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CHAPTER XXXVIII.
LANCE'S DETERMINATION

"You have not much to say to me to-night, Lance," said Lady Marion, in a tone of gentle expostulation. "I wonder if that beautiful singer was really looking at you. It seemed to me that the moment her eyes caught yours she faltered and almost failed."

Lord Chandos roused himself.

"Give me a woman's fancy," he said; "it is boundless as the deep sea."

"I think a beautiful singer is like a siren," continued Lady Chandos, "she wins all hearts."

He laughed again, a tired, indifferent, reckless laugh.

"I thought we had agreed that you had won mine, Marion," he said, "and, if that be true, it cannot be won again."

She was silent for a few minutes, then she continued:

"Which do you really admire most, Lance, blonde or brunette, tell me?"

"A strange question to ask a man who was fortunate enough to win the queen of blondes for his wife," he replied.

He would have paid her any compliment – said anything to please her – if she would only have given him time to think.

They were driving home together, but he felt it was impossible to remain under any roof until he had learned whether Leone and La Vanira were the same. If his dear, good, amiable wife would but give him time to think. He could hear the sound of the mill-wheel, he could hear the ripple of the waters, the words of the song:

 
"In sheltered vale a mill-wheel
Still sings its busy lay.
My darling once did dwell there,
But now she's gone away."
 

The stars were shining as they shone when he sat by the mill-stream, with that beautiful head on his heart. He shuddered as he remembered her forebodings. Lady Chandos took his hand anxiously in hers.

"My dearest Lance, I am quite sure you are not well, I saw you shudder as though you were cold, and yet your hands are burning hot. What is it you say about going to your club? Nothing of the kind, my darling. You must have some white wine whey; you have taken cold. No; pray do not laugh, Lance, prevention is better than cure."

She had exactly her own way, as those very quiet, amiable wives generally have. He did not go to his club, but he sat by his dressing-room fire, and drank white wine whey. He had the satisfaction of hearing his wife say that he was the best husband in the world; then he fell asleep, to dream of the mill-stream and the song.

It grew upon him – he must know if that was Leone. Of course, he said to himself, he did not wish to renew his acquaintance with her – he would never dare, after his cruel treatment of her, even to address one word to her; but he should be quite content if he could know whether this was Leone or not. If he could know that he would be happy, his sorrow and remorse would be lessened.

He knew that the best place for hearing such details was his club – the Royal Junior – every one and everything were discussed there, no one escaped, and what was never known elsewhere was always known at the Royal Junior. He would take luncheon there and by patient listening would be sure to know. He went, although Lady Chandos said plaintively that she could not eat her luncheon alone.

"I am compelled to go," he said. "I have business, Marion, that is imperative."

"I think husbands have a reserve fund of business," said Lady Chandos. "What a mysterious word it is, and how much it covers, Lance. Lord Seafield is never at home, but whenever his wife asks him where he is going, he always says 'on business.' Now, in your case what does business mean?"

He laughed at the question.

"Parliamentary interests, my dear," he replied, as he hastened away. Such close questions were very difficult to answer.

He found the dining-rooms well filled, and, just as he had foreseen, the one subject was La Vanira. Then, indeed, did he listen to some wonderful stories. The Marquis of Exham declared that she was the daughter of an illustrious Sicilian nobleman, who had so great a love for the stage nothing could keep her from it. The Earl of Haleston said he knew for a fact she was the widow of an Austrian Jew, who had taken to the stage as the means of gaining her livelihood. Lord Bowden said she was the wife of an Austrian officer who was possessed of ample means. There were at least twenty different stories about her, and not one agreed with another.

"I wonder," said Lord Chandos, at last, "what is the real truth?"

"About what?" said a white-haired major, who sat next to him.

"About La Vanira," he replied; "every one here has a different story to tell."

"I can tell you as much truth as any one else about her," said the major, "I was with the manager last evening. La Vanira is English. I grant that she looks like a Spaniard – I never saw such dark eyes in my life; but she is English; accomplished, clever, good as gold, and has no one belonging to her in the wide world. That much the manager told me himself."

"But where does she come from?" he asked, impatiently. "Everybody comes from somewhere."

"The manager's idea is that she was brought up in the midland counties; he thinks so from a few words she said one day."

"Is she married or single?" asked Lord Chandos.

"Single," was the reply; "and in no hurry to be married. She has refused some of the best offers that could be made; and yet she wears a ring on the third finger of her left hand – perhaps it is not a wedding-ring."

"I should like to see her," said Lord Chandos.

The white-haired major laughed.

"So would half the men in London, but no one visits her – she allows no introductions. I know a dozen and more who have tried to see her in vain."

He was not much wiser after this conversation than before; but he was more determined to know. That same evening he made another excuse, and left his wife at Lady Blanchard's ball while he drove to the opera-house. The opera was almost over, but he saw the manager, to whom he briefly stated his errand.

"I believe," he said, "that in Madame Vanira I recognize an old friend. Will you introduce me to her?"

"I am sorry to say that I cannot," was the courteous reply. "I promised madame not to make any introductions to her."

"Will you take my card to her? If she is the lady I take her to be she will send word whether she wishes to see me or not."

The manager complied with his request. He soon returned.

"Madame Vanira wishes me to say that she has not the pleasure of your lordship's acquaintance, and that she is compelled to decline any introduction."

"Then it is not Leone," he said to himself, and a chill of disappointment came over him.

His heart had been beating quickly and warmly, yet he persuaded himself it was only that he was so pleased to know she was all right and safe from the frowns of the world. It was not Leone, but she was so much like Leone that he felt he must go to see her again.

"The opera to-night?" said Lady Marion, in her sweetest tones. "Why, my dear Lance, you were there three nights since."

"Yes, I know, but I thought it pleased you, Marion. We will ask my mother to go with us. It is the 'Crown Diamonds,' a very favorite opera of hers."

"Will Madame Vanira sing?" asked Lady Chandos, and her husband quietly answered:

"Yes."

He was anxious for Lady Lanswell to go, to see if she would recognize Leone, or if any likeness would strike her. As his chief wish seemed to be to give pleasure to his mother, and he expressed no desire to see the beautiful singer again, Lady Chandos was very amiable. She sent a kind little note to the countess, saying what pleasure it would give them if she would go to the opera with them, and Lady Lanswell was only too pleased. The earl had grown tired of such things and never cared to go out in the evening.

How anxiously Lord Chandos watched his mother's face. He saw delight, surprise and wonder, but no recognition – except once, and then the magnificent arms of the actress were raised in denunciation. Then something of bewilderment came over Lady Lanswell's face, and she turned to her son.

"Lance," she said, "Madame Vanira reminds me of some one, and I cannot think who it is."

"Have you seen her before, mother, do you think?" he asked.

"No, I think not; but she reminds me of some one, I cannot think whom. Her gestures are more familiar to me than her face."

Evidently the thought of Leone never entered her mind; and Lord Chandos was more puzzled than ever. The countess was charmed.

"What fire, what genius, what power! That is really acting," she said. "In all my life I have seen nothing better. There is truth in her tenderness, reality in her sorrow. I shall often come to see Vanira, Lance."

So she did, and was often puzzled over the resemblance of some one she knew; but she never once dreamed of Leone, while, by dint of earnest watching and study, Lord Chandos became more and more convinced that it was she.

He was determined to find out. He was foolish enough to think that if he could once be sure of it, his heart and mind would be at rest, but until then there was no rest for him.

What could he do – how could he know? Then the idea came, to follow her carriage home. By dint of perseverance he found, at last, that Madame Vanira had a very pretty house in Hampstead called the Cedars, and he determined to call and see her there. If he had really been mistaken, and it were not Leone, he could but apologize; if it were —

Ah, well, if it were, he would ask her forgiveness, and she would give it to him, on account of the love she bore him years ago.

CHAPTER XXXIX.
NEITHER WIFE NOR WIDOW

It was with some trepidation that Lord Chandos presented himself at the gates of the Cedars, yet surely she who had loved him so well would never refuse him admission into her house? that is, if it were Leone. As he walked through the pretty garden and saw all the pretty flowers blooming, he said to himself, that it was like her. She had always so dearly loved the spring flowers, the flame of the yellow crocus, the faint, sweet odor of the violets, the pure heads of the white snow-drops. He had heard her say so often that she loved these modest, sweet flowers that come in the spring more than the dainty ones that bloom in summer-time.

It was like her, this garden, and yet, he could not tell why. Great clusters of lilac-trees were budding, the laburnums were thinking of flowering; but there was no song of running brook, and no ripple of fountains, no sound of falling water; the birds were busy wooing and they had so much to sing about.

There was a profusion of flowers, all the windows seemed full of them; there was a picturesque look about the place that reminded him of Leone. On the lawn stood two large cedars, from which the place derived its name. He went to the hall door. What if she should meet him suddenly and turn from him in indignant anger? What if it should not be Leone, but a stranger?

A pretty housemaid, Parisian, he knew from the type, answered the door, from whom he inquired, in his most polite fashion, if Madame Vanira was at home.

There is no denying the fact that all women are more or less susceptible to the charms of a handsome face, and Lord Chandos was handsome – exceedingly. The girl looked up into the dark face and the dark eyes that always looked admiringly when a woman was near.

"Madame Vanira sees no one," she replied.

Something passed rapidly from his hand to hers.

"You look kind," he said, "be my friend. I think that, years ago, I knew Madame Vanira. If she be the lady whom I believe her to be, she will be pleased to see me, and no possible blame can be attached to you. Tell me where she is that I may find her."

"Madame is in the morning-room," said the girl, with some hesitation, "but I shall lose my place if I admit you."

"I promise you no," said Lord Chandos; "on the contrary, your lady will be pleased that you are able to discriminate between those whom she would like to see, and those whom she would not."

"At least, let me announce you," pleaded the pretty housemaid, in broken English.

"No, it would serve no purpose; that is, of course, you can go before me and open the door – I will follow you immediately. You need only say, 'A gentleman to see you, madame.' Will you do this?"

"Yes," said the girl, reluctantly.

As he followed her through the passage, it did occur to him that if it were not Leone, he should be in a terrible dilemma. It occurred to him also, that if it were Leone, what right had he there, with that fair, sweet wife of his at home – what right had he there?

He followed the pretty maid through the hall and through a suit of rooms, furnished with quiet elegance. They came to the door of a room before which the maid stopped, and Lord Chandos saw that her face had grown pale.

She opened it.

"A gentleman to see you, madame," she said, hastily.

And then the maid disappeared, and he entered the room.

Leone was standing with her face to the window when he entered, and he had one moment in which to look round the room – one moment in which to control the rapid beating of his heart; then she turned suddenly, and once more they were face to face.

Ah, to see the heaven of delight and rapture that came over hers – the light that came into her eyes; it was as though her face was suddenly transfigured; all the past in that one moment of rapture was forgotten, all the treachery, the perfidy, the falsity.

She uttered one word, "Lance," but it was a cry of unutterable delight. "Lance," she repeated, and then, with all the light of heaven still shining in her face, she hid her face on his breast. She did not remember, she only knew that it was the face of her lost lover, the same strong, tender arms were clasped round her, the same warm kisses were on her face, the same passionate, loving heart was beating near her own. Ah, Heaven, how sweet that one moment was. To die while it lasted, never to leave the shelter of those dear arms again. She had waited for him for years, and he had come at last.

There were a few minutes of silent, rapturous greeting, and then, suddenly, she remembered, and sprung from him with a low cry.

"How dare you?" she cried, "I had forgotten. How dare you?"

Then the sight of the beloved face, the dear eyes, the well-remembered figure, took all the hot anger from her.

"Oh, Lance, Lance, I ought not to speak to you or look at you, and yet I cannot help it. God help me, I cannot help it."

He was down on his knees by her side, clasping her hands, the folds of her dress, crying out to her to pardon him; that he had no excuse to offer her; he had been guilty beyond all guilt; that neither in heaven nor on earth could there be any pardon for him; that he would have died a hundred deaths rather than have lost her.

For some five minutes it was a mad whirl of passion, love and regret. She was the first to recollect herself, to say to him:

"Lord Chandos, you must not kneel there; remember you have a wife at home."

The words struck him like a sharp sword. He arose and, drawing a chair for her, stood by her side.

"I am beside myself," he said, "with the pleasure of seeing you again. Forgive me, Leone; I will not offend. Oh, what can I say to you? How can I look upon your face and live?"

"You were very cruel to me and very treacherous," she said; "your treachery has spoiled my life. Oh, Lance, how could you be so cruel to me when I loved you so – how could you?"

Tears that she had repressed for years rained down her face; all the bitter grief that she had held in as with an iron hand, all the pride so long triumphant, all the pain and anguish, and the desolation, that had been in check, rushed over her, as the tempestuous waves of the sea rush over the rocks and sands.

"How could you, Lance?" she cried, wringing her hands; "how could you? You were cruel and treacherous to me, though I trusted you so. Ah, my love, my love, how could you?"

The beautiful head fell forward in the very abandonment of sorrow; great sobs shook the beautiful figure.

"Oh, Lance, I loved you so, I believed in you as I believed in Heaven. I loved you and trusted you, you forsook me and deceived me. Oh, my love, my love!"

His face grew white and his strong figure trembled under the pain of her reproaches.

"Leone," he said, gently, "every word of yours is a sword in my heart. Why did I do it? Ah me, why? I have no word of excuse for myself, not one. I might say that I was under woman's influence, but that would not excuse me. I take the whole blame, the whole sin upon myself. Can you ever forgive me?"

She raised her face to his, all wet with tears.

"I ought not to forgive you," she said; "I ought to drive you from my presence; I ought to curse you with my ruined life, but I cannot. Oh, Lance, if I only lay under the waters of the mill-stream, dead."

The passion of her grief was terrible to see. He forgot all and everything but her – the wife at home, the plighted vows, honor, truth, loyalty – all and everything except the girl whom he had loved with a mad love, and her grief. He drew her to his breast, he kissed away the shining tears; he kissed the trembling lips.

"Leone, you will drive me mad. Great God, what have I done? I realize it now; I had better have died," and then the strength of the strong man gave way, and he wept like a child. "It is no excuse," he said, "to plead that I was young, foolish, and easily led. Oh, Leone, my only love, what was I doing when I gave you up – when I left you?"

The violence of his grief somewhat restrained hers; she was half frightened at it.

"We are making matters worse," she said. "Lance, we must not forget that you are married now in earnest."

"Will you ever forgive me?" he asked. "I have no excuse to offer. I own that my sin was the most disloyal and the most traitorous a man could commit, but forgive me, Leone. I have repented of it in sackcloth and ashes. Say you forgive me."

The beautiful, colorless face did not soften at the words.

"I cannot," she said; "I cannot forgive that treachery, Lance; it has wounded me even unto death. How can I forgive it?"

"My darling – Leone – say you will pardon me. I will do anything to atone for it."

She laid one white hand on his arm.

"You see, Lance," she said, earnestly, "it is one of those things for which you can never atone – one that can never be undone – but one which will brand me forever. What am I? Did you stop to think of that when your new love tempted you? What am I? not your wife – not your widow. Oh God, what am I?"

He drew her to him again, but this time she resisted his warm kisses.

"Leone," he said sadly, "I deserve to be shot. I hate myself – I loathe myself. I cannot imagine how I failed in my duty and loyalty to you. I can only say that I was young and thoughtless – easily led. Heaven help me, I had no mind of my own, but I have suffered so cruelly and so have you, my darling – so have you."

"I?" she replied. "When you can count the leaves in the forest, or the sands on the seashore, you will know what I have suffered, not until then."

Her voice died away in a melancholy cadence that to him was like the last wailing breath of the summer wind in the trees.

CHAPTER XL.
"FORGIVE ME, LEONE."

"Lance," she said, suddenly, "or, as I ought to say, Lord Chandos – how can I forgive you? What you ask is more than any woman could grant. I cannot pardon the treachery which has ruined my life, which has stricken me, without blame or fault of mine, from the roll of honorable women – which has made me a by-word, a mark for the scorn and contempt of others, a woman to be contemned and despised. Of what use are all the gifts of Heaven to me, with the scarlet brand you have marked on my brow?"

He grew white, even to the lips, as the passionate words reached his ears.

"Leone," he cried, "for God's sake spare me. I have no defense – no excuse; spare me; your words kill me. They are not true, my darling; none of what happened was your fault – you were innocent and blameless as a child; you are the same now. Would to Heaven all women were pure and honorable as you. Say what you will to me, no punishment would be too great for me – but say nothing yourself; never one word, Leone. Could you forgive me? I have done you the most cruel wrong, and I have no excuse to offer – nothing but my foolish youth, my mad folly, my unmanly weakness. I have known it ever since I married. You are my only love; I have never had another. Ah, my darling, forgive me. If I have ruined your life, I have doubly ruined my own."

She raised her beautiful, colorless face to his.

"Lance," she said, gently, "what a prophecy that song held for us. And the running water – how true a foreboding it always murmured:

 
"'The vows are all forgotten,
The ring asunder broken.'
 

How true and how cruel. I hear the song and I hear the murmur of the water in my dreams."

"So do I," he replied, sadly. "My darling, I wish we never left the mill-stream. I would to Heaven we had died under the running water together."

"So do I," she said, "but we are living, not dead, and life holds duties just as death holds relief. We must remember much harm has been done – we need not do more."

"Say that you will forgive me, Leone, and then I do not care what happens. I will do anything you tell me. I will humble myself in every way. I will do anything you can desire if you will only forgive me. Do, for Heaven's sake. I am so utterly wretched that I believe if you refuse to say one word of pardon to me I shall go mad or kill myself."

There was a long struggle in her mind. Could she forgive the injury which seemed greater than man had ever inflicted on woman? She was very proud, and her pride was all in arms. How could she pardon a traitor? She had loved him better than her life, and with the first sight of his handsome, beloved face all the glamour of her love was over her again.

How could she forgive him? Yet the proud figure was bent so humbly before her, the proud head so low.

"What am I to say?" she cried. "I was a good and innocent girl – now it seems to me that the evil spirits of passion and unrest have taken possession of me. What am I to say or to do? Heaven help and teach me."

"Forgive me," he repeated. "Your refusal will send me away a madman, ready for any reckless action. Your consent will humble me, but it will make me happier. Oh, my darling, forgive me."

"Suppose that harm follows my forgiveness – we are better enemies than friends, Lord Chandos."

"We will never be enemies, and no harm can come except that I shall be happier for it. Say you will forgive me, Leone. See, I ask your pardon on my knees. For Heaven's sake, for my great love's sake, say you forgive me!"

He knelt before her humbly as a child, he bowed his handsome head until his face rested on her knees; he sobbed aloud in his sorrow and his deep regret. She stood for a few minutes quite uncertain; her clear reason and common sense told her that it would be better if she would refuse him pardon, and that they should part for all time; but love and pity pleaded, and of course love and pity won. She laid her hand on the dark head of the man whom she had once believed her husband; her beautiful face quivered with emotion.

"I forgive you," she said, "freely, frankly, fully, as I hope Heaven will forgive me all my sins. Nay, you must not kiss me, not even my hand. Your kisses belong to some one else now – not to me. I forgive you, but we must part again. Come what may – we must part, we must not meet again."

"I can never part with you," he said, in a hoarse voice. "You have been life of my life, heart of my heart too long for that."

She held up her hand with a superb gesture of warning and silence.

"Hush, Lord Chandos," she said; "if you speak to me in that strain, I shall never see you again. Remember you have a wife; you must not be false to two women – keep true to one. Neither your kisses nor your loving words belong to me now."

"I will not offend you," he said, sadly.

She leaned her beautiful arms on the table, her white hands under her chin, looking steadily at him.

"I have forgiven you," she said, musingly, "I, who have sworn such terrible oaths, such bitter revenge, I have ended by forgiving you, after the fashion of the most milk-and-water type of women. I have forgiven you, and Heaven knows how I tried to hate you, and have tried to take pleasure in the thoughts of my vengeance."

"You have had your vengeance on me, Leone, in the shape of the love that has never left me, and the memories which have haunted me. You swore vengeance against my mother, but you will forego that."

A slow smile came over her face and died away again.

"Lord Chandos," she said, "you will not be my debtor in generosity. You have asked me to pardon you; I have done so. Grant me one favor in return – tell me who influenced you to forsake me?"

He looked puzzled.

"I hardly know, Leone, I can hardly tell you."

"It was not the lady whom you have married," she continued, "of that I am sure. Who was it?"

"I think if any one influenced me it must have been my mother," he said, gently; "she was always violently opposed to it."

The beautiful lips paled and trembled.

"I thought it was your mother," she said, gravely, "No, I shall not forego my vengeance against her, although I know not when I may gain it."

"You will forget all that," he said. "You are too noble to care for vengeance."

"I am not too noble," she replied. "All that was best and noble in me died on the day you forsook me. And now, Lord Chandos, listen to me. Words of peace and pardon have passed between us. It has raised a heavy funeral pall from my life; it has, perhaps, raised a black cloud from yours. Lord Chandos, we must not meet again."

"You cannot be so cruel, Leone. Having found you, how can I lose you again?"

"You must, it is imperative," she said slowly.

"But, Leone, why should we not be friends?" he said, gently.

She laughed a hard, scornful laugh that struck him in the face like the sting of a sharp blade.

"Friends?" she repeated. "Could we who have been wedded lovers ever be friends? You do not know what words mean if you think that."

He stood before her with a stern, white face.

"Leone," he cried, "are you really going to be cruel enough to send me away out of your life again, I who have been mad with joy at finding you?"

"If I were cruel," she said, slowly, "now I would take my vengeance. I should say as you once left me so now I leave you, but I am not cruel, and that is my reason. My reason is a good and pure one; we could never remain friends, we love each other too much for that; we must live as strangers now; and remember, it is your fault, not mine."

"I cannot submit to it," he cried.

But she looked at him with a face stern, resolute, fixed as his own.

"Remember, Lord Chandos," she said, "that I am my own mistress. I can choose my friends and associates. I refuse to admit you among the number."

"You cannot prevent me from coming to see you, Leone."

"No; but I can, and shall, refuse to see you when you come," she replied; "and I shall do so."

"Oh, my love, my cruel, beautiful love," he cried.

The girl's face flushed with hot anger and indignation.

"Will you be silent?" she cried. "Shame on you, Lord Chandos, to use such words. You have a beautiful and beloved wife at home to whom all your love and fidelity belong. If you say one more such word to me I will never see you again."

"But, Leone, it seems so very hard; you might let me call at times and see you."

"No, I cannot, I cannot trust myself, even if I could trust you. I have had no other husband, no other love; you have married. I would not trust myself; my love is as great now as ever it was, but it shall not run away with me; it shall not be my master. I will master it. You must not come near me."

"But, surely, if I meet you in the street, you will not ask me to pass you by?" he said.

"No; if we meet quite by chance, quite by accident, I will always speak to you. Ah, Lance," she added, with a smile, "I know you so well, I know every look in your eyes; you are thinking to yourself you will often see me by accident. You must not; such honor as you have left me let me keep."

"If this is to be our last interview, for some time, at least," he continued, "tell me, Leone, how is it that you have become so famous?"

"Yes, I will tell you all about that; I am rather proud of my power. It is not a long story, and it dates from the day on which your mother sent me that letter."

She told him all her studies, her struggles, her perseverance, her success, finally her crowning by fame.

"It is like a romance," he said.

"Yes, only it is true," she replied.

He tried to prolong the interview, but she would close it; and he was compelled to leave her, when he would have given years of his life to have remained one hour longer.