It was but a child, the rector thought to himself, whom its father had
seen but a few times. He did not understand that to Lord Mountdean this
child--his dying wife's legacy--was the one object in life, that she was
all that remained to him of a love that had been dearer than life
itself. Commonplace words of comfort rose to his lips, but the earl did
not even hear them. He looked up suddenly, with a ghastly pallor still
on his face.
"How foolish I am to alarm myself so greatly!" he said. "Some one or
other will be sure to know whither the woman has gone. She may have had
some monetary trouble, and so have desired to keep her whereabouts a
secret; but some one or other will know. If she is in the world I will
find her. How foolish I am to be so terribly frightened! If the child
is living what have I to fear?"
But, though his words were brave and courageous, his hands trembled, and
the rector saw signs of great agitation. He rang for wine, but Lord
Mountdean could not take it--he could do nothing until he had found his
child.
In few words he told the rector the story of his marriage.
"I thought," he said, "that I could not do better for the little one
than leave her here in the doctor's care."
"You were right," returned the rector; "the poor doctor's love for the
child was talked about everywhere. As for Margaret Dornham, I do not
think, if she had been her own, she could have loved her better.
Whatever else may have gone wrong, take my word for it, there was no
lack of love for the child; she could not have been better cared for--of
that I am quite sure."
"I am glad to hear you say so; that is some comfort. But why did no one
write to me when the doctor died?"
"I do not think he left one shred of paper containing any allusion to
your lordship. All his effects were claimed by some distant cousin, who
now lives in his house. I was asked to look over his papers, but there
was not a private memorandum among them--not one; there was nothing in
fact but receipted bills."
Lord Mountdean looked up.
"There must be some mistake," he observed. "I myself placed in his
charge all the papers necessary for the identification of my little
daughter."
"May I ask of what they consisted?" said the rector.
"Certainly--the certificate of my marriage, of my beloved wife's death,
of my little daughter's birth, and an agreement between the doctor and
myself as to the sum that was to be paid to him yearly while he had
charge of my child."
"Then the doctor knew your name, title, and address?"
"Yes; I had no motive in keeping them secret, save that I did not wish
my marriage to be known to my father until I myself could tell him--and
I know how fast such news travels. I remember distinctly where he placed
the papers. I watched him."
"Where was it?" asked Mr. Darnley. "For I certainly have seen nothing of
them."
"In a small oaken box with brass clasps, which stood on a sideboard. I
remember it as though it were yesterday."
"I have seen no such box," said the rector. "Our wisest plan will be to
go at once to the house where his cousin, Mr. Grey, resides, and see if
the article is in his possession. I am quite sure, though, that he would
have mentioned it if he had seen it."
Without a minute's delay they drove at once to the house, and found Mr.
Grey at home. He was surprised when he heard the name and rank of his
visitor, and above all when he understood his errand.
"A small oaken box with brass clasps?" he said. "No; I have nothing of
the kind in my possession; but, if your lordship will wait, I will have
a search made at once."
Every drawer, desk, and recess were examined in vain. There was no trace
of either the box or the papers.
"I have an inventory of everything the doctor's house contained--it was
taken the day after his death," said Mr. Grey; "we can look through
that."
Item after item was most carefully perused. The list contained no
mention of a small oaken box. It was quite plain that box and papers had
both disappeared.
"Could the doctor have given them into Mrs. Dornham's charge?" asked the
earl.
"No," replied the rector--"I should say certainly not. I am quite sure
that Mrs. Dornham did not even know the child's surname. I remember once
asking her about it; she said it was a long name, and that she could
never remember it. If she had had the papers, she would have read them.
I cannot think she holds them."
Then they went to visit Mrs. Galbraith, the doctor's housekeeper. She
had a distinct recollection of the box--it used to stand on the
sideboard, and a large-sized family Bible generally lay on the top of
it. How long it had been out of sight when the doctor died she did not
know, but she had never seen it since. Then they drove to the bank,
thinking that, perhaps, for greater security, he might have deposited it
there. No such thing had been heard of. Plainly enough, the papers had
disappeared; both the earl and the rector were puzzled.
"They can be of no possible use to any one but myself," said Lord
Mountdean. "Now that my poor father is dead and cannot be distressed
about it, I shall tell the whole world--if it cares to listen--the story
of my marriage. If I had wanted to keep that or the birth of my child a
secret, I could have understood the papers being stolen by one wishing
to trade with them. As it is, I cannot see that they are of the least
use to any one except myself."
They gave up the search at last, and then Lord Mountdean devoted himself
to the object--the finding of his child.
In a few days the story of his marriage was told by every newspaper in
the land; also the history of the strange disappearance of his child.
Large rewards were offered to any one who could bring the least
information. Not content with employing the best detective skill in
England, he conducted the search himself. He worked unwearyingly.
"A man, woman, and child could not possibly disappear from the face of
the earth without leaving some trace behind," he would say.
One little gleam of light came, which filled him with hope--they found
that Margaret Dornham had sold all her furniture to a broker living at a
town called Wrentford. She had sent for him herself, and had asked him
to purchase it, saying that she, with her husband, was going to live at
a distance, and that they did not care about taking it with them. He
remembered having asked her where she was going, but she evaded any
reply. He could tell no more. He showed what he had left of the
furniture and tears filled Lord Mountdean's eyes as he saw among it a
child's crib. He liberally rewarded the man, and then set to work with
renewed vigor to endeavor to find out Margaret Dornham's destination.
He went to the railway stations; and, though the only clew he succeeded
in obtaining was a very faint one, he had some reason for believing that
Margaret Dornham had gone to London.
In that vast city he continued the search, until it really seemed that
every inch of ground had been examined. It was all without
result--Margaret Dornham and her little foster-child seemed to have
vanished.
"What can be the woman's motive?" the earl would cry, in despair. "Why
has she taken the child? What does she intend to do with it?"
It never occurred to him that her great, passionate love for the little
one was the sole motive for the deed she had done.
The papers were filled with appeals to Margaret Dornham to return to
Castledene, or to give some intelligence of her foster-child. The events
of the story were talked about everywhere; but, in spite of all that was
done and said, Lord Mountdean's heiress remained undiscovered. Months
grew into years, and the same mystery prevailed. The earl was desperate
at first--his anguish and sorrow were pitiful to witness; but after a
time he grew passive in his despair. He never relaxed in his efforts.
Every six months the advertisements with the offers of reward were
renewed; every six months the story was retold in the papers. It had
become one of the common topics of the day. People talked of the Earl of
Mountdean's daughter, of her strange disappearance, of the mysterious
silence that had fallen over her. Then, as the years passed on, it was
agreed that she would never be found, that she must be dead. The earl's
truest friends advised him to marry again. After years of bitter
disappointment, of anguish and suspense, of unutterable sorrow and
despair, he resigned himself to the entire loss of Madaline's child.
* * * * *
Nature had made Philippa L'Estrange beautiful, circumstances had helped
to make her proud. Her father, Lord L'Estrange, died when she was quite
a child, leaving her an enormous fortune that was quite under her own
control. Her mother, Lady L'Estrange, had but one idea in life, and that
was indulging her beautiful daughter in her every caprice. Proud,
beautiful, and wealthy, when she most needed her mother's care that
mother died, leaving her sole mistress of herself. She was but seventeen
then, and was known as one of the wealthiest heiresses and loveliest
girls of the day. Her first step was, in the opinion of the world, a
wise one; she sent for a widowed cousin, Lady Peters, to live with her
as chaperon. For the first year after her mother's death she remained at
Verdun Royal, the family estate. After one year given to retirement,
Philippa L'Estrange thought she had mourned for her mother after the
most exemplary fashion She was just nineteen when she took her place
again in the great world, one of its brightest ornaments.
An afternoon in London in May. The air was clear and fresh; there was in
it a faint breath of the budding chestnuts, the hawthorn and lilac; the
sun shone clear and bright, yet not too warmly.
On this afternoon Miss L'Estrange sat in the drawing-room of the
magnificent family mansion in Hyde Park. The whole world could not have
produced a more marvelous picture. The room itself was large, lofty,
well proportioned, and superbly furnished; the hangings were of
pale-rose silk and white lace the pictures and statues were gems of art,
a superb copy of the Venus of Milo gleaming white and shapely from
between the folds of rose silk, also a marble Flora, whose basket was
filled with purple heliotropes, and a Psyche that was in itself a dream
of beauty; the vases were filled with fairest and most fragrant flowers.
Nothing that art, taste, or luxury could suggest was wanting--the eye
reveled in beauty. Miss L'Estrange had refurnished the room in
accordance with her own ideas of the beautiful and artistic.
The long windows were opened, and through them one saw the rippling of
the rich green foliage in the park; the large iron balconies were filled
with flowers, fragrant mignonette, lemon-scented verbenas, purple
heliotropes, all growing in rich profusion. The spray of the little
scented fountain sparkled in the sun. Every one agreed that there was no
other room in London like the grand drawing-room at Verdun House.
There was something on that bright May afternoon more beautiful even
than the flowers, the fountains, the bright-plumaged birds in their
handsome cages, the white statues, or the pictures; that was the
mistress and queen of all this magnificence, Philippa L'Estrange. She
was reclining on a couch that had been sent from Paris--a couch made of
finest ebony, and covered with pale, rose-colored velvet. If Titian or
Velasquez had seen her as she lay there, the world would have been the
richer by an immortal work of art; Titian alone could have reproduced
those rich, marvelous colors; that perfect, queenly beauty. He would
have painted the picture, and the world would have raved about its
beauty. The dark masses of waving hair; the lovely face with its warm
Southern tints; the dark eyes lighted with fire and passion; the perfect
mouth with its proud, sweet, imperial, yet tender lips; the white,
dimpled chin; the head and face unrivaled in their glorious contour; the
straight, dark brows that could frown and yet soften as few other brows
could; the white neck, half hidden, half revealed by the coquettish
dress; the white rounded arms and beautiful hands--all would have struck
the master. Her dress fell round her in folds that would have charmed an
artist. It was of some rich, transparent material, the pale amber hue of
which enhanced her dark loveliness. The white arms were half shown, half
covered by rich lace--in the waves of her dark hair lay a yellow rose.
She looked like a woman whose smile could be fatal and dangerous as that
of a siren, who could be madly loved or madly hated, yet to whom no man
living could be indifferent.
She played for some few minutes with the rings on her fingers, smiling
to herself a soft, dreamy smile, as though her thoughts were very
pleasant ones; then she took up a volume of poems, read a few lines, and
then laid the book down again. The dark eyes, with a gleam of impatience
in them, wandered to the clock.
"How slowly those hands move!" she said.
"You are restless," observed a calm, low voice; "watching a clock always
makes time seem long."
"Ah, Lady Peters," said the rich, musical tones, "when I cease to be
young, I shall cease to be impatient."
Lady Peters, the chosen confidante and chaperon of the brilliant
heiress, was an elderly lady whose most striking characteristic appeared
to be calmness and repose. She was richly dressed in a robe of black
_moire_, and she wore a cap of point lace; her snowy hair was braided
back from a broad white brow; her face was kindly, patient, cheerful;
her manner, though somewhat stately, the same. She evidently deeply
loved the beautiful girl whose bright face was turned to hers.
"He said three in his note, did he not, Lady Peters?"
"Yes, my dear, but it is impossible for any one to be always strictly
punctual; a hundred different things may have detained him."
"But if he were really anxious to see me, he would not let anything
detain him," she said.
"Your anxiety about him would be very flattering to him if he knew it,"
remarked the elder lady.
"Why should I not be anxious? I have always loved him better than the
whole world. I have had reason to be anxious."
"Philippa, my dear Philippa, I would not say such things if I were you,
unless I had heard something really definite from himself."
The beautiful young heiress laughed a bright, triumphant laugh.
"Something definite from himself! Why, you do not think it likely that
he will long remain indifferent to me, even if he be so now--which I do
not believe."
"I have had so many disappointments in life that I am afraid of being
sanguine," said Lady Peters; and again the young beauty laughed.
"It will seem so strange to see him again. I remember his going away so
well. I was very young then--I am young now, but I feel years older. He
came down to Verdun Royal to bid us good-by, and I was in the grounds.
He had but half an hour to stay, and mamma sent him out to me,"
The color deepened in her face as she spoke, and the light shone in her
splendid eyes--there was a kind of wild, restless passion in her words.
"I remember it all so well! There had been a heavy shower of rain in the
early morning, that had cleared away, leaving the skies blue, the
sunshine golden, while the rain-drops still glistened on the trees and
the grass. I love the sweet smell of the green leaves and the moist
earth after rain. I was there enjoying it when he came to say good-by to
me--mamma came with him. 'Philippa,' she said, 'Norman is going; he
wants to say good-by to his little wife.' He always calls me his little
wife. I saw him look very grave. She went away and left us together.
'You are growing too tall to be called my little wife, Philippa,' she
said, and I laughed at his gravity. We were standing underneath a great
flowering lilac-tree--the green leaves and the sweet flowers were still
wet with the rain. I remember it so well! I drew one of the tall
fragrant sprays down, and shaking the rain-drops from it, kissed it. I
can smell the rich, moist odor now. I never see a lilac-spray or smell
its sweet moisture after rain but that the whole scene rises before me
again--I see the proud, handsome face that I love so dearly, the clear
skies and the green trees. 'How long shall you be away, Norman?' asked
him. 'Not more than two years,' he replied. 'You will be quite a
brilliant lady of fashion when I return, Philippa; you will have made
conquests innumerable.' 'I shall always be the same to you,' I replied;
but he made no answer. He took the spray of lilac from my hands. 'My
ideas of you will always be associated with lilacs,' he said; and that
is why, Lady Peters, I ordered the vases to be filled with lilacs
to-day. He bent down and kissed my face. 'Good-by, Philippa,' he said,
'may I find you as good and as beautiful as I leave you.' And then he
went away. That is just two years ago; no wonder that I am pleased at
his return."
Lady Peters looked anxiously at her.
"There was no regular engagement between you and Lord Arleigh, was
there, Philippa?"
"What do you call a regular engagement?" said the young heiress. "He
never made love to me, if that is what you mean--he never asked me to be
his wife; but it was understood--always understood."
"By whom?" asked Lady Peters.
"My mother and his. When Lady Arleigh lived, she spent a great deal of
time at Verdun Royal with my mother; they were first cousins, and the
dearest of friends. Hundreds of times I have seen them sitting on the
lawn, while Norman and I played together. Then they were always talking
about the time we should be married. 'Philippa will make a beautiful
Lady Arleigh,' his mother used to say. 'Norman, go and play with your
little wife,' she would add; and with all the gravity of a grown
courtier, he would bow before me and call me his little wife."
"But you were children then, and it was perhaps all childish folly."
"It was nothing of the kind," said the heiress, angrily. "I remember
well that, when I was presented, my mother said to me, 'Philippa, you
are sure to be very much admired; but remember, I consider you engaged
to Norman. Your lot in life is settled; you are to be Lady Arleigh of
Beechgrove.'"
"But," interposed Lady Peters, "it seems to me, Philippa, that this was
all your mother's fancy. Because you played together as
children--because, when you were a child he called you his little
wife--because your mother and his were dear friends, and liked the
arrangement--it does not follow that he would like it, or that he would
choose the playmate of his childhood as the love of his manhood. In all
that you have said to me, I see no evidence that he loves you, or that
he considers himself in any way bound to you."
"That is because you do not understand. He has been in England only two
days, yet, you see, he comes to visit me."
"That may be for old friendship's sake," said Lady Peters. "Oh, my
darling, be careful! Do not give the love of your heart and soul for
nothing."
"It is given already," confessed the girl, "and can never be recalled,
no matter what I get in return. Why, it is twenty minutes past three; do
you think he will come?"
Philippa L'Estrange rose from the couch and went to the long open
window.
"I have never seen the sun shine so brightly before," she said; and Lady
Peters sighed as she listened. "The world has never looked so beautiful
as it does to-day. Oh, Norman, make, haste! I am longing to see you."
She had a quaint, pretty fashion of calling Lady Peters by the French
appellation _maman_. She turned to her now, with a charming smile. She
shook out the perfumed folds of her dress--she smoothed the fine white
lace.
"You have not told me, _maman_," she said, "whether I am looking my best
to-day. I want Norman to be a little surprised when he sees me. If you
saw me for the first time to-day, would you think me nice?"
"I should think you the very queen of beauty," was the truthful answer.
A pleased smile curved the lovely, scarlet lips.
"So will Norman. You will see, _maman_, there is no cause for anxiety,
none for fear. You will soon be wondering why you looked so grave over
my pretty love story."
"It seems to me," observed Lady Peters, "that it is a one sided story.
You love him--you consider yourself betrothed to him. What will you say
or do, Philippa, if you find that, during his travels, he has learned to
love some one else? He has visited half the courts of Europe since he
left here; he must have seen some of the loveliest women in the world.
Suppose he has learned to love one--what then?"
The beautiful face darkened.
"What then, _maman_? I know what I should do, even in that case. He
belonged to me before he belonged to any one else, and I should try to
win him back again."
"But if his word were pledged?"
"He must break his pledge. It would be war to the knife; and I have an
idea that in the end I should win."
"But," persisted Lady Peters, "if you lost--what then?"
"Ah, then I could not tell what would happen! Love turns to burning hate
at times. If I failed I should seek revenge. But we will not talk of
failure. Oh, _maman_, there he is."
How she loved him! At the sound of his footsteps a crimson glow shone in
her face, a light shone in the depth of her splendid dark eyes; the
scarlet lips trembled. She clenched her fingers lest a sound that might
betray her should escape her.
"Lord Arleigh," announced a servant at the door.
Tall, stately, self-possessed, she went forward to greet him. She held
out her hand; but words failed her, as she looked once more into the
face she loved so well.
"Philippa!" cried the visitor, in tones of wonder. "I expected to find
you changed, but I should not have known you."
"Am I so greatly altered?" she asked.
"Altered?" he repeated, "I left you a pretty school-girl--I find you a
queen." He bowed low over the white hand.
"The queen bids you welcome," she said, and then after introducing Lady
Peters, she added: "Should you not really have known me, Norman?"
He had recovered from his first surprise, and Lady Peters, who watched
him closely, fancied that she detected some little embarrassment in his
manner. Of one thing she was quite sure--there was admiration and
affection in his manner, but there was nothing resembling love.
He greeted her, and then took a seat, not by Philippa's side, but in one
of the pretty lounging chairs by the open window.
"How pleasant it is to be home again!" he said. "How pleasant, Philippa,
to see you!" And then he began to talk of Lady L'Estrange. "It seems
strange," he went on, "that your mother and mine, after being such true
friends in life, should die within a few days of each other. I would
give the whole world to see my mother again. I shall find Beechgrove so
lonely without her."
"I always recognize a good man," put in Lady Peters, "by the great love
he bears his mother."
Lord Arleigh smiled.
"Then you think I am a good man?" he interrogated. "I hope, Lady Peters,
that I shall never forfeit your good opinion."
"I do not think it likely," said her ladyship.
Philippa grew impatient on finding his attention turned, even for a few
moments, from herself.
"Talk to me, Norman," she said; "tell me of your travels--of what you
have seen and done--of the new friends you have made."
"I have made no new friends, Philippa," he said; "I love the old ones
best."
He did not understand the triumphant expression of the dark eyes as they
glanced at Lady Peters. He told her briefly of the chief places that he
had visited, and then he said:
"What a quantity of flowers you have, Philippa! You still retain your
old love."
She took a spray of lilac from one of the vases and held it before him.
Again Lady Peters noted confusion on his face.
"Do you remember the lilac, and what you said about it?" she asked.
"Yes," he replied, "I was in Florence last year when they were in
flower, and I never looked at the beautiful blooming trees without
fancying that I saw my cousin's face among the blossoms."
"Why do you call me 'cousin?'" she asked, impatiently.
He looked up in surprise.
"You are my cousin, are you not, Philippa?"
"I am only your second cousin," she said; "and you have never called me
so before."
"I have always called you 'cousin' in my thoughts," he declared. "How
remiss I am!" he exclaimed, suddenly. "You will think that I have
forgotten what little manners I had. I never congratulated you on your
success."
"What success?" she asked, half impatiently.
"I have not been twenty-four hours in London, yet I have heard on all
sides of your charms and conquests. I hear that you are the belle of the
season--that you have slain dukes, earls, marquises, and baronets
indiscriminately. I hear that no one has ever been more popular or more
admired that Philippa L'Estrange. Is it all true?"
"You must find out for yourself," she said, laughingly, half
disappointed that he had laid the spray of lilac down without any
further remark, half disappointed that he should speak in that light,
unconcerned fashion about her conquests; he ought to be jealous, but
evidently he was not.
Then, to her delight, came a summons for Mrs. Peters; she was wanted in
the housekeeper's room.
"Now we are alone," thought Philippa, "he will tell me that he is
pleased to see me. He will remember that he called me his little wife."
But, as Lady Peters closed the door, he took a book from the table, and
asked her what she had been reading lately--which was the book of that
season. She replied to his questions, and to the remarks that followed;
but they were not what she wanted to hear.
"Do not talk to me about books, Norman," she cried at last. "Tell me
more about yourself; I want to hear more about you."
She did not notice the slight flush that spread over his face.
"If we are to talk about ourselves," he said, "I should prefer you to be
the subject. You have grown very beautiful, Philippa."
His eyes took in every detail of the rich amber costume--the waving mass
of dark hair--the splendid face, with its scarlet lips and glorious
eyes--the white hands that moved so incessantly. He owned to himself
that in all his travels he had seen nothing like the imperial loveliness
of this dark-eyed girl.
"Does it please you to find me what you call beautiful?" she asked,
shyly.
"Of course it does. I am very proud of you--proud to be known as the
cousin of Philippa L'Estrange."
Nothing more! Had he nothing more than this to be proud of? Was he so
blind that he could not see love in the girl's face--so deaf that he
could not hear it in the modulations of her musical voice? She bent her
beautiful face nearer him.
"We were always good friends, Norman," she said, simply, "you and I?"
"Yes, we were like brother and sister," he responded, "How we quarreled
and made friends! Do you remember?"
"Yes--but we were not like brother and sister, Norman. We did not call
each other by such names in those days, did we?"
"I never could find names pretty enough for you," he replied laughingly.
She raised her eyes suddenly to his.
"You cared for me a great deal in those days, Norman," she said, gently.
"Tell me the truth--in your travels have you ever met any one for whom
you care more?"
He was perfectly calm and unembarrassed.
"No, cousin, I have not. As I told you before, I have really made no
friends abroad for whom I care much--a few pleasant acquaintances,
nothing more."
"Then I am content," she said.
But he was deaf to the passionate music of her voice. Then the distance
between them seemed to grow less. They talked of her home, Verdun Royal;
they talked of Beechgrove, and his plans for living there. Their
conversation was the intimate exchange of thought of old friends; but
there was nothing of love. If she had expected that he would avail
himself of Lady Peters' absence to speak of it, she was mistaken. He
talked of old times, of friendship, of childhood's days, of great hopes
and plans for the future--of anything but love. It seemed to be and
perhaps was the farthest from his thoughts.
"I am going to Beechgrove in a week," he said; "you will give me
permission to call and see you every day, Philippa?"
"I shall be pleased to see you--my time is yours," she answered but he
did not understand the full meaning of the words.
Then Lady Peters came in and asked if he would join them at dinner.
"Philippa likes gayety," she said; "we have never had one quiet evening
since the season began; she has a ball for to-night."
"Yes," laughed the heiress; "the world is very sweet to me just now,
Norman; but I will give up my ball and stay at home purposely to sing to
you, if you will dine with us."
"That is a temptation I cannot resist," he returned. "I will come. All
your disappointed partners will, however, vent their wrath on me,
Philippa."
"I can bear it," she said, "and so can you. Now I can let you go more
willingly, seeing that I shall soon see you again."
And then he went away. After he had gone she spoke but little; once she
clasped her arms round Lady Peters' neck and kissed the kindly face.
"Do not speak to me," she said, "lest I should lose the echo of his
voice;" and Lady Peters watched her anxiously, as she stood with a rapt
smile on her face, as of one who has heard celestial music in a dream.
* * * * *
The Arleighs of Beechgrove had for many generations been one of the
wealthiest as well as one of the noblest families in England. To Norman,
Lord Arleigh, who had succeeded his father at the early age of twenty,
all this good gift of fame, fortune, and wealth had now fallen. He had
inherited also the far-famed Arleigh beauty. He had clear-cut features,
a fair skin, a fine manly frame, a broad chest, and erect, military
bearing; he had dark hair and eyes, with straight, clear brows, and a
fine, handsome mouth, shaded by a dark mustache Looking at him it was
easy to understand his character. There was pride in the dark eyes, in
the handsome face, in the high-bred manner and bearing, but not of a
common kind.
In accordance with his late father's wish, he had gone through the usual
course of studies. He had been to Eton and to Oxford; he had made the
usual continental tour; and now he had returned to live as the Arleighs
had done before him--a king on his own estate. There was just one thing
in his life that had not pleased him. His mother, Lady Arleigh, had
always evinced the greatest affection for her cousin, the gentle Lady
L'Estrange. She had paid long visits to Verdun Royal, always taking her
son with her; and his earliest recollection was of his mother and Lady
L'Estrange sitting side by side planning the marriage of their two
children, Philippa and Norman. He could remember many of his mother's
pet phrases--"So suitable," "A perfect marriage," "The desire of my
heart." All his mother's thoughts and ideas seemed to begin and end
there. He had been taught, half seriously, half in jest, to call
Philippa his little wife, to pay her every attention, to present her
with jewels and with flowers, to make her his chief study. While be was
still a boy he had only laughed at it.
Philippa was a beautiful, high-sprited girl. Her vivacity and animation
amused him. He had spoken the truth in saying that he had met no one he
liked better than his old friend. He had seen beautiful girls, lovely
women, but he had not fallen in love. Indeed, love with the Arleighs was
a serious matter. They did not look lightly upon it. Norman. Lord
Arleigh, had not fallen; in love, but he had begun to think very
seriously about Philippa L'Estrange. He had been fond of her as a child,
with the kind of affection that often exists between children. He had
called her his "little wife" in jest, not in earnest. He had listened to
the discussions between the two ladies as he would have listened had
they been talking about adding a new wing to the house. It was not until
he came to the years of manhood that he began to see how serious the
whole matter was. Then he remembered with infinite satisfaction that
there had been nothing binding, that he had never even mentioned the
word "love" to Philippa L'Estrange, that he had never made love to her,
that the whole matter was merely a something that had arisen in the
imagination of two ladies.
He was not in the least degree in love with Philippa. She was a
brunette--he preferred a blonde; brunette beauty had no charm for him.
He liked gentle, fair-haired women, tender of heart and soul--brilliancy
did not charm him. Even when, previously to going abroad, he had gone
down to Verdun Royal to say good-by, there was not the least approach to
love in his heart. He had thought Philippa very charming and very
picturesque as she stood under the lilac-trees; he had said truly that
he should never see a lilac without thinking of her as she stood there.
But that had not meant that he loved her.
He had bent down, as he considered himself in courtesy bound, to kiss
her face when he bade her adieu; but it was no lover's kiss that fell so
lightly on her lips. He realized to himself most fully the fact that,
although he liked her, cared a great deal for her, and felt that she
stood in the place of a sister to him, he did not love her.
But about Philippa herself? He was not vain; the proud, stately Lord
Arleigh knew nothing of vanity. He could not think that the childish
folly had taken deep root in her heart-he would not believe it. She had
been a child like himself; perhaps even she had forgotten the nonsense
more completely than he himself had. On his return to England, the first
thing he heard when he reached London was that his old friend and
playfellow--the girl he had called his little wife--was the belle of the
season, with half London at her feet.