"In token of that, kiss me—just once—of your own free will."

"No," she refused, with a deep blush.

"You will, if you love me," he said; and then she turned her face to his. She raised her pure, sweet lips to his and kissed him, blushing as she did so to the very roots of her golden hair.

"You must never ask me to do that again," she said, gravely.

"No," returned he; "it was so remarkably unpleasant, Madaline, I could not wish for a repetition;" and then they went back to the house together.

"Norman," said Madaline, as they stood before the great Gothic porch, "will you wait until to-morrow before you tell the duchess?"

"No," he laughed, "I shall tell her this very day."



Chapter XXII.



It was almost noon before Lord Arleigh saw Philippa, and then it struck him that she was not looking well. She seemed to have lost some of her brilliant color, and he fancied she was thinner than she used to be. She had sent for him to her boudoir.

"I heard that you were inquiring for me, Norman," she said. "Had you any especial reason for so doing?"

"Yes," he replied, "I have a most important reason. But you are not looking so bright as usual, Philippa. Are you not well?"

"The weather is too warm for one to look bright," she said, "much sunshine always tires me. Sit down here, Norman; my room looks cool enough, does it not?"

In its way her room was a triumph of art; the hangings were of pale amber and white—there was a miniature fountain cooling the air with its spray, choice flowers emitting sweet perfume. The fair young duchess was resting on a couch of amber satin; she held a richly-jeweled fan in her hands, which she used occasionally. She looked very charming in her dress of light material, her dark hair carelessly but artistically arranged. Still there was something about her unlike herself; her lips were pale, and her eyes had in them a strange, wistful expression. Norman took his seat near the little conch.

"I have come to make a confession, Philippa," he began.

"So I imagined; you look very guilty. What is it?"

"I have found my ideal. I love her, she loves me, and I want to marry her."

The pallor of the lovely lips deepened. For a few minutes no sound was heard except the falling of the spray of the fountain and then the Duchess of Hazlewood looked up and said:

"Why do you make this confession to me, Norman?"

"Because it concerns some one in whom you are interested. It is Madaline whom I love, Madaline whom I wish to marry. But that is not strange news to you, I am sure, Philippa."

Again there was a brief silence; and then the duchess said, in a low voice:

"You must admit that I warned you, Norman, from the very first."

He raised his head proudly.

"You warned me? I do not understand."

"I kept her out of your sight. I told you it would be better for you not to see her. I advised you, did I not?"

She seemed rather to be pleading in self-defense than thinking of him.

"But, my dearest Philippa, I want no warning—I am very happy as to the matter I have nearest my heart. I thank you for bringing my sweet Madaline here. You do not seem to understand?"

She looked at him earnestly.

"Do you love her so very much, Norman?"

"I love her better than any words of mine can tell," he said. "The moment I saw her first I told you my dream was realized—I had found my ideal. I have loved her ever since."

"How strange!" murmured the duchess.

"Do you think it strange? Remember how fair and winsome she is—how sweet and gentle. I do not believe there is any one like her."

The white hand that, held the jeweled fan moved more vigorously.

"Why do you tell me this, Norman? What do you wish me to do?"

"You have always been so kind to me," he said, "you have ever been as a sister, my best, dearest, truest friend. I could not have a feeling of this kind without telling you of it. Do you remember how you used to tease me about my ideal. Neither of us thought in those days that I should find her under your roof."

"No," said the duchess, quietly, "it is very strange."

"I despaired of winning Madaline," he continued. "She had such strange ideas of the wonderful distance between us—she thought so much more of me than of herself, of the honor of my family and my name—that, to tell you the truth, Philippa, I thought I should never win her consent to be my wife."

"And you have won it at last," she put in, with quiet gravity.

"Yes—at last. This morning she promised to be my wife."

The dark eyes looked straight into his own.

"It is a miserable marriage for you, Norman. Granted that Madaline has beauty, grace, purity, she is without fortune, connection, position. You, an Arleigh of Beechgrove, ought to do better. I am speaking as the world will speak. It is really a wretched marriage."

"I can afford to laugh at the world to please myself in the choice of a wife. There are certain circumstances under which I would not have married any one; these circumstances do not surround my darling. She stands out clear and distinct as a bright jewel from the rest of the world. To-day she promised to be my wife, but she is so sensitive and hesitating that I am almost afraid I shall lose her even now, and I want to marry her as soon as I can."

"But why," asked the duchess, "do you tell me this?"

"Because it concerns you most nearly. She lives under your roof—she is, in some measure, your protegee."

"Vere will be very angry when he hears of it," said the duchess. And then Lord Arleigh looked up proudly.

"I do not see why he should. It is no business of his."

"He will think it so strange."

"It is no stranger than any other marriage," said Lord Arleigh. "Philippa, you disappoint me. I expected more sympathy at least from you."

The tone of his voice was so full of pain that she looked up quickly.

"Do you think me unkind, Norman? You could not expect any true friend of yours to be very delighted at such a marriage as this, could you?" It seemed as though she knew and understood that opposition made his own plan seem only the dearer to him. "Still I have no wish to fail in sympathy. Madaline is very lovely and very winning—I have a great affection for her—and I think—nay, I am quite sure—that she loves you very dearly."

"That is better—that is more like your own self, Philippa. You used to be above all conventionality. I knew that in the depths of your generous heart you would be pleased for your old friend to be happy at last—and I shall be happy, Philippa. You wish me well, do you not?"

Her lips seemed hard and dry as she replied:

"Yes, I wish you well."

"What I wished to consult you about is my marriage. It must not take place here, of course. I understand, and think it only natural, that the duke does not wish to have public attention drawn to Madaline. We all like to keep our little family secrets; consequently I have thought of a plan which I believe will meet all the difficulties of the case."

The pallor of the duchess' face deepened.

"Are you faint or ill, Philippa?" he asked, wondering at her strange appearance.

"No," she replied, "it is only the heat that affects me. Go on with your story, Norman; it interests me."

"That is like my dear old friend Philippa. I thought a marriage from here would not do—it would entail publicity and remark; that none of us would care for—besides, there could hardly be a marriage under your auspices during the absence of the duke."

"No, it would hardly be en regle," she agreed.

"But," continued Norman, "if Lady Peters would befriend me—if she would go away to some quiet sea-side place, and take Madaline with her—then, at the end of a fortnight, I might join them there, and we could be married, with every due observance of conventionality, but without calling undue public attention to the ceremony. Do you not think that a good plan, Philippa?"

"Yes," she said slowly.

"Look interested in it, or you will mar my happiness. Why, if it were your marriage, Philippa, I should consider every detail of high importance. Do not look cold or indifferent about it."

She roused herself with a shudder.

"I am neither cold nor indifferent," she said—"on the contrary I am vitally interested. You wish me, of course, to ask Lady Peters if she will do this?"

"Yep, because I know she will refuse you nothing."

"Then that is settled," said the duchess. "There is a pretty, quiet little watering-place called St. Mildred's—I remember hearing Vere speak of it last year—which would meet your wishes, I think, if Lady Peters and Madaline consent."

"I am sure they will consent," put in Lord Arleigh hopefully.

"There is another thing to be thought of," said the duchess—"a trousseau for the fair young bride."

"Yes, I know. She will have every fancy gratified after our marriage, but there will not be time for much preparations before it."

"Let me be fairy godmother," said the duchess. "In three weeks from to-day I engage to have such a trousseau as has rarely been seen. You can add dresses and ornaments to it afterward."

"You are very good. Do you know," he said, "that it is only now that I begin to recognize my old friend? At first you seemed so unsympathetic, so cold—now you are my sister Philippa the sharer of my joys and sorrows. We had no secrets when we were children."

"No," she agreed, mournfully, "none."

"And we have none now," he said, with a happy laugh. "How astonished Vere will be when he returns and finds that Madaline is married! And I think that, if it can be all arranged without any great blow to his family pride, he will not be ill-pleased."

"I should think not," she returned, listlessly.

"And you, Philippa—you will extend to my beloved wife the friendship and affection that you have given to me?"

"Yes," she replied, absently.

"Continue to be her fairy-godmother. There is no friend who can do as you can do. You will be Madaline's sheet-anchor and great hope."

She turned away with a shudder.

"Philippa," he continued, "will you let me send Lady Peters to you now, that I may know as soon as possible whether she consents?"

"You can send her if you will, Norman."

Was it his fancy, or did he really, as he stood at the door, hear a deep, heart-broken sigh? Did her voice, in a sad, low wail, come to him—"Norman, Norman!"

He turned quickly[5], but she seemed already to have forgotten him, and was looking through the open window.

Was it his fancy again, when the door had closed, or did she really cry—"Norman!" He opened the door quickly.

"Did you call me, Philippa?" he asked.

"No," she replied; and he went away.

"I do not understand it," he thought; "there is something not quite right. Philippa is not like herself."

Then he went in search of Lady Peters, whom he bewildered and astonished by telling her that it lay in her power to make him the happiest of men.

"That is what men say when they make an offer of marriage," she observed; "and I am sure you are not about to make one to me."

"No; but, dear Lady Peters, I want you to help me marry some one else. Will you go to the duchess? She will tell you all about it."

"Why not tell me yourself?" she asked.

"She has better powers of persuasion," he replied, laughingly.

"Then I am afraid, if so much persuasion is required, that something wrong is on the tapis," said Lady Peters. "I cannot imagine why men who have beautiful young wives go yachting. It seems to me a terrible mistake."

Lord Arleigh laughed.

"The duke's yachting has very little to do with this matter," he said. "Lady Peters, before you listen to the duchess, let me make one appeal to you. With all my heart I beseech you to grant the favor that she will ask."

He bent his handsome head, and kissed her hand, while emotion rose to the lady's eyes.

"Is it something for you, Lord Arleigh?" she asked.

"Yes," he replied, "for my own unworthy self."

"Then I will do it if possible," she replied.

But when the Duchess of Hazlewood had told her what was needed, and had placed the whole matter before her, Lady Peters looked shocked.

"My dear Philippa," she said, "this is terrible. I could not have believed it. She is a lovely, graceful, pure-minded girl, I know; but such a marriage for an Arleigh! I cannot believe it."

"That is unfortunate," said her grace, dryly, "for he seems very much in earnest."

"No money, no rank, no connections, while he is one of the finest matches in England."

"She is his ideal," was the mocking reply. "It is not for us to point out deficiencies."

"But what will the duke say?" inquired her ladyship, anxiously.

"I do not suppose that he will be very much surprised. Even if he is, he will have had time to recover from his astonishment before he returns. The duke knows that 'beauty leads man at its will.' Few can resist the charm of a pretty face"

"What shall I do?" asked Lady Peters, hopelessly. "What am I to say?"

"Decide for yourself. I decline to offer any opinion. I say simply that if you refuse he will probably ask the favor of some one else."

"But do you advise me to consent, Philippa?" inquired Lady Peters, anxiously.

"I advise you to please yourself. Had he asked a similar favor of me, I might have granted or I might have refused it; I cannot say."

"To think of that simple, fair-faced girl being Lady Arleigh!" exclaimed Lady Peters. "I suppose that I had better consent, or he will do something more desperate. He is terribly in earnest, Philippa."

"He is terribly in love," said the duchess, carelessly, and then Lady Peters decided that she would accede to Lord Arleigh's request.



Chapter XXIII.



More than once during the week that ensued after his proposal of marriage to Madaline, Lord Arleigh looked in wonder at the duchess. She seemed so unlike herself—absent, brooding, almost sullen. The smiles, the animation, the vivacity, the wit, the brilliant repartee that had distinguished her had all vanished. More than once he asked her if she was ill; the answer was always "No." More than once he asked her if she was unhappy; the answer was always the same—"No."

"You are miserable because your husband is not here," he said to her one day, compassionately. "If you had known how much you would have missed him, you would not have let him go."

There was a wondrous depth of pain in the dark eyes raised to his.

"I wish he had not gone," she said; "from the very depths of my heart I wish that." Then she seemed to recover her natural gayety. "I do not know, though, why I should have detained him," she said, half laughingly. "He is so fond of yachting."

"You must not lose all your spirits before he returns, Philippa, or he will say we have been but sorry guardians."

"No one has ever found fault with my spirits before," said the duchess. "You are not complimentary, Norman."

"You give me such a strange impression," he observed. "Of course it is highly ridiculous, but if I did not know you as well as I do, I should think that you had something on your mind, some secret that was making you unhappy—that there was a struggle always going on between something you would like to do and something you are unwilling to do. It is an absurd idea, I know, yet it has taken possession of me."

She laughed, but there was little music in the sound.

"What imaginative power you have, Norman! You would make your fortune as a novelist. What can I have to be unhappy about? Should you think that any woman has a lot more brilliant than mine? See how young I am for my position—how entirely I have my own way! Could any one, do you think, be more happy than I?"

"No, perhaps not," he replied.

So the week passed, and at the end of it Lady Peters went with Madaline to St. Mildred's. At first the former had been unwilling to go—it had seemed to her a terrible mesalliance, but, woman-like, she had grown interested in the love-story—she had learned to understand the passionate love that Lord Arleigh had for his fair-haired bride. A breath of her own youth swept over her as she watched them.

It might be a mesalliance, a bad match, but it was decidedly a case of true love, of the truest love she had ever witnessed; so that her dislike to the task before her melted away.

After all, Lord Arleigh had a perfect right to please himself—to do as he would; if he did not think Madaline's birth placed her greatly beneath him, no one else need suggest such a thing. From being a violent opponent of the marriage, Lady Peters became one of its most strenuous supporters. So they went away to St. Mildred's, where the great tragedy of Madaline's life was to begin.

On the morning that she went way, the duchess sent for her to her room. She told her all that she intended doing as regarded the elaborate and magnificent trousseau preparing for her. Madaline was overwhelmed.

"You are too good to me," she said—"you spoil me. How am I to thank you?"

"Your wedding-dress—plain, simple, but rich, to suit the occasion—will be sent to St. Mildred's," said the duchess—"also a handsome traveling costume; but all the rest of the packages can be sent to Beechgrove. You will need them only there."

Madaline kissed the hand extended to her.

"I shall never know how to thank you," she said.

A peculiar smile came over the darkly-beautiful face.

"I think you will," returned the duchess "I can imagine what blessings you will some day invoke on my name."

Then she withdrew her hand suddenly from the touch of the pure sweet lips.

"Good-by, Madaline," she said; and it was long before the young girl saw the fair face of the duchess again.

Just as she was quitting the room Philippa placed a packet in her hand.

"You will carefully observe the directions given in this?" she said; and Madaline promised to do so.

The time at St. Mildred's soon passed. It was a quiet, picturesque village, standing at the foot of a green hill facing the bay. There was little to be seen, except the shining sea and the blue sky. An old church, called St. Mildred's, stood on the hill-top. Few strangers ever visited the little watering-place. The residents were people who preferred quiet and beautiful scenery to everything else. There was a hotel, called the Queen's, where the few strangers that came mostly resided; and just facing the sea stood a newly-built terrace of houses called Sea View, where other visitors also sojourned.

It was just the place for lovers' dreams—a shining sea, golden sands, white cliffs with little nooks and bays, pretty and shaded walks on the hill-top.

Madaline's great happiness was delightful to see. The fair face grew radiant in its loveliness; the blue eyes shone brightly. There was the delight, too, every day of inspecting the parcels that arrived one after the other; but the greatest pleasure of all was afforded by the wedding-dress. It was plain, simple, yet, in its way, a work of art—a rich white silk with little lace or trimming, yet looking so like a wedding-dress that no one could mistake it. There were snowy gloves and shoes—in fact everything was perfect, selected by no common taste, the gift of no illiberal hand. Was it foolish of her to kiss the white folds while the tears filled her eyes, and to think of herself that she was the happiest creature under the sun? Was it foolish of her to touch the pretty bridal robes with soft, caressing fingers, as though they were some living thing that she loved—to place them where the sunbeams fell on them, to admire them in every different fold and arrangement?

Then the eventful day came—Lord Arleigh and Madaline were to be married at an early hour.

"Not," said Lord Arleigh, proudly, "that there is any need for concealment—why should there be?—but you see, Lady Peters if it were known that it was my wedding-day, I have so many friends, so many relatives, that privacy would be impossible for us; therefore the world has not been enlightened as to when I intended to claim my darling for my own."

"It is a strange marriage for an Arleigh," observed Lady Peters—"the first of its kind, I am sure. But I think you are right—your plan is wise."

All the outward show made at the wedding consisted in the rapid driving of a carriage from the hotel to the church—a carriage containing two ladies—one young, fair, charming as a spring morning, the other older, graver, and more sedate.

The young girl was fair and sweet, her golden hair shining through the marriage vail, her blue eyes wet with unshed tears, her face flushed with daintiest rose-leaf bloom.

It was a pleasant spectacle to see the dark, handsome face of her lover as he greeted her, the love that shone in his eyes, the pride of his manner, as though he would place her before the whole world, and defy it to produce one so graceful or so fair. Lady Peters' face softened and her heart beat as she walked up to the altar with them. This was true love.

So the grand old words of the marriage-service were pronounced—they were promised to each other for better for worse, for weal for woe—never to part until death parted them—to be each the other's world.

It was the very morning for a bride. Heaven and earth smiled their brightest, the sunshine was golden, the autumn flowers bloomed fair, the autumn foliage had assumed its rich hues of crimson and of burnished gold; there was a bright light over the sea and the hill-tops.

Only one little contretemps happened at the wedding. Madaline smiled at it. Lord Arleigh was too happy even to notice it, but Lady Peters grew pale at the occurrence; for, according to her old-fashioned ideas, it augured ill.

Just as Lord Arleigh was putting the ring on the finger of his fair young bride, it slipped and fell to the ground. The church was an old-fashioned one, and there were graves and vaults all down the aisle. Away rolled the little golden ring, and when Lord Arleigh stooped down he could not see it. He was for some minutes searching for it, and then he found it—it had rolled into the hollow of a large letter on one of the level grave-stones.

Involuntarily he kissed it as he lifted it from the ground; it was too cruel for anything belonging to that fair young bride to have been brought into contact with death. Lady Peters noted the little incident with a shudder, Madaline merely smiled. Then the ceremony was over—Lord Arleigh and Madaline were man and wife. It seemed to him that the whole world around him was transformed.

They walked out of the church together, and when they stood in the sunlight he turned to her.

"My darling, my wife," he said, in an impassioned voice, "may Heaven send to us a life bright as this sunshine, love as pure—life and death together! I pray Heaven that no deeper cloud may come over our lives than there is now in the sky above us."

These words were spoken at only eleven in the morning. If he had known all that he would have to suffer before eleven at night, Lord Arleigh, with all his bravery, all his chivalry, would have been ready to fling himself from the green hill-top into the shimmering sea.



Chapter XXIV.



It was the custom of the Arleighs to spend their honeymoon at home; they had never fallen into the habit of making themselves uncomfortable abroad. The proper place, they considered, for a man to take his young wife to was home; the first Lord Arleigh had done so, and each lord had followed this sensible example. Norman, Lord Arleigh, had not dreamed of making any change. True, he had planned with his fair young bride that when the autumn month had passed away they would go abroad, and not spend the winter in cold, foggy England. They had talked of the cities they would visit—and Madaline's sweet eyes had grown brighter with happy thoughts. But that was not to be yet; they were to go home first, and when they had learned something of what home-life would be together, then they could go abroad.

Lady Peters went back to Verdun Royal on the same morning; her task ended with the marriage. She took back with her innumerable messages for the duchess. As she stood at the carriage-door, she—so little given to demonstration—took the young wife into her arms.

"Good-by, Madaline—or I should say now, Lady Arleigh—good-by, and may Heaven bless you! I did not love you at first, my dear, and I thought my old friend was doing a foolish thing; but now I love you with all my heart; you are so fair and wise, so sweet and pure, that in making you his wife he has chosen more judiciously than if he had married the daughter of a noble house. That is my tribute to you, Madaline; and to it I add, may Heaven bless you, and send you a happy life!"

Then they parted; but, as she went home through all the glory of the sunlit day, Lady Peters did not feel quite at ease.

"I wish," she said to herself, "that he had not dropped the Wedding-ring; it has made me feel uncomfortable."

Bride and bridegroom had one of the blithest, happiest journeys ever made. What cloud could rise in such a sky as theirs. They were blessed with youth, beauty, health; there had been no one to raise the least opposition to their marriage; before them stretched a long golden future.

The carriage met them at the station, it was then three in the afternoon, and the day continued fair.

"We will have a long drive through the park, Madaline," said Lord Arleigh. "You will like to see your new home."

So, instead of going direct to the mansion, they turned off from the main avenue to make a tour of the park.

"Now I understand why this place is called Beechgrove," said Madaline, suddenly. "I have never seen such trees in my life."

She spoke truly. Giant beech-trees spread out their huge boughs on all sides. They were trees of which any man would have been proud, because of their beauty and magnificence. Presently from between the trees she saw the mansion itself, Lord Arleigh touched his young wife's arm gently.

"My darling," he said, "that is home."

Her face flushed, her eyes brightened, the sensitive lips quivered.

"Home!" she repeated. "How sweet the word sounds to me!" With a tremulous smile she raised her face to his. "Nor man," she said, "do you know that I feel very much as Lady Burleigh, the wife of Lord Burleigh, of Stamford-town, must have felt."

"But you, Madaline," he laughed, "are not quite the simple maiden—he wooed and won. You have the high-bred grace of a lady—nothing could rob you of that."

"She must have been lovely and graceful to have won Lord Burleigh," she remarked.

"Perhaps so, but not like you, Madaline—there has never been any one quite like you. I shall feel tempted to call you 'Lady Burleigh.' Here we are at home; and, oh, my wife, my darling, how sweet the coming home is!"

The carriage stopped at the grand entrance. Wishing to spare his young wife all fatigue and embarrassment, Lord Arleigh had not dispatched the news of his marriage home, so that no one at Beechgrove expected to see Lady Arleigh. He sent at once for the housekeeper, a tall, stately dame, who came into the dining-room looking in unutterable amazement at the beautiful, blushing young face.

"Mrs. Chatterton," he said, "I wish to introduce you to my wife, Lady Arleigh."

The stately dame curtesied almost to the ground.

"Welcome home, my Lady," she said, deferentially. "If I had known that your ladyship was expected I would have made more befitting preparations."

"Nothing could be better—you have everything in admirable order," responded Lord Arleigh, kindly.

Then the housekeeper turned with a bow to her master.

"I did not know that you were married, my lord," she said.

"No, Mrs. Chatterton; for reasons of my own, I hurried on my marriage. No one shall lose by the hurry, though"—which she knew meant a promise of handsome bounty.

Presently the housekeeper went with Lady Arleigh to her room.

The grandeur and magnificence of the house almost startled her. She felt more like Lady Burleigh than ever, as she went up the broad marble staircase and saw the long corridors with the multitude of rooms.

"His lordship wrote to tell me to have all the rooms in the western wing ready," said Mrs. Chatterton; "but he did not tell why. They are splendid rooms, my lady—large, bright and cheerful. They look over the beautiful beeches in the park, from which the place takes its name. Of course you will have what is called Lady Arleigh's suite."

As she spoke Mrs. Chatterton threw open the door, and Lady Arleigh saw the most magnificent rooms she had ever beheld in her life—a boudoir all blue silk and white lace, a spacious sleeping-chamber daintily hung with pink satin, a dressing-room that was a marvel of elegance, and a small library, all fitted with the greatest luxury.

"This is the finest suite of rooms in the house," said the housekeeper; "they are always kept for the use of the mistress of Beechgrove. Has your ladyship brought your maid?"

"No," replied Lady Arleigh; "the fact is I have not chosen one. The Duchess of Hazlewood promised to find one for me."

The illustrious name pleased the housekeeper. She had felt puzzled at the quiet marriage, and the sudden home-coming. If the new mistress of Beechgrove was an intimate friend of her Grace of Hazlewood's, as her words seemed to imply, then all must be well.

When Lady Arleigh had changed her traveling-dress, she went down-stairs. Her young husband looked up in a rapture of delight.

"Oh, Madaline," he said, "how long have you been away from me? It seems like a hundred hours, yet I do not suppose it has been one. And how fair you look, my love! That cloudy white robe suits your golden hair and your sweet face, which has the same soft, sweet expression as when I saw you first; and those pretty shoulders of yours gleam like polished marble through the lace. No dress could be more coquettish or prettier."

The wide hanging sleeves were fastened back from the shoulders with buttons of pearl, leaving the white, rounded arms bare; a bracelet of pearls—Lady Peters' gift—was clasped round the graceful neck; the waves of golden hair, half loose, half carelessly fastened, were like a crown on the beautiful head.

"I am proud of my wife," he said. "I know that no fairer Lady Arleigh has ever been at Beechgrove. When we have dined, Madaline, I will take you to the picture-gallery, and introduce you to my ancestors and ancestresses."

A recherche little dinner had been hastily prepared, and was served in the grand dining-room. Madaline's eyes ached with the dazzle of silver plate, the ornaments and magnificence of the room.

"Shall I ever grow accustomed to all this?" she asked herself. "Shall I ever learn to look upon it as my own? I am indeed bewildered."

Yet her husband admired her perfect grace and self-possession. She might have been mistress of Beechgrove all her life for any evidence she gave to the contrary. His pride in her increased every moment; there was no one like her.

"I have never really known what 'home' meant before, Madaline," he said. "Imagine sitting opposite to a beautiful vision, knowing all the time that it is your wife. My own wife—there is magic in the words."

And she, in her sweet humility, wondered why Heaven had so richly blessed her, and what she had done that the great, passionate love of this noble man should be hers. When dinner was ended he asked her if she was tired.

"No," she answered, laughingly; "I have never felt less fatigued."

"Then I should like to show you over the house," he said—"my dear old home. I am so proud of it, Madaline; you understand what I mean—proud of its beauty; its antiquity—proud that no shadow of disgrace has ever rested on it. To others these are simply ancient gray walls; to me they represent the honor, the stainless repute, the unshadowed dignity of my race. People may sneer if they will, but to me there seems nothing so sacred as love of race—jealousy of a stainless name."

"I can understand and sympathize with you," she said, "although the feeling is strange to me."

"Not quite strange, Madaline. Your mother had a name, dear, entitled to all respect. Now come with me, and I will introduce you to the long line of the Ladies Arleigh."

They went together to the picture-gallery, and as they passed through the hall Madaline heard the great clock chiming.

"Ah, Norman," she said, listening to the chimes, "how much may happen in one day, however short that day may be."



Chapter XXV.



The picture-gallery was one of the chief attractions of Beechgrove; like the grand old trees, it had been the work of generations. The Arleighs had always been great patrons of the fine arts; many a lord of Beechgrove had expended what was a handsome fortune in the purchase of pictures. The gallery itself was built on a peculiar principal; it went round the whole of the house, extending from the eastern to the western wing—it was wide, lofty, well-lighted, and the pictures were well hung. In wet weather the ladies of the house used it as a promenade. It was filled with art-treasures of all kinds, the accumulation of many generations. From between the crimson velvet hangings white marble statues gleamed, copies of the world's great masterpieces; there were also more modern works of art. The floor was of the most exquisite parquetry; the seats and lounges were soft and luxurious; in the great windows east and west there stood a small fountain, and the ripple of the water sounded like music in the quietude of the gallery. One portion of it was devoted entirely to family portraits. They were a wonderful collection perhaps one of the most characteristic in England.

Lord Arleigh and his young wife walked through the gallery.

"I thought the gallery at Verdun Royal the finest in the world," she said; "it is nothing compared to this."

"And this," he returned, "is small, compared with the great European galleries."

"They belong to nations; this belongs to an individual," she said—"there is a difference."

Holding her hand in his, he led her to the long line of fair-faced women. As she stood, the light from the setting sun falling on her fair face and golden hair, he said to himself that he had no picture in his gallery one-half so exquisite.

"Now," he said, "let me introduce you to the ladies of my race."

At that moment the sunbeams that had been shining on the wall died out suddenly. She looked up, half laughingly.

"I think the ladies of your race are frowning on me, Norman," she said.

"Hardly that; if they could but step down from their frames, what a stately company they would make to welcome you!"

And forthwith he proceeded to narrate their various histories.

"This resolute woman," he said, "with the firm lips and strong, noble face, lived in the time of the Roses; she held this old hall against her foes for three whole weeks, until the siege was raised, and the enemy retired discomfited."

"She was a brave woman," remarked Lady Arleigh.

"This was a heroine," he went on—"Lady Alicia Arleigh; she would not leave London when the terrible plague raged there. It is supposed that she saved numberless lives; she devoted herself to the nursing of the sick, and when all the fright and fear had abated, she found herself laden with blessings, and her name honored throughout the land. This is Lady Lola, who in time of riot went out unattended, unarmed, quite alone, and spoke to three or four hundred of the roughest men in the country; they had come, in the absence of her husband, to sack and pillage the Hall—they marched back again, leaving it untouched. This, Lady Constance, is a lineal descendant of Lady Nethsdale—the brave Lady Nethsdale."

She clung to his arm as she stood there.

"Oh, Norman," she said, "do you mean that my portrait, too, will hang here?"

"I hope so, my darling, very soon."

"But how can I have a place among all these fair and noble women," she asked, with sad humility—"I whose ancestors have done nothing to deserve merit or praise? Why, Norman, in the long years to come, when some Lord Arleigh brings home his wife, as you have brought me, and they stand together before my picture as I stand before these, the young wife will ask: 'Who was this?' and the answer will be: 'Lady Madaline Arleigh.' She will ask again: 'Who was she?' And what will the answer be? 'She was no one of importance; she had neither money, rank, nor aught else.'"

He looked at the bent face near him.

"Nay, my darling, not so. That Lord Arleigh will be able to answer: 'She was the flower of the race; she was famed for her pure, gentle life, and the good example she gave to all around her; she was beloved by rich and poor.' That is what will be said of you, my Madaline."

"Heaven make me worthy!" she said, humbly. And then they came to a picture that seemed to strike her.

"Norman," she said, "that face is like the Duchess of Hazlewood's."

"Do you think so, darling? Well, there is perhaps a faint resemblance."

"It lies in the brow and in the chin," she said. "How beautiful the duchess is!" she continued. "I have often looked at her till her face seemed to dazzle me."

"I know some one who is far more beautiful in my eyes," he returned.

"Norman," she said, half hesitatingly, "do you know one thing that I have thought so strange?"

"No, I have not been trusted with many of your thoughts yet," he returned.

"I have wondered so often why you never fell in love with the duchess."

"Fate had something better in store for me," he said, laughing.

She looked surprised.

"You cannot mean that you really think I am better than she is, Norman?"

"I do think it, darling; ten thousand times better—ten thousand times fairer in my eyes."

"Norman," she said, a sudden gleam of memory brightening her face; "I had almost forgotten—the duchess gave me this for you; I was to be sure to give it to you before the sun set on our wedding-day."

She held out a white packet sealed securely, and he took it wonderingly. He tore off the outer cover, and saw, written on the envelope:

"A wedding present from Philippa, Duchess of to Lord Arleigh. To be read alone on his wedding-day."



Chapter XXVI.



Lord Arleigh stared at the packet which his wife had given him, and again and again read the words that were inscribed on it: "A wedding present from Philippa, Duchess of Hazlewood to Lord Arleigh. To be read alone on his wedding-day." What could it mean? Philippa at times took strange caprices into her head. This seemed to be one of the strangest. He held the letter in his hand, a strange presentiment of evil creeping over him which he could not account for. From the envelope came a sweet scent, which the duchess always used. It was so familiar to him that for a few minutes it brought her vividly before him—he could have fancied her standing near him. Then he remembered the strange words: "To be read alone." What could that mean? That the letter contained something that his young wife must not see or hear.

He looked at her. She had seemingly forgotten all about the packet, and stood now, with a smile on her face, before one of the finest pictures in the gallery, wrapt in a dream of delight. There could not be anything in the letter affecting her. Still, as Philippa had written so pointedly, it would be better perhaps for him to heed her words.

"Madaline, my darling," he said, sinking on to an ottoman, "you have taken no tea. You would like some. Leave me here alone for half an hour. I want to think."

She did what she had never done voluntarily before. She went up to him, and clasped her arms round his neck. She bent her blushing face over his, and the caress surprised as much as it delighted him—she was so shyly demonstrative.

"What are you going to think about, Norman? Will it be of me?"

"Of whom else should I think on my wedding-day, if not of my wife?" he asked.

"I should be jealous if your thoughts went anywhere else," replied Madaline. "There is a daring speech, Norman. I never thought I should make such a one."

"Your daring is very delightful, Madaline; let me hear more of it."

She laughed the low, happy, contented laugh that sounded like sweetest music in his ears.

"I will dare to say something else, Norman, if you will promise not to think it uncalled for. I am very happy, my darling husband—I love you very much, and I thank you for your love."

"Still better," he said, kissing the beautiful, blushing face. "Now go, Madaline. I understand the feminine liking for a cup of tea."

"Shall I send one to you?" she asked.

"No," he replied, laughingly. "You may teach me to care about tea in time. I do not yet."

He was still holding the letter in his hand, and the faint perfume was like a message from Philippa, reminding him that the missive was still unread.

"I shall not be long," said Madaline. She saw that for some reason or other he wanted to be alone.

"You will find me here," he returned. "This is a favorite Book of mine. I shall not leave it until you return."

The nook was a deep bay window from which there was a magnificent view of the famous beeches. Soft Turkish cushions and velvet lounges filled it, and near it hung one of Titian's most gorgeous pictures—a dark-eyed woman with a ruby necklace. The sun's declining rays falling on the rubies, made them appear like drops of blood. It was a grand picture, one that had been bought by the lords of Beechgrove, and the present Lord Arleigh took great delight in it.

He watched the long folds of Madaline's white dress, as she passed along the gallery, and then the hangings fell behind her. Once more he held up the packet.

"A wedding present from Philippa, Duchess of Hazlewood, to Lord Arleigh."

Whatever mystery it contained should be solved at once. He broke the seal; the envelope contained a closely-written epistle. He looked at it in wonder. What could Philippa have to write to him about? The letter began as follows:

"A wedding present from Philippa, Duchess of Hazlewood, to Norman, Lord Arleigh. You will ask what it is? My answer is, my revenge—well planned, patiently awaited.

"You have read the lines:

"'Heaven has no rage like love to hatred turned, Nor hell a fury like a woman scorned.'

They are true. Fire, fury, and hatred rage now in my heart as I write this to you. You have scorned me—this is my revenge. I am a proud woman—I have lowered my pride to you. My lips have never willfully uttered a false word; still they have lied to you. I loved you once, Norman, and on the day my love died I knew that nothing could arise from its ashes. I loved you with a love passing that of most women; and it was not all my fault. I was taught to love you—the earliest memory of my life is having been taught to love you.

"You remember, too. It may have been injudicious, imprudent, foolish, yet while I was taught to think, to read, to sing, I was also taught to consider myself your 'little wife.' Hundreds of times have you given me that name, while we walked together as children—you with your arm about my neck, I proud of being called your 'little wife.'

"As a child, I loved you better than anything else in the wide world—better than my mother, my home, my friends; and my love grew with my growth. I prided myself on my unbroken troth to you. I earned the repute of being cold and heartless, because I could think of no one but you. No compliments pleased me, no praise flattered me; I studied, learned, cultivated every gift Heaven had given me—all for your sake. I thought of no future, but with you, no life but with you, no love but for you; I had no dreams apart from you. I was proud when they talked of my beauty; that you should have a fair wife delighted me.

"When you returned home I quite expected that you were coming to claim me as your wife—I thought that was what brought you to England. I remember the day you came. Ah, well, revenge helps me to live, or I should die! The first tones of your voice, the first clasp of your hand, the first look of your eyes chilled me with sorrow and disappointment. Yet I hoped against hope. I thought you were shy, perhaps more reserved than of yore. I thought everything and anything except that you had ceased to love me; I would have believed anything rather than that you were not going to fulfill our ancient contract, and make me your wife. I tried to make you talk of old times—you were unwilling; you seemed confused, embarrassed I read all those signs aright; still I hoped against hope. I tried to win you—I tried all that love, patience, gentleness, and consideration could do.

"What women bear, and yet live on! Do you know that every moment of that time was full of deadly torture to me, deadly anguish? Ah, me, the very memory of it distresses me! Every one spoke to me as though our engagement was a certainty, and our marriage settled. Yet to me there came, very slowly, the awful conviction that you had ignored, or had forgotten the old ties. I fought against that conviction. I would not entertain it. Then came for me the fatal day when I heard you tell the Duchess of Aytoun that you had never seen the woman you would care to make your wife. I heard your confession, but would not give in; I clung to the idea of winning your love, even after I had hoped against hope, and tried to make you care for me. At last came the night out on the balcony, when I resolved to risk all, to ask you for your love—do you remember it? You were advocating the cause of another; I asked you why you did not speak for yourself. You must have known that my woman's heart was on fire—you must have seen that my whole soul was in my speech, yet you told me in cold, well-chosen words that you had only a brother's affection for me. On that night, for the first time, I realized the truth that, come what might, you would never love me—that you had no idea of carrying out the old contract—that your interest in me was simply a kindly, friendly one. On that night, when I realized that truth, the better part of me died; my love—the love of my life—died; my hopes—the life-long hopes—died; the best, truest, noblest part of me died.

"When you had gone away, when I was left alone, I fell on my knees and swore to be revenged. I vowed vengeance against you, no matter what it might cost. Again let me quote to you the lines:

"'Heaven has no rage like love to hatred turned, Nor hell a fury like a woman scorned.'

You scorned me—you must suffer for it. I swore to be revenged, but how was I to accomplish my desire? I could not see any way in which it was possible for me to make you suffer. I could not touch your heart, your affections, your fortune. The only thing that I could touch was your pride. Through your pride, your keen sensitiveness I decided to stab you; and I have succeeded! I recovered my courage and my pride together, made you believe that all that had passed had been jest, and then I told you that I was going to marry the duke.

"I will say no more of my love or my sorrow. I lived only for vengeance, but how my object was to be effected I could not tell. I thought of many plans, they were all worthless—they could not hurt you as you had hurt me. At last, one day, quite accidentally I took up 'The Lady of Lyons,' and read it through. That gave me an idea of what my revenge should be like. Do you begin to suspect what this present is that the Duchess of Hazlewood intends making to you on your wedding-day?"

As he read on his face grew pale. What could it mean—this reference to "The Lady of Lyons?" That was the story of a deceitful marriage—surely all unlike his own.

"You are wondering. Turn the page and you shall read that, when an idea once possesses a woman's mind, she has no rest until it is carried out. I had none. My vengeance was mapped out for me—it merely required filling in. Let me show you how it was filled up—how I have lied to you, who to another have never uttered a false word.

"Years ago we had a maid whom my mother liked very much. She was gentle, well-mannered, and well-bred for her station in life. She left us, and went to some other part of England. She married badly—a handsome, reckless ne'er-do-well, who led her a most wretched life.

"I know not, and care nothing for the story of her married life, her rights and wrongs. How she becomes of interest to you lies in the fact that shortly after my marriage she called to see me and ask my aid. She had been compelled to give up her home in the country and come to London, where, with her husband and child, she was living in poverty and misery. While she was talking to me the duke came in. I think her patient face interested him. He listened to her story, and promised to do something for her husband. You will wonder how this story of Margaret Dornham concerns you. Read on. You will know in time.

"My husband having promised to assist this man, sent for him to the house; and the result of that visit was that the man seeing a quantity of plate about, resolved upon helping himself to a portion of it. To make my story short, he was caught, after having broken into the house, packed up a large parcel of plate, and filled his pockets with some of my most valuable jewels. There was no help for it but to prosecute him, and his sentence was, under the circumstances, none too heavy, being ten years' penal servitude.

"Afterward I went to see his wife Margaret, and found her in desperate circumstances; yet she had one ornament in her house—a beautiful young girl, her daughter, so fair of face that she dazzled me. The moment I saw her I thought of your description of your ideal—eyes like blue hyacinths, and hair of gold. Forthwith a plan entered my mind which I have most successfully carried out.

"I asked for the girl's name, and was told that it was Madaline—an uncommon name for one of her class—but the mother had lived among well-to-do people, and had caught some of their ideas. I looked at the girl—her face was fair, sweet, pure. I felt the power of its beauty, and only wondered that she should belong to such people at all; her hands were white and shapely as my own, her figure was slender and graceful. I began to talk to her, and found her well educated, refined, intelligent—all, in fact, that one could wish.

"Little by little their story came out—it was one of a mother's pride and glory in her only child. She worshiped her—literally worshiped her. She had not filled the girl's mind with any nonsensical idea about being a lady, but she had denied herself everything in order that Madaline might be well educated. For many years Madaline had been what is called a governess-pupil in a most excellent school. 'Let me die when I may,' said the poor, proud mother, 'I shall leave Madaline with a fortune in her own hands; her education will always be a fortune to her.'

"I asked her one day if she would let me take Madaline home with me for a few hours; she seemed delighted, and consented at once. I took the girl home, and with my own hands dressed her in one of my most becoming toilets. Her beauty was something marvelous. She seemed to gain both grace and dignity in her new attire. Shortly afterward, with her mother's permission, I sent her for six months to one of the most fashionable schools in Paris. The change wrought in her was magical; she learned as much in that time as some girls would have learned in a couple of years. Every little grace of manner seemed to come naturally to her; she acquired a tone that twenty years spent in the best of society does not give to some. Then I persuaded Vere, my husband, to take me to Paris for a few days, telling him I wanted to see the daughter of an old friend, who was at school there. In telling him that I did not speak falsely—Madaline's mother had been an old friend of mine. Then I told him that my whim was to bring Madaline home and make a companion of her; he allowed me to do just as I pleased, asking no questions about her parents, or anything else. I do not believe it ever occurred to him as strange that the name of my protegee and of the man who had robbed him was the same—indeed, he seemed to have forgotten all about the robbery. So I brought Madaline home to Vere Court, and then to London, where I knew that you would see her. My husband never asked any questions about her; he made no objection, no remark—everything that I did was always well done in his eyes.

"But you will understand clearly that to you I told a lie when I said that Madaline's mother was a poor relative of the duke's—you know now what relationship there is between them. Even Lady Peters does not know the truth. She fancies that Madaline is the daughter of some friend of mine who, having fallen on evil days, has been glad to send her to me.

"Knowing you well, Norman, the accomplishment of my scheme was not difficult. If I had brought Madaline to you and introduced her, you might not have been charmed; the air of mystery about her attracted you. My warning against your caring for her would, I knew, also help to allure you. I was right in every way. I saw that you fell in love with her at once—the first moment you saw her—and then I knew my revenge was secured.

"I bought my husband the yacht on purpose that he might go away and leave me to work out my plans. I knew that he could not resist the temptation I offered. I knew also that if he remained in England he would want to know all about Madaline before he allowed you to marry her. If the marriage was to take place at all, it must be during his absence. You seemed, of your own free will, Norman, to fall naturally into the web woven for you.

"I write easily, but I found it hard to be wicked—hard to see my lost love, my dear old companion, drift on to his ruin.

"More than once I paused, longing to save you; more than once I drew back, longing to tell you all. But the spirit of revenge within me was stronger than myself—my love had turned to hate. Yet I could not quite hate you, Norman—not quite. Once, when you appealed to my old friendship, when you told me of your plans, I almost gave way. 'Norman!' I cried, as you were leaving me; but when you turned again I was dumb.

"So I have taken my revenge. I, Philippa, Duchess of Hazlewood on this your wedding-day, reveal to you the first stain on the name of Arleigh—unvail the first blot on one of the noblest escutcheons in the land. You have married not only a low-born girl, but the daughter of a felon—a felon's daughter is mistress of proud Beechwood! You who scorned Philippa L'Estrange, who had the cruelty to refuse the love of a woman who loved you—you who looked for your ideal in the clouds, have found it near a prison cell! The daughter of a felon will be the mistress of the grand old house where some of the noblest ladies of the land have ruled—the daughter of a felon will be mother of the heirs of Arleigh. Could I have planned, prayed for, hoped for, longed for a sweeter revenge?

"I am indifferent as to what you may do in return. I have lived for my revenge, and now that I have tasted it life is indifferent to me. You will, of course, write to complain to the duke, and he, with his honest indignation justly aroused, will perhaps refuse to see me again. I care not; my interest in life ended when my love died.

"Let me add one thing more. Madaline herself has been deceived. I told her that you knew all her history, that I had kept nothing from you, and that you loved her in spite of it, but that she was never to mention it to you."

He read the letter with a burning flush on his face, which afterward grew white as with the pallor of death; a red mist was before his eyes, the sound of surging waters in his ears, his heart beat loud and fast. Could it be true—oh, merciful Heaven, could it be true? At first he had a wild hope that it was a cruel jest that Philippa was playing with him on his wedding-day. It could not be true—his whole soul rose in rebellion against it. Heaven was too just, too merciful—it could not be. It was a jest. He drew his breath with a long quivering sigh—his lips trembled; it was simply a jest to frighten him on his wedding day.

Then, one by one—slowly, sadly, surely—a whole host of circumstances returned to his mind, making confirmation strong. He remembered well—only too well—the scene in the balcony. He remembered the pale starlight, the light scarf thrown over Philippa's shoulders, even the very perfume that came from the flowers in her hair; he remembered how her voice had trembled, how her face had shown in the faint evening light. When she had quoted the words of Priscilla, the loveliest maiden of Plymouth, she had meant them as applicable to her own case—"Why don't you speak for yourself, John?" They came back to him with a fierce, hissing sound, mocking his despair. She had loved him through all—this proud, beautiful, brilliant woman for whom men of highest rank had sighed in vain. And, knowing her pride, her haughtiness, he could guess exactly what her love had cost her, and that all that followed had been a mockery. On that night her love had changed to hate. On that night she had planned this terrible revenge. Her offering of friendship had been a blind. He thought to himself that he had been foolish not to see it. A thousand circumstances presented themselves to his mind. This, then, was why Madaline had so persistently—and, to his mind, so strangely—refused his love. This was why she had talked incessantly of the distance between them—of her own unworthiness to be his wife. He bad thought that she alluded merely to her poverty, whereas it was her birth and parentage she referred to.

How cleverly, how cruelly Philippa had deceived them both—Philippa, his old friend and companion, his sister in all but name! He could see now a thousand instances in which Madaline and himself had played at cross purposes—a thousand instances in which the poor girl had alluded to her parent's sin, and he had thought she was speaking of her poverty. It was a cruel vengeance, for, before he had read the letter through, he knew that if the story were correct, she could be his wife in name only—that they must part. Poverty, obscurity, seemed as nothing now—but crime? Oh, Heaven, that his name and race should be so dishonored! If he had known the real truth, he would have died rather than have uttered one word of love to her.

The daughter of a felon—and he had brought her to Beechgrove as successor to a roll of noble women, each one of whom had been of noble birth! She was the daughter of a felon—no matter how fair, how graceful, how pure. For the first time the glory of Beechgrove was tarnished. But it would not be for long—it could not be for long; she must not remain. The daughter of a felon to be the mother of his children—ah, no, not if he went childless to the grave! Better that his name were extinct, better that the race of Arleigh should die out, than that his children should be pointed at as children with tainted blood! It could never be. He would expect the dead and gone Arleighs to rise from their graves in utter horror, he would expect some terrible curse to fall on him, were so terrible a desecration to happen. They must part. The girl he loved with all the passionate love of his heart, the fair young wife whom he worshiped must go from him, and he must see her no more. She must be his wife in name only.

He was young, and he loved her very dearly. His head fell forward on his breast, and as bitter a sob as ever left man's lips died on his. His wife in name only! The sweet face, the tender lips were not for him—yet he loved her with the whole passion and force of his soul. Then he raised his head—for he heard a sound, and knew that she was returning. Great drops of anguish fell from his brow—over his handsome face had come a terrible change; it had grown fierce with pain, haggard with despair, white with sorrow.

Looking up, he saw her—she was at the other end of the gallery; he saw the tall, slender figure and the sweeping dress—he saw the white arms with their graceful contour, the golden hair, the radiant face—and he groaned aloud; he saw her looking up at the pictures as she passed slowly along—the ancestral Arleighs of whom he was so proud. If they could have spoken, those noble women, what would they have said to this daughter of a felon?

She paused for a few minutes to look up at her favorite, Lady Alicia, and then she came up to him and stood before him in an the grace of her delicate loveliness, in all the pride of her dainty beauty. She was looking at the gorgeous Titian near him.

"Norman," she said, "the sun has turned those rubies into drops of blood—- they looked almost terrible on the white throat. What a strange picture! What a tragical face!"

Suddenly with outstretched arms she fell on her knees at his side.

"Oh, my darling, what has happened? What is the matter?"

She had been away from him only half an hour, yet it seemed to him ages since he had watched her leave the gallery with a smile on her lips.

"What is it, my darling?" she cried again. "Dear Norman, you look as though the shadow of death had passed over you. What is it?"

In another moment she had flung herself on his breast, clasped her arms round his neck, and was kissing his pale changed face as she had never done before.

"Norman, my darling husband, you are ill," she said—"ill, and you will not tell me. That is why you sent me away."

He tried to unclasp her arms, but she clung the more closely to him.

"You shall not send me away. You wish to suffer in silence? Oh, my darling, my husband, do you forget that I am your wife, for better, for worse, in sickness and in health? You shall not suffer without my knowledge."

"I am not ill, Madaline," he said, with a low moan. "It is not that."

"Then something has happened—you have been frightened."

He unclasped her arms from his neck—their caress was a torture to him.

"My poor darling, my poor wife, it is far worse than that. No man has ever seen a more ghastly specter than I have seen of death in life."

She looked round in quick alarm.

"A specter!" she cried fearfully; and then something strange in his face attracted her attention. She looked at him. "Norman," she said, slowly, "is it—is it something about me?"

How was he to tell her? He felt that it would be easier to take her out into the glorious light of the sunset and slay her than kill her with the cruel words that he must speak. How was he to tell her? No physical torture could be so great as that which he must inflict; yet he would have given his life to save her from pain.

"It is—I am quite sure," she declared, slowly—"something about me. Oh, Norman, what is it? I have not been away from you long. Yet no change from fairest day to darkest night could be so great as the change in you since I left you. You will not tell me what it is—you have taken my arms from your neck—you do not love me!"

"Do not torture me, Madaline," he said. "I am almost mad. I cannot bear much more."

"But what is it? What have I done? I who you send from you now am the same Madaline whom you married this morning—whom you kissed half an hour since. Norman, I begin to think that I am in a terrible dream."

"I would to Heaven it were a dream. I am unnerved—unmanned—I have lost my strength, my courage, my patience, my hope. Oh, Madaline, how can I tell you?"

The sight of his terrible agitation seemed to calm her; she took his hand in hers.

"Do not think of me," she said—"think of yourself. I can bear what you can bear. Let me share your trouble, whatever it may be, my husband."

He looked at the sweet, pleading face. How could he dash the light and brightness from it? How could he slay her with the cruel story he had to tell. Then, in a low, hoarse voice, he said:

"You must know all, and I cannot say it. Read this letter, Madeline, and then you will understand."



Chapter XXVII.



Slowly, wonderingly, Lady Arleigh took the Duchess of Hazlewood's letter from her husband's hands and opened it.

"Is it from the duchess?" she asked.

"Yes, it is from the duchess," replied her husband.

He saw her sink slowly down upon a lounge. Above her, in the upper panes of the window beneath which they were sitting, were the armorial bearings of the family in richest hues of stained glass. The colors and shadows fell with strange effects on her white dress, great bars of purple and crimson crossing each other, and opposite to her hung the superb Titian, with the blood-red rubies on the white throat.

Lord Arleigh watched Madaline as she read. Whatever might be the agony in his own heart, it was exceeded by hers. He saw the brightness die out of her face, the light fade from her eyes, the lips grow pale. But a few minutes before that young face had been bright with fairest beauty, eloquent with truest love, lit with passion and with poetry—now it was like a white mask.

Slowly, and as though it was with difficulty that she understood Lady Arleigh read the letter through, and then—she did not scream or cry out—she raised her eyes to his face. He saw in them a depth of human sorrow and human woe which words are powerless to express.

So they looked at each other in passionate anguish. No words passed—of what avail were they? Each read the heart of the other. They knew that they must part. Then the closely-written pages fell to the ground, and Madaline's hands clasped each other in helpless anguish. The golden head fell forward on her breast. He noticed that in her agitation and sorrow she did not cling to him as she had clung before—that she did not even touch him. She seemed by instinct to understand that she was his wife now in name only.

So for some minutes they sat, while the sunset glowed in the west. He was the first to speak.

"My dear Madaline," he said, "my poor wife"—his voice seemed to startle her into new life and new pain—"I would rather have died than have given you this pain."

"I know it—I am sure of it," she said, "but, oh, Norman, how can I release you?"

"There is happily no question about that," he answered.

He saw her rise from her seat and stretch out her arms.

"What have I done," she cried, "that I must suffer so cruelly? What have I done?"

"Madaline," said Lord Arleigh, "I do not think that so cruel a fate has ever befallen any one as has befallen us. I do not believe that any one has ever suffered so cruelly, my darling. If death had parted us, the trial would have been easier to bear."

She turned her sad eyes to him.

"It is very cruel," she said, with a shudder. "I did not think the duchess would be so cruel."

"It is more than that—it is infamous!" he cried. "It is vengeance worthier of a fiend than of a woman."

"And I loved her so!" said the young girl, mournfully. "Husband, I will not reproach you—your love was chivalrous and noble; but why did you not let me speak freely to you? I declared to you that no doubt ever crossed my mind. I thought you knew all, though I considered it strange that you, so proud of your noble birth, should wish to marry me. I never imagined that you had been deceived. The duchess told me that you knew the whole history of my father's crime, that you were familiar with every detail of it, but that you wished me never to mention it—never even ever so remotely to allude to it. I thought it strange, Norman, that one in your position should be willing to overlook so terrible a blot; but she told me your love for me was so great that you could not live without me. She told me even more—that I must try to make my own life so perfect that the truest nobility of all, the nobility of virtue, might be mine."

"Did she really tell you that?" asked Lord Arleigh wonderingly.

"Yes; and, Norman, she said that you would discuss the question with me once, and once only—that would be on my wedding-day. On that day you would ask for and I should tell the whole history of my father's crime; and after that it was to be a dead-letter, never to be named between us."

"And you believed her?" he said.

"Yes, as I believe you. Why should I have doubted her? My faith in her was implicit. Why should I have even thought you would repent? More than once I was on the point of running away. But she would not let me go. She said that I must not be cruel to you—that you loved me so dearly that to lose me would prove a death-blow. So I believed her, and, against my will, staid on."

"I wish you had told me this," he said, slowly.

She raised her eyes to his.

"You would not let me speak, Norman. I tried so often, dear, but you would not let me."

"I remember," he acknowledged; "but, oh, my darling, how little I knew what you had to say! I never thought that anything stood between us except your poverty."

They remained silent for a few minutes—such sorrow as theirs needed no words. Lord Arleigh was again the first to speak.

"Madaline," he said, "will you tell me all you remember of your life."

"Yes; it is not much. It has been such a simple life, Norman, half made up of shadows. First, I can remember being a child in some far off woodland house. I am sure it was in the woods; for I remember the nuts growing on the trees, the squirrels, and the brown hares. I remember great masses of green foliage, a running brook, and the music of wild birds. I remember small latticed windows against which the ivy tapped. My father used to come in with his gun slung across his shoulders—he was a very handsome man, Norman, but not kind to either my mother or me. My mother was then, as she is now, patient, kind, gentle, long-suffering. I have never heard her complain. She loved me with an absorbing love. I was her only comfort. I did my best to deserve her affection. I loved her too. I cannot remember that she ever spoke one unkind word to me, and I can call to mind a thousand instances of indulgence and kindness. I knew that she deprived herself of almost everything to give it to me. I have seen her eat dry bread patiently, while for me and my father there was always some little dainty. The remembrance of the happiness of my early life begins and ends with my mother. My memories of her are all pleasant." She continued as though recalling her thoughts with difficulty. "I can remember some one else. I do not know who or what he was, except that he was, I think, a doctor. He used to see me, and used to amuse me. Then there came a dark day. I cannot tell what happened, but after that day I never saw my friend again."

He was looking at her with wondering eyes.

"And you remember no more than that about him, Madaline?"

"No," she replied. "Then came a time," she went on, "when it seemed to me that my mother spent all her days and nights in weeping. There fell a terrible shadow over us, and we removed. I have no recollection of the journey—not the faintest; but I can remember my sorrow at leaving the bright green woods for a dull, gloomy city lodging. My mother was still my hope and comfort. After we came to London she insisted that, no matter what else went wrong I should have a good education; she toiled, saved, suffered for me. 'My darling must be a lady,' she used to say. She would not let me work, though I entreated her with tears in my eyes. I used to try to deceive her even, but I never could succeed. She loved me so, my poor mother. She would take my hands in hers and kiss them. 'Such dainty hands, dear,' she would say, 'must not be spoiled.' After a great deal of trouble and expense, she contrived to get me an engagement as governess-pupil in a lady's school; there I did receive a good education. One failing of my mother always filled me with wonder—she used to fancy that people watched me. 'Has any one spoken to you, darling?' she would ask. 'Has any stranger seen you?' I used to laugh, thinking it was parental anxiety; but it has struck me since as strange. While I was at the ladies' school my father committed the crime for which I—alas!—am suffering now."

"Will you tell me what the crime was?" requested Lord Arleigh.

A dreary hopelessness, inexpressibly painful to see, came over her face, and a deep-drawn sigh broke from her lips.

"I will tell you all about it," she said—"would to Heaven that I had done so before! My mother, many years ago, was in the service of Lady L'Estrange; she was her maid then. Miss L'Estrange married the Duke of Hazlewood, and, when my mother was in great difficulties, she went to the duchess to ask for employment. The duchess was always kind," continued Madaline, "and she grew interested in my mother. She came to see her, and I was at home. She told me afterward that when she first saw me she conceived a liking for me. I know now that I was but the victim of her plot."

She stopped abruptly, but Lord Arleigh encouraged her.

"Tell me all, Madaline," he said, gently; "none of this is your fault, my poor wife. Tell me all."

"The duchess was very kind to my mother, and befriended her in many ways. She interested the duke in her case, and he promised to find employment for my unfortunate father, who went to his house to see him. Whether my father had ever done wrong before, I cannot tell. Sometimes I fear that he had done so, for no man falls suddenly into crime. In few words—oh, Norman, how hard they are to say!—what he saw in the duke's mansion tempted him. He joined some burglars, and they robbed the house. My unfortunate father was found with his pockets filled with valuable jewelry. My mother would not let me read the history of the trial, but I learned the result—he was sentenced to ten years' penal servitude."

She paused again; the dreary hopelessness of her face, the pain in her voice, touched him inexpressibly.

"None of this is your fault, my darling," he said. "Go on."

"Then," she continued "the duchess was kinder than ever to my mother. She furnished her with the means of gaining her livelihood; she offered to finish my education and adopt me. My mother was at first unwilling; she did not wish me to leave her. But the duchess said that her love was selfish—that it was cruel to stand in my light when such an offer was made. She consented and I, wondering much what my ultimate fate was to be, was sent to school in Paris. When I had been there for some time, the duke and duchess came to see me. I must not forget to tell you, Norman, that she saw me herself first privately. She said he was so forgetful that he would never remember having heard the name of Dornham. She added that the keeping of the secret was very important, for, if it became known, all her kind efforts in our favor must cease at once. I promised to be most careful. The duke and duchess arranged that I was to go home with them and live as the duchess' companion. Again she warned me never upon any account to mention who I was, or anything about me. She called me the daughter of an old friend—and so I was, although that friend was a very humble one. From the first, Norman, she talked so much about you; you were the model of everything chivalrous and noble, the hero of a hundred pleasant stories. I had learned to love you long even before I saw you—to love you after a fashion, Norman, as a hero. I can see it all now. She laid the plot—we were the victims. I remember that the very morning on which you saw me first the duchess sent me into the trellised arbor; I was to wait there until she summoned me. Rely upon it, Norman, she also gave orders that you were to be shown into the morning-room, although she pretended to be annoyed at it. I can see all the plot now plainly. I can only say—— Oh, Norman, you and I were both blind! We ought to have seen through her scheme. Why should she have brought us together if she had not meant that we should love each other? What have we in common—I, the daughter of a felon; you, a nobleman, proud of your ancestry, proud of your name? Oh, Norman, if I could but die here at your feet, and save you from myself!"

Even as she spoke she sank sobbing, no longer on to his breast, no longer with her arms clasped round his neck, but at his feet.

He raised her in his arms—for he loved her with passionate love.

"Madaline," he said, in a low voice, "do not make my task harder for me. That which I have to do is indeed bitter to me—do not make it harder."

His appeal touched her. For his sake she must try to be strong.

Slowly he looked up at the long line of noblemen and women whose faces shone down upon him; slowly he looked at her graceful figure and bowed head of his wife, the daughter of a felon—the first woman who had ever entered those walls with even the semblance of a stain upon her name. As he looked at her the thought came to him that, if his housekeeper had told him that she had inadvertently placed such a person—the daughter of a felon—in his kitchen, he would never have rested until she had been sent away.

He must part from her—this lovely girl-wife whom he loved with such passionate love. The daughter of a criminal could not reign at Beechgrove. If the parting cost his life and hers it must take place. It was cruel. The strong man trembled with agitation; his lips quivered, his face was pale as death. He bent over his weeping wife.

"Madaline," he said, gently, "I do not understand the ways of destiny. Why you and I have to suffer this torture I cannot say. I can see nothing in our lives that deserves such punishment. Heaven knows best. Why we have met and loved, only to undergo such anguish, is a puzzle I cannot solve. There is only one thing plain to me, and that is that we must part."

He never forgot how she sprang away from him, her colorless face raised to his.

"Part, Norman!" she cried. "We cannot part now; I am your wife!"

"I know it; but we must part."

"Part!" repeated the girl. "We cannot; the tie that binds us cannot be sundered so easily."

"My poor Madaline, it must be."

She caught his hand in hers.

"You are jesting, Norman. We cannot be separated—we are one. Do you forget the words—'for better for worse,' 'till death us do part?'—You frighten me!" And she shrank from him with a terrible shudder.

"It must be as I have said," declared the unhappy man. "I have been deceived—so have you. We have to suffer for another's sin."

"We may suffer," she said, dully, "but we cannot part. You cannot send me away from you."

"I must," he persisted. "Darling, I speak with deepest love and pity, yet with unwavering firmness. You cannot think that, with that terrible stain resting on you, you can take your place here."

"But I am your wife!" she cried, in wild terror.

"You are my wife," he returned, with quivering lips; "but you must remain so in name only." He paused abruptly, for it seemed to him that the words burned his lips as they passed them. "My wife," he muttered, "in name only."

With a deep sob she stretched out her arms. "But I love you, Norman—you must not send me away! I love you—I shall die if I have to leave you!"

The words seemed to linger on her lips.

"My darling," he said, gently, "it is even harder for me than for you."

"No, no," she cried, "for I love you so dearly, Norman—better than my life! Darling, my whole heart went out to you long ago—you cannot give it back to me."

"If it kills you and myself too," he declared, hoarsely, "I must send you away."

"Send me away? Oh, no, Norman, not away! Let me stay with you, husband, darling. We were married only this morning My place is here by your side—I cannot go."

Looking away from her, with those passionate accents still ringing in his ears, his only answer was:

"Family honor demands it."

"Norman," she implored, "listen to me, dear! Do not send me away from you. I will be so good, so devoted. I will fulfill my duties so well, I will bear myself so worthily that no one shall remember anything against me; they shall forget my unhappy birth, and think only that you have chosen well. Oh, Norman, be merciful to me! Leaving you would be a living death!"

"You cannot suffer more than I do," he said—"and I would give my life to save you pain; but, my darling, I cannot be so false to the traditions of my race, so false to the honor of my house, so untrue to my ancestors and to myself, as to ask you to stay here. There has never been a blot on our name. The annals of our family are pure and stainless. I could not ask you to remain here and treat you as my wife, even to save my life!"

"I have done no wrong, Norman; why should you punish me so cruelly?"

"No, my darling, you have done no wrong—and the punishment is more mine than yours. I lose the wife whom I love most dearly—I lose my all."

"And what do I lose?" she moaned.

"Not so much as I do, because you are the fairest and sweetest of women. You shall live in all honor, Madaline. You shall never suffer social degradation, darling—the whole world shall know that I hold you blameless; but you can be my wife in name only."

She was silent for a few minutes, and then she held out her arms to him again.

"Oh, my love, relent!" she cried. "Do not be so hard on me—indeed, I have done no wrong. Be merciful! I am your wife; your name is so mighty, so noble, it will overshadow me. Who notices the weed that grows under the shadow of the kingly oak? Oh, my husband, let me stay! I love you so dearly—let me stay!"

The trial was so hard and cruel that great drops fell from his brow and his lips trembled.

"My darling, it is utterly impossible. We have been deceived. The consequences of that deceit must be met. I owe duties to the dead as well as to the living. I cannot transgress the rules of my race. Within these time-honored walls no woman can remain who is not of stainless lineage and stainless repute. Do not urge me further."

"Norman," she said, in a trembling voice, "you are doing wrong in sending me away. You cannot outrage Heaven's laws with impunity. It is Heaven's law that husband and wife should cleave together. You cannot break it."

"I have no wish to break it. I say simply that I shall love you until I die, but that you must be my wife in name only."

"It is bitterly hard," she observed; and then she looked up at him suddenly. "Norman," she said, "let me make one last appeal to you. I know the stigma is terrible—I know that the love-story must be hateful to you—I know that the vague sense of disgrace which clings to you even now is almost more than you can bear; but, my darling, since you say you love me so dearly, can you not bear this trial for my sake, if in everything else I please you—if I prove myself a loving, trustful, truthful wife, if I fulfill all my duties so as to reflect honor on you; if I prove a worthy mistress of your household?"

"I cannot," he replied, hoarsely; but there must have been something in his face from which she gathered hope, for she went on, with a ring of passionate love in her voice.

"If, after we had been married, I had found out that you had concealed something from me, do you think that I should have loved you less?"

"I do not think you would, Madaline; but the present case is different—entirely different; it is not for my own sake, but for the honor of my race. Better a thousand times that my name should die out than that upon it there should be the stain of crime!"

"But, Norman—this is a weak argument, I know—a woman's argument—still, listen to it, love—who would know my secret if it were well kept?"

"None; but I should know it," he replied, "and that would be more than sufficient. Better for all the world to know than for me. I would not keep such a secret. I could not. It would hang over my head like a drawn sword, and some day the sword would fall. My children, should Heaven send any to me, might grow up, and then, in the height of some social or political struggle, when man often repeats against his fellow man all that he knows of the vilest and the worst, there might be thrown into their faces the fact that they were descended from a felon. It must not be; a broken heart is hard to bear—injured honor is perhaps harder."

She drew up her slender figure to its full height, her lovely face glowed with a light he did not understand.

"You may be quite right," she said. "I cannot dispute what you say. Your honor may be a sufficient reason for throwing aside the wife of less than twelve hours, but I cannot see it. I cannot refute what you have said, but my heart tells me you are wrong."

"Would to Heaven that I thought the same!" he rejoined, quickly. "But I understand the difficulties of the case, my poor Madaline, and you do not."

She turned away with a low, dreary sigh, and the light died from her face.

"Madaline," said Lord Arleigh, quietly, "do not think, my darling, that you suffer most—indeed, it is not so. Think how I love you—think how precious you are to me—and then ask yourself if it is no pain to give you up."

"I know it is painful," she continued, sadly, "but, Norman, if the decision and choice rested with me as they do with you, I should act differently."

"I would, Heaven knows, if I could," he said, slowly.

"Such conduct is not just to me," she continued, her face flushing with the eagerness of her words. "I have done no wrong, no harm, yet I am to be driven from your house and home—I am to be sent away from you, divorced in all but name. I say it is not fair, Norman—not just. All my womanhood rises in rebellion against such a decree. What will the world say of me? That I was weighed in the balance and found wanting—that I was found to be false or light, due doubtless to my being lowly born. Do you think I have no sense of honor—no wish to keep my name and fame stainless? Could you do me a greater wrong, do you think, than to put me away, not twelve hours after our marriage, like one utterly unworthy?"

He made no answer. She went on in her low, passionate, musical voice.

"When I read in history the story of Anne of Cleves, I thought it cruel to be sought in marriage, brought over from another land, looked at, sneered at, and dismissed; but, Norman, it seems to me her fate was not so cruel as mine."

"You are wrong," he cried. "I hold you in all reverence, all honor, in deepest respect. You are untouched by the disgrace attached to those nearest to you. It is not that. You know that, even while I say we must part, I love you from the very depths of my heart."

"I can say no more," she moaned, wringing her hands. "My own heart, my woman's instinct, tells me you are wrong. I cannot argue with you, nor can I urge anything more."

She turned from him. He would have given much to take her into his arms, and kissing her, bid her stay.

"You remember the old song, Madaline?

"'I could not love thee, dear, so much, Loved I not honor more.'

If I could be false to the dead, Madaline, I should be untrue to the living. That I am not so is your security for my faith. If I could be false to the traditions of my race, I could be false to my vows of love."

"I can say no more—I can urge no more. You are a man—wise, strong, brave. I submit."

It was a cruel fate. He looked round on his pictured ancestors Would they have suffered, have sacrificed as much for the honor of their house as he was about to sacrifice now? Yes, he knew they would, for love of race and pride of name had always been unspeakably dear to them.



Chapter XXVIII.



Lord Arleigh raised his head from his breast. His wife was kneeling sobbing at his feet.

"Norman," she said, in a broken voice, "I yield, I submit. You know best, dear. In truth, I am not worthy to be your wife. I urge no claim on you; but, my darling, must I leave you? You are the very light of my life, heart of my heart, soul of my soul—must I leave you? Could I not remain here as your servant, your slave, the lowliest in your house—somewhere near, where I may hear the tones of your voice, the sound of your footsteps—where I may stand sometimes at the window and see you ride away—where I may render you little attentions such as loving wives render? Oh, Norman, be merciful and grant me that at least!"

"My darling, I cannot—do not tempt me. You do not understand I love you with a fierce, passionate love. If you were near me, I should be compelled to show that love to you every hour of the day—to treat you as my dear and honored wife. If you were near me, I might forget my resolves and remember only my love."

"No one should know," she whispered, "that I was your wife. I should take the guise of the humblest servant in the place. No one should know, love. Oh, darling, let it be so!"