Part 68 (2/2)
”There is no harm in our friends.h.i.+p,” she said; ”would you take from me the only gleam of happiness I have in the world?”
But Lady Marion did not seem to hear the wild words; the same raptures of holy love had come over her face, and she blushed until she looked like a lovely, glowing rose.
”Think how I trust you,” she said; ”I have come to tell you that which I have told to no one. I have come to tell you that which, if ever there has been any particular friends.h.i.+p between you and my husband, must end it. I have come to tell you that which will show that now--now you must not take my husband from me.
”Bend down lower,” continued the sweet voice, ”that I may whisper to you. I have been married nearly four years now, and the one desire of my heart has been to have a little child. I love little children so dearly.
And I have always thought that if I could give to my husband children to love he would love me better. I have prayed as Rachel prayed, but it seemed to me the heavens were made of bra.s.s--no answer came to my prayers. I have wept bitter tears when I have seen other mothers caressing their children. When my husband has stopped to kiss a child or play with it, my heart has burned with envy, and now, oh, madame, bend lower, lower--now Heaven has been so good to me, and they tell me that in a few months I shall have a darling little child, all my own. Oh, madame, do you see that now you must not take my husband from me; that now there must be no mischief between us; that we must live in peace and love because Heaven has been so good to us.”
The sweet voice rose to a tone of pa.s.sionate entreaty; and Lady Marion withdrew from the clasp of her rival's arms, and knelt at her feet. The face she raised was bright and beautiful as though angel's wings shadowed it.
”I plead with you,” she said, ”I pray to you. You hold my life in your hands. If it were only myself I would be glad to die, so that if my husband loves you best he might marry you, but it is for my little child. Do you know that when I say to myself, 'Lance's little child,'
the words seem to me sweeter than the sweetest music.”
But the beautiful woman who had been no wife, turned deadly pale as she listened to the words. She held up her hand with a terrible cry.
”For Heaven's sake, hush,” she said hoa.r.s.ely, ”I cannot bear it!”
For one minute it was as though she had been turned to stone. Her heart seemed clutched by a cold, iron hand. The next, she had recovered herself and raised Lady Marion, making her rest, and trying to still the trembling of the delicate frame.
”You must calm yourself,” she said. ”I have listened to you, now will you listen to me?”
”Yes; but, madame, you will be good to me--you will not let my husband leave me? We shall be happy, I am sure, when he knows; we shall forget all this sorrow and this pain. He will be to me the same as he was before your beautiful face dazed him. Ah, madame, you will not let him leave me.”
”I should be a murderess if I did,” she said, in a low voice.
Her face was whiter than the face of the dead. She stood quite silent for a few minutes. In her heart, like a death-knell, sounded the words:
”Lance's little child.”
Whiter and colder grew the beautiful face; more mute and silent the beautiful lips; then suddenly she said:
”Kiss me, Lady Marion, kiss me with your lips; now place your hands in mine. I promise you that I will not take your husband from you; that he shall not go to Berlin, either with me or after me. I promise you--listen and believe me--that I will never see or speak to your husband again, and this I do for the sake of Lance's little child.”
”I believe you,” said Lady Marion, the light deepening in her sweet eyes and on her fair face. ”I believe you, and from the depth of my heart I thank you. We shall be happy, I am sure.”
”In the midst of your happiness will you remember me?” asked Leone, gently.
”Always, as my best, dearest and truest friend,” said Lady Marion; and they parted that summer morning never to meet again until the water gives up its dead.
Lady Marion drove home with a smile on her fair face, such as had not been seen there before. It would all come right.
She believed in Madame Vana's simple words as in the pledge of another.
How it would be managed she did not know--did not think; but madame would keep her word, and her husband would be her own--would never be cool to her or seek to leave her again; it would be all well.
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