Lord Arleigh raised his head from his breast. His wife was kneeling
sobbing at his feet.
"Norman," she said, in a broken voice, "I yield, I submit. You know
best, dear. In truth, I am not worthy to be your wife. I urge no claim
on you; but, my darling, must I leave you? You are the very light of my
life, heart of my heart, soul of my soul--must I leave you? Could I not
remain here as your servant, your slave, the lowliest in your
house--somewhere near, where I may hear the tones of your voice, the
sound of your footsteps--where I may stand sometimes at the window and
see you ride away--where I may render you little attentions such as
loving wives render? Oh, Norman, be merciful and grant me that at
least!"
"My darling, I cannot--do not tempt me. You do not understand I love you
with a fierce, passionate love. If you were near me, I should be
compelled to show that love to you every hour of the day--to treat you
as my dear and honored wife. If you were near me, I might forget my
resolves and remember only my love."
"No one should know," she whispered, "that I was your wife. I should
take the guise of the humblest servant in the place. No one should know,
love. Oh, darling, let it be so!"
She saw great drops of agony on his brow; she saw a world of pain in
his eyes which alarmed her.
"It cannot be," he replied, hoarsely. "You must urge me no more--you are
torturing me."
Then she rose, humbly enough, and turned away.
"I will say no more, Norman. Now do with me what you please."
There was silence for a few minutes. The sun was sinking low in the
western sky, the chirp of the birds was growing faint in the trees. She
raised her colorless face to his.
"I submit, Norman," she said. "You have some plan to propose. Do with me
just as you will."
It was cruel--no crueler fate had ever fallen to a man's lot--but honor
obliged him to act as he did. He took her hand in his.
"Some day, dear wife," he said, "you will understand what suffering this
step has cost me."
"Yes," she murmured, faintly; "I may understand in time."
"While I have been sitting here," he went on, "I have been thinking it
all over, and I have come to a decision as to what will be best for you
and for me. You are Lady Arleigh of Beechgrove--you are my wife; you
shall have all the honor and respect due to your position."
She shuddered as though the words were a most cruel mockery.
"You will honor," she questioned, bitterly, "the daughter of a felon?"
"I will honor my wife, who has been deceived even more cruelly than
myself," he replied. "I have thought of a plan," he continued, "which
can be easily carried out. On our estate not twenty miles from
here--there is a little house called the Dower House--a house where the
dowagers of the family have generally resided. It is near Winiston, a
small country town. A housekeeper and two servants live in the house
now, and keep it in order. You will be happy there, my darling, I am
sure, as far as is possible. I will see that you have everything you
need or require."
She listened as one who hears but dimly.
"You have no objection to raise, have you, Madaline?"
"No," she replied, "it matters little where I live; I only pray that my
life may be short."
"Hush, my darling. You pain me."
"Oh, Norman, Norman," she cried, "what will they think of me--what will
they say--your servants, your friends?"
"We must not trouble about that," said Norman; "we must not pause to
consider what the world will say. We must do what we think is right."
He took out his watch and looked at it.
"It is eight o'clock," he said; "we shall have time to drive to Winiston
to-night."
There was a world of sorrowful reproach in the blue eyes raised to his.
"I understand," she said, quietly; "you do not wish that the daughter of
a felon should sleep, even for one night, under your roof."
"You pain me and you pain yourself; but it is, if you will bear the
truth, my poor Madaline, just as you say. Even for these ancient walls I
have such reverence."
"Since my presence dishonors them," she said, quietly, "I will go.
Heaven will judge between us, Norman. I say that you are wrong. If I am
to leave your house, I should like to go at once. I will go to my room
and prepare for the journey."
He did not attempt to detain her, for he well knew that, if she made
another appeal to him, he could not resist the impulse to clasp her in
his arms, and at the cost of what he thought his honor to bid her stay.
She lingered before him, beautiful, graceful, sorrowful.
"Is there anything more you would like to say to me?" she asked, with
sad humility.
"I dare not," he uttered, hoarsely; "I cannot trust myself."
He watched her as with slow, graceful steps she passed down, the long
gallery, never turning her fair face or golden head back to him, her
white robes trailing on the parquetry floor. When she had reached the
end, he saw her draw aside the hangings and stand for a minute looking
at the pictured faces of the Arleighs; then she disappeared, and he was
left alone.
He buried his face in his hands and wept bitterly.
"I could curse the woman who has wrought this misery!" he exclaimed,
presently.
And then the remembrance of Philippa, as he had known her years
before--Philippa as a child, Philippa, his mother's favorite--restrained
him.
* * * * *
"Perhaps I too was to blame," he thought; "she would not have taken such
cruel vengeance had I been more candid."
Lady Arleigh went to her room. The pretty traveling-costume lay where
she had left it; the housekeeper had not put away anything. Hastily
taking off her white dress and removing the jewels from her neck, and
the flowers from her hair, Madaline placed them aside, and then having
attired herself for the journey, she went down stairs, meeting no one.
Some little surprise was created among the servants when orders came for
the carriage to be got ready.
"Going out at this time of night. What can it mean?" asked one of them.
"They are going to the Dower House," answered a groom.
"Ah, then his lordship and her ladyship will not remain at the Abbey!
How strange! But there--rich people have nothing to do but indulge in
whims and caprices!" said the under house-maid, who was immediately
frowned down by her superiors in office.
Not a word was spoken by husband and wife as Lady Arleigh took her seat
in the carriage. Whatever she felt was buried in her own breast. Her
face shone marble-white underneath her vail, and her eyes were bent
downward. Never a word did she speak as the carriage drove slowly
through the park, where the dews were falling and the stars were bright.
Once her husband turned to her and tried to take her hand in his, but
she drew back.
"It will be better not to talk, Norman," she said. "I can bear it best
in silence."
So they drove on in unbroken quietude. The dew lay glistening on the
grass and trees; all nature was hushed, tranquil, sweet, and still. It
was surely the strangest drive that husband and wife had ever taken
together. More than once, noting the silent, graceful figure, Lord
Arleigh was tempted to ask Madaline to fly with him to some foreign
land, where they could live and die unknown--more than once he was
tempted to kiss the beautiful lips and say to her, "Madaline, you shall
not leave me;" but the dishonor attaching to his name caused him to
remain silent.
They had a rapid drive, and reached Winiston House--as it was generally
called--before eleven. Great was the surprise and consternation excited
by so unexpected an arrival. The house was in the charge of a widow
whose husband had been the late, lord's steward. She looked somewhat
dubiously at Lord Arleigh and then at his companion, when they had
entered. Madaline never opened her lips. Lord Arleigh was strangely pale
and confused.
"Mrs. Burton," he said, "I can hardly imagine that you have heard of my
marriage. This is my wife--Lady Arleigh."
All the woman's doubt and hesitation vanished then--she became all
attention; but Lord Arleigh inwardly loathed his fate when he found
himself compelled to offer explanations that he would have given worlds
to avoid.
"I am not going to remain here myself," he said, in answer to the
inquiries about rooms and refreshments. "Lady Arleigh will live at
Winiston House altogether; and, as you have always served the family
faithfull and well, I should like you to remain in her service."
The woman looked up at him in such utter bewilderment and surprise that
he felt somewhat afraid of what she might say; he therefore hastened to
add:
"Family matters that concern no one but ourselves compel me to make this
arrangement. Lady Arleigh will be mistress now of Winiston House. She
will have a staff of servants here. You can please yourself about
remaining--either as housekeeper or not--just as you like."
"Of course, my lord, I shall be only too thankful to remain, but it
seems so very strange--"
Lord Arleigh held up his hand.
"Hush!" he said. "A well-trained servant finds nothing strange."
The woman took the hint and retired. Lord Arleigh turned to say farewell
to his wife. He found her standing, white and tearless, by the window.
"Oh, my darling," he cried, "we must now part! Yet how can I leave
you--so sad, so silent, so despairing? Speak to me, my own love--one
word--just one word."
Her woman's heart, so quick to pity, was touched by his prayer. She
stalled as sad, as sweet a smile as ever was seen on woman's lips.
"I shall be better in time, Norman," she said, "and shall not always be
sad."
"There are some business arrangements which must be made," he continued,
hurriedly--"but it will be better for us not to meet again just yet,
Madaline--I could not bear it. I will see that all is arranged for your
comfort. You must have every luxury and--"
"Luxury!" she repeated, mockingly. "Why, I would rather be the sorriest
beggar that ever breathed than be myself! Luxury! You mock me, Lord
Arleigh."
"You will be less bitter against me in time, my darling," he said. "I
mean just what I say--that you will have everything this world can give
you--"
"Except love and happiness," she interposed.
"Love you have, sweet; you have mine--the fervent, true, honest, deep
love of my heart and soul. Happiness comes in time to all who do their
duty. Think of Carlyle's words--'Say unto all kinds of happiness, "I can
do without thee"--with self-renunciation life begins.'"
"Carlyle had no such fate as mine in his thoughts," she said, "when he
wrote that. But, Lord Arleigh, I do not wish to complain. I am sorry
that I have interrupted you. I have accepted my fate. Say all you
wish--I will be silent."
"I have only to add, my darling, that if money, luxury, comfort can give
you happiness, you shall have them all. You shall have respect and
honor too, for I will take care that the whole world knows that this
separation arises from no fault of yours. Promise me, darling wife--oh,
Heaven help me, how hard it is!--promise me, when the first smart of the
pain is over, that you will try to be happy."
She bent her head, but spoke no word.
"Promise me too, Madaline, that, if sickness and sorrow should come to
you, you will send for me at once."
"I promise," she said.
"A few words more, and I have done. Tell me what course you wish me to
pursue toward the duchess."
"I have no wish in the matter," she replied, directly. "She was kind to
me once; for the sake of that kindness I forgive her. She forgot that I
must suffer in her wish to punish you. I shall leave her to Heaven."
"And I," he said, "will do the same; voluntarily I will never see her or
speak to her again."
There remained for him only to say farewell. He took her little white
hand; it was as cold as death.
"Farewell, my love," he said--"farewell!"
He kissed her face with slow, sweet reverence, as he would have kissed
the face of a dead woman whom he loved; and then he was gone.
Like one in a dream, she heard the wheel of a carriage rolling away. She
stretched out her hands with a faint cry.
"Norman--my husband--my love!" she called; but from the deep silence of
the night there came no response. He was gone.
Madaline passed the night in watching the silent skies. Mrs. Burton,
after providing all that was needful, had retired quickly to rest. She
did not think it "good manners" to intrude upon her ladyship.
All night Madaline watched the stars, and during the course of that
night the best part of her died--youth, love, hope, happiness. Strange
thoughts came to her--thoughts that she could hardly control. Why was
she so cruelly punished? What had she done? She had read of wicked lives
that had met with terrible endings. She had read of sinful men and
wicked women whose crimes, even in this world, had been most bitterly
punished. She had read of curses following sin. But what had she done?
No woman's lot surely had ever been so bitter. She could not understand
it, while the woman who had loved her husband, who had practiced fraud
and deceit, and lied, went unpunished.
Yet her case was hardly that, for Norman did not love her. Daughter of a
felon as she--Madaline--was--poor, lowly, obscure--he had given her his
heart, although he could never make her the mistress of his home. There
was some compensation for human suffering, some equality in the human
lot, after all. She would be resigned. There were lots in life far worse
than hers. What if she had learned to love Norman, and he had never
cared for her? What if she had learned to love him, and had found him
less noble than he was? What if, in the bitterness of his disappointment
and passion, he had vented his anger upon her? After all, she could not
but admire his sense of honor, his respect for his name, his devotion to
his race; she could not find fault with his conduct, although it had
cost her so dear.
"I think," she admitted to herself, "that in his place I should have
done the same thing. If my parent's crime has brought sorrow and
disgrace to me, who have no name, no fame, no glory of race to keep up,
what must it have brought to him? In his place I should have done as he
has done."
Then, after a time, she clasped her hands.
"I will submit," she said. "I will leave my fate to Providence."
When morning dawned she went to her room; she did not wish the household
to know that she had sat up and watched the night through.
Once out of the house, Lord Arleigh seemed to realize for the first time
what had happened; with a gesture of despair he threw himself back in
the carriage. The footman came to him.
"Where to, my lord--to Beechgrove?"
"No," replied Lord Arleigh--"to the railway station. I want to catch the
night-mail for London."
Lord Arleigh was just in time for the train. The footman caught a
glimpse of his master's face as the train went off--it was white and
rigid.
"Of all the weddings in this world, well, this is the queerest!" he
exclaimed to himself.
When he reached Beechgrove, he told his fellow-servants what had
happened, and many were the comments offered about the marriage that was
yet no marriage--the wedding that was no wedding--the husband and wife
who were so many miles apart. What could it mean?