Winiston House was prettily situated. The house stood in the midst of
charming grounds. There was a magnificent garden, full of flowers, full
of fragrance and bloom; there was an orchard filled with rich, ripe
fruit, broad meadow-land where the cattle grazed, where daisies and
oxlips grew. To the left of the house was a large shrubbery, which
opened on to a wide carriage drive leading to the high road. The house
was an old red-brick building, in no particular style of architecture,
with large oval windows and a square porch. The rooms were large, lofty,
and well lighted. Along the western side of the house ran a long
terrace called the western terrace; there the sun appeared to shine
brightest, there tender plants flourished, there tame white doves came
to be fed and a peacock walked in majesty; from there one heard the
distant rush of the river.
There Lady Arleigh spent the greater part of her time--there she wore
her gentle life away. Three years had elapsed, and no change had come to
her. She read of her husband's sojourn in Scotland. Then she read in the
fashionable intelligence that he had gone to Wood Lynton, the seat of
the Earl of Mountdean. He remained there three days, and then went
abroad. Where he was now she did not know; doubtless he was traveling
from one place to another, wretched, unhappy as she was herself.
The desolate, dreary life had begun to prey upon her at last. She had
fought against it bravely for some time--she had tried to live down the
sorrow; but it was growing too strong for her--the weight of it was
wearing her life away. Slowly but surely she began to fade and droop. At
first it was but a failure in strength--a little walk tired her, the
least fatigue or exercise seemed too much for her. Then, still more
slowly, the exquisite bloom faded from the lovely face, a weary languor
shone in the dark-blue eyes, the crimson lips lost their color. Yet Lady
Arleigh grew more beautiful as she grew more fragile. Then all appetite
failed her. Mrs. Burton declared that she ate nothing.
She might have led a different life--she might have gone out into
society--she might have visited and entertained guests. People knew that
Lady Arleigh was separated from her husband; they knew also that,
whatever might have been the cause of separation, it had arisen from no
fault of hers. She would, in spite of her strange position, have been
welcomed with open arms by the whole neighborhood, but she was sick with
mortal sorrow--life had not a charm for her.
She had no words for visitors--she had no wish left for enjoyment. Just
to dream her life away was all she cared for. The disappointment was so
keen, so bitter, she could not overcome it. Death would free Norman from
all burden--would free him from this tie that must be hateful to him.
Death was no foe to be met and fought with inch by inch; he was rather a
friend who was to save her from the embarrassment of living on--a friend
who would free her husband from the effects of his terrible mistake.
Madaline had never sent for her mother, not knowing whether Lord
Arleigh would like it; but she had constantly written to her, and had
forwarded money to her. She had sent her more than Margaret Dornham was
willing to accept. Another thing she had done--she had most carefully
refrained from saying one word to her mother as to the cause of her
separation from her husband. Indeed, Margaret Dornham had no notion of
the life that her well-beloved Madaline was leading.
It had been a terrible struggle for Margaret to give her up.
"I might as well have let her go back years ago to those to whom she
belonged," she said to herself, "as to let her go now."
Still, she stood in great awe of the Duchess of Hazlewood, who seemed to
her one of the grandest ladies in all England; and, when the duchess
told her it was selfish of her to stand in her daughter's light,
Margaret gave way and let her go. Many times, after she had parted with
her, she felt inclined to open the oaken box with brass clasps, and see
what the papers in it contained, but a nameless fear came over her. She
did not dare to do what she had not done earlier.
Madaline had constantly written to her, had told her of her lover, had
described Lord Arleigh over and over again to her. On the eve of her
wedding-day she had written again; but, after that fatal marriage-day,
she had not told her secret. Of what use would it be to make her mother
more unhappy than she was--of what avail to tell her that the dark and
terrible shadow of her father's crime had fallen over her young life,
blighting it also?
Of all her mother's troubles she knew this would be the greatest so she
generously refrained from naming it. There was no need to tell her
patient, long-suffering, unhappy mother that which must prove like a
dagger in her gentle heart. So Margaret Dornham had one gleam of
sunshine in her wretched life. She believed that the girl she had loved
so dearly was unutterably happy. She had read the descriptions of Lord
Arleigh with tears in her eyes.
"That is how girls write of the men they love," she said--"my Madaline
loves him."
Madaline had written to her when the ceremony was over. She had no one
to make happy with her news but her distant mother. Then some days
passed before she heard again--that did not seem strange. There was, of
course, the going home, the change of scene, the constant occupation.
Madaline would write when she had time. At the end of a week she heard
again; and then it struck her that the letter was dull, unlike one
written by a happy bride--but of course she must be mistaken--why should
not Madaline be happy?
After that the letters came regularly, and Madaline said that the
greatest pleasure she had lay in helping her mother. She said that she
intended to make her a certain allowance, which she felt quite sure
would be continued to her after her death, should that event precede her
mother's; so that at last, for the weary-hearted woman, came an interval
of something like contentment. Through Madaline's bounty she was able to
move from her close lodgings in town to a pretty cottage in the country
Then she had a glimpse of content.
After a time her heart yearned to see the daughter of her adoption, the
one sunbeam of her life, and she wrote to that effect.
"I will come to you," wrote Madaline, in reply, "if you will promise me
faithfully to make no difference between me and the child Madaline who
used to come home from school years ago."
Margaret promised, and Madaline, plainly dressed, went to see her
mother. It was sweet, after those long, weary months of humiliation and
despair, to lay her head on that faithful breast and hear whispered
words of love and affection. When the warmth of their first greeting was
over, Margaret was amazed at the change in her child. Madaline had grown
taller, the girlish graceful figure had developed into a model of
perfect womanhood. The dress that she wore became her so well that the
change in the marvelous face amazed her the most, it was so wonderfully
wonderful, so fair, so pure, so _spirituelle_, yet it had so strange a
story written upon it--a story she could neither read nor understand. It
was not a happy face. The eyes were shadowed, the lips firm, the
radiance and brightness that had distinguished her were gone; there were
patience and resignation Instead.
"How changed you are, my darling!" said Margaret, as she looked at her.
"Who would have thought that my little girl would grow into a tall,
stately, beautiful lady, dainty and exquisite? What did Lord Arleigh say
to your coming, my darling?"
"He did not say anything," she replied, slowly.
"But was he not grieved to lose you?"
"Lord Arleigh is abroad," said Madaline, gently. "I do not expect that
he will return to England just yet."
"Abroad!" repeated Margaret. "Then, my darling, how is it that you are
not with him?"
"I could not go," she replied, evasively.
"And you love your husband very much, Madaline, do you not?" inquired
Margaret.
"Yes, I love him with all my heart and soul!" was the earnest reply.
"Thank Heaven that my darling is happy!" said Margaret, "I shall find
everything easier to bear now that I that."