A year and a half bad passed, and Lord Arleigh was still, as it were,
out of the world. It was the end of April, a spring fresh and beautiful.
His heart had turned to Beechgrove, where the violets were springing and
the young larches were budding; but he could not go thither--the
picture-gallery was a haunted spot to him--and London he could endure.
The fashionable intelligence told him that the Duke and Duchess of
Hazlewood had arrived for the season, that they had had their
magnificent mansion refurnished, and that the beautiful duchess intended
to startle all London by the splendor and variety of her entertainments.
He said to himself that it would be impossible for him to remain in town
without seeing them--and see them of his own free will he never would
again.
Fate was, however, too strong for him. He had decided that he would
leave London rather than run the risk of meeting the Duchess of
Hazlewood. He went one morning to a favorite exhibition of pictures, and
the first person he saw in the gallery was the duchess herself. As their
eyes met her face grew deadly pale, so pale that he thought she would
faint and fall to the ground; her lips opened as though she would fain
utter his name. To him she looked taller, more beautiful, more stately
than ever--her superb costume suited her to perfection--yet he looked
coldly into the depths of her dark eyes, and without a word or sign of
greeting passed on.
He never knew whether she was hurt or not, but he decided that he would
leave London at once. He was a sensitive man more tender of heart than
men as a rule, and their meeting had been a source of torture to him. He
could not endure even the thought that Philippa should have lost all
claim to his respect. He decided to go to Tintagel, in wild, romantic
Cornwall; at least there would be boating, fishing, and the glorious
scenery.
"I must go somewhere," he said to himself--"I must do something. My life
hangs heavy on my hands--how will it end?"
So in sheer weariness and desperation he went to Tintagel, having, as he
thought, kept his determination to himself, as he wished no one to know
whither he had retreated. One of the newspapers, however, heard of it,
and in a little paragraph told that Lord Arleigh of Beechgrove had gone
to Tintagel for the summer. That paragraph had one unexpected result.
It was the first of May. The young nobleman was thinking of the May days
when he was a boy--of how the common near his early home was yellow with
gorse, and the hedges were white with hawthorn. He strolled sadly along
the sea-shore, thinking of the sunniest May he had known since then, the
May before his marriage. The sea was unusually calm, the sky above was
blue, the air mild and balmy, the white sea-gulls circled in the air,
the waves broke with gentle murmur on the yellow sand.
He sat down on the sloping beach. They had nothing to tell him, those
rolling, restless waves--no sweet story of hope or of love, no vague
pleasant harmony. With a deep moan he bent his head as he thought of the
fair young wife from whom he had parted for evermore, the beautiful
loving girl who had clung to him so earnestly.
"Madaline, Madaline!" he cried aloud: and the waves seemed to take up
the cry--they seemed to repeat "Madaline" as they broke on the shore.
"Madaline," the mild wind whispered. It was like the realization of a
dream, when he heard his name murmured, and, turning, he saw his lost
wife before him.
The next moment he had sprung to his feet, uncertain at first whether it
was really herself or some fancied vision.
"Madaline," he cried, "is it really you?"
"Yes; you must not be angry with me, Norman. See, we are quite alone;
there is no one to see me speak to you, no one to reveal that we have
met."
She trembled as she spoke; her face--to him more beautiful than
ever--was raised to his with a look of unutterable appeal.
"You are not angry, Norman?"
"No, I am not angry. Do not speak to me as though I were a tyrant.
Angry--and with you, Madaline--always my best beloved--how could that
be?"
"I knew that you were here," she said. "I saw in a newspaper that you
were going to Tintagel for the summer. I had been longing to see you
again--to see you, while unseen myself so I came hither."
"My dear Madaline, to what purpose?" he asked, sadly.
"I felt that if I did not look upon your face I should die--that I could
live no longer without seeing you. Such a terrible fever seemed to be
burning my very life away. My heart yearned for the touch of your hand.
So I came. You are not angry that I came?"
"No, not angry; but, my darling, it will be harder for us to part."
"I have been here in Tintagel for two whole days," she continued. "I
have seen you, but this is the first time you have gone where I could
follow. Now speak to me, Norman. Say something to me that will cure my
terrible pain--that will take the weary aching from my heart. Say
something that will make me stronger to bear my desolate life--braver to
live without you. You are wiser, better, stronger, braver than I. Teach
me to bear my fate."
What could he say? Heaven help them both--what could he say? He looked
with dumb, passionate sorrow into her fair loving face.
"You must not think it unwomanly in me to come," she said. "I am you
wife--there is no harm in my coming. If I were not your wife, I would
sooner have drowned myself than return after you had sent me away."
Her face was suffused with a crimson blush.
"Norman," she said gently, "sit down here by my side, and I will tell
you why I have come."
They sat down side by side on the beach. There was only the wide blue
sky above, only the wide waste of restless waters at their feet, only a
circling sea-gull near--no human being to watch the tragedy of love and
pride played out by the sea Waves.
"I have come," she said, "to make one more appeal to you, Norman--to ask
you to change this stern determination which is ruining your life and
mine--to ask you to take me back to your home and your heart. For I have
been thinking, dear, and I do not see that the obstacle is such as you
seem to imagine. It was a terrible wrong, a great disgrace--it was a
cruel deception, a fatal mistake; but, after all, it might be
overlooked. Moreover, Norman, when you made me your wife, did you not
promise to love and to cherish, to protect me and make me happy until I
died?"
"Yes," he replied, briefly.
"Then how are you keeping that promise--a promise made in the sight of
Heaven?"
Lord Arleigh looked down at the fair, pure face, a strange light
glowing in his own.
"My dear Madaline," he said, "you must not overlook what the honor of my
race demands. I have my own ideas of what is due to my ancestors; and I
cannot think that I have sinned by broken vows. I vowed to love you--so
I do, my darling, ten thousand times better than anything else on earth.
I vowed to be true and faithful to you--so I am, for I would not ever
look at another woman's face. I vowed to protect you and to shield
you--so I do, my darling; I have surrounded you with luxury and ease."
What could she reply--what urge or plead?
"So, in the eyes of Heaven, my wife, I cannot think I am wronging you."
"Then," she said, humbly, "my coming here, my pleading, is in vain."
"Not in vain, my darling. Even the sight of you for a few minutes has
been like a glimpse of Elysium."
"And I must return," she said, "as I came--with my love thrown back, my
prayers unanswered, my sorrow redoubled."
She hid her face in her hands and wept aloud. Presently she bent
forward.
"Norman," she said, in a low whisper, "my darling, I appeal to you for
my own sake. I love you so dearly that I cannot live away from you--it
is a living death. You cannot realize it. There are few moments, night
or day, in which your face is not before me--few moments in which I do
not hear your voice. Last night I dreamed that you stood before me with
outstretched arms and called me. I went to you, and you clasped me in
your arms. You said, 'My darling wife, it has all been a mistake--a
terrible mistake--and I am come to ask your pardon and to take you
home.' In my dream, Norman, you kissed my face, my lips, my hands, and
called me by every loving name you could invent. You were so kind to me,
and I was so happy. And the dream was so vivid, Norman, that even after
I awoke I believed it to be reality. Then I heard the sobbing of the
waves on the beach, and I cried out, 'Norman, Norman!' thinking you were
still near me; but there was no reply. It was only the silence that
roused me to a full sense that my happiness was a dream. There was no
husband with kind words and tender kisses. I thought my heart would have
broken. And then I said to myself that I could live no longer without
making an effort once more to change your decision. Oh, Norman, for my
sake, do not send me back to utter desolation and despair! Do not send
me back to coldness and darkness, to sorrow and tears. Let me be near
you! You have a thousand interests in life--I have but one. You can live
without love, I cannot. Oh, Norman, for my sake, for my love's sake,
for my happiness' sake, take me back, dear--take me back!"
The golden head dropped forward and fell on his breast, her hands clung
to him with almost despairing pain.
"I will be so humble, darling. I can keep away from all observation. It
is only to be with you that I wish--only to be near you. You cannot be
hard--you cannot send me away; you will not, for I love you!"
Her hands clung more closely to him.
"Many men have forgiven their wives even great crimes, and have taken
them back after the basest desertion. Overlook my father's crime and
pardon me, for Heaven's dear sake!"
"My dearest Madaline, if you would but understand! I have nothing to
pardon. You are sweetest, dearest, loveliest, best. You are one of the
purest and noblest of women. I have nothing to pardon; it is only that I
cannot take disgrace into my family. I cannot give to my children an
inheritance of crime."
"But, Norman," said the girl, gently, "because my father was a felon,
that does not make me one--because he was led into wrong, it does not
follow that I must do wrong. Insanity may be hereditary, but surely
crime is not; besides, I have heard my father say that his father was an
honest, simple, kindly northern farmer. My father had much to excuse
him. He was a handsome man, who had been flattered and made much of."
"My darling I could not take your hands into mine and kiss them so, if I
fancied that they were ever so slightly tainted with sin."
"Then why not take me home. Norman?"
"I cannot," he replied, in a tone of determination. "You must not
torture me, Madaline, with further pleading. I cannot--that is
sufficient."
He rose and walked with rapid steps down the shore. How bard it was, how
terrible--bitter almost as the anguish of death!
She was by his side again, walking in silence. He would bare given the
whole world if he could have taken her into his arms and have kissed
back the color into her sad young face.
"Norman," said a low voice, full of bitterest pain, "I am come to say
good-by. I am sorry I have done harm--not good. I am sorry--forgive me,
and say good-by."
"It has made our lot a thousand times harder, Madaline," he returned,
hoarsely.
"Never mind the hardship; you will soon recover from that," she said. "I
am sorry that I have acted against your wishes, and broken the long
silence. I will never do it again, Norman."
"Never, unless you are ill and need me," he supplemented. "Then you have
promised to send for me."
"I will do so" she said. "You will remember, dear husband, that my last
words to you were 'Good-by, and Heaven bless you.'"
The words died away on her lips. He turned aside lest she should see the
trembling of his face; he never complained to her. He knew now that she
thought him hard, cold, unfeeling, indifferent--that she thought his
pride greater than his love; but even that was better than that she
should know he suffered more than she did--she must never know that.
When he turned back from the tossing waves and the summer sun she was
gone. He looked across the beach--there was no sign of her. She was
gone; and he avowed to himself that it would be wonderful if ever in
this world he saw her again. She did not remain at Tintagel; to do so
would be useless, hopeless. She saw it now. She had hoped against hope:
she had said to herself that in a year and a half he would surely have
altered his mind--he would have found now how hard it was to live alone,
to live without love--he would have found that there was something
dearer in the world than family pride--he would have discovered that
love outweighed everything else. Then she saw that her anticipations
were all wrong--he preferred his dead ancestors to his living wife.
She went back to Winiston House and took up the dreary round of life
again. She might have made her lot more endurable and happier, she might
have traveled, have sought society and amusement; but she had no heart
for any of these things. She had spent the year and a half of her lonely
married life in profound study, thinking to herself that if he should
claim her he would be pleased to find her yet more accomplished and
educated. She was indefatigable, and it was all for him.
Now that she was going back, she was without this mainspring of
hope--her old studies and pursuits wearied her. To what end and for what
purpose had been all her study, all her hard work? He would never know
of her proficiency; and she would not care to study for any other object
than to please him.
"What am I to do with my life," she moaned. "Mariana in the moated
grange was not more to be pitied than I."
How often the words occurred to her:
"The day is dreary,
'He cometh not,' she said:
She said, 'I am aweary, aweary,
would that I were dead.'"
It was one of the strangest, dullest, saddest lives that human being
ever led. That she wearied of it was no wonder. She was tired of the
sorrow, the suffering, the despair--so tired that after a time she fell
ill; and then she lay longing for death.