One of the first questions, after his return, that the Duke of Hazlewood
put to his wife was about Lord Arleigh. She looked at him with an uneasy
smile.
"Am I my brother's keeper?" she asked.
"Certainly not, Philippa; but, considering that Arleigh has been as a
brother to you all these years, you must take some interest in him. Is
this story of his marriage true?"
"True?" she repeated. "Why, of course it is--perfectly true! Do you not
know whom he has married?"
"I am half afraid to ask--half afraid to find that my suspicions have
been realized."
"He has married my companion," said the duchess. "I have no wish to
blame him; I will say nothing."
"It is a great pity that he ever saw her," observed the duke, warmly.
"From all I hear, the man's life is wrecked."
"I warned him," said Philippa, eagerly. "I refused at first to introduce
her to him. I told him that prudence and caution were needful."
"How came it about then, Philippa?"
The duchess shrugged her shoulders.
"There is a fate, I suppose, in these things. He saw her one day when I
was out of the way, and, according to his own account, fell in love with
her on the spot. Be that as it may, he was determined to marry her."
"It seems very strange," said the Duke of Hazlewood, musingly. "I have
never known him to do anything 'queer' before."
"He can never say that I did not warn him," she remarked, carelessly.
"But it was such a wretched marriage for him. Who was she, Philippa? I
have never made many inquiries about her."
"I would really rather not discuss the question," said the duchess; "it
has no interest for me now. Norman and I have quarreled. In all
probability we shall never be friends again."
"All through this marriage?" interrogated the duke.
"All through this marriage," repeated his wife--"and I know no subject
that irritates me so much. Please say no more about it, Vere."
"I should like to know who the girl is," he urged. "You have never told
me."
"I shall be jealous of her in a few minutes!" exclaimed Philippa
"Already she has sundered an old friendship that I thought would last
forever; and now, directly you return, you can talk of no one else."
"I should like to see you jealous," said the duke, who was one of the
most unsuspicious of men.
She smiled; yet there came to her a sharp, bitter memory of the night on
the balcony when she had been jealous of the ideal woman, the unknown
love whom Norman had sketched for her.
The duke, however, was pertinacious; he could not give up the subject.
"You told me," he resumed, "that she was the daughter of an old friend
of yours named Dornham--and it seems to me, Philippa, that I have some
kind of remembrance of that name which is far from pleasant."
With an air of resignation the duchess rose from her seat.
"I am tired, Vere," she said, "quite tired of the subject. Yet I ought
not to be selfish. Of course, the incident is all new to you--you have
been away from all kinds of news; to us it is an old, worn-out story.
Lord Arleigh and I quarreled and parted because of his marriage, so you
may imagine it is not a very attractive subject to me."
"Well, I will say no more about it, but I am sincerely sorry, Philippa.
Of all our friends, I like Lord Arleigh best; and I shall decidedly
refuse to quarrel with him. His marriage is his own affair, not mine."
"Still, you cannot make a friend of the man whom I decline to know," she
rejoined, hurriedly.
"Certainly not, if you place the matter in such a light," he said,
gravely. "I shall always consider it my pleasure and duty to consult you
on such points. I will call no man my friend whom you dislike."
So, for the time, all danger was tided over; the duke saw that the
subject annoyed his wife, and did not voluntarily resume it. He was too
true a gentleman to think of discussing with another lady what he did
not discuss with his own wife, so that the subject was not mentioned
between Lady Peters and himself.
Then for the fair young Duchess of Hazlewood began the new life which
had in it no old friend. If she repented of her vengeance, she did not
say so. If she would fain have undone her evil deed, she never owned it.
But, as time wore on, people saw a great change in her. She gave herself
more to the gayeties and follies of the world; there were few fashions
which she did not lead, few gay pursuits in which she did not take an
active part. The character of her beauty, too, seemed changed. She had
always been brilliant, but somewhat of a strange unrest came into her
face and manner; the dark eyes seemed to be always looking for something
they could not find. Her mind, though charming and fascinating as ever,
grew variable and unsteady. She had always been too proud for coquetry;
she remained so now. But she no longer shunned and avoided all flattery
and homage; it seemed rather to please her than not. And--greatest
change of all--the name of Lord Arleigh never crossed her lips. He
himself had retired from public life; the great hopes formed of him were
all dying away. Men spoke of him with mystery, women with sad, gentle
interest; those who had known him knew him no more.
He did not return to Beechgrove: it seemed to him that he could never
again endure the sight of the place where he had separated from his
wife--that his ancient home had been in some manner desecrated. The
mansion was left in charge of Mrs. Chatterton, whose wonder at the new
and strange state of things never ceased.
"Such a marriage!" She held up her hands in horror as she thought of it.
Indeed, to her the event appeared like a wedding and a funeral on the
same day. She had not seen Lady Arleigh since, yet she had never forgot
the fair, lovely young face that had shone for so short a time in the
grand old home.
Lord Arleigh saw that his wife had everything needful for her; he
settled a large income on her; he sent from London horses, carriages,
everything that her heart could desire; he saw that she had a proper
household formed. Whatever else the world might say, it could not say
that he showed her any want of respect or any want of attention. Lord
Arleigh did not live with his wife, never visited her, never spoke of
her; but it was quite clear that his motive for doing none of these
things lay deeper than the world knew or could even guess.
The family solicitor went down to Winiston House occasionally, but Lord
Arleigh never. The few who met him after his marriage found him
strangely altered. Even his face had changed; the frank, honest, open
look that had once seemed to defy and challenge and meet the whole world
had died away; he looked now like a man with a secret to keep--a secret
that had taken his youth from him, that had taken the light from his
life, that hod shadowed his eyes, drawn hard lines of care round his
lips, wrinkled his face, taken the music from his voice, and made of him
a changed and altered, a sad, unhappy man.
There were one or two intimate friends--friends who had known him in his
youth--who ventured to ask what this secret was, who appealed to him
frankly to make his trouble known, telling him that sorrow shared was
sorrow lightened; but with a sad smile he only raised his head and
answered that his sorrow was one of which he could not speak. Sometimes
a kindly woman who had known him as boy and man--one with daughters, and
sons of her own--would ask him what was the nature of his sorrow. He
would never tell.
"I cannot explain," he would reply.
Society tried hard to penetrate the mystery. Some said that Lady Arleigh
was insane, and that he had not discovered it until the afternoon of his
wedding-day. Others said that she had a fierce temper, and that he was
unaware of it until they were traveling homeward. These were the most
innocent rumors; others were more scandalous. It was said that he had
discovered some great crime that she had committed. Few such stories;
Lord Arleigh, they declared, was not the man to make so terrible a
mistake.
Then, after a time, all the sensation and wonder died away, society
accepted the fact that Lord Arleigh was unhappily married and had
separated from his wife.
He went abroad, and then returned home, sojourning at quiet watering
places where he thought his story and himself would be unknown.
Afterward he went to Normandy, and tried to lose the remembrance of his
troubles in his search after the picturesque. But, when he had done
everything that he could do to relieve his distress of mind, he owned to
himself that he was a most miserable man.