The Mad Love Part 20

CHAPTER XVII.

"I WOULD RATHER SEE MY SON DEAD."

The countess stood alone in the drawing-room. The sun was setting over the trees in the park, and a warm glow filled the beautiful room with rosy light--a light that fell on costly pictures, on marble statues, on buhl and jasper, on silver and gold, on mirrors and flowers, whose fragrance was delicious even to breathe, but it fell on my lady's proud face and figure as though it liked best to linger there.

The dressing-bell had not rung, and she, waiting for it, had fallen into a reverie. She was sure she had done right, yet, without doubt, the girl would feel it keenly. What matter? "Women must weep," it was part of their lives. Whoever paused or cared for a woman's tears? Women had wept before and would weep again. She looked round on the superb home where she reigned mistress, and laughed with scorn as she tried to picture the farmer's niece queen of these ancient walls.

Right? Most certainly she had done right; let weak minds and weak hearts think as they would. The golden sunset, the rosy clouds, the soft, sweet song of the birds, the fragrance of the thousand blooming flowers, the faint whisper of the odorous wind appealed to her in vain. What was a bleeding heart and weeping eyes to her?

Yet she was but a woman; and these sweet voices of nature could not leave her quite unsoftened. She wondered where Lance was. She remembered him a fair-haired, laughing, defiant boy, playing there under the trees when the red light fell. She started suddenly when one of her well-trained footmen opened the door, and said a lady wished to see her.

The countess looked at him in haughty vexation.

"Why do you bring a message so vague? I see no lady who gives neither card nor name."

"I beg pardon, my lady," said the man, humbly. "I did not forget. The lady herself said you did not know her, but that her business was most important."

"You must say that I decline to see any one who gives neither name nor card," said the countess. Then, seeing the man look both anxious and undecided, she added, sharply: "Is it a lady?"

He looked greatly relieved.

"It is, my lady. She is young and beautiful," he would have added, if he had dared.

"You would surely be able to discriminate between a lady and--a person of any other description?" said the countess.

The man bowed.

"The lady wishes me to add that her business was of great importance, and that she had traveled some distance to see you."

"Show her in here," said the countess.

The red light of the setting sun had moved then, and fell over her in great gleams on her dark velvet dress, on her exquisite point lace, and fine, costly gems. She looked regally proud, haughty, and unbending--the type of an English aristocratic matron, true to her cla.s.s, true to her order, intolerant of any other. As she stood in the heart of the rosy light the door opened, and this time the countess of Lanswell was startled out of her calm. There entered the most beautiful girl she had ever beheld--tall, slender, graceful, exquisitely dressed, moving with the most perfect grace and harmony; her face like some grand, pa.s.sionate poem--a girl lovely as a houri, who walked up to her with serene and queenly calm, saying:

"Lady Lanswell, I am your son's wife."

The countess, taken so entirely by surprise, looked long and keenly into that beautiful face--looked at the clear, bright eyes, so full of fire and pa.s.sion--at the lovely, imperial mouth, and the whole face so full of tragedy and beauty; then in a clear, distinct voice, she answered:

"My son has no wife."

Leone drew the glove from her left hand, holding it before my lady's eyes.

"Will you look at my wedding-ring?" she asked.

A scornful smile played round my lady's lips.

"I see a ring," she said, "but not a wedding-ring. There can be no wedding-ring where there is no marriage."

"Do you believe that marriages are known in Heaven?" Leone asked. "Do you believe that if a marriage had been contracted in the presence of Heaven, witnessed by the angels, do you suppose that a mere legal quibble can set it aside?"

"You choose your arguments badly," said the countess. "If you appeal to Heaven, so can I. One of the greatest commandments given from there says, 'Children, obey your parents.' My son is commanded by a divine voice to obey me, and I forbid him to marry until he is of age."

"You have not the power!" cried Leone.

"You are mistaken; not only the power is mine, but I have used it. The foolish ceremony you choose to call your marriage is already set aside."

Leone drew one step nearer to her with flas.h.i.+ng eyes.

"You know that in your heart you cannot believe it. You cannot think it," she cried. "You know that I am your son's wife. You have brought the great strong arm of the law upon me. You have taken from me my husband's name. Yet neither you, nor any human power can make me less his wife. He married me," she continued, her eyes flas.h.i.+ng, her face flus.h.i.+ng, "he married me before G.o.d, and I say that you cannot undo that marriage. I defy you."

"True, I could not undo it, but the law both can and has done so.

Half-educated young ladies, who wish to make such grand marriages, should have common sense first. No youth under age, like my son, can legally marry without the consent of his parents."

The flush faded from the beautiful face, and gave place to a white horror. Leone looked at the countess.

"You do not surely think that I married your son for any other reason except that I loved him?" she cried.

"Pray, believe that I have never troubled myself in the least to think of your motive," said my lady.

"I loved him, Lady Lanswell, you could never know how much. You are proud and haughty; you love a hundred things. I loved but him. I love him with my whole heart and soul. If he had been a peasant, instead of an earl, being what he is, I should have loved him just the same."

Lady Lanswell's face darkened with scorn.

"I am willing to listen to anything you may wish to say, but I beg of you leave all such nonsense as love out of the discussion. You have probably come to see me because you want money. Let us come to the point at once."

The pride that flushed the beautiful face of the girl startled the haughty patrician who stood before her.

"Money," cried Leone, "I have never thought of money. I do not understand. Why should I want money from you?"

To do her justice, the countess shrunk from the words.

"I should suppose," she said, "that you will require some provision made for you, now that you are leaving my son?"

It was with difficulty that Leone controlled herself. Her whole frame trembled with indignation. Then the color receded from her face and left her white, silent, and motionless.

"I have been too hard," thought the countess, "no one can suffer beyond her strength."

She motioned the girl to take a chair, sitting down herself for the first time since the interview began. There was no feeling of pity in her heart, but she felt there were certain things to be said, and the best way would be to say them and have it all over.

Leone did not obey. She stood silent for a few minutes. Then she said, simply:

"I would never take money from you, Lady Lanswell, not even if I were dying of hunger. You do not like me; you are cruel to me."

Lady Lanswell interrupted her with a superb gesture of scorn.

"I could not possibly like or dislike you," she said; "you are less than nothing to me. It was natural that I should think you came to me for money. If that be not your object, may I ask what it is?"

"Yes; I will tell you. I thought, as you were a woman, I might appeal to you."

My lady smiled haughtily.