Chapter XXXVIII: The Lioness and the Lamb

Ah, he who turns the courses
Of the streamlet in the glen,
And the river of great waters,
Can turn the hearts of men.—_Whittier._

Again, in that small chamber, in the persons of those two women, the powers of good and evil, of love and hate, met!

In Adelaide, all bright wisdom, all warm affection, all good purpose shone.

In Lionne, alas! dark, monomaniac, fierce passion, vindictive resolution burned.

On the brow of the first beamed the mild radiance of a pitying seraph.

On the front of the second lowered the “glory obscured” of a fallen angel.

With her blue eyes fixed appealingly upon the face of her fierce antagonist, Adelaide waited a few moments, and then said, gently:

“Pray, tell me, freely and kindly, what you would have of me.”

“Lady” began Lionne, in a tone in which irony struggled with a certain irresistible honor she was beginning to feel for the gentle woman into whose presence she had intruded—“Lady, you will credit me when I tell you that I came not into your presence _unannounced_, however unwelcome! The servant who opened the door for me breathed my name, though both you and your companion were too much occupied to hear it.”

“And—_you_ overheard our conversation?”

“Certainly not; only _your_ last words. I entered by one door as _he_ went out by the other.”

“And now you will tell me what I can do for you?”

“Or rather why I came.—Yes. I came hither in fulfilment of a tryst, promise, or threat, whichever you may please to call it, made to—Orville Deville. There! his name is uttered! it will not choke me again!”

Adelaide shrank from the terrible convulsion that distorted the countenance of Lionne in uttering these words. The unhappy woman continued:

“He who laid waste my life, leaving it a blasted desert, _he_ brought to the theatre three nights ago, a young girl, at the sight of whom my heart, so long cold, stony, dead in my bosom, warmed to life again—I seemed to live again the sweet, humane life, so long lost!—to breathe the pure air, to bask in the bright sunshine, to inhale the fragrance of the old forest, to feel my relations with nature, to taste all the sweetness of my long-lost innocent life!”

The stern voice of the speaker faltered, the dark splendor of her eyes were quenched in tears.

“Most strange!” murmured Adelaide, as sympathetic moisture dimmed her mild, blue eyes.

“Ay, strange! inexplicable! Unparalleled, I think. I knew not how it should be so. I only know ‘there are more things in heaven and earth than are dreamed of in our philosophy.’”

She might well say that; for already the pure sphere of Adelaide, with her attendant angels, was influencing her. She continued:

“With the withdrawal of this young girl, life, and light, and warmth went out from me. Again I felt myself the disconnected, troubled spirit that I had been for years; without human love, or joy, or sympathy. From warmth and light, and life, cast out into the ‘outer darkness!’”

“You speak thus! You, the beautiful, the resplendent star of the east and the west. You, the idol of all genius-worshippers! _You_ speak of coldness, darkness, and deadness, invested, as you are, with the dazzling blaze of this world’s most radiant glory!”

“_It does not enter here_,” answered Lionne, mournfully, pressing her hand upon her heart. Then pointing through the window to the full moon just risen in the east, she said:

“Look! that satellite is my type! the direct rays of the sun surrounds her with a glory that reflected, lights up all our night! Yet that glory irradiates without penetrating, without blessing her! Under the mild splendor of that light all is scathed, blasted, blackened!—a horrible hades! Such, under the glory of fame, am I!”

The deep despair of her words, her tones, and her looks, touched the sensitive heart of Adelaide, who arose, went to her, dared to lay her hand upon the glittering dark ringlets, the lioness’s mane, and whisper:

“Oh, Lionne, my cousin, for you _are_ such, you fill me with the most painful sympathy. Would I could help you to banish from your soul the sorrowful memory of wrong and the sinful hope of revenge, for with those grievous passions would go all the suffering of your life. Peace would come; you would take your proper high position in the world; your splendid genius, now worse than wasted, would bless mankind instead of blighting yourself. Oh, Lionne! oh, my cousin, save yourself!”

“I cannot! I cannot!” exclaimed the wretched woman, wildly throwing off the caressing hand of her better angel—“I cannot! I cannot! this bitter memory of wrong; this burning hope of revenge; it is a disease, a frenzy! I suffer from an inward anguish, a living death, from which there is no relief but in the thought and the pursuit of vengeance!”

Lady Adelaide placed her hands soothingly upon her shoulder, and would have addressed some words of comfort and counsel.

“Be still! I will not hear you! You would wile me from my purpose!”

“I would save you from yourself,” pleaded the gentle lady.

“You would save your husband! You cannot! The consummation of my life’s purpose is at hand! Tell that man from me that I came here seeking _him_, to warn him that, as he has disobeyed my injunction, I have accomplished my threat!”

Lady Adelaide turned ghastly pale, dropped her hold upon Lionne, and sank half fainting into the chair. Too well she knew what that threat had been.

“Tell him,” continued Lionne, vehemently, “that had he shown mercy to the last human love that bloomed in my blasted bosom, had he given me that strayed child, to whom I felt so strangely attracted, it might have been otherwise! Now all is over! all is lost! lost! lost!” and throwing her arms wildly into the air, the wretched woman, almost a maniac, rushed from the room, before the astounded Lady Adelaide could interfere to change her purpose.