A SACRIFICE.
Lady Marion raised herself so that she could look into the face of her
beautiful rival.
"Now I will tell you," she said; "you are going to Berlin; you have an
engagement at the Royal Opera House there, and my husband wishes to go
there, too. But we all oppose it; his parents for social reasons, and
I--I tell you frankly, because I am jealous of you, and cannot bear that
he should follow you there. I have asked him to give up the idea, but he
refuses--he will not listen to me. I have said that if he goes there, I
will never see him or speak to him again, and I must keep my word. So,
madame, I have come to you; I appeal to you, do not let him go: you can
prevent it if you will."
Leone's dark eyes flashed fire.
"There is no harm in our friendship," she said; "would you take from me
the only gleam of happiness I have in the world?"
But Lady Marion did not seem to hear the wild words; the same raptures
of holy love had come over her face, and she blushed until she looked
like a lovely, glowing rose.
"Think how I trust you," she said; "I have come to tell you that which I
have told to no one. I have come to tell you that which, if ever there
has been any particular friendship between you and my husband, must end
it. I have come to tell you that which will show that now--now you must
not take my husband from me.
"Bend down lower," continued the sweet voice, "that I may whisper to
you. I have been married nearly four years now, and the one desire of my
heart has been to have a little child. I love little children so dearly.
And I have always thought that if I could give to my husband children to
love he would love me better. I have prayed as Rachel prayed, but it
seemed to me the heavens were made of brass--no answer came to my
prayers. I have wept bitter tears when I have seen other mothers
caressing their children. When my husband has stopped to kiss a child or
play with it, my heart has burned with envy, and now, oh, madame, bend
lower, lower--now Heaven has been so good to me, and they tell me that
in a few months I shall have a darling little child, all my own. Oh,
madame, do you see that now you must not take my husband from me; that
now there must be no mischief between us; that we must live in peace and
love because Heaven has been so good to us."
The sweet voice rose to a tone of passionate entreaty; and Lady Marion
withdrew from the clasp of her rival's arms, and knelt at her feet. The
face she raised was bright and beautiful as though angel's wings
shadowed it.
"I plead with you," she said, "I pray to you. You hold my life in your
hands. If it were only myself I would be glad to die, so that if my
husband loves you best he might marry you, but it is for my little
child. Do you know that when I say to myself, 'Lance's little child,'
the words seem to me sweeter than the sweetest music."
But the beautiful woman who had been no wife, turned deadly pale as she
listened to the words. She held up her hand with a terrible cry.
"For Heaven's sake, hush," she said hoarsely, "I cannot bear it!"
For one minute it was as though she had been turned to stone. Her heart
seemed clutched by a cold, iron hand. The next, she had recovered
herself and raised Lady Marion, making her rest, and trying to still the
trembling of the delicate frame.
"You must calm yourself," she said. "I have listened to you, now will
you listen to me?"
"Yes; but, madame, you will be good to me--you will not let my husband
leave me? We shall be happy, I am sure, when he knows; we shall forget
all this sorrow and this pain. He will be to me the same as he was
before your beautiful face dazed him. Ah, madame, you will not let him
leave me."
"I should be a murderess if I did," she said, in a low voice.
Her face was whiter than the face of the dead. She stood quite silent
for a few minutes. In her heart, like a death-knell, sounded the words:
"Lance's little child."
Whiter and colder grew the beautiful face; more mute and silent the
beautiful lips; then suddenly she said:
"Kiss me, Lady Marion, kiss me with your lips; now place your hands in
mine. I promise you that I will not take your husband from you; that he
shall not go to Berlin, either with me or after me. I promise
you--listen and believe me--that I will never see or speak to your
husband again, and this I do for the sake of Lance's little child."
"I believe you," said Lady Marion, the light deepening in her sweet eyes
and on her fair face. "I believe you, and from the depth of my heart I
thank you. We shall be happy, I am sure."
"In the midst of your happiness will you remember me?" asked Leone,
gently.
"Always, as my best, dearest and truest friend," said Lady Marion; and
they parted that summer morning never to meet again until the water
gives up its dead.
Lady Marion drove home with a smile on her fair face, such as had not
been seen there before. It would all come right.
She believed in Madame Vana's simple words as in the pledge of another.
How it would be managed she did not know--did not think; but madame
would keep her word, and her husband would be her own--would never be
cool to her or seek to leave her again; it would be all well.
All that day there was a light on her face that did one's heart good to
see; and when Lady Lanswell saw her that evening she knew that all was
well.
"Lance's little child!" The words had been a death-knell to Leone. She
had seen his wife and lived--she had seen him in his home with that same
fair wife by his side, and she had lived; but at the thought of her
rival's children in his arms her whole soul died.
Died--never to live again. She sat for some time just where Lady Marion
left her, and she said to herself a thousand times over and over again
those words--"Lance's little child." Only God knows the anguish that
came over her, the piercing sorrow, the bitter pain--the memory of those
few months when she had believed herself to be Lance's wife. She fell on
her knees with a great, passionate cry.
"Oh, Heaven," she cried, "save me from myself!"
The most beautiful woman in Europe, the most gifted singer on the stage,
the idol of the world of fashion--she lay there helpless, hopeless,
despairing, with that one cry rising from her lips on which a world had
hung:
"Heaven have mercy on me, and save me from myself!"
When she woke, the real world seemed to have vanished from her. She
heard the sound of running water; a mill-wheel turning in a deep stream;
she heard the rush and the foaming of water, the song of the birds
overhead, the rustle of the great boughs, the cooing of the blue and
white pigeons. Why, surely, that was a dream of home.
Home--the old farmhouse where Robert Noel lived, the kind, slow, stolid
farmer. She could hear him calling, "Leone, where are you?" and the
pigeons deafened her as they whirled round her head. She struggled for a
time with her dazed, bewildered senses; but she could not tell which was
the real life, whether she was at home again in the old farmhouse, and
had dreamed a long, troubled dream, or whether she was dreaming now.
Her brain burned--it was like liquid fire; and she seemed to see always
a golden-haired child.
"Lance's little child." Yes, there he was holding mother and child both
in his arms, kissing them, while she lay there helpless and despairing.
"Mine was always a mad love," she said to herself--"a mad love."
Then she heard a sound of music--softest, sweetest music--floating
through the room, and woke to reason with a terrible shudder to find
that she was singing the old, sweet song:
"I would the grave would hide me,
For there alone is peace."
"I have been mad," she said to herself; "those words drove me mad,
'Lance's little child.'"
She went to her room and bathed her head in ice-cold water. The pain
grew less, but not the burning heat.
The idea became fixed in her mind that she must go back to the old
mill-stream; she did not know why, she never asked herself why; that was
her haven of rest, by the sound of rushing waters. Within sight of the
mill-wheel, and the trees, and the water lilies, all would be well, the
cloud would pass from her mind, the fire from her brain, the sword from
her heart.
She had two letters to write, one to the manager with whom her
engagement expired in two nights, telling him she was ill and had gone
away for her health, and that he would not probably hear of her for some
time; and another to Lord Chandos. It was simple and sad:
"Good-bye. I am going--not to Berlin--but away from Europe, and I
shall never return; but before I leave I shall go to the
mill-stream to look at and listen to the waters for the last time.
Good bye, Lance. In heaven you will know how much I have loved you,
never on earth. In heaven you will know why I have left you. Be
kind, and true, and good to all who are dear to you. Lance, if I
die first, I shall wait inside the golden gates of heaven for you."
She did one thing more, which proved that her reason was still clear.
She paid off all her servants, and to the most trusted one left power to
give up her house in her name, as she was leaving it.
And far off the mill-wheel turned in the stream, and the water-lilies
stirred faintly us the white foam passed them by.