"Yes, in a quiet way. She plays beautifully, and she composes pretty airs to pretty words."
Leone looked up, with vivid interest in her face.
"Does she? Ah, that is greater art than being able to sing the music another has written."
"I do not think so," he replied. "If you are thinking of Lady Marion in comparison with yourself, there is no comparison; it is like moonlight and sunlight, water and wine. She has the grace and calm of repose. You have the fire of genius, before which everything grows pale. She quiets a man"s heart. You stir every pulse in it. She soothes one into forgetfulness of life. You brace and animate and brighten. You cannot compare the two characters, because they are quite different. You are smiling. What amuses you?"
"Nothing. I was not amused, Lord Chandos. I was thinking, and the thought I smiled over was not amusing."
"What was it?"
"I was thinking of how it would be the same, the end of all; all grace, gifts, and talents; all beauty and genius. I read some lines yesterday that have haunted me ever since. Shall I repeat them to you?"
"It is always a great treat to hear you recite poetry," he replied. "I shall be only too delighted."
Her beautiful face grew more beautiful and more earnest, as it always did under the influence of n.o.ble words. Her voice was sweeter than that of a singing-bird, and stirred every pulse in the heart of the listener as she recited this little poem:
"While roses are so red, While lilies are so white, Shall a woman exalt her face Because it gives delight?
She"s not so sweet as a rose, A lily is straighter than she, And if she were as red or white, She"d be but one of three.
"Whether she flush in love"s summer, Or in its winter grow pale, Whether she flaunt her beauty, Or hide it in a veil; Be she red or white, And stand she erect or bowed, Time will win the race he runs with her, And hide her away in a shroud."
"Those words took my fancy, Lord Chandos," continued Leone; "they are so true, so terribly true. All grace and beauty will be hidden away some day in a shroud."
"There will be no shroud for the soul," he said.
She rose from her seat and looked round with a weary sigh.
"That is true. After all, nothing matters, death ends everything; nothing matters except being good and going to heaven."
He smiled half sadly at her.
"Those are grave thoughts for the most brilliant beauty, the most gifted singer, the most popular queen of the day," he said.
"The brilliant beauty will be a mere handful of dust and ashes some day," she said.
Then Lord Chandos rose from his seat with a shudder.
"Let us go out into the sunlight," he said; "the shade under the old cedar makes you dull. How you have changed! I can remember when you never had a dull thought."
"I can remember when I had no cause for dull thoughts," she answered.
Then, fancying that the words implied some little reproach to him, she continued, hastily: "My soul has grown larger, and the larger one"s soul the more one suffers. I have understood more of human nature since I have tried to represent the woes of others."
He glanced at her with sudden interest.
"Which, of all the characters you represent, do you prefer?" he asked.
"I can hardly tell you. I like Norma very much--the stately, proud, loving woman, who has struggled so much with her pride, with her sense of duty, with her sacred character, who fought human love inch by inch, who yielded at last; who made the greatest sacrifice a woman could make, who risked her life and dearer than her life for her love. All the pa.s.sion and power in my nature rises to that character."
"That is easily seen," he replied. "There have been many Normas, but none like you."
Her face brightened; it was so sweet to be praised by him!
"And then," she continued, "the grand tragedy of pa.s.sion and despair, the n.o.ble, queenly woman who has sacrificed everything to the man she loves finds that she has a rival--a young, beautiful, beloved rival."
She clasped her hands with the manner of a queen. "My whole soul rises to that," she continued; "I understand it--the pa.s.sion, the anguish, the despair!"
His dark eyes, full of admiration, were riveted on her.
"Who would have thought," he said, gravely, "that you had such a marvel of genius in you?"
"You are very good to call it genius," she said. "I always knew I had something in me that was not to be described or understood--something that made me different from other people; but I never knew what it was.
Do you know those two lines:
""The poets learn in suffering What they tell in song."
"I think the pa.s.sion of anguish and pain taught me to interpret the pains and joys of others. There is another opera I love--"L"Etoile du Nord."
The grave, tender, grand character of Catherine, with her pa.s.sionate love, her despair, and her madness, holds me in thrall. There is no love without madness."
A deep sigh from her companion aroused her, and she remembered that she was on dangerous ground; still the subject had a great charm for her.
"If I ever wrote an opera," she said, "I should have jealousy for my ground-work."
"Why?" he asked, briefly.
"Because," she replied, "it is the strongest of all pa.s.sions."
"Stronger than love?" he asked.
"I shall always think they go together," said Leone. "I know that philosophers call jealousy the pa.s.sion of ign.o.ble minds; I am not so sure of it. It goes, I think, with all great love, but not with calm, well-controlled affection. I should make it the subject of my opera, because it is so strong, so deep, so bitter; it transforms one, it changes angels into demons. We will not talk about it." She drew a little jeweled watch from her pocket. "Lord Chandos," she said, "we have been talking two hours, and you must not stay any longer."
When he was gone she said to herself that she would not ask him any more questions about Lady Marion.
CHAPTER XLIV.
THE RIVALS FACE TO FACE.
Madame de Chandalle gave a grand SOIREE, and she said to herself that it should be one of the greatest successes of the season. Three women were especially popular and sought after: Madame Vanira, whose beauty and genius made her queen of society; Lady Chandos, whose fair, tranquil loveliness was to men like the light of the fair moon, and Miss Bygrave, the most brilliant of brunettes--the most proud and exclusive of ladies.
Madame de Chandalle thought if she could but insure the presence of all three at once, her _soiree_ would be the success of the season. She went in person to invite the great singer herself, a compliment she seldom paid to any one, and Leone at first refused. Madame de Chandalle looked imploringly at her.
"What can I offer as an inducement? The loveliest woman in London, Lady Chandos, will be there. That will not tempt you, I am afraid."
She little knew how much.
As Leone heard the words, her heart beat wildly. Lady Chandos, the fair woman who was her rival. She had longed to see her, and here was a chance. She dreaded, yet desired to look at her, to see what the woman was like whom Lance had forsaken her for. The longing tempted her.