She saw great drops of agony on his brow; she saw a world of pain in his eyes which alarmed her.

"It cannot be," he replied, hoarsely. "You must urge me no more—you are torturing me."

Then she rose, humbly enough, and turned away.

"I will say no more, Norman. Now do with me what you please."

There was silence for a few minutes. The sun was sinking low in the western sky, the chirp of the birds was growing faint in the trees. She raised her colorless face to his.

"I submit, Norman," she said. "You have some plan to propose. Do with me just as you will."

It was cruel—no crueler fate had ever fallen to a man's lot—but honor obliged him to act as he did. He took her hand in his.

"Some day, dear wife," he said, "you will understand what suffering this step has cost me."

"Yes," she murmured, faintly; "I may understand in time."

"While I have been sitting here," he went on, "I have been thinking it all over, and I have come to a decision as to what will be best for you and for me. You are Lady Arleigh of Beechgrove—you are my wife; you shall have all the honor and respect due to your position."

She shuddered as though the words were a most cruel mockery.

"You will honor," she questioned, bitterly, "the daughter of a felon?"

"I will honor my wife, who has been deceived even more cruelly than myself," he replied. "I have thought of a plan," he continued, "which can be easily carried out. On our estate not twenty miles from here—there is a little house called the Dower House—a house where the dowagers of the family have generally resided. It is near Winiston, a small country town. A housekeeper and two servants live in the house now, and keep it in order. You will be happy there, my darling, I am sure, as far as is possible. I will see that you have everything you need or require."

She listened as one who hears but dimly.

"You have no objection to raise, have you, Madaline?"

"No," she replied, "it matters little where I live; I only pray that my life may be short."

"Hush, my darling. You pain me."

"Oh, Norman, Norman," she cried, "what will they think of me—what will they say—your servants, your friends?"

"We must not trouble about that," said Norman; "we must not pause to consider what the world will say. We must do what we think is right."

He took out his watch and looked at it.

"It is eight o'clock," he said; "we shall have time to drive to Winiston to-night."

There was a world of sorrowful reproach in the blue eyes raised to his.

"I understand," she said, quietly; "you do not wish that the daughter of a felon should sleep, even for one night, under your roof."

"You pain me and you pain yourself; but it is, if you will bear the truth, my poor Madaline, just as you say. Even for these ancient walls I have such reverence."

"Since my presence dishonors them," she said, quietly, "I will go. Heaven will judge between us, Norman. I say that you are wrong. If I am to leave your house, I should like to go at once. I will go to my room and prepare for the journey."

He did not attempt to detain her, for he well knew that, if she made another appeal to him, he could not resist the impulse to clasp her in his arms, and at the cost of what he thought his honor to bid her stay.

She lingered before him, beautiful, graceful, sorrowful.

"Is there anything more you would like to say to me?" she asked, with sad humility.

"I dare not," he uttered, hoarsely; "I cannot trust myself."

He watched her as with slow, graceful steps she passed down, the long gallery, never turning her fair face or golden head back to him, her white robes trailing on the parquetry floor. When she had reached the end, he saw her draw aside the hangings and stand for a minute looking at the pictured faces of the Arleighs; then she disappeared, and he was left alone.

He buried his face in his hands and wept bitterly.

"I could curse the woman who has wrought this misery!" he exclaimed, presently.

And then the remembrance of Philippa, as he had known her years before—Philippa as a child, Philippa, his mother's favorite—restrained him.

* * * * *

"Perhaps I too was to blame," he thought; "she would not have taken such cruel vengeance had I been more candid."

Lady Arleigh went to her room. The pretty traveling-costume lay where she had left it; the housekeeper had not put away anything. Hastily taking off her white dress and removing the jewels from her neck, and the flowers from her hair, Madaline placed them aside, and then having attired herself for the journey, she went down stairs, meeting no one.

Some little surprise was created among the servants when orders came for the carriage to be got ready.

"Going out at this time of night. What can it mean?" asked one of them.

"They are going to the Dower House," answered a groom.

"Ah, then his lordship and her ladyship will not remain at the Abbey! How strange! But there—rich people have nothing to do but indulge in whims and caprices!" said the under house-maid, who was immediately frowned down by her superiors in office.

Not a word was spoken by husband and wife as Lady Arleigh took her seat in the carriage. Whatever she felt was buried in her own breast. Her face shone marble-white underneath her vail, and her eyes were bent downward. Never a word did she speak as the carriage drove slowly through the park, where the dews were falling and the stars were bright.

Once her husband turned to her and tried to take her hand in his, but she drew back.

"It will be better not to talk, Norman," she said. "I can bear it best in silence."

So they drove on in unbroken quietude. The dew lay glistening on the grass and trees; all nature was hushed, tranquil, sweet, and still. It was surely the strangest drive that husband and wife had ever taken together. More than once, noting the silent, graceful figure, Lord Arleigh was tempted to ask Madaline to fly with him to some foreign land, where they could live and die unknown—more than once he was tempted to kiss the beautiful lips and say to her, "Madaline, you shall not leave me;" but the dishonor attaching to his name caused him to remain silent.

They had a rapid drive, and reached Winiston House—as it was generally called—before eleven. Great was the surprise and consternation excited by so unexpected an arrival. The house was in the charge of a widow whose husband had been the late, lord's steward. She looked somewhat dubiously at Lord Arleigh and then at his companion, when they had entered. Madaline never opened her lips. Lord Arleigh was strangely pale and confused.

"Mrs. Burton," he said, "I can hardly imagine that you have heard of my marriage. This is my wife—Lady Arleigh."

All the woman's doubt and hesitation vanished then—she became all attention; but Lord Arleigh inwardly loathed his fate when he found himself compelled to offer explanations that he would have given worlds to avoid.

"I am not going to remain here myself," he said, in answer to the inquiries about rooms and refreshments. "Lady Arleigh will live at Winiston House altogether; and, as you have always served the family faithfull and well, I should like you to remain in her service."

The woman looked up at him in such utter bewilderment and surprise that he felt somewhat afraid of what she might say; he therefore hastened to add:

"Family matters that concern no one but ourselves compel me to make this arrangement. Lady Arleigh will be mistress now of Winiston House. She will have a staff of servants here. You can please yourself about remaining—either as housekeeper or not—just as you like."

"Of course, my lord, I shall be only too thankful to remain, but it seems so very strange—"

Lord Arleigh held up his hand.

"Hush!" he said. "A well-trained servant finds nothing strange."

The woman took the hint and retired. Lord Arleigh turned to say farewell to his wife. He found her standing, white and tearless, by the window.

"Oh, my darling," he cried, "we must now part! Yet how can I leave you—so sad, so silent, so despairing? Speak to me, my own love—one word—just one word."

Her woman's heart, so quick to pity, was touched by his prayer. She stalled as sad, as sweet a smile as ever was seen on woman's lips.

"I shall be better in time, Norman," she said, "and shall not always be sad."

"There are some business arrangements which must be made," he continued, hurriedly—"but it will be better for us not to meet again just yet, Madaline—I could not bear it. I will see that all is arranged for your comfort. You must have every luxury and—"

"Luxury!" she repeated, mockingly. "Why, I would rather be the sorriest beggar that ever breathed than be myself! Luxury! You mock me, Lord Arleigh."

"You will be less bitter against me in time, my darling," he said. "I mean just what I say—that you will have everything this world can give you—"

"Except love and happiness," she interposed.

"Love you have, sweet; you have mine—the fervent, true, honest, deep love of my heart and soul. Happiness comes in time to all who do their duty. Think of Carlyle's words—'Say unto all kinds of happiness, "I can do without thee"—with self-renunciation life begins.'"

"Carlyle had no such fate as mine in his thoughts," she said, "when he wrote that. But, Lord Arleigh, I do not wish to complain. I am sorry that I have interrupted you. I have accepted my fate. Say all you wish—I will be silent."

"I have only to add, my darling, that if money, luxury, comfort can give you happiness, you shall have them all. You shall have respect and honor too, for I will take care that the whole world knows that this separation arises from no fault of yours. Promise me, darling wife—oh, Heaven help me, how hard it is!—promise me, when the first smart of the pain is over, that you will try to be happy."

She bent her head, but spoke no word.

"Promise me too, Madaline, that, if sickness and sorrow should come to you, you will send for me at once."

"I promise," she said.

"A few words more, and I have done. Tell me what course you wish me to pursue toward the duchess."

"I have no wish in the matter," she replied, directly. "She was kind to me once; for the sake of that kindness I forgive her. She forgot that I must suffer in her wish to punish you. I shall leave her to Heaven."

"And I," he said, "will do the same; voluntarily I will never see her or speak to her again."

There remained for him only to say farewell. He took her little white hand; it was as cold as death.

"Farewell, my love," he said—"farewell!"

He kissed her face with slow, sweet reverence, as he would have kissed the face of a dead woman whom he loved; and then he was gone.

Like one in a dream, she heard the wheel of a carriage rolling away. She stretched out her hands with a faint cry.

"Norman—my husband—my love!" she called; but from the deep silence of the night there came no response. He was gone.

Madaline passed the night in watching the silent skies. Mrs. Burton, after providing all that was needful, had retired quickly to rest. She did not think it "good manners" to intrude upon her ladyship.

All night Madaline watched the stars, and during the course of that night the best part of her died—youth, love, hope, happiness. Strange thoughts came to her—thoughts that she could hardly control. Why was she so cruelly punished? What had she done? She had read of wicked lives that had met with terrible endings. She had read of sinful men and wicked women whose crimes, even in this world, had been most bitterly punished. She had read of curses following sin. But what had she done? No woman's lot surely had ever been so bitter. She could not understand it, while the woman who had loved her husband, who had practiced fraud and deceit, and lied, went unpunished.

Yet her case was hardly that, for Norman did not love her. Daughter of a felon as she—Madaline—was—poor, lowly, obscure—he had given her his heart, although he could never make her the mistress of his home. There was some compensation for human suffering, some equality in the human lot, after all. She would be resigned. There were lots in life far worse than hers. What if she had learned to love Norman, and he had never cared for her? What if she had learned to love him, and had found him less noble than he was? What if, in the bitterness of his disappointment and passion, he had vented his anger upon her? After all, she could not but admire his sense of honor, his respect for his name, his devotion to his race; she could not find fault with his conduct, although it had cost her so dear.

"I think," she admitted to herself, "that in his place I should have done the same thing. If my parent's crime has brought sorrow and disgrace to me, who have no name, no fame, no glory of race to keep up, what must it have brought to him? In his place I should have done as he has done."

Then, after a time, she clasped her hands.

"I will submit," she said. "I will leave my fate to Providence."

When morning dawned she went to her room; she did not wish the household to know that she had sat up and watched the night through.

Once out of the house, Lord Arleigh seemed to realize for the first time what had happened; with a gesture of despair he threw himself back in the carriage. The footman came to him.

"Where to, my lord—to Beechgrove?"

"No," replied Lord Arleigh—"to the railway station. I want to catch the night-mail for London."

Lord Arleigh was just in time for the train. The footman caught a glimpse of his master's face as the train went off—it was white and rigid.

"Of all the weddings in this world, well, this is the queerest!" he exclaimed to himself.

When he reached Beechgrove, he told his fellow-servants what had happened, and many were the comments offered about the marriage that was yet no marriage—the wedding that was no wedding—the husband and wife who were so many miles apart. What could it mean?



Chapter XXIX.



Three days after Lord Arleigh's most inauspicious marriage. The Duchess of Hazlewood sat in her drawing-room alone. Those three days had changed her terribly; her face had lost its bloom, the light had died from her dark eyes, there were great lines of pain round her lips. She sat with her hands folded listlessly, her eyes, full of dreamy sorrow, fixed on the moving foliage of the woods. Presently Lady Peters entered with an open newspaper in her hand.

"Philippa, my dear," she said, "I am very uncomfortable. Should you think this paragraph refers to Lord Arleigh? It seems to do so—yet I cannot believe it."

The deadly pallor that was always the sign of great emotion with the duchess spread now even to her lips.

"What does it say?" she asked.

Lady Peters held the paper out to her; but her hands trembled so that she could not take it.

"I cannot read it," she said, wearily. "Read it to me."

And then Lady Peters read:

"Scandal in High Life.—Some strange revelations are shortly expected in aristocratic circles. A few days since a noble lord, bearing one of the most ancient titles in England, was married. The marriage took place under circumstances of great mystery; and the mystery has been increased by the separation of bride and bridegroom on their wedding-day. What has led to a separation is at present a secret, but it is expected that in a few days all particulars will be known. At present the affair is causing a great sensation."

A fashionable paper which indulged largely in personalities, also had a telling article on Lord Arleigh's marriage. No names were mentioned, but the references were unmistakable. A private marriage, followed by a separation on the same day, was considered a fair mark for scandal. This also Lady Peters read, and the duchess listened with white, trembling lips.

"It must refer to Lord Arleigh," said Lady Peters.

"It cannot," was the rejoinder. "He was far too deeply in love with his fair-faced bride to leave her."

"I never did quite approve of that marriage," observed Lady Peters.

"The scandal cannot be about him," declared the duchess. "We should have heard if there had been anything wrong."

The next day a letter was handed to her. She recognized the handwriting—it was Lord Arleigh's. She laid the note down, not daring to read it before Lady Peters. What had he to say to her?

When she was alone she opened it.

"You will be pleased to hear, duchess, that your scheme has entirely succeeded. You have made two innocent people who have never harmed you as wretched as it is possible for human beings to be. In no respect has your vengeance failed. I—your old friend, playmate, brother, the son of your mother's dearest friend—have been made miserable for life. Your revenge was well chosen. You knew that, however I might worship Madaline, my wife, however much I might love her, she could never be mistress of Beechgrove, she could never be the mother of my children; you knew that, and therefore I say your revenge was admirably chosen. It were useless to comment on your wickedness, or to express the contempt I feel for the woman who could deliberately plan such evil and distress. I must say this, however. All friendship and acquaintance between us is at an end. You will be to me henceforward an entire stranger. I could retaliate. I could write and tell your husband, who is a man of honor, of the unworthy deed you have done; but I shall not do that—it would be unmanly. Before my dear wife and I parted, we agreed that the punishment of your sin should be left to Heaven. So I leave it. To a woman unworthy enough to plan such a piece of baseness, it will be satisfaction sufficient to know that her scheme has succeeded. Note the words 'my wife and I parted'—parted, never perhaps to meet again. She has all my love, all my heart, all my unutterable respect and deep devotion; but, as you know, she can never be mistress of my house. May Heaven forgive you.

Arleigh."

She could have borne with his letter if it had been filled with the wildest invictives—if he had reproached her, even cursed her; his dignified forbearance, his simple acceptance of the wrong she had done him, she could not tolerate.

She laid down the letter. It was all over now—the love for which she would have given her life, the friendship that had once been so true, the vengeance that had been so carefully planned. She had lost his love, his friendship, his esteem. She could see him no more. He despised her. There came to her a vision of what she might have been to him had things been different—his friend, adviser, counselor—the woman upon whom he would have looked as the friend of his chosen wife—the woman whom, after all, he loved best—his sister, his truest confidante. All this she might have been but for her revenge. She had forfeited it all now. Her life would be spent as though he did not exist; and there was no one but herself to blame.

Still she had had her revenge; she smiled bitterly to herself as she thought of that. She had punished him. The beautiful face grew pale, and the dark eyes shone through a mist of tears.

"I am not hardened enough," she said to herself, mockingly, "to be quite happy over an evil deed. I want something more of wickedness in my composition."

She parried skillfully all Lady Peters' questions; she professed entire ignorance of all that had happened. People appealed to her as Lord Arleigh's friend. They asked her:

"What does this mean? Lord Arleigh was married quietly, and separated from his wife the same day. What does it mean?"

"I cannot tell, but you may rely upon it that a reasonable explanation of the circumstances will be forthcoming," she would reply. "Lord Arleigh is, as we all know, an honorable man, and I knew his wife."

"But what can it mean?" the questioners would persist.

"I cannot tell," she would answer, laughingly. "I only know we must give the matter the best interpretation we can."

So she escaped; and no one associated the Duchess of Hazlewood with Lord Arleigh's strange marriage. She knew that when her husband returned she would have to give some kind of explanation; but she was quite indifferent about that. Her life, she said to herself, was ended.

When the duke did come home, after a few pleasant weeks on the sea, the first thing he heard was the story about Lord Arleigh. It astounded him. His friend Captain Austin related it to him as soon as he had landed.

"Whom did you say he married?" inquired the duke.

"Rumor said at first that it was a distant relative of yours," replied the captain, "afterward it proved to be some young lady whom he had met at a small watering-place."

"What was her name? Who was she? It was no relative of mine; I have very few; I have no young female relative at all."

"No—that was all a mistake; I cannot tell you how it arose. He married a lady of the name of Dornham."

"Dornham!" said the puzzled nobleman. "The name is not unfamiliar to me—Dornham—ah, I remember!"

He said no more, but the captain saw a grave expression come over his handsome face, and it occurred to him that some unpleasant thought occurred to his companion's mind.



Chapter XXX.



One of the first questions, after his return, that the Duke of Hazlewood put to his wife was about Lord Arleigh. She looked at him with an uneasy smile.

"Am I my brother's keeper?" she asked.

"Certainly not, Philippa; but, considering that Arleigh has been as a brother to you all these years, you must take some interest in him. Is this story of his marriage true?"

"True?" she repeated. "Why, of course it is—perfectly true! Do you not know whom he has married?"

"I am half afraid to ask—half afraid to find that my suspicions have been realized."

"He has married my companion," said the duchess. "I have no wish to blame him; I will say nothing."

"It is a great pity that he ever saw her," observed the duke, warmly. "From all I hear, the man's life is wrecked."

"I warned him," said Philippa, eagerly. "I refused at first to introduce her to him. I told him that prudence and caution were needful."

"How came it about then, Philippa?"

The duchess shrugged her shoulders.

"There is a fate, I suppose, in these things. He saw her one day when I was out of the way, and, according to his own account, fell in love with her on the spot. Be that as it may, he was determined to marry her."

"It seems very strange," said the Duke of Hazlewood, musingly. "I have never known him to do anything 'queer' before."

"He can never say that I did not warn him," she remarked, carelessly.

"But it was such a wretched marriage for him. Who was she, Philippa? I have never made many inquiries about her."

"I would really rather not discuss the question," said the duchess; "it has no interest for me now. Norman and I have quarreled. In all probability we shall never be friends again."

"All through this marriage?" interrogated the duke.

"All through this marriage," repeated his wife—"and I know no subject that irritates me so much. Please say no more about it, Vere."

"I should like to know who the girl is," he urged. "You have never told me."

"I shall be jealous of her in a few minutes!" exclaimed Philippa "Already she has sundered an old friendship that I thought would last forever; and now, directly you return, you can talk of no one else."

"I should like to see you jealous," said the duke, who was one of the most unsuspicious of men.

She smiled; yet there came to her a sharp, bitter memory of the night on the balcony when she had been jealous of the ideal woman, the unknown love whom Norman had sketched for her.

The duke, however, was pertinacious; he could not give up the subject.

"You told me," he resumed, "that she was the daughter of an old friend of yours named Dornham—and it seems to me, Philippa, that I have some kind of remembrance of that name which is far from pleasant."

With an air of resignation the duchess rose from her seat.

"I am tired, Vere," she said, "quite tired of the subject. Yet I ought not to be selfish. Of course, the incident is all new to you—you have been away from all kinds of news; to us it is an old, worn-out story. Lord Arleigh and I quarreled and parted because of his marriage, so you may imagine it is not a very attractive subject to me."

"Well, I will say no more about it, but I am sincerely sorry, Philippa. Of all our friends, I like Lord Arleigh best; and I shall decidedly refuse to quarrel with him. His marriage is his own affair, not mine."

"Still, you cannot make a friend of the man whom I decline to know," she rejoined, hurriedly.

"Certainly not, if you place the matter in such a light," he said, gravely. "I shall always consider it my pleasure and duty to consult you on such points. I will call no man my friend whom you dislike."

So, for the time, all danger was tided over; the duke saw that the subject annoyed his wife, and did not voluntarily resume it. He was too true a gentleman to think of discussing with another lady what he did not discuss with his own wife, so that the subject was not mentioned between Lady Peters and himself.

Then for the fair young Duchess of Hazlewood began the new life which had in it no old friend. If she repented of her vengeance, she did not say so. If she would fain have undone her evil deed, she never owned it. But, as time wore on, people saw a great change in her. She gave herself more to the gayeties and follies of the world; there were few fashions which she did not lead, few gay pursuits in which she did not take an active part. The character of her beauty, too, seemed changed. She had always been brilliant, but somewhat of a strange unrest came into her face and manner; the dark eyes seemed to be always looking for something they could not find. Her mind, though charming and fascinating as ever, grew variable and unsteady. She had always been too proud for coquetry; she remained so now. But she no longer shunned and avoided all flattery and homage; it seemed rather to please her than not. And—greatest change of all—the name of Lord Arleigh never crossed her lips. He himself had retired from public life; the great hopes formed of him were all dying away. Men spoke of him with mystery, women with sad, gentle interest; those who had known him knew him no more.

He did not return to Beechgrove: it seemed to him that he could never again endure the sight of the place where he had separated from his wife—that his ancient home had been in some manner desecrated. The mansion was left in charge of Mrs. Chatterton, whose wonder at the new and strange state of things never ceased.

"Such a marriage!" She held up her hands in horror as she thought of it. Indeed, to her the event appeared like a wedding and a funeral on the same day. She had not seen Lady Arleigh since, yet she had never forgot the fair, lovely young face that had shone for so short a time in the grand old home.

Lord Arleigh saw that his wife had everything needful for her; he settled a large income on her; he sent from London horses, carriages, everything that her heart could desire; he saw that she had a proper household formed. Whatever else the world might say, it could not say that he showed her any want of respect or any want of attention. Lord Arleigh did not live with his wife, never visited her, never spoke of her; but it was quite clear that his motive for doing none of these things lay deeper than the world knew or could even guess.

The family solicitor went down to Winiston House occasionally, but Lord Arleigh never. The few who met him after his marriage found him strangely altered. Even his face had changed; the frank, honest, open look that had once seemed to defy and challenge and meet the whole world had died away; he looked now like a man with a secret to keep—a secret that had taken his youth from him, that had taken the light from his life, that hod shadowed his eyes, drawn hard lines of care round his lips, wrinkled his face, taken the music from his voice, and made of him a changed and altered, a sad, unhappy man.

There were one or two intimate friends—friends who had known him in his youth—who ventured to ask what this secret was, who appealed to him frankly to make his trouble known, telling him that sorrow shared was sorrow lightened; but with a sad smile he only raised his head and answered that his sorrow was one of which he could not speak. Sometimes a kindly woman who had known him as boy and man—one with daughters, and sons of her own—would ask him what was the nature of his sorrow. He would never tell.

"I cannot explain," he would reply.

Society tried hard to penetrate the mystery. Some said that Lady Arleigh was insane, and that he had not discovered it until the afternoon of his wedding-day. Others said that she had a fierce temper, and that he was unaware of it until they were traveling homeward. These were the most innocent rumors; others were more scandalous. It was said that he had discovered some great crime that she had committed. Few such stories; Lord Arleigh, they declared, was not the man to make so terrible a mistake.

Then, after a time, all the sensation and wonder died away, society accepted the fact that Lord Arleigh was unhappily married and had separated from his wife.

He went abroad, and then returned home, sojourning at quiet watering places where he thought his story and himself would be unknown. Afterward he went to Normandy, and tried to lose the remembrance of his troubles in his search after the picturesque. But, when he had done everything that he could do to relieve his distress of mind, he owned to himself that he was a most miserable man.



Chapter XXXI.



A year and a half bad passed, and Lord Arleigh was still, as it were, out of the world. It was the end of April, a spring fresh and beautiful. His heart had turned to Beechgrove, where the violets were springing and the young larches were budding; but he could not go thither—the picture-gallery was a haunted spot to him—and London he could endure. The fashionable intelligence told him that the Duke and Duchess of Hazlewood had arrived for the season, that they had had their magnificent mansion refurnished, and that the beautiful duchess intended to startle all London by the splendor and variety of her entertainments.

He said to himself that it would be impossible for him to remain in town without seeing them—and see them of his own free will he never would again.

Fate was, however, too strong for him. He had decided that he would leave London rather than run the risk of meeting the Duchess of Hazlewood. He went one morning to a favorite exhibition of pictures, and the first person he saw in the gallery was the duchess herself. As their eyes met her face grew deadly pale, so pale that he thought she would faint and fall to the ground; her lips opened as though she would fain utter his name. To him she looked taller, more beautiful, more stately than ever—her superb costume suited her to perfection—yet he looked coldly into the depths of her dark eyes, and without a word or sign of greeting passed on.

He never knew whether she was hurt or not, but he decided that he would leave London at once. He was a sensitive man more tender of heart than men as a rule, and their meeting had been a source of torture to him. He could not endure even the thought that Philippa should have lost all claim to his respect. He decided to go to Tintagel, in wild, romantic Cornwall; at least there would be boating, fishing, and the glorious scenery.

"I must go somewhere," he said to himself—"I must do something. My life hangs heavy on my hands—how will it end?"

So in sheer weariness and desperation he went to Tintagel, having, as he thought, kept his determination to himself, as he wished no one to know whither he had retreated. One of the newspapers, however, heard of it, and in a little paragraph told that Lord Arleigh of Beechgrove had gone to Tintagel for the summer. That paragraph had one unexpected result.

It was the first of May. The young nobleman was thinking of the May days when he was a boy—of how the common near his early home was yellow with gorse, and the hedges were white with hawthorn. He strolled sadly along the sea-shore, thinking of the sunniest May he had known since then, the May before his marriage. The sea was unusually calm, the sky above was blue, the air mild and balmy, the white sea-gulls circled in the air, the waves broke with gentle murmur on the yellow sand.

He sat down on the sloping beach. They had nothing to tell him, those rolling, restless waves—no sweet story of hope or of love, no vague pleasant harmony. With a deep moan he bent his head as he thought of the fair young wife from whom he had parted for evermore, the beautiful loving girl who had clung to him so earnestly.

"Madaline, Madaline!" he cried aloud: and the waves seemed to take up the cry—they seemed to repeat "Madaline" as they broke on the shore. "Madaline," the mild wind whispered. It was like the realization of a dream, when he heard his name murmured, and, turning, he saw his lost wife before him.

The next moment he had sprung to his feet, uncertain at first whether it was really herself or some fancied vision.

"Madaline," he cried, "is it really you?"

"Yes; you must not be angry with me, Norman. See, we are quite alone; there is no one to see me speak to you, no one to reveal that we have met."

She trembled as she spoke; her face—to him more beautiful than ever—was raised to his with a look of unutterable appeal.

"You are not angry, Norman?"

"No, I am not angry. Do not speak to me as though I were a tyrant. Angry—and with you, Madaline—always my best beloved—how could that be?"

"I knew that you were here," she said. "I saw in a newspaper that you were going to Tintagel for the summer. I had been longing to see you again—to see you, while unseen myself so I came hither."

"My dear Madaline, to what purpose?" he asked, sadly.

"I felt that if I did not look upon your face I should die—that I could live no longer without seeing you. Such a terrible fever seemed to be burning my very life away. My heart yearned for the touch of your hand. So I came. You are not angry that I came?"

"No, not angry; but, my darling, it will be harder for us to part."

"I have been here in Tintagel for two whole days," she continued. "I have seen you, but this is the first time you have gone where I could follow. Now speak to me, Norman. Say something to me that will cure my terrible pain—that will take the weary aching from my heart. Say something that will make me stronger to bear my desolate life—braver to live without you. You are wiser, better, stronger, braver than I. Teach me to bear my fate."

What could he say? Heaven help them both—what could he say? He looked with dumb, passionate sorrow into her fair loving face.

"You must not think it unwomanly in me to come," she said. "I am you wife—there is no harm in my coming. If I were not your wife, I would sooner have drowned myself than return after you had sent me away."

Her face was suffused with a crimson blush.

"Norman," she said gently, "sit down here by my side, and I will tell you why I have come."

They sat down side by side on the beach. There was only the wide blue sky above, only the wide waste of restless waters at their feet, only a circling sea-gull near—no human being to watch the tragedy of love and pride played out by the sea Waves.

"I have come," she said, "to make one more appeal to you, Norman—to ask you to change this stern determination which is ruining your life and mine—to ask you to take me back to your home and your heart. For I have been thinking, dear, and I do not see that the obstacle is such as you seem to imagine. It was a terrible wrong, a great disgrace—it was a cruel deception, a fatal mistake; but, after all, it might be overlooked. Moreover, Norman, when you made me your wife, did you not promise to love and to cherish, to protect me and make me happy until I died?"

"Yes," he replied, briefly.

"Then how are you keeping that promise—a promise made in the sight of Heaven?"

Lord Arleigh looked down at the fair, pure face, a strange light glowing in his own.

"My dear Madaline," he said, "you must not overlook what the honor of my race demands. I have my own ideas of what is due to my ancestors; and I cannot think that I have sinned by broken vows. I vowed to love you—so I do, my darling, ten thousand times better than anything else on earth. I vowed to be true and faithful to you—so I am, for I would not ever look at another woman's face. I vowed to protect you and to shield you—so I do, my darling; I have surrounded you with luxury and ease."

What could she reply—what urge or plead?

"So, in the eyes of Heaven, my wife, I cannot think I am wronging you."

"Then," she said, humbly, "my coming here, my pleading, is in vain."

"Not in vain, my darling. Even the sight of you for a few minutes has been like a glimpse of Elysium."

"And I must return," she said, "as I came—with my love thrown back, my prayers unanswered, my sorrow redoubled."

She hid her face in her hands and wept aloud. Presently she bent forward.

"Norman," she said, in a low whisper, "my darling, I appeal to you for my own sake. I love you so dearly that I cannot live away from you—it is a living death. You cannot realize it. There are few moments, night or day, in which your face is not before me—few moments in which I do not hear your voice. Last night I dreamed that you stood before me with outstretched arms and called me. I went to you, and you clasped me in your arms. You said, 'My darling wife, it has all been a mistake—a terrible mistake—and I am come to ask your pardon and to take you home.' In my dream, Norman, you kissed my face, my lips, my hands, and called me by every loving name you could invent. You were so kind to me, and I was so happy. And the dream was so vivid, Norman, that even after I awoke I believed it to be reality. Then I heard the sobbing of the waves on the beach, and I cried out, 'Norman, Norman!' thinking you were still near me; but there was no reply. It was only the silence that roused me to a full sense that my happiness was a dream. There was no husband with kind words and tender kisses. I thought my heart would have broken. And then I said to myself that I could live no longer without making an effort once more to change your decision. Oh, Norman, for my sake, do not send me back to utter desolation and despair! Do not send me back to coldness and darkness, to sorrow and tears. Let me be near you! You have a thousand interests in life—I have but one. You can live without love, I cannot. Oh, Norman, for my sake, for my love's sake, for my happiness' sake, take me back, dear—take me back!"

The golden head dropped forward and fell on his breast, her hands clung to him with almost despairing pain.

"I will be so humble, darling. I can keep away from all observation. It is only to be with you that I wish—only to be near you. You cannot be hard—you cannot send me away; you will not, for I love you!"

Her hands clung more closely to him.

"Many men have forgiven their wives even great crimes, and have taken them back after the basest desertion. Overlook my father's crime and pardon me, for Heaven's dear sake!"

"My dearest Madaline, if you would but understand! I have nothing to pardon. You are sweetest, dearest, loveliest, best. You are one of the purest and noblest of women. I have nothing to pardon; it is only that I cannot take disgrace into my family. I cannot give to my children an inheritance of crime."

"But, Norman," said the girl, gently, "because my father was a felon, that does not make me one—because he was led into wrong, it does not follow that I must do wrong. Insanity may be hereditary, but surely crime is not; besides, I have heard my father say that his father was an honest, simple, kindly northern farmer. My father had much to excuse him. He was a handsome man, who had been flattered and made much of."

"My darling I could not take your hands into mine and kiss them so, if I fancied that they were ever so slightly tainted with sin."

"Then why not take me home. Norman?"

"I cannot," he replied, in a tone of determination. "You must not torture me, Madaline, with further pleading. I cannot—that is sufficient."

He rose and walked with rapid steps down the shore. How bard it was, how terrible—bitter almost as the anguish of death!

She was by his side again, walking in silence. He would bare given the whole world if he could have taken her into his arms and have kissed back the color into her sad young face.

"Norman," said a low voice, full of bitterest pain, "I am come to say good-by. I am sorry I have done harm—not good. I am sorry—forgive me, and say good-by."

"It has made our lot a thousand times harder, Madaline," he returned, hoarsely.

"Never mind the hardship; you will soon recover from that," she said. "I am sorry that I have acted against your wishes, and broken the long silence. I will never do it again, Norman."

"Never, unless you are ill and need me," he supplemented. "Then you have promised to send for me."

"I will do so" she said. "You will remember, dear husband, that my last words to you were 'Good-by, and Heaven bless you.'"

The words died away on her lips. He turned aside lest she should see the trembling of his face; he never complained to her. He knew now that she thought him hard, cold, unfeeling, indifferent—that she thought his pride greater than his love; but even that was better than that she should know he suffered more than she did—she must never know that.

When he turned back from the tossing waves and the summer sun she was gone. He looked across the beach—there was no sign of her. She was gone; and he avowed to himself that it would be wonderful if ever in this world he saw her again. She did not remain at Tintagel; to do so would be useless, hopeless. She saw it now. She had hoped against hope: she had said to herself that in a year and a half he would surely have altered his mind—he would have found now how hard it was to live alone, to live without love—he would have found that there was something dearer in the world than family pride—he would have discovered that love outweighed everything else. Then she saw that her anticipations were all wrong—he preferred his dead ancestors to his living wife.

She went back to Winiston House and took up the dreary round of life again. She might have made her lot more endurable and happier, she might have traveled, have sought society and amusement; but she had no heart for any of these things. She had spent the year and a half of her lonely married life in profound study, thinking to herself that if he should claim her he would be pleased to find her yet more accomplished and educated. She was indefatigable, and it was all for him.

Now that she was going back, she was without this mainspring of hope—her old studies and pursuits wearied her. To what end and for what purpose had been all her study, all her hard work? He would never know of her proficiency; and she would not care to study for any other object than to please him.

"What am I to do with my life," she moaned. "Mariana in the moated grange was not more to be pitied than I."

How often the words occurred to her:

"The day is dreary, 'He cometh not,' she said: She said, 'I am aweary, aweary, would that I were dead.'"

It was one of the strangest, dullest, saddest lives that human being ever led. That she wearied of it was no wonder. She was tired of the sorrow, the suffering, the despair—so tired that after a time she fell ill; and then she lay longing for death.



Chapter XXXII.



It was a glorious September, and the Scottish moors looked as they had not looked for years; the heather grew in rich profusion, the grouse were plentiful. The prospects for sportsmen were excellent.

Not knowing what else to do, Lord Arleigh resolved to go to Scotland for the shooting; there was a sort of savage satisfaction in the idea of living so many weeks alone, without on-lookers, where he could be dull if he liked without comment—where he could lie for hours together on the heather looking up at the blue skies, and puzzling over the problem of his life—where, when the fit of despair seized him, he could indulge in it, and no one wonder at him. He hired a shooting-lodge called Glaburn. In his present state of mind it seemed to him to be a relief to live where he could not even see a woman's face. Glaburn was kept in order by two men, who mismanaged it after the fashion of men, but Lord Arleigh was happier there than he had been since his fatal marriage-day, simply because he was quite alone. If he spent more time in lying on the heather and thinking of Madaline than he did in shooting, that was his own concern—there was no one to interfere.

One day, when he was in one of his most despairing moods, he went out quite early in the morning, determined to wander the day through, to exhaust himself pitilessly with fatigue, and then see if he could not rest without dreaming of Madaline. But as he wandered east and west, knowing little and caring less, whither he went, a violent storm, such as breaks at times over the Scottish moors, overtook him. The sky grew dark as night, the rain fell in a torrent—blinding, thick, heavy—he could hardly see his hand before him. He wandered on for hours, wet through, weary, cold, yet rather rejoicing than otherwise in his fatigue. Presently hunger was added to fatigue; and then the matter became more serious—he had no hope of being able to find his way home, for he had no idea in what direction he had strayed.

At last he grew alarmed; life did not hold much for him, it was true, but he had no desire to die on those lonely wilds, without a human being near him. Then it became painful for him to walk; his fatigue was so great that his limbs ached at every step. He began to think his life was drawing near its close. Once or twice he had cried "Madaline" aloud and the name seemed to die away on the sobbing wind.

He grew exhausted at last; for some hours he had struggled on in the face of the tempest.

"I shall have to lie down like a dog by the road-side and die," he thought to himself.

No other fate seemed to be before him but that, and he told himself that after all he had sold his life cheaply. "Found dead on the Scotch moors," would be the verdict about him.

What would the world say? What would his golden-haired darling say when she heard that he was dead?

As the hot tears blinded his eyes—tears for Madaline, not for himself—a light suddenly flashed into them, and he found himself quite close to the window of a house. With a deep-drawn, bitter sob, he whispered to himself that he was saved. He had just strength enough to knock at the door; and when it was opened he fell across the threshold, too faint and exhausted to speak, a sudden darkness before his eyes.

When he had recovered a little, he found that several gentlemen were gathered around him, and that one of them was holding a flask of whisky to his lips.

"That was a narrow escape," said a cheery, musical voice. "How long have you been on foot?"

"Since eight this morning," he replied.

"And now it is nearly eight at night! Well, you may thank Heaven for preserving your life."

Lord Arleigh turned away with a sigh. How little could any one guess what life meant for him—life spent without love—love—without Madaline!

"I have known several lose their lives in this way," continued the same voice. "Only last year poor Charley Hartigan was caught in a similar storm, and he lay for four days dead before he was found. This gentleman has been fortunate."

Lord Arleigh roused himself and looked around. He found himself the center of observation. The room in which he was lying was large and well furnished, and from the odor of tobacco it was plainly used as a smoking-room.

Over him leaned a tall, handsome man, whose hair was slightly tinged with gray.

"I think," he said, "you are my neighbor, Lord Arleigh? I have often seen you on the moors."

"I do not remember you," Lord Arleigh returned; "nor do I know where I am."

"Then let me introduce myself as the Earl of Mountdean," said the gentleman. "You are at Rosorton, a shooting-lodge belonging to me, and I beg that you will make yourself at home."

Every attention was paid to him. He was placed in a warm bed, some warm, nourishing soup was brought to him, and he was left to rest.

"The Earl of Mountdean." Then this was the tall figure he had seen striding over the hills—this was the neighbor he had shunned and avoided, preferring solitude. How kind he was, and how his voice affected him! It was like long-forgotten melody. He asked himself whether he had seen the earl anywhere. He could not remember. He could not recall to his mind that they had ever met, yet he had most certainly heard his voice. He fell asleep thinking of this, and dreamed of Madaline all night long.

In the morning the earl came himself to his room to make inquiries; and then Lord Arleigh liked him better than ever. He would not allow his guest to rise.

"Remember," he said, "prevention is better than cure. After the terrible risk you have run, it will not do for you to be rash. You must rest."

So Lord Arleigh took the good advice given to him to lay still, but on the second day he rose, declaring that he could stand no further confinement. Even then Lord Mountdean would not hear of his going.

"I am compelled to be despotic with you," he said. "I know that at Glaburn you have no housekeeper, only men-servants—and they cannot make you comfortable, I am sure. Stay here for a few days until you are quite well."

So Lord Arleigh allowed himself to be persuaded, saying, with a smile, that he had come to Glaburn purposely for solitude.

"It was for the same thing that I came here," said the earl. "I have had a great sorrow in my life, and I like sometimes to be alone to think about it."

The two men looked at each other, but they liked each other all the better for such open confession.

When a few days had passed, it was Lord Arleigh who felt unwilling to leave his companion. He had never felt more at home than he did with Lord Mountdean. He had met no one so simple, so manly, so intelligent, and at the same time such a good fellow. There were little peculiarities in the earl, too, that struck him very forcibly; they seemed to recall some faint, vague memory, a something that he could never grasp, that was always eluding him, yet that was perfectly clear; and he was completely puzzled.

"Have I ever met you before?" he asked the earl one day.

"I do not think so. I have no remembrance of ever having sees you."

"Your voice and face are familiar to me," the younger man continued. "One or two of your gestures are as well known to me as though I had lived with you for years."

"Remembrances of that kind sometimes strike me," said the earl—"a mannerism, a something that one cannot explain. I should say that you have seen some one like me, perhaps."

It was probable enough, but Lord Arleigh was not quite satisfied. The earl and his guest parted in the most friendly manner.

"I shall never be quite so much in love with solitude again," said Lord Arleigh, as they were parting; "you have taught me that there is something better."

"I have learned the same lesson from you," responded the earl, with a sigh. "You talk about solitude. I had not been at Rosorton ten days before a party of four, all friends of mine, proposed to visit me. I could not refuse. They left the day after you came."

"I did not see them," said Lord Arleigh.

"No, I did not ask them to prolong their stay, fearing that after all those hours on the moors, you might have a serious illness; but now, Lord Arleigh, you will promise me that we shall be friends."

"Yes," he replied, "we will be friends."

So it was agreed that they should be strangers no longer—that they should visit and exchange neighborly courtesies and civilities.



Chapter XXXIII.



The Earl of Mountdean and Lord Arleigh were walking up a steep hill one day together, when the former feeling tired, they both sat down among the heather to rest. There was a warm sun shining, a pleasant wind blowing, and the purple heather seemed literally to dance around them. They remained for some time in silence; it was the earl who broke it by saying:

"How beautiful the heather is! And here indeed on this hill-top is solitude! We might fancy ourselves quite alone in the world. By the way, you have never told me, Arleigh, what it is that makes you so fond of solitude."

"I have had a great trouble," he replied, briefly.

"A trouble! But one suffers a great deal before losing all interest in life. You are so young, you cannot have suffered much."

"I know no other life so utterly helpless as my own."

The earl looked at him thoughtfully.

"I should like to know what your trouble is?" he said gently.

"I can tell you only one half of it," was the reply. "I fell in love with one of the sweetest, fairest, purest of girls. How I loved her is only known to myself. I suppose every man thinks his own love the greatest and the best. My whole heart went out to this girl—with my whole soul I loved her! She was below me in the one matter of worldly wealth and position—above me in all other. When I first asked her to marry me, she refused. She told me that the difference in our rank was too great. She was most noble, most self-sacrificing; she loved me, I know, most dearly, but she refused me. I was for some time unable to overcome her opposition; at last I succeeded. I tell you no details either of her name or where she lived, nor any other circumstances connected with her—I tell you only this, that, once having won her consent to our marriage, I seemed to have exchanged earth for Elysium. Then we were married, not publicly and with great pomp, but as my darling wished—privately and quietly. On the same day—my wedding-day—I took her home. I cannot tell how great was my happiness—no one could realize it. Believe me, Lord Mountdean, that she herself is as pure as a saint, that I know no other woman at once so meek and so lofty, so noble and so humble. Looking at her, one feels how true and sweet a woman's soul can be. Yet—oh, that I should live to say it!—on my wedding-day I discovered something—it was no fault of hers, I swear—that parted us. Loving her blindly, madly, with my whole heart and soul, I was still compelled to leave her. She is my wife in name only, and can never be more to me, yet, you understand, without any fault of hers."

"What a strange story!" said the earl, thoughtfully. "But this barrier, this obstacle—can it never be removed?"

"No," answered Lord Arleigh, "never!"

"I assure you of my deepest sympathy," said the earl. "It is a strange history."

"Yes, and a sad fate," sighed Lord Arleigh. "You cannot understand my story entirely. Wanting a full explanation, you might fairly ask me why I married with this drawback. I did not know of it, but my wife believed I did. We were both most cruelly deceived, it does not matter now. She is condemned to a loveless, joyless life; so am I. With a wife beautiful loving, young, I must lead a most solitary existence—I must see my name die out for want of heirs—I must see my race almost extinct, my life passed in repining and misery, my heart broken, my days without sunshine. I repeat that it is a sad fate."

"It is indeed," agreed the earl—"and such a strange one. Are you quite sure that nothing can be done to remedy it?"

"Quite sure," was the hopeless reply.

"I can hardly understand the need for separation, seeing that the wife herself is blameless."

"In this case it is unavoidable."

"May I, without seeming curious, ask you a question?" said the earl.

"Certainly—as many as you like."

"You can please yourself about answering it," observed the earl; and then he added: "Tell me, is it a case of insanity? Has your wife any hereditary tendency to anything of that kind?"

"No," replied Lord Arleigh; "it is nothing of that description. My wife is to me perfect in body and mind; I can add nothing to that."

"Then your story is a marvel; I do not—I cannot understand it. Still I must say that, unless there is something far deeper and more terrible than I can imagine, you have done wrong to part from your wife."

"I wish I could think so. But my doom is fixed, and no matter how long I live, or she lives, it can never be altered."

"My story is a sad one," observed Lord Mountdean, "but it is not so sad as yours. I married when I was quite young—married against my father's wish, and without his consent. The lady I loved was like your own; she was below me in position, but in nothing else. She was the daughter of a clergyman, a lady of striking beauty, good education and manners. I need not trouble you by telling you how it came about. I married her against my father's wish; he was in Italy at the time for his health—he had been there indeed for some years. I married her privately; our secret was well kept. Some time after our marriage I received a telegram stating that my father was dying and wished to see me. At that very time we were expecting the birth of what we hoped would be a son and heir. But I was anxious that my father should see and bless my wife before he died. She assured me that the journey would not hurt her, that no evil consequences would ensue; and, as I longed intensely for my father to see her, it was arranged that we should go together. A few hours of the journey passed happily enough, and then my poor wife was taken ill. Heaven pardon me because of my youth, my ignorance, my inexperience! I think sometimes that I might have saved her—but it is impossible to tell. We stopped at a little town called Castledene, and I drove to the hotel. There were races, or something of the kind, going on in the neighborhood, and the proprietors could not accommodate us. I drove to the doctor, who was a good Samaritan; he took us into his house—my child was born, and my wife died there. It was not a son and heir, as we had hoped it might be, but a little daughter, as fair as her mother. Ah, Lord Arleigh, you have had your troubles, I have had mine. My wife was buried at Castledene—my beautiful young wife, whom I loved so dearly. I left my child, under the doctor's care, with a nurse, having arranged to pay so much per annum for her, and intending when I returned to England to take her home to Wood Lynton as my heiress. My father, contrary to the verdict of the physicians, lingered about three years. Then he died, and I became Earl of Mountdean. The first thing I did was to hurry to Castledene. Can you imagine my horror when I found that all trace of my child was lost? The poor doctor had met with some terrible death, and the woman who had charge of my little one had left the neighborhood. Can you imagine what this blow was to me? Since then my life has been spent in one unceasing effort to find my daughter."

"How strange!" said Lord Arleigh. "Did you not know the name of the nurse?"

"Yes, she lived at a little place called Ashwood. I advertised for her, I offered large rewards, but I have never gleaned the least news of her; no one could ever find her. Her husband, it appeared, had been guilty of crime. My opinion is that the poor woman fled in shame from the neighborhood where she was known, and that both she and my dear child are dead."

"It seems most probable," observed Lord Arleigh.

"If I could arrive at any certainty as to her fate," said the earl, "I should be a happier man. I have been engaged to my cousin Lady Lily Gordon for four years, but I cannot make up my mind to marry until I hear something certain about my daughter."



Chapter XXXIV.



Winiston House was prettily situated. The house stood in the midst of charming grounds. There was a magnificent garden, full of flowers, full of fragrance and bloom; there was an orchard filled with rich, ripe fruit, broad meadow-land where the cattle grazed, where daisies and oxlips grew. To the left of the house was a large shrubbery, which opened on to a wide carriage drive leading to the high road. The house was an old red-brick building, in no particular style of architecture, with large oval windows and a square porch. The rooms were large, lofty, and well lighted. Along the western side of the house ran a long terrace called the western terrace; there the sun appeared to shine brightest, there tender plants flourished, there tame white doves came to be fed and a peacock walked in majesty; from there one heard the distant rush of the river.

There Lady Arleigh spent the greater part of her time—there she wore her gentle life away. Three years had elapsed, and no change had come to her. She read of her husband's sojourn in Scotland. Then she read in the fashionable intelligence that he had gone to Wood Lynton, the seat of the Earl of Mountdean. He remained there three days, and then went abroad. Where he was now she did not know; doubtless he was traveling from one place to another, wretched, unhappy as she was herself.

The desolate, dreary life had begun to prey upon her at last. She had fought against it bravely for some time—she had tried to live down the sorrow; but it was growing too strong for her—the weight of it was wearing her life away. Slowly but surely she began to fade and droop. At first it was but a failure in strength—a little walk tired her, the least fatigue or exercise seemed too much for her. Then, still more slowly, the exquisite bloom faded from the lovely face, a weary languor shone in the dark-blue eyes, the crimson lips lost their color. Yet Lady Arleigh grew more beautiful as she grew more fragile. Then all appetite failed her. Mrs. Burton declared that she ate nothing.

She might have led a different life—she might have gone out into society—she might have visited and entertained guests. People knew that Lady Arleigh was separated from her husband; they knew also that, whatever might have been the cause of separation, it had arisen from no fault of hers. She would, in spite of her strange position, have been welcomed with open arms by the whole neighborhood, but she was sick with mortal sorrow—life had not a charm for her.

She had no words for visitors—she had no wish left for enjoyment. Just to dream her life away was all she cared for. The disappointment was so keen, so bitter, she could not overcome it. Death would free Norman from all burden—would free him from this tie that must be hateful to him. Death was no foe to be met and fought with inch by inch; he was rather a friend who was to save her from the embarrassment of living on—a friend who would free her husband from the effects of his terrible mistake.

Madaline had never sent for her mother, not knowing whether Lord Arleigh would like it; but she had constantly written to her, and had forwarded money to her. She had sent her more than Margaret Dornham was willing to accept. Another thing she had done—she had most carefully refrained from saying one word to her mother as to the cause of her separation from her husband. Indeed, Margaret Dornham had no notion of the life that her well-beloved Madaline was leading.

It had been a terrible struggle for Margaret to give her up.

"I might as well have let her go back years ago to those to whom she belonged," she said to herself, "as to let her go now."

Still, she stood in great awe of the Duchess of Hazlewood, who seemed to her one of the grandest ladies in all England; and, when the duchess told her it was selfish of her to stand in her daughter's light, Margaret gave way and let her go. Many times, after she had parted with her, she felt inclined to open the oaken box with brass clasps, and see what the papers in it contained, but a nameless fear came over her. She did not dare to do what she had not done earlier.

Madaline had constantly written to her, had told her of her lover, had described Lord Arleigh over and over again to her. On the eve of her wedding-day she had written again; but, after that fatal marriage-day, she had not told her secret. Of what use would it be to make her mother more unhappy than she was—of what avail to tell her that the dark and terrible shadow of her father's crime had fallen over her young life, blighting it also?

Of all her mother's troubles she knew this would be the greatest so she generously refrained from naming it. There was no need to tell her patient, long-suffering, unhappy mother that which must prove like a dagger in her gentle heart. So Margaret Dornham had one gleam of sunshine in her wretched life. She believed that the girl she had loved so dearly was unutterably happy. She had read the descriptions of Lord Arleigh with tears in her eyes.

"That is how girls write of the men they love," she said—"my Madaline loves him."

Madaline had written to her when the ceremony was over. She had no one to make happy with her news but her distant mother. Then some days passed before she heard again—that did not seem strange. There was, of course, the going home, the change of scene, the constant occupation. Madaline would write when she had time. At the end of a week she heard again; and then it struck her that the letter was dull, unlike one written by a happy bride—but of course she must be mistaken—why should not Madaline be happy?

After that the letters came regularly, and Madaline said that the greatest pleasure she had lay in helping her mother. She said that she intended to make her a certain allowance, which she felt quite sure would be continued to her after her death, should that event precede her mother's; so that at last, for the weary-hearted woman, came an interval of something like contentment. Through Madaline's bounty she was able to move from her close lodgings in town to a pretty cottage in the country Then she had a glimpse of content.

After a time her heart yearned to see the daughter of her adoption, the one sunbeam of her life, and she wrote to that effect.

"I will come to you," wrote Madaline, in reply, "if you will promise me faithfully to make no difference between me and the child Madaline who used to come home from school years ago."

Margaret promised, and Madaline, plainly dressed, went to see her mother. It was sweet, after those long, weary months of humiliation and despair, to lay her head on that faithful breast and hear whispered words of love and affection. When the warmth of their first greeting was over, Margaret was amazed at the change in her child. Madaline had grown taller, the girlish graceful figure had developed into a model of perfect womanhood. The dress that she wore became her so well that the change in the marvelous face amazed her the most, it was so wonderfully wonderful, so fair, so pure, so spirituelle, yet it had so strange a story written upon it—a story she could neither read nor understand. It was not a happy face. The eyes were shadowed, the lips firm, the radiance and brightness that had distinguished her were gone; there were patience and resignation Instead.

"How changed you are, my darling!" said Margaret, as she looked at her. "Who would have thought that my little girl would grow into a tall, stately, beautiful lady, dainty and exquisite? What did Lord Arleigh say to your coming, my darling?"

"He did not say anything," she replied, slowly.

"But was he not grieved to lose you?"

"Lord Arleigh is abroad," said Madaline, gently. "I do not expect that he will return to England just yet."

"Abroad!" repeated Margaret. "Then, my darling, how is it that you are not with him?"

"I could not go," she replied, evasively.

"And you love your husband very much, Madaline, do you not?" inquired Margaret.

"Yes, I love him with all my heart and soul!" was the earnest reply.

"Thank Heaven that my darling is happy!" said Margaret, "I shall find everything easier to bear now that I that."



Chapter XXXV.



Margaret Dornham was neither a clever nor a far-seeing woman; had she been either, she would never have acted as she did. She would have known that in taking little Madaline from Castledene she was destroying her last chance of ever being owned or claimed by her parents; she would have understood that, although she loved the child very dearly, she was committing a most cruel act. But she thought only of how she loved her. Yet, undiscerning as she was, she was puzzled about her daughter's happiness. If she was really so happy, why did she spend long hours in reverie—why sit with folded hands, looking with such sad eyes at the passing clouds? That did not look like happiness. Why those heavy sighs, and the color that went and came like light and shade? It was strange happiness. After a time she noticed that Madaline never spoke voluntarily of her husband. She would answer any questions put to her—she would tell her mother anything she desired to know; but of her own accord she never once named him. That did not look like happiness. She even once, in answer to her mother's questions, described Beechgrove to her—told her of the famous beeches, the grand picture gallery; she told her of the gorgeous Titian—the woman with rubies like blood shining on her white neck. But she did not add that she had been at Beechgrove only once, and had left the place in sorrow and shame.

She seemed to have every comfort, every luxury; but Margaret noticed also that she never spoke of her circle of society—that she never alluded to visitors.

"It seems to me, my darling, that you lead a very quiet life," she said, one day; and Madaline's only answer was that such was really the case.

Another time Margaret said to her:

"You do not write many letters to your husband, Madaline. I could imagine a young wife like you writing every day," and her daughter made no reply.

On another occasion Mrs. Dornham put the question to her:

"You are quite sure, Madaline, that you love your husband?"

"Love him!" echoed the girl, her face lighting up—"love him, mother? I think no one in the wide world has ever loved another better!"

"Such being the case, my darling," said Margaret, anxiously, "let me ask you if you are quite sure he loves you?"

No shadow came into the blue eyes as she raised them to her mother's face.

"I am as sure of it," she replied, "as I am of my own existence."

"Then," thought Margaret to herself, "I am mistaken; all is well between them."

Madaline did not intend to remain very long with her mother, but it was soothing to the wounded, aching heart to be loved so dearly. Margaret startled her one day, by saying:

"Madaline, now that you are a great lady, and have such influential friends, do you not think you could do something for your father?"

"Something for my father?" repeated the girl, with a shudder. "What can I do for him?"

A new idea suddenly occurred to Mrs. Dornham. She looked into Lady Arleigh's pale, beautiful face.

"Madaline," she said, earnestly, "tell me the whole truth—is your father's misfortune any drawback to you? Tell me the truth; I have a reason for asking you."

But Lady Arleigh would not pain her mother—her quiet, simple heart had ached bitterly enough. She would not add one pang.

"Tell me, dear," continued Margaret, earnestly; "you do not know how important it is for me to understand."

"My dear mother," said Lady Arleigh, gently clasping her arms round her mother's neck; "do not let that idea make you uneasy. All minor lights cease to shine, you know, in the presence of greater ones. The world bows down to Lord Arleigh; very few, I think, know what his wife's name was. Be quite happy about me, mother. I am sure that no one who has seen me since my marriage knows anything about my father."

"I shall be quite happy, now that I know that," she observed.

More than once during that visit Margaret debated within herself whether she would tell Lady Arleigh her story or not; but the same weak fear that had caused her to run away with the child, lest she should lose her now, made her refrain from speaking, lest Madaline, on knowing the truth, should be angry with her and forsake her.

If Mrs. Dornham had known the harm that her silence was doing she would quickly have broken it.

Lady Arleigh returned home, taking her silent sorrow with her. If possible, she was kinder then ever afterward to her mother, sending her constantly baskets of fruit and game—presents of every kind. If it had not been for the memory of her convict husband, Mrs. Dornham would for the first time in her life have been quite happy.

Then it was that Lady Arleigh began slowly to droop, then it was that her desolate life became utterly intolerable—that her sorrow became greater than she could bear. She must have some one near her, she felt—some one with whom she could speak—or she should go mad. She longed for her mother. It was true Margaret Dornham was not an educated woman, but in her way she was refined. She was gentle, tender-hearted, thoughtful, patient, above all, Madaline believed she was her mother—and she had never longed for her mother's love and care as she did now, when health, strength, and life seemed to be failing her.

By good fortune she happened to see in the daily papers that Lord Arleigh was staying at Meurice's Hotel, in Paris. She wrote to him there, and told him that she had a great longing to have her mother with her. She told him that she had desired this for a long time, but that she had refrained[6] from expressing the wish lest it should be displeasing to him.

"Do not scruple to refuse me," she said, "if you do not approve. I hardly venture to hope that you will give your consent. If you do, I will thank you for it. If you should think it best to refuse it, I submit humbly as I submit now. Let me add that I would not ask the favor but that my health and strength are failing fast."

Lord Arleigh mused long and anxiously over this letter. He hardly cared that her mother should go to Dower House; it would perhaps be the means of his unhappy secret becoming known. Nor did he like to refuse Madaline, unhappy, lonely, and ill. Dear Heaven, if he could but go to her himself and comfort her.



Chapter XXXVI.



Long and anxiously did Lord Arleigh muse over his wife's letter. What was he to do? If her mother was like the generality of her class, then he was quite sure that the secret he had kept would be a secret no longer—there was no doubt of that. She would naturally talk, and the servants would prove the truth of the story, and there would be a terrible expose. Yet, lonely and sorrowful as Madaline declared herself to be, how could he refuse her? It was an anxious question for him, and one that caused him much serious thought. Had he known how ill she was he would not have hesitated a moment.

He wrote to Madaline—how the letter was received and cherished no one but herself knew—and told her that he would be in England in a day or two, and would then give her a decided answer. The letter was kind and affectionate; it came to her hungry heart like dew to a thirsty flower.

A sudden idea occurred to Lord Arleigh. He would go to England and find out all about the unfortunate man Dornham. Justice had many victims; it was within the bounds of possibility that the man might have been innocent—might have been unjustly accused. If such—and oh, how he hoped it might be!—should prove to be the case, then Lord Arleigh felt that he could take his wife home. It was the real degradation of the crime that he dreaded so utterly—dreaded more than all that could ever be said about it. He thought to himself more than once that, if by any unexpected means he discovered that Henry Dornham was innocent of the crime attributed to him, he would in that same hour ask Madaline to forgive him, and to be the mistress of his house. That was the only real solution of the difficulty that ever occurred to him. If the man were but innocent he—Lord Arleigh—would never heed the poverty, the obscurity the humble name—all that was nothing. By comparison it seemed so little that he could have smiled at it. People might say it was a low marriage, but he had his own idea of what was low. If only the man could be proved innocent of crime, then he might go to his sweet, innocent wife, and clasping her in his arms, take her to his heart.

The idea seemed to haunt him—it seemed to have a fatal attraction for him. He resolved to go to London at once and see if anything could be done in the matter. How he prayed and longed and hoped! He passed through well-nigh every stage of feeling—from the bright rapture of hope to the lowest depths of despair. He went first to Scotland Yard, and had a long interview with the detective who had given evidence against Henry Dornham. The detective's idea was that he was emphatically "a bad lot."

He smiled benignly when Lord Arleigh suggested that possibly the man was innocent, remarking that it was very kind of the gentleman to think so; for his own part he did not see a shadow of a chance of it.

"He was caught, you see, with her grace's jewels in his pocket, and gold and silver plate ready packed by his side—that did not look much like innocence."

"No, certainly not," Lord Arleigh admitted; "but then there have been cases in which circumstances looked even worse against an innocent man."

"Yes"—the detective admitted it, seeing that for some reason or other his lordship had a great desire to make the man out innocent.

"He will have a task," the detective told himself, grimly.

To the inquiry as to whether the man had been sent out of England the answer was "No; he is at Chatham."

To Chatham Lord Arleigh resolved to go. For one in his position there would not be much difficulty in obtaining an interview with the convict. And before long[7] Lord Arleigh, one of the proudest men in England, and Henry Dornham, poacher and thief, stood face to face.

Lord Arleigh's first feeling was one of great surprise—Henry Dornham was so different from what he had expected to find him; he had not thought that he would be fair like Madaline, but he was unprepared for the dark, swarthy, gypsy-like type of the man before him.

The two looked steadily at each other; the poacher did not seem in the least to stand in awe of his visitor. Lord Arleigh tried to read the secret of the man's guilt or innocence in his face. Henry Dornham returned the gaze fearlessly.

"What do you want with me?" he asked. "You are what we call a swell. I know by the look of you. What do you want with me?"

The voice, like the face, was peculiar, not unpleasant—deep, rich, with a clear tone, yet not in the least like Madaline's voice.

"I want," said Lord Arleigh, steadily, "to be your friend, if you will let me."

"My friend!" a cynical smile curled the handsome lips. "Well, that is indeed a novelty. I should like to ask, if it would not seem rude, what kind of a friend can a gentleman like you be to me?"

"You will soon find out," said Lord Arleigh.

"I have never known a friendship between a rich man and a ne'er-do-well like myself which did not end in harm for the poorer man. You seek us only when you want us—and then it is for no good."

"I should not be very likely to seek you from any motive but the desire to help you," observed Lord Arleigh.

"It is not quite clear to me how I am to be helped," returned the convict with a cynical smile; "but if you can do anything to get me out of this wretched place, please do."

"I want you to answer me a few questions," said Lord Arleigh—"and very much depends on them. To begin, tell me, were you innocent or guilty of the crime for which you are suffering? Is your punishment deserved or not?"

"Well," replied Henry Dornham, with a sullen frown, "I can just say this—it is well there are strong bars between us; if there were not you would not live to ask such another question."

"Will you answer me?" said Lord Arleigh, gently.

"No, I will not—why should I? You belong to a class I hate and detest—a class of tyrants and oppressors."

"Why should you? I will tell you in a few words. I am interested in the fate of your wife and daughter."

"My what?" cried the convict, with a look of wonder.

"Your wife and daughter," said Lord Arleigh.

"My daughter!" exclaimed the man. "Good Heaven! Oh, I see! Well, go on. You are interested in my wife and daughter—what else?"

"There is one thing I can do which would not only be of material benefit to them, but would make your daughter very happy. It cannot be done unless we can prove your innocence."

"Poor little Madaline," said the convict, quietly—"poor, pretty little girl!"

Lord Arleigh's whole soul revolted on hearing this man speak so of his fair, young wife. That this man, with heavy iron bars separating him, as though he were a wild animal, from the rest of the world, should call his wife "poor, pretty little Madaline."

"I would give," said Lord Arleigh, "a great deal to find that your conviction had been a mistake. I know circumstances of that kind will and do happen. Tell me honestly, is there any, even the least probability, of finding out anything to your advantage?"

"Well," replied Henry Dornham, "I am a ne'er-do-well by nature. I was an idle boy, an idle youth, and an idle man. I poached when I had a chance. I lived on my wife's earnings. I went to the bad as deliberately as any one in the world did, but I do not remember that I ever told a willful lie."

There passed through Lord Arleigh's mind a wish that the Duchess of Hazlewood might have heard this avowal.

"I do not remember," the man said again, "that I have ever told a willful lie in my life. I will not begin now. You asked me if I was really guilty. Yes, I was—guilty just as my judges pronounced me to be!"

For a few minutes Lord Arleigh was silent; the disappointment was almost greater than he could bear. He had anticipated so much from this interview; and now by these deliberately spoken words his hopes were ended—he would never be able to take his beautiful young wife to his heart and home. The bitterness of the disappointment seemed almost greater than he could bear. He tried to recover himself, while Henry Dornham went on:

"The rich never have anything to do with the poor without harm comes of it. Why did they send me to the duke's house? Why did be try to patronize me? Why did he parade his gold and silver plate before my eyes?"

The passion of his words seemed to inflame him.

"Why," he continued angrily, should he eat from silver while others were without bread? Why should his wife wear diamonds while mine cried with hunger and cold? I saw how unjust it was. Who placed his foot on my neck? Who made him my master and tyrant, patronizing me with his 'my good fellow' this and the other? What right had he to such abundance while I had nothing?"

"That which was his," said Lord Arleigh, bluntly, "at least was not yours to take."

"But I say it was! I helped myself before, and, if I were out of this place, having the chance, I would help myself again."

"That would be equally criminal," said Lord Arleigh, fearlessly and again Henry Dornham laughed his cynical laugh.

"It is too late in the day for me to talk over these matters," said the convict. "When I roamed in the woods as a free man, I had my own ideas; prison has not improved them. I shall never make a reformed convict—not even a decent ticket-of-leave man. So if you have any thought of reclaiming me, rid your mind of it at once."

"It will be best to do so, I perceive," observed Lord Arleigh. "I had some little hope when I came in—I have none now."

"You do not mean to say, though, that I am not to be any the better off for your visit?" cried the man. "I do not know your name, but I can see what you are. Surely you will try to do something for me?"

"What can I do?" asked Lord Arleigh. "If you had been innocent—even if there had been what they call extenuating circumstances—I would have spent a fortune in the endeavor to set you free; but your confession renders me powerless."

"The only extenuating circumstance in the whole affair," declared the man, after a pause, "was that I wanted money, and took what I thought would bring it. So you would give a small fortune to clear me, eh?" he interrogated.

"Yes," was the brief reply.

The man looked keenly at him.

"Then you must indeed have a strong motive. It is not for my own sake, I suppose?" A new idea occurred to him. A sudden smile curled his lip. "I have it!" he said. "You are in love with my—with pretty little Madaline, and you want to marry her! If you could make me out innocent, you would marry her; if you cannot—what then? Am I right?"

All the pride of his nature rose in rebellion against this coarse speech. He, an Arleigh of Beechgrove, to hear this reprobate sneering at his love! His first impulse was an angry one, but he controlled himself. After all, it was Madaline's father—for Madaline's sake he would be patient.

"Am I right?" the prisoner repeated, with the same mocking smile.

"No," replied Lord Arleigh, "you are not right. There is no need for me to offer any explanation, and, as I have failed in my object, I will go."

"You might just as well tell me if you are in love with my little Madaline. I might make it worth your while to let me know."

It was with great difficulty that Lord Arleigh controlled his indignation; but he replied, calmly:

"I have nothing to tell you."

A look of disappointment came over the dark, handsome face.

"You can keep your secrets," he said—"so can I. If you will tell me nothing, neither shall I; but I might make it worth your while to trust me."

"I have nothing to confide," returned Lord Arleigh; "all I can say to you on leaving is that I hope you will come to your senses and repent of your past wickedness."

"I shall begin to think that you are a missionary in disguise," said Henry Dornham. "So you will not offer me anything for my secret?" he interrogated.

"No secret of yours could interest me," rejoined Lord Arleigh abruptly, as he went away.

So, for the second time in his life, he was at the door of the mystery, yet it remained unopened. The first time was when he was listening to Lord Mountdean's story, when the mention of the name Dornham should lead to a denouement; the second was now, when, if he had listened to the convict, he would have heard that Madaline was not his child.

He left Chatham sick at heart. There was no help for him—his fate was sealed. Never, while he lived, could he make his beautiful wife his own truly—they were indeed parted for evermore. There remained to him to write that letter; should he consent to Madaline's mother living with her or should he not?

He reflected long and anxiously, and then having well weighed the matter he decided that he would not refuse his wife her request. He must run the risk, but he would not caution her.

He wrote to Madaline, and told her that he would be pleased if she were pleased, and that he hoped she would be happy with her mother, adding the caution that he trusted she would impress upon her mother the need of great reticence, and that she must not mention the unfortunate circumstances of the family to any creature living.

Madaline's answer touched him. She assured him that there was no fear—that her mother was to be implicitly trusted. She told him also how entirely she had kept the secret of his separation from her, lest it should add to her mother's trouble.

"She will know now that I do not live with you, that I never see you, that we are as strangers, but she will never know the reason."

He was deeply moved. What a noble girl she was, bearing her troubles so patiently, and confiding them to no human soul!

Then he was compelled to go to Beechgrove—it was long since he had been there, and so much required attention, he was obliged to go, sorely against his will, for he dreaded the sight of the place, haunted as it was by the remembrance of the love and sorrow of his young wife. He avoided going as long as possible, but the place needed the attention of a master.

It was June when he went—bright, smiling, perfumed, sunny June—and Beechgrove was at its best; the trees were in full foliage, the green woods resounded with the song of birds, the gardens were filled with flowers, the whole estate was blooming and fair. He took up his abode there. It was soon noticed in the house that he avoided the picture-gallery—nothing ever induced him to enter it. More than once, as he was walking through the woods, his heartbeat and his face flushed; there, beyond the trees lived his wife, his darling, from whom a fate more cruel than death had parted him. His wife! The longing to see her grew on him from day to day. She was so near him, yet so far away—she was so fair, yet her beauty must all fade and die; it was not for him.

In time he began to think it strange that he had never heard anything of her. He went about in the neighborhood, yet no one spoke of having seen her. He never heard of her being at church, nor did he ever meet her on the high-road. It was strange how completely a vail of silence and mystery had fallen over her.

When he had been some time at Beechgrove he received one morning a letter from the Earl of Mountdean, saying that he was in the neighborhood, and would like to call. Lord Arleigh was pleased at the prospect. There was deep and real cordiality between the two men—they thoroughly understood and liked each other; it was true that the earl was older by many years than Lord Arleigh, but that did not affect their friendship.

They enjoyed a few days together very much. One morning they rode through the woods—the sweet, fragrant, June woods—when, from between the trees, they saw the square turrets of the Dower House. Lord Mountdean stopped to admire the view.

"We are a long distance from Beechgrove," he said; "what is that pretty place?"

Lord Arleigh's face flushed hotly.

"That," he replied, "is the Dower House, where my wife lives."

The earl looked with great interest at Lady Arleigh's dwelling-place.

"It is very pretty," he said—"pretty and quiet; but it must be dull for a young girl. You said she was young, did you not?"

"Yes, she is years younger than I am," replied Lord Arleigh.

"Poor girl!" said the earl, pityingly; "it must be rather a sad fate—so young and beautiful, yet condemned all her life to live alone. Tell me, Arleigh, did you take advice before you separated yourself so abruptly from her?"

"No," replied Lord Arleigh, "I did not ever seek it; the matter appeared plain enough to me."

"I should not like you to think me curious," pursued the earl. "We are true friends now, and we can trust each other. You have every confidence in me, and I have complete faith in you. I would intrust to you the dearest secret of my heart. Arleigh, tell me what I know you have told to no human being—the reason of your separation from the wife you love."

Lord Arleigh hesitated for one half minute.

"What good can it possibly do?" he said.

"I am a great believer in the good old proverb that two heads are better than one," replied the earl. "I think it is just possible that I might have some idea that has not occurred to you; I might see some way out of the difficulty, that has not yet presented itself to you. Please yourself about it; either trust me or not, as you will; but if you do trust me, rely upon it I shall find some way of helping you."

"It is a hopeless case," observed Lord Arleigh, sadly. "I am quite sure that even if you knew all about it, you would not see any comfort for me. For my wife's sake I hesitate to tell you, not for my own."