The great event of the year succeeding was the appearance of the Duchess
of Hazlewood. Miss L'Estrange the belle and the heiress, had been very
popular; her Grace of Hazlewood was more popular still. She was queen of
fashionable London. At her mansion all the most exclusive met. She had
resolved upon giving her life to society, upon cultivating it, upon
making herself its mistress and queen. She succeeded. She became
essentially a leader of society. To belong to the Duchess of Hazlewood's
"set" was to be the _créme de la créme_. The beautiful young duchess had
made up her mind upon two things. The first was that she would be a
queen of society; the second, that she would reign over such a circle as
had never been gathered together before. She would have youth, beauty,
wit, genius; she would not trouble about wealth. She would admit no one
who was not famous for some qualification or other--some grace of body
or mind--some talent or great gift. The house should be open to talent
of all kinds, but never open to anything commonplace. She would be the
encourager of genius, the patroness of the fine arts, the friend of all
talent.
It was a splendid career that she marked out for herself, and she was
the one woman in England especially adapted for it The only objection to
it was that while she gave every scope to imagination--while she
provided for all intellectual wants and needs--she made no allowance for
the affections; they never entered into her calculations.
In a few weeks half London was talking about the beautiful Duchess of
Hazlewood. In all the "Fashionable Intelligence" of the day she had a
long paragraph to herself. The duchess had given a ball, had had a grand
_réunion_, a _soirée_, a garden-party; the duchess had been at such an
entertainment; when a long description of her dress or costume would
follow. Nor was it only among the upper ten thousand that she was so
pre-eminently popular. If a bazar, a fancy fair, a ball, were needed to
aid some charitable cause, she was always chosen as patroness; her
vote, her interest, one word from her, was all-sufficient.
Her wedding had been a scene of the most gorgeous magnificence. She had
been married from her house at Verdun Royal, and half the county had
been present at what was certainly the most magnificent ceremonial of
the year. The leading journal, the _Illustrated Intelligence_, produced
a supplement on the occasion, which was very much admired. The duke gave
the celebrated artist, M. Delorme, a commission to paint the interior of
the church at Verdun Royal as it appeared while the ceremony was
proceeding. That picture forms the chief ornament now of the grand
gallery at the Court.
The wedding presents were something wonderful to behold; it was
considered that the duchess had one of the largest fortunes in England
in jewels alone. The wedding-day was the fourth of August, and it had
seemed as though nature herself had done her utmost to make the day most
brilliant.
It was not often that so beautiful a bride was seen as the young
duchess. She bore her part in the scene very bravely. The papers toll
how Lord Arleigh was "best man" on the occasion but no one guessed even
ever so faintly of the tragedy that came that morning to a crisis. The
happy pair went off to Vere Court, the duke's favorite residence, and
there for a short time the public lost sight of them.
If the duke had been asked to continue the history of his wedding-day,
he would have told a strange story--how, when they were in the
railway-carriage together, he had turned to his beautiful young wife
with some loving words on his lips, and she had cried out that she
wanted air, to let no one come near her--that she had stretched out her
hands wildly, as though beating off something terrible.
He believed that she was overcome by excitement or the heat of the day;
he soothed her as he would have soothed a child; and when they readied
Vere Court he insisted that they should rest. She did so. Her dark hair
fell round her white neck and shoulders, her beautiful face was flushed,
the scarlet lips trembled as though she were a grieving child; and the
young duke stood watching her, thinking how fair she was and what a
treasure he had won. Then he heard her murmur some words in her
sleep--what were they? He could not quite distinguish them; it was
something about a Puritan maiden _Priscilla_ and _John_--he could not
catch the name--something that did not concern him, and in which he had
no part. Suddenly she held out her arms, and, in a voice he never
forgot, cried, "Oh, my love, my love!" That of course meant himself.
Down on his knees by her side went the young duke--he covered her hands
with kisses.
"My darling," he said, "you are better now, I have been alarmed about
you, Philippa; I feared that you were ill. My darling, give me a word
and a smile."
She had quite recovered herself then; she remembered that she was
Duchess of Hazlewood--wife of the generous nobleman who was at her side.
She was mistress of herself in a moment.
"Have I alarmed you?" she said. "I did feel ill; but I am better
now--quite well, in fact."
She said to herself that she had her new life to begin, and the sooner
she began it the better; so she made herself very charming to the young
duke, and he was in ecstasies over the prize he had won.
Thenceforward[3] they lived happily enough. If the young duke found his
wife less loving, less tender of heart, than he had believed her to be,
he had no complaint.
"She is so beautiful and gifted," he would say to himself. "I cannot
expect everything. I know that she loves me, although she does not say
much about it. I know that I can trust her in all things, even though
she makes no protestations."
They fell into the general routine of life. One loved--the other allowed
herself to be loved. The duke adored his wife, and she accepted his
adoration.
They were never spoken of as a model couple, although every one agreed
that it was an excellent match--that they were very happy. The duke
looked up with wondering admiration to the beautiful stately lady who
bore his name. She could not do wrong in his eyes, everything she said
was right, all she did was perfect. He never dreamed of opposing her
wishes. There was no lady in England so completely her own mistress, so
completely mistress of every one and everything around her, as her Grace
of Hazlewood.
When the season came around again, and the brilliant life which she had
laid out for herself was hers, she might have been the happiest of women
but for the cloud which darkened, her whole existence. Lord Arleigh had
kept his promise--he, had been her true friend, with her husband's full
permission. The duke was too noble and generous himself to feel any such
ignoble passion as jealousy--he was far too confiding. To be jealous of
his wife would never have entered his mind; nor was there the least
occasion for it. If Lord Arleigh had been her own brother, their
relationship could not have been of a more blameless kind; even the
censorious world of fashion, so quick to detect a scandal, so merciless
in its enjoyment of one, never presumed to cast an aspersion on this
friendship. There was something so frank, so open about it, that blame
was an impossibility. If the duke was busy or engaged when his wife
wanted to ride or drive, he asked her cousin Lord Arleigh to take his
place, as he would have asked his own brother. If the duke could not
attend opera or ball, Lord Arleigh was at hand. He often said it was a
matter of perplexity to him which was his own home--whether he liked
Beechgrove, Verdun Royal or Vere Court best.
"No one was ever so happy, so blessed with true friends as I am," he
would say; at which speech the young duchess would smile that strange
fathomless smile so few understood.
If they went to Vere Court, Lord Arleigh was generally asked to go with
them; the Duke really liked him--a great deal for his own sake, more
still for the sake of his wife. He could understand the childish
friendship having grown with their growth; and he was too noble to
expect anything less than perfect sincerity and truth.
The duchess kept her word. She made no further allusion to the Puritan
maiden--that little episode had, so it appeared, completely escaped her
memory. There was one thing to be noticed--she often read the "Lady of
Lyons," and appeared to delight in it. When she had looked through a few
pages, she would close the book with a sigh and a strange, brooding
smile. At times, too, she would tease Lord Arleigh about his ideal woman
but that was always in her husband's presence.
"You have not found the ideal woman yet, Norman?" she would ask him,
laughingly; and he would answer. "No, not yet."
Then the duke would wax eloquent, and tell him that he really knew
little of life--that if he wanted to be happy he must look for a wife.
"You were easily contented," the duchess would say. "Norman wants an
ideal. You were content with a mere mortal--he will never be."
"Then find him an ideal, Philippa," would be the duke's reply "You know
some of the nicest girls in London; find him an ideal among them."
Then to the beautiful face would come the strange, brooding smile.
"Give me time," would her Grace of Hazlewood say; "I shall find just
what I want for him--in time."