Something pa.s.sed 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 pa.s.sage, 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 pa.s.sionate, 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. G.o.d 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 pa.s.sion, 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 pa.s.sion 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 G.o.d, 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 G.o.d, 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 seash.o.r.e, 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.