A Mad Love - Charlotte M. Brame

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       Table of Contents

       Table of Contents

      It was, of course, the old story; there were one or two meetings by the mill-stream, a morning spent together in some distant hay-field, an afternoon in the woods, and then the mischief was done—they loved each other.

      "Alas, how easily things go wrong—

       A sigh too deep or a kiss too long;

       Then follows a mist and a weeping rain—

       And life is never the same again."

      It soon became not merely a habit but a necessity for them to meet every day. Farmer Noel understood perfectly well the art of tilling the ground, of sowing the crops, of making the earth productive, but he knew less than a child of the care and watchfulness his young niece required. He contented himself by asking where she had been; he never seemed to imagine that she had had a companion. He saw her growing more and more beautiful, with new loveliness on her face, with new light in her eyes, with a thousand charms growing on her, but he never thought of love or danger—in fact, above the hay-making and the wheat, Farmer Noel did not think at all.

      She had gone into the glowing heart of fairyland—all the old life was left far behind; she did not even seem to remember that she had been restless and discontented; that in her soul she had revolted fiercely against her fate; that she had disliked her life and longed for anything that would change it; all that was forgotten; the golden glamour of love had fallen over her, and everything was changed. He was young—this brave, generous, gallant lover of hers—only twenty, with a heart full of romance. He fairly worshiped the proud, beautiful girl who carried herself with the stately grace of a young queen. He had fallen in love after the fashion of his age—madly, recklessly, blindly—ready to go mad or to die for his love; after the fashion of his age and sex he loved her all the more because of her half-cold reserve, her indomitable pride, her haughty rejection of all flattery.

      Young girls do not always know the secret of their power; a little reserve goes further than the most loving words. Leone's pride attracted Lord Chandos quite as much as her beauty. The first little quarrel they had was an outburst of pride from her; they had been strolling through the sunniest part of Leigh Woods, and when it was time to part he bent down to kiss the warm, white hand. She drew it quickly from him.

      "You would not have done that to one of your own class," she cried; "why do you do it to me?"

      "You are not really angry, Leone?" he cried in wonder.

      She turned her beautiful face, colorless with indignation, to him.

      "I am so far angry," she said, "that I shall not walk through the woods with you—never again."

      She kept her word. For two whole days Lord Chandos wandered through the fields and the lanes, through the woods and by the river, yet he saw no sight of her. It was possible that she punished herself quite as much as she did him; but he must be taught that, were he twenty times an earl, he must never venture on even the least liberty with her; he must wait her permission before he kissed her hand.

      The fourth day—he could bear it no longer—he rode past the farm twenty times and more; at length he was fortunate enough to see Farmer Noel, and throwing the reins on his horse's neck he got down and went up to him.

      "Have you a dog to sell?" he asked. "Some one told me you had very fine dogs."

      "I have good dogs, but none to sell," replied the farmer.

      "I want a dog, and I would give a good price for a good one," he said. "Will you let me see yours?"

      "Yes, you can see them, but you cannot buy them," said Robert Noel; and the next scene was the handsome young lordling going round the farm, with the stalwart, stolid farmer.

      He won the farmer's heart by his warm praises of the farm, the cattle, the dogs, and everything else he saw; still there was no Leone.

      "I am very thirsty; should you think me very impertinent if I asked you for a glass of cider?" he said; and the farmer, flattered by the request, took him into the little parlor. He looked at his visitor in simple wonder.

      "They say you are a great lord's son," he said; "but if you are, you have no pride about you."

      Lord Chandos laughed; and the farmer called Leone. There was a pause, during which the young lord's heart beat and his face flushed.

      "Leone," cried the farmer again.

      He turned to his visitor.

      "You will wonder what 'Leone' means, it is such a strange name; it is my niece. Here she comes."

      The loveliest picture in all the world, trying hard to preserve her usual stately grace, yet with a blushing, dimpling smile that made her lovely beyond words.

      "Leone," said the farmer, "will you bring a jug of cider?"

      "Pray," cried the lord, "do not trouble yourself, Miss Noel. I cannot think——"

      She interrupted him by a gesture of her white hand.

      "I will send it, uncle," she said, and disappeared.

      The farmer turned with a smile to the young lord.

      "She is very proud," he said; "but she is a fine girl."

      The cider came; the visitor duly drank his glass and went; his only reward for all that trouble was the one glance at her face.

      That same evening a little note was given to her, in which he begged her so humbly to forgive him, and to meet him again, that she relented.

      He had learned his lesson; he wooed her with the deference due to a young princess; no word or action of his displeased her after that, while he loved her with a love that was akin to madness.

      So through the long, bright, beautiful summer days, in the early morning, while the sweet, fragrant air seemed to sweep the earth, and in the evening when the dew lay upon flower and tree, they met and learned to love each other.

      One evening, as they sat by their favorite spot—the mill-stream—Lord Chandos told her how he had learned to love her, how he had ceased to think of anything in the world but herself.

      "I knew you were my fate, Leone," he said, "when I saw you sitting here by the mill-stream. I am quite sure that I have loved you ever since. I do not remember that there has been one moment in which I have not thought of you. I shall always thank Heaven that I came to Rashleigh—I found my darling here."

      For once all the pride had died from her face; all the hauteur was gone from her eyes; a lovely gleam of tenderness took its place; a love-light in the shy, sweet eyes that dropped from his.

      "My darling Leone," he said, "if I lived a hundred years I could only say over and over again—'I love you.' Those three words say everything. Do you love me?"

      She looked up at him. Then she raised her dark eyes to his and a little quiver passed over her beautiful mouth.

      "Yes, I love you," she said. "Whether it be for weal or for woe, for good or ill, I know not; but I love you."

      There was unutterable pathos, unutterable music in those three words; they seemed to rhyme with the chime of the falling waters. She held out her white hands, he clasped them in his.

      "Why do you say it so sadly, my darling? Love will bring nothing but happiness for you and for me," he said.

      She laid her white arms on his neck, and looked earnestly in his face.

      "There can be no comparison," she said. "Love to you is only

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