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

them knew.

She seemed to be quite alone in the world, and against her even the faintest rumor had never been heard; she was of irreproachable propriety, nay, more, she was of angelic goodness--generous, truthful, charitable and high-minded. There was not a whisper against her good name--not one. She had a legion of admirers, none of whom could boast of a favor; she answered no letters; she gave no interviews; she accepted no invitations; she visited among some of the most exclusive circles, where she was received as an equal; she had had offers of marriage that would have made any other woman vain; she refused them all; she seemed to live for her art, and nothing else. Such a description naturally excited the curiosity of people, and the result was a house so crowded that it was almost impossible to find room.

"We may think ourselves fortunate," said Lady Chandos. "I have never seen the house so crowded, and, do not laugh, Lance, I do not see a prettier toilet than my own."

Lady Chandos was always well pleased when her husband complimented her on her dress; if he forgot it, she generally reminded him of it. She looked very beautiful this evening; her dress was of white satin, effectively trimmed with dead gold, and she wore diamonds with rubies--no one there looked better than the queen of blondes.

"I am quite impatient to see La Vanira," she said to her husband. "I wonder why she has chosen this opera, 'L'Etoile du Nord;' it is not the usual thing for a _debutante_."

Then the words died on her lips and for some minutes she said no more. The curtain was drawn up and Madame Vanira appeared. There was a dead silence for some few minutes, then there was a storm of applause; her beautiful face won it, her grand figure, her eyes, with their fire of passion, seemed to demand it.

Of all characters, perhaps that of the loving, impassionate Star of the North suited her best. In it she found expression for love, her passion and despair. She stood before what was perhaps the most critical audience in the world, and she thrilled them with her power. It was no more a woman; she seemed more like an inspired sibyl; her audience hung on every note, on every word from those wonderful lips; while she charmed all ears she charmed all eyes; the beauty of her magnificent face, the beauty of her superb figure, the grandeur of her attitudes, the inimitable grace of her actions were something new and wonderful. From the first moment the curtain rose until it fell the whole audience was breathless.

Lady Chandos laid down her jeweled opera-glass while she drew a breath of relief, it was so wonderful to her, this woman all fire, and genius and power.

"Lance," she said to her husband, "what a wonderful face it is. Have you looked well at it?"

She glanced carelessly at her husband as she spoke, then started at the change in him; his whole face had altered, the expression of careless interest had died, the color and light had died, his dark eyes had a strained, bewildered look; they were shadowed as though by some great doubt or fear.

"Lance," said his wife, "are you not well? You look so strange--quite unlike yourself."

He turned away lest she should see his face more plainly, and then she continued:

"If you are not well, we will go home, dear; nothing will interest me without you."

He made a great effort and spoke to her; but the very tone of his voice was altered, all the sweetness and music had gone out of it.

"I am well," he said, "pray do not feel anxious over me; the house is very full and very warm."

"What do you think of La Vanira?" continued Lady Chandos; "how very different she is to any one else."

He laughed, and the sound was forced and unnatural.

"I think she is very wonderful," he replied.

"And beautiful?" asked Lady Marion, with a look of eager anxiety.

He was too wise and too wary to reply with anything like enthusiasm.

"Beautiful for those who like brunettes," he answered coldly, and his wife's heart was at rest. If he had gone into raptures she would have been disgusted.

"If she would but leave me in peace," thought Lord Chandos to himself.

He was bewildered and confused. Before him stood the great and gifted singer whom kings and emperors had delighted to honor, the most beautiful and brilliant of women; yet surely those dark, lustrous eyes had looked in his own; surely he had kissed the quivering lips, over which such rich strains of music rolled; surely he knew that beautiful face. He had seen it under the starlight, under the shade of green trees by the mill-stream; it must be the girl he had loved with such mad love, and had married more than four years ago. Yet, how could it be? Of Leone he had never heard one syllable.

Mr. Sewell had written to Lady Lanswell to tell her of her indignant rejection of all help, of her disappearance, how she never even returned to River View for anything belonging to her, and after some time the countess had told her son. He went to River View and he found the house closed and the servants gone; he made some inquiries about Leone, but never heard anything about her. He deplored the fact--it added to his misery over her. If he could have known that he left her well provided for he would not have suffered half so much.

All these years he had never heard one word of her. He had thought of her continually, more than any one would have imagined; he never knew what it was to forget her for one minute. His heart was always sad, his soul sorrowful, his mind ill at ease. The more he thought of it, the more despicable his own conduct seemed. He hated the thought of it, he loathed the very memory.

And here was the face he had seen by the mill-stream, the face which had haunted him, the face he loved so well--here it was alight with power, passion and genius. Could this brilliant, gifted singer be Leone, or was he misled by a wonderful likeness? He could not understand it, he was bewildered.

He had wondered a thousand times a day what had become of Leone; he remembered her wonderful talent, how she read those grand old tragedies of Shakespeare until she knew them by heart; but could it be possible that Leone had become the finest singer and the grandest actress in the world?

It was in the last grandly pathetic scene that their eyes met, and for one half moment the gifted woman, on whose lightest breath that vast crowd hung, swayed to and fro as though she would have fallen; the next minute she was pouring out the richest streams of melody, and Lady Chandos said:

"Is it my fancy, Lance, or was La Vanira looking at you?"

"I should say it was your fancy, Marion--La Vanira sees nothing lower than the skies, I think."

And then the opera ended.


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