Margaret Dornham was neither a clever nor a far-seeing woman; had she
been either, she would never have acted as she did. She would have known
that in taking little Madaline from Castledene she was destroying her
last chance of ever being owned or claimed by her parents; she would
have understood that, although she loved the child very dearly, she was
committing a most cruel act. But she thought only of how she loved her.
Yet, undiscerning as she was, she was puzzled about her daughter's
happiness. If she was really so happy, why did she spend long hours in
reverie--why sit with folded hands, looking with such sad eyes at the
passing clouds? That did not look like happiness. Why those heavy sighs,
and the color that went and came like light and shade? It was strange
happiness. After a time she noticed that Madaline never spoke
voluntarily of her husband. She would answer any questions put to
her--she would tell her mother anything she desired to know; but of her
own accord she never once named him. That did not look like happiness.
She even once, in answer to her mother's questions, described Beechgrove
to her--told her of the famous beeches, the grand picture gallery; she
told her of the gorgeous Titian--the woman with rubies like blood
shining on her white neck. But she did not add that she had been at
Beechgrove only once, and had left the place in sorrow and shame.
She seemed to have every comfort, every luxury; but Margaret noticed
also that she never spoke of her circle of society--that she never
alluded to visitors.
"It seems to me, my darling, that you lead a very quiet life," she said,
one day; and Madaline's only answer was that such was really the case.
Another time Margaret said to her:
"You do not write many letters to your husband, Madaline. I could
imagine a young wife like you writing every day," and her daughter made
no reply.
On another occasion Mrs. Dornham put the question to her:
"You are quite sure, Madaline, that you love your husband?"
"Love him!" echoed the girl, her face lighting up--"love him, mother? I
think no one in the wide world has ever loved another better!"
"Such being the case, my darling," said Margaret, anxiously, "let me
ask you if you are quite sure he loves you?"
No shadow came into the blue eyes as she raised them to her mother's
face.
"I am as sure of it," she replied, "as I am of my own existence."
"Then," thought Margaret to herself, "I am mistaken; all is well between
them."
Madaline did not intend to remain very long with her mother, but it was
soothing to the wounded, aching heart to be loved so dearly. Margaret
startled her one day, by saying:
"Madaline, now that you are a great lady, and have such influential
friends, do you not think you could do something for your father?"
"Something for my father?" repeated the girl, with a shudder. "What can
I do for him?"
A new idea suddenly occurred to Mrs. Dornham. She looked into Lady
Arleigh's pale, beautiful face.
"Madaline," she said, earnestly, "tell me the whole truth--is your
father's misfortune any drawback to you? Tell me the truth; I have a
reason for asking you."
But Lady Arleigh would not pain her mother--her quiet, simple heart had
ached bitterly enough. She would not add one pang.
"Tell me, dear," continued Margaret, earnestly; "you do not know how
important it is for me to understand."
"My dear mother," said Lady Arleigh, gently clasping her arms round her
mother's neck; "do not let that idea make you uneasy. All minor lights
cease to shine, you know, in the presence of greater ones. The world
bows down to Lord Arleigh; very few, I think, know what his wife's name
was. Be quite happy about me, mother. I am sure that no one who has seen
me since my marriage knows anything about my father."
"I shall be quite happy, now that I know that," she observed.
More than once during that visit Margaret debated within herself whether
she would tell Lady Arleigh her story or not; but the same weak fear
that had caused her to run away with the child, lest she should lose her
now, made her refrain from speaking, lest Madaline, on knowing the
truth, should be angry with her and forsake her.
If Mrs. Dornham had known the harm that her silence was doing she would
quickly have broken it.
Lady Arleigh returned home, taking her silent sorrow with her. If
possible, she was kinder then ever afterward to her mother, sending her
constantly baskets of fruit and game--presents of every kind. If it had
not been for the memory of her convict husband, Mrs. Dornham would for
the first time in her life have been quite happy.
Then it was that Lady Arleigh began slowly to droop, then it was that
her desolate life became utterly intolerable--that her sorrow became
greater than she could bear. She must have some one near her, she
felt--some one with whom she could speak--or she should go mad. She
longed for her mother. It was true Margaret Dornham was not an educated
woman, but in her way she was refined. She was gentle, tender-hearted,
thoughtful, patient, above all, Madaline believed she was her
mother--and she had never longed for her mother's love and care as she
did now, when health, strength, and life seemed to be failing her.
By good fortune she happened to see in the daily papers that Lord
Arleigh was staying at Meurice's Hotel, in Paris. She wrote to him
there, and told him that she had a great longing to have her mother with
her. She told him that she had desired this for a long time, but that
she had refrained[6] from expressing the wish lest it should be
displeasing to him.
"Do not scruple to refuse me," she said, "if you do not approve. I
hardly venture to hope that you will give your consent. If you do, I
will thank you for it. If you should think it best to refuse it, I
submit humbly as I submit now. Let me add that I would not ask the favor
but that my health and strength are failing fast."
Lord Arleigh mused long and anxiously over this letter. He hardly cared
that her mother should go to Dower House; it would perhaps be the means
of his unhappy secret becoming known. Nor did he like to refuse
Madaline, unhappy, lonely, and ill. Dear Heaven, if he could but go to
her himself and comfort her.