A Mad Love - Charlotte Mary Brame (best memoirs of all time txt) 📗

with the half-golden light one sees in June skies. You can see that picture, Leone?"

"Yes," she replied, drawing nearer him, and resting her head again on his breast.

"The sun will be low on the hills, and every living thing will be laughing in its light. The great trees will have grown strong in it, the flowers will have brightened, and the river there, Leone, will be running so deep and clear, kissing the green banks and the osier beds, carrying with it the leaves and flowers that will fall on its bosom, and the garden will be filled with the flowers we love the best. You see that picture, too, my love?"

"Yes, I see it," she whispers.

"Wherever I may be," he continued, "I shall so arrange my journey that I may be with you on the morning of my birthday. You see the pretty white gate yonder where the tall white roses climb in summer? My darling, rise early on the thirtieth of June and watch that gate. Even should such an impossible thing be as that you should never have one word of or from me, get up and watch that gate on the thirtieth of June. You will see me enter. I will part the clustering roses; I shall gather the sweetest, together with the fairest lily that blooms, and bring them to you as emblems of your own dearest self. You will see me walk down the broad path there, and you will meet me at the door."

"Oh, my love, my love!" sighed the girl, "would that it were June now."

He bent down to kiss the loving lips.

"It will come," he said; "let me finish the picture. I shall have a special license with me so that we can be remarried that day; and then the world shall know who is Lady Chandos. Then my lady mother shall seek you who have sought her; then she shall ask to know you, my darling, and this hideous past shall be to us a dream and nothing more. Leone, when sad thoughts come to you promise me that you will dwell on this side of the picture and forget the other."

"I promise, Lance," she said, gently.

"You see, my love--whom I shall so soon call again by the beautiful name of wife--you see that your life does not lie in ruins round you; the only difference is that I shall be away."

"And that makes the difference of the whole world to me," said Leone.

"And to me," said Lord Chandos; "but it will soon be over, Leone. You can go on living here--it is no unusual thing for a lady to live alone while her husband is abroad. You can keep the same servants; you need not make the least alteration in your life in any way. Only remain here in silence and patience until I return. Now do you see, my darling, it is not so dreadful?"

"It is hard enough," she replied; "but you have taken away the sting. Oh, my darling, you will be true to me? I am only a simple village girl, with nothing, your mother says, to recommend me; but I love you--I love you. You will be true to me?"

"My dearest Leone, you may as well ask if the stars will be true to heaven, or heaven to itself, as ask me if I will be true to you. You are my life--a man is not false to his own life. You are soul of my soul--no man betrays his soul! It would be easier for me to die than be false to you, my love."

The passionate words reassured her--something of hope came over the beautiful face.

"Lance," she said, "do you remember the mill-wheel and how the water used to sing the words of the song?"

"Yes, I remember it; but those will never come true over us, Leone, never. I shall never break my vows or you yours."

"No; yet how the water sung it over and over again:


"'Those vows were all forgotten,
The ring asunder broke.'


I can hear it now, Lance. It seems to me the wind is repeating it."

"It is only your fancy, my darling," he said.

But she went on:


"'I would the grave would hide me,
For there alone is peace.'


Ah, Lance, my love--Lance, will it happen to either of us to find peace in the grave?"

"No, we shall find peace in life first," he said.

She laid her hand on his arm.

"Lance," she said, "I had a terrible dream last night. I could not sleep for many hours. When at last my eyes closed I found myself by the old mill stream. I thought that I had been driven there by some pain too great for words, and I flung myself into the stream. Oh, Lance, my love--Lance, I felt myself drowning. I felt my body floating, then sinking. My hair caught in the bending branches of a tree. The water filled my eyes and my ears. I died. In my sleep I went through all the pain of death. My last thought was of you. 'Lance,' I cried, in death as in life, 'Lance, come back to me in death!' It was a horrible dream, was it not? Do you think it will ever come true?"

"No," he replied; but his handsome face had grown paler, and the shadows of deep trouble lay in his eyes.

She raised her face to his again.

"Lance," she asked gently, "do you think that any creature--any one has ever loved another as well as I love you? I often wonder about it. I see wives happy and contented, and I wonder if their husbands' smiles make heaven to them as yours do to me."

"I do not think there are many people capable of loving as you do, Leone," he replied, "and now, my darling, I must leave you. Leone, spend all your time in study. A few months more of work as hard as the last three months, and my beautiful wife will be as accomplished as she is graceful. Study will help you to pass away the time."

"I will do anything you tell me, Lance. You will let me write to you every day, and you must write often to me."

"I will, sweet; but you will not be uneasy if my letters are not so frequent as yours; the foreign post is not so regular as ours; and if we travel in Germany I may not always be able to write."

"I will trust you," said the loving voice. "I am sure you will never fail me."

She was proud as an empress, she had the high spirit of a queen; but now that the moments of parting had come, both failed her. She clung to him, weeping passionate tears--it was so cruelly hard, for she loved him so well. Her tears rained on his face, her trembling lips could utter no words for the bitter sobs. Never was sorrow so great, or despair so pitiful. She kissed his face with all the passion of her love.

"Good-bye, my love," she sighed. "Oh, Lance, be true to me--my life lies in yours."

"If ever I prove untrue to you, my darling, let Heaven be false to me," he said. "Leone, give me one smile; I cannot go until I have seen one."

She tried. He kissed the white lips and the weeping eyes.

"Good-bye, my beloved," he said. "Think of the thirteenth of June, and the roses I shall bring back with me."

And then he was gone.


CHAPTER XXI.


WAITING FOR THE DAY.

How the days of that dreary summer passed Leone never knew; the keenest smart of the pain came afterward. At first she was too utterly stunned and bewildered by the suddenness of the blow to realize all that happened. It was impossible to believe that her marriage had been set aside, and that her husband, as she called him, had gone away; but, as the days rolled on, she slowly but surely realized it. There was no break in the terrible monotony. The voice that made such music in her ears was silent, the footsteps that had made her heart beat and her pulse thrill were heard no more; the handsome face, always brightened with such tender love for her, no longer brought sunshine and warmth; it was as though the very light had gone out of her life, and left it all bleak, dark and cold.

For some days the proud heart, the proud, unyielding spirit gave way, and she longed for death; life without Lance seemed so utterly unbearable. Then youth and a naturally strong constitution triumphed. She began to think how much she could learn so as to surprise him on his return. Her soul was fired with ambition; in a few months she would achieve wonders. She set herself so much; she would become proficient on the piano and the harp; she would improve her singing; she would practice drawing; she would take lessons in French and Italian.

"I can learn if I will," she said to herself; "I feel power without limit in myself. If I fix my own will on attaining a certain object I shall not fail. Lance shall find an accomplished wife when he returns."

She resolved to give her whole time and attention to it. Thanks to the old books in Farmer Noel's house, she was better read than the generality of ladies. No toil, no trouble daunted her. She rose in the morning long hours before the rest of the household were awake, and she read for hours after they were asleep. The masters who attended her, not knowing her motive, wondered at her marvelous industry. They wondered, too, at the great gifts nature had bestowed upon her--at the grand voice, capable of such magnificent cultivation; at the superb dramatic instinct which raised her so completely above the commonplace; at the natural grace, the beauty of face and attitude, the love of the beautiful and picturesque. They wondered why so many great gifts, such remarkable beauty and talent should have been lavished on one creature. They strove with her--the more she learned the more they tried to teach her; the harder she worked the harder they worked with her.

As the weeks passed on her progress was wonderful. She was often amazed at herself. It was so sweet to study for his sake, to rise in the early morning and work for him.

She watched with the keenness of love the last leaves fall from the trees--she watched with the keen avidity of love for the white snow and the wail of wintery winds, for the long, dark nights and gray, cold dawn. Each one brought her nearer and nearer; every day was a pain past and a nearer joy. Welcome to the nipping frost and the northern winds; welcome the hail, the rain, the sleet--it brought him nearer. How she prayed for him with the loving simplicity of a child. If Heaven would but spare him, would save him from all dangers, would send him sunny skies and favorable winds, would work miracles in his behalf, would avert all accident by rail and road, would bring him back to her longing, loving arms--ah, if the kind, dear Heaven would do this. When she went out for her daily walks she met the poor, the wretched--she would give liberal alms; and when they said:

"God bless your bonny face, my lady,"