It was a beautiful, pure morning. For many years there had not been so
brilliant a season in London; every one seemed to be enjoying it; ball
succeeded ball; _fête_ succeeded _fête_. Lord Arleigh had received a
note from the Duchess of Hazlewood, asking him if he would call before
noon, as she wished to see him.
He went at once to Verdun House, and was told that the duchess was
engaged, but would see him in a few minutes. Contrary to the usual
custom, he was shown into a pretty morning-room, one exclusively used by
the duchess--a small, octagonal room, daintily furnished, which opened
on to a small rose-garden, also exclusively kept for the use of the
duchess. Into this garden neither friend nor visitor ever ventured; it
was filled with rose-trees, a little fountain played in the midst, and a
small trellised arbor was at one side. Why had he been shown into the
duchess' private room? He had often heard the duke tease his wife about
her room, and say that no one was privileged to enter it; why, then, was
such a privilege accorded him?
He smiled to himself, thinking that in all probability it was some
mistake of the servants; he pictured to himself the expression of
Philippa's face when she should find him there. He looked round; the
room bore traces of her presence--around him were some of her favorite
flowers and books.
He went to the long French window, wondering at the rich collection of
roses, and there he saw a picture that never forsook his memory
again--there he met his fate--saw the ideal woman of his dreams at last.
He had treated all notions of love in a very off-hand, cavalier kind of
manner; he had contented himself with his own favorite axiom--"Love is
fate;" if ever it was to come to him it would come, and there would be
an end of it. He had determined on one thing--this same love should be
his slave, his servant, never his master; but, as he stood looking out,
he was compelled to own his kingship was over.
Standing there, his heart throbbing as it had never done before, every
nerve thrilling, his face flushed, a strange, unknown sensation filling
him with vague, sweet wonder, Lord Arleigh met his fate.
This was the picture he saw--a beautiful but by no means a common one.
In the trellised arbor, which contained a stand and one or two chairs,
was a young girl of tall, slender figure, with a fair, sweet face,
inexpressibly lovely, lilies and roses exquisitely blended--eyes like
blue hyacinths, large, bright, and starlight, with white lids and dark
long lashes, so dark that they gave a peculiar expression to the
eyes--one of beauty, thought, and originality. The lips were sweet and
sensitive, beautiful when smiling, but even more beautiful in repose.
The oval contour of the face was perfect; from the white brow, where the
veins were so clearly marked, rose a crown of golden hair, not brown or
auburn, but of pure pale gold--a dower of beauty in itself.
The expression of the face was one of shy virgin beauty. One could
imagine meeting it in the dim aisles of some cathedral, near the shrine
of a saint, as an angel or a Madonna; one could imagine it bending over
a sick child, lighting with its pure loveliness the home of sorrow; but
one could never picture it in a ball-room. It was a face of girlish,
saintly purity, of fairest loveliness--a face where innocence, poetry,
and passion all seemed to blend in one grand harmony. There was nothing
commonplace about it. One could not mistake it for a plebeian face;
"patrician" was written on every feature.
Lord Arleigh looked at her like one in a dream.
"If she had an aureole round her head, I should take her for an angel,"
he thought to himself, and stood watching her.
The same secret subtle harmony pervaded[4] every action; each new
attitude seemed to be the one that suited her best. If she raised her
arms, she looked like a statue. Her hands were white and delicate, as
though carved in ivory. He judged her to be about eighteen. But who was
she, and what had brought her there? He could have stood through the
long hours of the sunny day watching her, so completely had she charmed
him, fascinated his very senses.
"Love is fate!" How often had he said that to himself, smiling the
while? Now here his fate had come to him all unexpectedly--this most
fair face had found its way to the very depths of his heart and nestled
there.
He could not have been standing there long, yet it seemed to him that
long hours parted him from the life he had known before. Presently he
reproached himself for his folly. What had taken place? He had seen a
fair face, that was all--a face that embodied his dream of loveliness.
He had realized his ideal, he had suddenly, and without thinking of it,
found his fate--the figure, the beauty that he had dreamed of all his
life.
Nothing more than that; yet the whole world seemed changed. There was a
brighter light in the blue skies, a new beauty had fallen on the
flowers; in his heart was strange, sweet music; everything was
idealized--glorified. Why? Because he had seen the face that had always
filled his thoughts.
It seemed to him that he had been there long hours, when the door
suddenly opened, and her Grace of Hazlewood entered.
"Norman," she said, as though in sudden wonder, "why did they show you
in here?"
"I knew they were doing wrong," he replied. "This is your own special
sanctum, Philippa?"
"Yes, it is indeed; still, as you are here, you may stay. I want to
speak to you about that Richmond dinner. My husband does not seem to
care about it. Shall we give it up?"
They talked for a few minutes about it, and then the duchess said,
suddenly:
"What do you think about my roses, Norman?"
"They are wonderful," he replied, and then, in a low voice, he asked,
"Philippa, who is that beautiful girl out there among your flowers?"
She did not smile, but a sudden light came into her eyes.
"It would be a great kindness not to tell you," she answered. "You see
what comes of trespassing in forbidden places. I did not intend you to
see that young lady."
"Why not?" he asked, abruptly.
"The answer to your question would be superfluous," she replied.
"But, Philippa, tell me at least who she is."
"That I cannot do," she replied, and then the magnificent face was
lighted with a smile. "Is she your ideal woman, Norman?" she asked.
"My dear Philippa," he answered, gravely, "she is the idea," woman
herself neither more nor less."
"Found at last!" laughed the duchess. "For all that, Norman, you must
not look it her."
"Why not? Is she married--engaged?"
"Married? That girl! Why, she has only just left school. If you really
wish to know who she is I will tell you; but you must give me your word
not to mention it."
"I promise," he replied.
He wondered why the beautiful face grew crimson and the dark eyes
dropped.
"She is a poor relative of ours," said the duchess, "poor, you
understand--nothing else."
"Then she is related to the duke?" he interrogated.
"Yes, distantly; and, after a fashion, we have adopted her. When she
marries we shall give her a suitable dot. Her mother married
unfortunately."
"Still, she was married?" said Lord Arleigh.
"Yes, certainly; but unhappily married. Her daughter, however, has
received a good education, and now she will remain with us. But, Norman,
in this I may trust you, as in everything else?"
"You may trust me implicitly," he replied.
"The duke did not quite like the idea of having her to live with us at
first--and I do not wish it to be mentioned to him. If he speaks of it
to you at all, it will be as my caprice. Let it pass--do not ask any
questions about her; it only annoys her--it only annoys him. She is very
happy with me. You see," she continued, "women can keep a secret. She
has been here three weeks, yet you have never seen her before, and now
it is by accident."
"But," said Norman, "what do you intend to do with her?"
The duchess took a seat near him, and assumed quite a confidential air.
"I have been for some time looking out for a companion," she said; "Lady
Peters really must live at Verdun Royal--a housekeeper is not sufficient
for that large establishment--it requires more than that. She has
consented to make it her home, and I must have some one to be with me."
"You have the duke," he put in, wonderingly.
"True, and a husband most, perforce, be all that is adorable; still,
having been accustomed to a lady-companion, I prefer keeping one; and
this girl, so beautiful, so pure, so simple, is all that I need, or
could wish for."
"So I should imagine," he replied. "Will you introduce her into society,
Philippa?"
"I think not; she is a simple child, yet wonderfully clever. No, society
shall not have her. I will keep her for my own."
"What is her name?" asked Lord Arleigh.
The duchess laughed.
"Ah, now, man-like, you are growing curious! I shall not tell you. Yes,
I will; it is the name above all others for an ideal--Madaline."
"Madaline," he repeated; "it is very musical--Madaline."
"It suits her," said the duchess; "and now, Norman, I must go. I have
some pressing engagements to-day."
"You will not introduce me then, Philippa?"
"No--why should I? You would only disturb the child's dream."