and dismay.
"What she says she will do," thought Lady Lanswell; "I may say good-bye
to every hope I have ever formed for my son."
She went away, her heart heavy as lead, with no hope of any kind to
cheer it.
Leone went to her room, her whole frame trembling with the strong
passion that had mastered her.
"What has come over me?" she said; "I no longer know myself. Is it love,
vengeance, or jealousy that has hold of me? What evil spirit has taken
my heart? Would I really hurt him whom I have loved all my life--would I
do him harm? Would I crush that fair wife of his who wronged me without
knowing it? Let me find out for myself if it be true."
She tried to think, but her head was in a whirl--she could not control
herself, she could not control her thoughts; the sight of Lady Lanswell
seemed to have set her heart and soul in flame--all the terrible memory
of her wrongs came over her, the fair life blighted and ruined, the
innocent girlhood and dawning womanhood all spoiled. It was too
cruel--no, she could never forgive it.
And then it seemed to her that her brain took fire and she went mad.
She saw Lord Chandos that same evening; they met in a crush on the
staircase at one of the ducal mansions, where a grand dinner-party
preceded a _soiree_, and the crowd was so great they were unable to
stir. It is possible to be quite alone in a great crowd, as these two
were now.
Leone had on a dress of white satin trimmed with myrtle, the rich folds
of which trailed on the ground. They shook hands in silence; it was Lord
Chandos who spoke first.
"I am so glad to see you, Leone; but you are looking ill--you must not
look like that. Has anything happened to distress you?"
He saw great trouble in the dark eyes raised to his.
"Is Lady Marion here?" she asked.
"No," he replied. "She was to have come with my mother, but at the last
moment she declined; I do not know why."
She was debating in her own mind whether she would tell him about his
mother's visit or not; then she decided it would be better. He bent over
her.
"I came," he said, "in the hope of seeing you. I heard you say last
night that you should be here."
In a low tone she said to him:
"Your mother has been to see me; talk about dramatic scenes, we had one.
Has she told you anything about it?"
"No," he replied: "she does not speak to me; I am in disgrace; my lady
passes me in silent dignity. She was just going to Lady Marion's room
when I came away, but she did not speak to me. What was the object of
her visit, Leone?"
"It was about Berlin," she said, in a low voice.
He started.
"Has she been to you about that?" he asked. "I thought she had exhausted
all the remarks she had to make on that subject."
The green foliage and crimson flowers of a huge camellia bent over them.
Lord Chandos pushed aside the crimson flowers so that he might more
clearly see his companion's face.
"What has my mother said to you about Berlin, Leone?" he asked.
"She came to beg of me to forbid you to go. She says if you go either
with me or after me you will be a ruined man."
"It will be a most sweet ruin," he whispered.
"Lance," said Leone, "do you know that while Lady Lanswell was talking
to me I went mad--I am quite sure of it. I said such dreadful things to
her; did I mean them?"
"How should I know, my--Leone; but we will not talk about it; never mind
what my mother says, I do not wish to hear it. She came between us once,
but she never will again. She parted us once, she shall never part us
again--never. There can be no harm in my going to Berlin, and there I
shall go--that is, always with your consent and permission."
"That you have. But, Lance, is it true that Lady Marion does not wish
you to go to Berlin, and threatens to leave you if you do--is it true?"
"Let us talk about something else, Leone," he said. "We have but a few
moments together."
"But I cannot think of anything else," she said; "because my heart is
full of it."
What else she would have said will never be known, for at that moment
there was a stir in the crowd, and they were separated.
She took home with her the memory of his last look--a look that said so
plainly, "I love you and will go to Berlin for your sake." She took home
with her the memory of that look, and lay sleepless through the whole
night, wondering which of the evil spirits had taken possession of her.
The countess had gone in search of Lady Marion. She found her in her
boudoir--the beautiful room she had shown with such pride to Madame
Vanira.
Lady Chandos looked up eagerly as the countess entered.
"Have you good news for me?" she cried, eagerly.
And my lady could not destroy the lingering hope she saw in that fair
face.
"Not yet," she cried, "but you must be patient, Marion."
"Patience is so difficult when so much is at stake. Tell me--you had
some plan, some resource; I saw that when you left me. Have you tried
it?"
"Yes, I have tried it," replied Lady Lanswell, sadly.
"Has it succeeded or failed?" she asked, eagerly.
"It has failed," answered the countess, dreading to see the effect of
her reply.
But to her surprise, a tender, dreamy smile came over the fair face.
"Why are you smiling, Marion?" she asked.
"Because I, too, have a plan," she replied; "one quite of my own; and I
pray Heaven it may succeed."
"Will you tell it me?" asked Lady Lanswell.
And the fair, young wife's answer was a quietly whispered:
"No."
Late that night, while the London streets were darkened by the cloud of
sin that seems to rise as the sun sets; while the crowded ballrooms were
one scene of gayety and frivolity; while tired souls went from earth to
Heaven; while poverty, sickness, sorrow and death reigned over the whole
city, Lady Marion, with her golden head bent and her white hands
clasped, knelt praying. There was peace on her face and holy, happy
love.
"God help me," she said; "I will put all my trust in Him. My husband
will love me when he knows."
She prayed there until the sun rose in the morning sky, and she watched
the first beams with a tender smile.
"It will be a day of grace for me," she said, as she laid her fair head
on the pillow to sleep.