The yacht of Mr. Conyers, one of the richest commoners in England--a
yacht fitted as surely no yacht ever before had been fitted--was for
sale. He was a wealthy man, but to keep that sea-palace afloat was
beyond his means. The Duchess of Hazlewood was sole mistress of a large
fortune in her own right; the duke had made most magnificent settlements
upon her. She had a large sum of money at her command; and the idea
suddenly occurred to her to purchase Mr. Conyers' yacht unknown to her
husband and present him with it. He was fond of yachting--it was his
favorite amusement. She herself was a wretched sailor, and would not be
able to accompany him; but that would not matter. It was not of her own
pleasure that the Duchess of Hazlewood was thinking, while the old
strange brooding smile lingered on her beautiful face and deepened on
her perfect lips.
"It would be the very thing," she said to herself, "it would afford to
me the opportunity I am seeking--nothing could be better."
She purchased the yacht and presented it to the duke, her husband. His
pleasure and astonishment were unbounded. She was, as a rule, so
undemonstrative that he could not thank her sufficiently for what seemed
to him her great interest in his favorite pursuit.
"The only drawback to the splendid gift, Philippa, is that you can never
enjoy it; it will take me away from you."
"Yes, I do indeed deplore that I am a wretched sailor, for I can imagine
nothing pleasanter than life on board such a yacht as that. But, while
you are cruising about, Vere, I shall go to Verdun Royal and take
Madaline with me; then I shall go to Vere Court--make a kind of royal
progress, set everything straight and redress all wrongs, hold a court
at each establishment I shall enjoy that more than yachting."
"But I shall miss you so much, Philippa," said the young husband.
"We have the remainder of our lives to spend together," she rejoined;
"if you are afraid of missing me too much, you had better get rid of the
yacht."
But he would not hear of that--he was delighted with the beautiful and
valuable present. The yacht was christened "Queen Philippa"; and it was
decided that, when the end of the season had come, the duke should take
his beautiful wife to Verdun Royal, and, after having installed her
there, should go at once to sea. He had invited a party of friends--all
yachtsmen like himself--and they had agreed to take "Queen Philippa" to
the Mediterranean, there to cruise during the autumn months.
As it was settled so it was carried out; before the week had ended the
duke, duchess, and Madeline were all at Verdun Royal. Perhaps the proud
young wife had never realized before how completely her husband loved
her. This temporary parting was to him a real pain.
A few days before it took place he began to look pale and ill. She saw
that he could not eat, that he did not sleep or rest. Her heart was
touched by his simple fidelity, his passionate love, although the one
fell purpose of her life remained unchanged.
"If you dislike going, Vere," she said to him one day, "do not go--stay
at Verdun Royal."
"The world would laugh if I did that, Philippa," he returned; "it would
guess at once what was the reason, because every one knows how dearly I
love you. We should be called _Darby_ and _Joan_."
"No one would ever dare to call me _Joan_," she said, "for I have
nothing of _Joan_ in me."
The duke sighed--perhaps he thought that it would be all the better if
she had; but, fancying there was something, after all, slightly
contemptuous in her manner, as though she thought it unmanly in him to
repine about leaving her, he said no more.
One warm, brilliant day he took leave of her and she was left to work
out her purpose. She never forgot the day of his departure--it was one
of those hot days when the summer skies seemed to be half obscured by a
copper-colored haze, when the green leaves hang languidly, and the birds
seek the coolest shade, when the flowers droop with thirst, and never a
breath of air stir their blossoms, when there is no picture so
refreshing to the senses as that of a cool deep pool in the recesses of
a wood.
She stood at the grand entrance, watching him depart, and she knew that
with all her beauty, her grace, her talent, her sovereignty, no one had
ever loved her as this man did. Then, after he was gone, she stood still
on the broad stone terrace, with that strange smile on her face, which
seemed to mar while it deepened her beauty.
"It will be a full revenge," she said to herself. "There could be no
fuller. But what shall I do when it is all known?"
She was not one to flinch from the course of action she had marked out
for herself, nor from the consequences of that course; but she shuddered
even in the heat, as she thought what her life would be when her
vengeance was taken.
"He will never forgive me," she said, "he will look upon me as the
wickedest of women. It does not matter; he should not have exasperated
me by slighting me."
Then the coppery haze seemed to gather itself together--great purple
masses of clouds piled themselves in the sky, a lurid light overspread
the heavens, the dense oppressive silence was broken by a distant peal
of thunder, great rain-drops fell--fierce, heavy drops. The trees seemed
to stretch out their leaves to drink in the moisture, the parched
flowers welcomed the downpour; and still the Duchess of Hazlewood stood
out on the terrace, so deeply engrossed in her thoughts that she never
heeded the rain.
Madaline hastened out to her with a shawl.
"Dear duchess," she cried, "it is raining; and you are so absorbed in
thought that you do not notice it."
She laughed a strange, weird laugh, and raised her beautiful face with
its expression of gloom.
"I did not notice it, Madaline," she said; "but there is no need for
anxiety about me," she added, proudly.
They re-entered the house together. Madaline believed that the duchess
was thinking of and grieving over the departure of the duke. Lady Peters
thought the same. They both did their best to comfort her--to amuse her
and distract her thoughts. But the absent expression did not die from
her dark eyes. When they had talked to her some little time she took up
the "Lady of Lyons."
"How much you admire that play," said Madaline; "I see you reading it so
often."
"I have a fancy for it," returned the duchess; "it suits my taste. And I
admire the language very much."
"Yet it is a cruel story," observed Madaline; "the noblest character in
it is _Pauline_."
"She was very proud; and pride, I suppose, must suffer," said the
duchess, carelessly.
"She was not too proud, after all, to love a noble man, when she once
recognized him, duchess."
"She learned to love the prince--she would never have loved the
gardener," remarked Philippa; "it was a terrible vengeance."
"I do not like stories of vengeance," said Madaline. "After all, though,
I love the _Claude_ of the story, and find much true nobility in
him--much to admire. When reading the play I am tempted all the time to
ask myself, How could he do it? It was an unmanly act."
There was a strange light in the dark eyes, a quiver on the scarlet
lips, as Philippa said:
"Do you think so? Suppose some one had offended you as _Pauline_
offended _Claude_--laughing at the love offered, scorned, mocked,
despised you--and that such vengeance as his lay in your power; would
you not take it?"
The sweet face flushed.
"No, I would rather die," Madaline replied, quickly.
"I would take it, and glory in it," said the duchess, firmly
"If I were wounded, insulted, and slighted as _Claude_ was, I would take
the cruelest revenge that I could."
Madeline took one of the jeweled hands in her own and kissed it.
"I should never be afraid of you," she said; "you can never hurt any
one. Your vengeance would end in the bestowal of a favor."
"Do you think so highly of me, Madaline?" asked Philippa, sadly.
"Think highly of you! Why, you would laugh if you knew how I loved
you--how I adore you. If all the world were to swear to me that you
could do the least thing wrong, I should not believe them."
"Poor child!" said the duchess, sadly.
"Why do you call me 'poor child?'" she asked, laughingly.
"Because you have such implicit faith, and are sure to be so cruelly
disappointed."
"I would rather have such implicit faith, and bear the disappointment,
than be without both," said Madaline.