Lord Arleigh stared at the packet which his wife had given him, and
again and again read the words that were inscribed on it: "A wedding
present from Philippa, Duchess of Hazlewood to Lord Arleigh. To be read
alone on his wedding-day." What could it mean? Philippa at times took
strange caprices into her head. This seemed to be one of the strangest.
He held the letter in his hand, a strange presentiment of evil creeping
over him which he could not account for. From the envelope came a sweet
scent, which the duchess always used. It was so familiar to him that for
a few minutes it brought her vividly before him--he could have fancied
her standing near him. Then he remembered the strange words: "To be read
alone." What could that mean? That the letter contained something that
his young wife must not see or hear.
He looked at her. She had seemingly forgotten all about the packet, and
stood now, with a smile on her face, before one of the finest pictures
in the gallery, wrapt in a dream of delight. There could not be anything
in the letter affecting her. Still, as Philippa had written so
pointedly, it would be better perhaps for him to heed her words.
"Madaline, my darling," he said, sinking on to an ottoman, "you have
taken no tea. You would like some. Leave me here alone for half an hour.
I want to think."
She did what she had never done voluntarily before. She went up to him,
and clasped her arms round his neck. She bent her blushing face over
his, and the caress surprised as much as it delighted him--she was so
shyly demonstrative.
"What are you going to think about, Norman? Will it be of me?"
"Of whom else should I think on my wedding-day, if not of my wife?" he
asked.
"I should be jealous if your thoughts went anywhere else," replied
Madaline. "There is a daring speech, Norman. I never thought I should
make such a one."
"Your daring is very delightful, Madaline; let me hear more of it."
She laughed the low, happy, contented laugh that sounded like sweetest
music in his ears.
"I will dare to say something else, Norman, if you will promise not to
think it uncalled for. I am very happy, my darling husband--I love you
very much, and I thank you for your love."
"Still better," he said, kissing the beautiful, blushing face. "Now go,
Madaline. I understand the feminine liking for a cup of tea."
"Shall I send one to you?" she asked.
"No," he replied, laughingly. "You may teach me to care about tea in
time. I do not yet."
He was still holding the letter in his hand, and the faint perfume was
like a message from Philippa, reminding him that the missive was still
unread.
"I shall not be long," said Madaline. She saw that for some reason or
other he wanted to be alone.
"You will find me here," he returned. "This is a favorite Book of mine.
I shall not leave it until you return."
The nook was a deep bay window from which there was a magnificent view
of the famous beeches. Soft Turkish cushions and velvet lounges filled
it, and near it hung one of Titian's most gorgeous pictures--a dark-eyed
woman with a ruby necklace. The sun's declining rays falling on the
rubies, made them appear like drops of blood. It was a grand picture,
one that had been bought by the lords of Beechgrove, and the present
Lord Arleigh took great delight in it.
He watched the long folds of Madaline's white dress, as she passed along
the gallery, and then the hangings fell behind her. Once more he held up
the packet.
"A wedding present from Philippa, Duchess of Hazlewood, to Lord
Arleigh."
Whatever mystery it contained should be solved at once. He broke the
seal; the envelope contained a closely-written epistle. He looked at it
in wonder. What could Philippa have to write to him about? The letter
began as follows:
"A wedding present from Philippa, Duchess of Hazlewood, to Norman, Lord
Arleigh. You will ask what it is? My answer is, my revenge--well
planned, patiently awaited.
"You have read the lines:
"'Heaven has no rage like love to hatred turned,
Nor hell a fury like a woman scorned.'
They are true. Fire, fury, and hatred rage now in my heart as I write
this to you. You have scorned me--this is my revenge. I am a proud
woman--I have lowered my pride to you. My lips have never willfully
uttered a false word; still they have lied to you. I loved you once,
Norman, and on the day my love died I knew that nothing could arise from
its ashes. I loved you with a love passing that of most women; and it
was not all my fault. I was taught to love you--the earliest memory of
my life is having been taught to love you.
"You remember, too. It may have been injudicious, imprudent, foolish,
yet while I was taught to think, to read, to sing, I was also taught to
consider myself your 'little wife.' Hundreds of times have you given me
that name, while we walked together as children--you with your arm about
my neck, I proud of being called your 'little wife.'
"As a child, I loved you better than anything else in the wide
world--better than my mother, my home, my friends; and my love grew with
my growth. I prided myself on my unbroken troth to you. I earned the
repute of being cold and heartless, because I could think of no one but
you. No compliments pleased me, no praise flattered me; I studied,
learned, cultivated every gift Heaven had given me--all for your sake. I
thought of no future, but with you, no life but with you, no love but
for you; I had no dreams apart from you. I was proud when they talked of
my beauty; that you should have a fair wife delighted me.
"When you returned home I quite expected that you were coming to claim
me as your wife--I thought that was what brought you to England. I
remember the day you came. Ah, well, revenge helps me to live, or I
should die! The first tones of your voice, the first clasp of your hand,
the first look of your eyes chilled me with sorrow and disappointment.
Yet I hoped against hope. I thought you were shy, perhaps more reserved
than of yore. I thought everything and anything except that you had
ceased to love me; I would have believed anything rather than that you
were not going to fulfill our ancient contract, and make me your wife. I
tried to make you talk of old times--you were unwilling; you seemed
confused, embarrassed I read all those signs aright; still I hoped
against hope. I tried to win you--I tried all that love, patience,
gentleness, and consideration could do.
"What women bear, and yet live on! Do you know that every moment of that
time was full of deadly torture to me, deadly anguish? Ah, me, the very
memory of it distresses me! Every one spoke to me as though our
engagement was a certainty, and our marriage settled. Yet to me there
came, very slowly, the awful conviction that you had ignored, or had
forgotten the old ties. I fought against that conviction. I would not
entertain it. Then came for me the fatal day when I heard you tell the
Duchess of Aytoun that you had never seen the woman you would care to
make your wife. I heard your confession, but would not give in; I clung
to the idea of winning your love, even after I had hoped against hope,
and tried to make you care for me. At last came the night out on the
balcony, when I resolved to risk all, to ask you for your love--do you
remember it? You were advocating the cause of another; I asked you why
you did not speak for yourself. You must have known that my woman's
heart was on fire--you must have seen that my whole soul was in my
speech, yet you told me in cold, well-chosen words that you had only a
brother's affection for me. On that night, for the first time, I
realized the truth that, come what might, you would never love me--that
you had no idea of carrying out the old contract--that your interest in
me was simply a kindly, friendly one. On that night, when I realized
that truth, the better part of me died; my love--the love of my
life--died; my hopes--the life-long hopes--died; the best, truest,
noblest part of me died.
"When you had gone away, when I was left alone, I fell on my knees and
swore to be revenged. I vowed vengeance against you, no matter what it
might cost. Again let me quote to you the lines:
"'Heaven has no rage like love to hatred turned,
Nor hell a fury like a woman scorned.'
You scorned me--you must suffer for it. I swore to be revenged, but how
was I to accomplish my desire? I could not see any way in which it was
possible for me to make you suffer. I could not touch your heart, your
affections, your fortune. The only thing that I could touch was your
pride. Through your pride, your keen sensitiveness I decided to stab
you; and I have succeeded! I recovered my courage and my pride together,
made you believe that all that had passed had been jest, and then I told
you that I was going to marry the duke.
"I will say no more of my love or my sorrow. I lived only for vengeance,
but how my object was to be effected I could not tell. I thought of many
plans, they were all worthless--they could not hurt you as you had hurt
me. At last, one day, quite accidentally I took up 'The Lady of Lyons,'
and read it through. That gave me an idea of what my revenge should be
like. Do you begin to suspect what this present is that the Duchess of
Hazlewood intends making to you on your wedding-day?"
As he read on his face grew pale. What could it mean--this reference to
"The Lady of Lyons?" That was the story of a deceitful marriage--surely
all unlike his own.
"You are wondering. Turn the page and you shall read that, when an idea
once possesses a woman's mind, she has no rest until it is carried out.
I had none. My vengeance was mapped out for me--it merely required
filling in. Let me show you how it was filled up--how I have lied to
you, who to another have never uttered a false word.
"Years ago we had a maid whom my mother liked very much. She was gentle,
well-mannered, and well-bred for her station in life. She left us, and
went to some other part of England. She married badly--a handsome,
reckless ne'er-do-well, who led her a most wretched life.
"I know not, and care nothing for the story of her married life, her
rights and wrongs. How she becomes of interest to you lies in the fact
that shortly after my marriage she called to see me and ask my aid. She
had been compelled to give up her home in the country and come to
London, where, with her husband and child, she was living in poverty and
misery. While she was talking to me the duke came in. I think her
patient face interested him. He listened to her story, and promised to
do something for her husband. You will wonder how this story of Margaret
Dornham concerns you. Read on. You will know in time.
"My husband having promised to assist this man, sent for him to the
house; and the result of that visit was that the man seeing a quantity
of plate about, resolved upon helping himself to a portion of it. To
make my story short, he was caught, after having broken into the house,
packed up a large parcel of plate, and filled his pockets with some of
my most valuable jewels. There was no help for it but to prosecute him,
and his sentence was, under the circumstances, none too heavy, being ten
years' penal servitude.
"Afterward I went to see his wife Margaret, and found her in desperate
circumstances; yet she had one ornament in her house--a beautiful young
girl, her daughter, so fair of face that she dazzled me. The moment I
saw her I thought of your description of your ideal--eyes like blue
hyacinths, and hair of gold. Forthwith a plan entered my mind which I
have most successfully carried out.
"I asked for the girl's name, and was told that it was Madaline--an
uncommon name for one of her class--but the mother had lived among
well-to-do people, and had caught some of their ideas. I looked at the
girl--her face was fair, sweet, pure. I felt the power of its beauty,
and only wondered that she should belong to such people at all; her
hands were white and shapely as my own, her figure was slender and
graceful. I began to talk to her, and found her well educated, refined,
intelligent--all, in fact, that one could wish.
"Little by little their story came out--it was one of a mother's pride
and glory in her only child. She worshiped her--literally worshiped her.
She had not filled the girl's mind with any nonsensical idea about being
a lady, but she had denied herself everything in order that Madaline
might be well educated. For many years Madaline had been what is called
a governess-pupil in a most excellent school. 'Let me die when I may,'
said the poor, proud mother, 'I shall leave Madaline with a fortune in
her own hands; her education will always be a fortune to her.'
"I asked her one day if she would let me take Madaline home with me for
a few hours; she seemed delighted, and consented at once. I took the
girl home, and with my own hands dressed her in one of my most becoming
toilets. Her beauty was something marvelous. She seemed to gain both
grace and dignity in her new attire. Shortly afterward, with her
mother's permission, I sent her for six months to one of the most
fashionable schools in Paris. The change wrought in her was magical; she
learned as much in that time as some girls would have learned in a
couple of years. Every little grace of manner seemed to come naturally
to her; she acquired a tone that twenty years spent in the best of
society does not give to some. Then I persuaded Vere, my husband, to
take me to Paris for a few days, telling him I wanted to see the
daughter of an old friend, who was at school there. In telling him that
I did not speak falsely--Madaline's mother had been an old friend of
mine. Then I told him that my whim was to bring Madaline home and make a
companion of her; he allowed me to do just as I pleased, asking no
questions about her parents, or anything else. I do not believe it ever
occurred to him as strange that the name of my _protégée_ and of the man
who had robbed him was the same--indeed, he seemed to have forgotten all
about the robbery. So I brought Madaline home to Vere Court, and then to
London, where I knew that you would see her. My husband never asked any
questions about her; he made no objection, no remark--everything that I
did was always well done in his eyes.
"But you will understand clearly that to you I told a lie when I said
that Madaline's mother was a poor relative of the duke's--you know now
what relationship there is between them. Even Lady Peters does not know
the truth. She fancies that Madaline is the daughter of some friend of
mine who, having fallen on evil days, has been glad to send her to me.
"Knowing you well, Norman, the accomplishment of my scheme was not
difficult. If I had brought Madaline to you and introduced her, you
might not have been charmed; the air of mystery about her attracted you.
My warning against your caring for her would, I knew, also help to
allure you. I was right in every way. I saw that you fell in love with
her at once--the first moment you saw her--and then I knew my revenge
was secured.
"I bought my husband the yacht on purpose that he might go away and
leave me to work out my plans. I knew that he could not resist the
temptation I offered. I knew also that if he remained in England he
would want to know all about Madaline before he allowed you to marry
her. If the marriage was to take place at all, it must be during his
absence. You seemed, of your own free will, Norman, to fall naturally
into the web woven for you.
"I write easily, but I found it hard to be wicked--hard to see my lost
love, my dear old companion, drift on to his ruin.
"More than once I paused, longing to save you; more than once I drew
back, longing to tell you all. But the spirit of revenge within me was
stronger than myself--my love had turned to hate. Yet I could not quite
hate you, Norman--not quite. Once, when you appealed to my old
friendship, when you told me of your plans, I almost gave way. 'Norman!'
I cried, as you were leaving me; but when you turned again I was dumb.
"So I have taken my revenge. I, Philippa, Duchess of Hazlewood on this
your wedding-day, reveal to you the first stain on the name of
Arleigh--unvail the first blot on one of the noblest escutcheons in the
land. You have married not only a low-born girl, but the daughter of a
felon--a felon's daughter is mistress of proud Beechwood! You who
scorned Philippa L'Estrange, who had the cruelty to refuse the love of a
woman who loved you--you who looked for your ideal in the clouds, have
found it near a prison cell! The daughter of a felon will be the
mistress of the grand old house where some of the noblest ladies of the
land have ruled--the daughter of a felon will be mother of the heirs of
Arleigh. Could I have planned, prayed for, hoped for, longed for a
sweeter revenge?
"I am indifferent as to what you may do in return. I have lived for my
revenge, and now that I have tasted it life is indifferent to me. You
will, of course, write to complain to the duke, and he, with his honest
indignation justly aroused, will perhaps refuse to see me again. I care
not; my interest in life ended when my love died.
"Let me add one thing more. Madaline herself has been deceived. I told
her that you knew all her history, that I had kept nothing from you, and
that you loved her in spite of it, but that she was never to mention it
to you."
He read the letter with a burning flush on his face, which afterward
grew white as with the pallor of death; a red mist was before his eyes,
the sound of surging waters in his ears, his heart beat loud and fast.
Could it be true--oh, merciful Heaven, could it be true? At first he had
a wild hope that it was a cruel jest that Philippa was playing with him
on his wedding-day. It could not be true--his whole soul rose in
rebellion against it. Heaven was too just, too merciful--it could not
be. It was a jest. He drew his breath with a long quivering sigh--his
lips trembled; it was simply a jest to frighten him on his wedding day.
Then, one by one--slowly, sadly, surely--a whole host of circumstances
returned to his mind, making confirmation strong. He remembered
well--only too well--the scene in the balcony. He remembered the pale
starlight, the light scarf thrown over Philippa's shoulders, even the
very perfume that came from the flowers in her hair; he remembered how
her voice had trembled, how her face had shown in the faint evening
light. When she had quoted the words of _Priscilla_, the loveliest
maiden of Plymouth, she had meant them as applicable to her own
case--"Why don't you speak for yourself, John?" They came back to him
with a fierce, hissing sound, mocking his despair. She had loved him
through all--this proud, beautiful, brilliant woman for whom men of
highest rank had sighed in vain. And, knowing her pride, her
haughtiness, he could guess exactly what her love had cost her, and that
all that followed had been a mockery. On that night her love had changed
to hate. On that night she had planned this terrible revenge. Her
offering of friendship had been a blind. He thought to himself that he
had been foolish not to see it. A thousand circumstances presented
themselves to his mind. This, then, was why Madaline had so
persistently--and, to his mind, so strangely--refused his love. This was
why she had talked incessantly of the distance between them--of her own
unworthiness to be his wife. He bad thought that she alluded merely to
her poverty, whereas it was her birth and parentage she referred to.
How cleverly, how cruelly Philippa had deceived them both--Philippa, his
old friend and companion, his sister in all but name! He could see now a
thousand instances in which Madaline and himself had played at cross
purposes--a thousand instances in which the poor girl had alluded to her
parent's sin, and he had thought she was speaking of her poverty. It was
a cruel vengeance, for, before he had read the letter through, he knew
that if the story were correct, she could be his wife in name only--that
they must part. Poverty, obscurity, seemed as nothing now--but crime?
Oh, Heaven, that his name and race should be so dishonored! If he had
known the real truth, he would have died rather than have uttered one
word of love to her.
The daughter of a felon--and he had brought her to Beechgrove as
successor to a roll of noble women, each one of whom had been of noble
birth! She was the daughter of a felon--no matter how fair, how
graceful, how pure. For the first time the glory of Beechgrove was
tarnished. But it would not be for long--it could not be for long; she
must not remain. The daughter of a felon to be the mother of his
children--ah, no, not if he went childless to the grave! Better that his
name were extinct, better that the race of Arleigh should die out, than
that his children should be pointed at as children with tainted blood!
It could never be. He would expect the dead and gone Arleighs to rise
from their graves in utter horror, he would expect some terrible curse
to fall on him, were so terrible a desecration to happen. They must
part. The girl he loved with all the passionate love of his heart, the
fair young wife whom he worshiped must go from him, and he must see her
no more. She must be his wife in name only.
He was young, and he loved her very dearly. His head fell forward on his
breast, and as bitter a sob as ever left man's lips died on his. His
wife in name only! The sweet face, the tender lips were not for him--yet
he loved her with the whole passion and force of his soul. Then he
raised his head--for he heard a sound, and knew that she was returning.
Great drops of anguish fell from his brow--over his handsome face had
come a terrible change; it had grown fierce with pain, haggard with
despair, white with sorrow.
Looking up, he saw her--she was at the other end of the gallery; he saw
the tall, slender figure and the sweeping dress--he saw the white arms
with their graceful contour, the golden hair, the radiant face--and he
groaned aloud; he saw her looking up at the pictures as she passed
slowly along--the ancestral Arleighs of whom he was so proud. If they
could have spoken, those noble women, what would they have said to this
daughter of a felon?
She paused for a few minutes to look up at her favorite, Lady Alicia,
and then she came up to him and stood before him in an the grace of her
delicate loveliness, in all the pride of her dainty beauty. She was
looking at the gorgeous Titian near him.
"Norman," she said, "the sun has turned those rubies into drops of
blood--- they looked almost terrible on the white throat. What a strange
picture! What a tragical face!"
Suddenly with outstretched arms she fell on her knees at his side.
"Oh, my darling, what has happened? What is the matter?"
She had been away from him only half an hour, yet it seemed to him ages
since he had watched her leave the gallery with a smile on her lips.
"What is it, my darling?" she cried again. "Dear Norman, you look as
though the shadow of death had passed over you. What is it?"
In another moment she had flung herself on his breast, clasped her arms
round his neck, and was kissing his pale changed face as she had never
done before.
"Norman, my darling husband, you are ill," she said--"ill, and you will
not tell me. That is why you sent me away."
He tried to unclasp her arms, but she clung the more closely to him.
"You shall not send me away. You wish to suffer in silence? Oh, my
darling, my husband, do you forget that I am your wife, for better, for
worse, in sickness and in health? You shall not suffer without my
knowledge."
"I am not ill, Madaline," he said, with a low moan. "It is not that."
"Then something has happened--you have been frightened."
He unclasped her arms from his neck--their caress was a torture to him.
"My poor darling, my poor wife, it is far worse than that. No man has
ever seen a more ghastly specter than I have seen of death in life."
She looked round in quick alarm.
"A specter!" she cried fearfully; and then something strange in his face
attracted her attention. She looked at him. "Norman," she said, slowly,
"is it--is it something about me?"
How was he to tell her? He felt that it would be easier to take her out
into the glorious light of the sunset and slay her than kill her with
the cruel words that he must speak. How was he to tell her? No physical
torture could be so great as that which he must inflict; yet he would
have given his life to save her from pain.
"It is--I am quite sure," she declared, slowly--"something about me. Oh,
Norman, what is it? I have not been away from you long. Yet no change
from fairest day to darkest night could be so great as the change in you
since I left you. You will not tell me what it is--you have taken my
arms from your neck--you do not love me!"
"Do not torture me, Madaline," he said. "I am almost mad. I cannot bear
much more."
"But what is it? What have I done? I who you send from you now am the
same Madaline whom you married this morning--whom you kissed half an
hour since. Norman, I begin to think that I am in a terrible dream."
"I would to Heaven it were a dream. I am unnerved--unmanned--I have lost
my strength, my courage, my patience, my hope. Oh, Madaline, how can I
tell you?"
The sight of his terrible agitation seemed to calm her; she took his
hand in hers.
"Do not think of me," she said--"think of yourself. I can bear what you
can bear. Let me share your trouble, whatever it may be, my husband."
He looked at the sweet, pleading face. How could he dash the light and
brightness from it? How could he slay her with the cruel story he had to
tell. Then, in a low, hoarse voice, he said:
"You must know all, and I cannot say it. Read this letter, Madeline,
and then you will understand."