Long and anxiously did Lord Arleigh muse over his wife's letter. What
was he to do? If her mother was like the generality of her class, then
he was quite sure that the secret he had kept would be a secret no
longer--there was no doubt of that. She would naturally talk, and the
servants would prove the truth of the story, and there would be a
terrible _exposé_. Yet, lonely and sorrowful as Madaline declared
herself to be, how could he refuse her? It was an anxious question for
him, and one that caused him much serious thought. Had he known how ill
she was he would not have hesitated a moment.
He wrote to Madaline--how the letter was received and cherished no one
but herself knew--and told her that he would be in England in a day or
two, and would then give her a decided answer. The letter was kind and
affectionate; it came to her hungry heart like dew to a thirsty flower.
A sudden idea occurred to Lord Arleigh. He would go to England and find
out all about the unfortunate man Dornham. Justice had many victims; it
was within the bounds of possibility that the man might have been
innocent--might have been unjustly accused. If such--and oh, how he
hoped it might be!--should prove to be the case, then Lord Arleigh felt
that he could take his wife home. It was the real degradation of the
crime that he dreaded so utterly--dreaded more than all that could ever
be said about it. He thought to himself more than once that, if by any
unexpected means he discovered that Henry Dornham was innocent of the
crime attributed to him, he would in that same hour ask Madaline to
forgive him, and to be the mistress of his house. That was the only real
solution of the difficulty that ever occurred to him. If the man were
but innocent he--Lord Arleigh--would never heed the poverty, the
obscurity the humble name--all that was nothing. By comparison it seemed
so little that he could have smiled at it. People might say it was a low
marriage, but he had his own idea of what was low. If only the man could
be proved innocent of crime, then he might go to his sweet, innocent
wife, and clasping her in his arms, take her to his heart.
The idea seemed to haunt him--it seemed to have a fatal attraction for
him. He resolved to go to London at once and see if anything could be
done in the matter. How he prayed and longed and hoped! He passed
through well-nigh every stage of feeling--from the bright rapture of
hope to the lowest depths of despair. He went first to Scotland Yard,
and had a long interview with the detective who had given evidence
against Henry Dornham. The detective's idea was that he was emphatically
"a bad lot."
He smiled benignly when Lord Arleigh suggested that possibly the man was
innocent, remarking that it was very kind of the gentleman to think so;
for his own part he did not see a shadow of a chance of it.
"He was caught, you see, with her grace's jewels in his pocket, and gold
and silver plate ready packed by his side--that did not look much like
innocence."
"No, certainly not," Lord Arleigh admitted; "but then there have been
cases in which circumstances looked even worse against an innocent man."
"Yes"--the detective admitted it, seeing that for some reason or other
his lordship had a great desire to make the man out innocent.
"He will have a task," the detective told himself, grimly.
To the inquiry as to whether the man had been sent out of England the
answer was "No; he is at Chatham."
To Chatham Lord Arleigh resolved to go. For one in his position there
would not be much difficulty in obtaining an interview with the convict.
And before long[7] Lord Arleigh, one of the proudest men in England, and
Henry Dornham, poacher and thief, stood face to face.
Lord Arleigh's first feeling was one of great surprise--Henry Dornham
was so different from what he had expected to find him; he had not
thought that he would be fair like Madaline, but he was unprepared for
the dark, swarthy, gypsy-like type of the man before him.
The two looked steadily at each other; the poacher did not seem in the
least to stand in awe of his visitor. Lord Arleigh tried to read the
secret of the man's guilt or innocence in his face. Henry Dornham
returned the gaze fearlessly.
"What do you want with me?" he asked. "You are what we call a swell. I
know by the look of you. What do you want with me?"
The voice, like the face, was peculiar, not unpleasant--deep, rich, with
a clear tone, yet not in the least like Madaline's voice.
"I want," said Lord Arleigh, steadily, "to be your friend, if you will
let me."
"My friend!" a cynical smile curled the handsome lips. "Well, that is
indeed a novelty. I should like to ask, if it would not seem rude, what
kind of a friend can a gentleman like you be to me?"
"You will soon find out," said Lord Arleigh.
"I have never known a friendship between a rich man and a ne'er-do-well
like myself which did not end in harm for the poorer man. You seek us
only when you want us--and then it is for no good."
"I should not be very likely to seek you from any motive but the desire
to help you," observed Lord Arleigh.
"It is not quite clear to me how I am to be helped," returned the
convict with a cynical smile; "but if you can do anything to get me out
of this wretched place, please do."
"I want you to answer me a few questions," said Lord Arleigh--"and very
much depends on them. To begin, tell me, were you innocent or guilty of
the crime for which you are suffering? Is your punishment deserved or
not?"
"Well," replied Henry Dornham, with a sullen frown, "I can just say
this--it is well there are strong bars between us; if there were not you
would not live to ask such another question."
"Will you answer me?" said Lord Arleigh, gently.
"No, I will not--why should I? You belong to a class I hate and
detest--a class of tyrants and oppressors."
"Why should you? I will tell you in a few words. I am interested in the
fate of your wife and daughter."
"My what?" cried the convict, with a look of wonder.
"Your wife and daughter," said Lord Arleigh.
"My daughter!" exclaimed the man. "Good Heaven! Oh, I see! Well, go on.
You are interested in my wife and daughter--what else?"
"There is one thing I can do which would not only be of material benefit
to them, but would make your daughter very happy. It cannot be done
unless we can prove your innocence."
"Poor little Madaline," said the convict, quietly--"poor, pretty little
girl!"
Lord Arleigh's whole soul revolted on hearing this man speak so of his
fair, young wife. That this man, with heavy iron bars separating him, as
though he were a wild animal, from the rest of the world, should call
his wife "poor, pretty little Madaline."
"I would give," said Lord Arleigh, "a great deal to find that your
conviction had been a mistake. I know circumstances of that kind will
and do happen. Tell me honestly, is there any, even the least
probability, of finding out anything to your advantage?"
"Well," replied Henry Dornham, "I am a ne'er-do-well by nature. I was an
idle boy, an idle youth, and an idle man. I poached when I had a chance.
I lived on my wife's earnings. I went to the bad as deliberately as any
one in the world did, but I do not remember that I ever told a willful
lie."
There passed through Lord Arleigh's mind a wish that the Duchess of
Hazlewood might have heard this avowal.
"I do not remember," the man said again, "that I have ever told a
willful lie in my life. I will not begin now. You asked me if I was
really guilty. Yes, I was--guilty just as my judges pronounced me to
be!"
For a few minutes Lord Arleigh was silent; the disappointment was almost
greater than he could bear. He had anticipated so much from this
interview; and now by these deliberately spoken words his hopes were
ended--he would never be able to take his beautiful young wife to his
heart and home. The bitterness of the disappointment seemed almost
greater than he could bear. He tried to recover himself, while Henry
Dornham went on:
"The rich never have anything to do with the poor without harm comes of
it. Why did they send me to the duke's house? Why did be try to
patronize me? Why did he parade his gold and silver plate before my
eyes?"
The passion of his words seemed to inflame him.
"Why," he continued angrily, should he eat from silver while others were
without bread? Why should his wife wear diamonds while mine cried with
hunger and cold? I saw how unjust it was. Who placed his foot on my
neck? Who made him my master and tyrant, patronizing me with his 'my
good fellow' this and the other? What right had he to such abundance
while I had nothing?"
"That which was his," said Lord Arleigh, bluntly, "at least was not
yours to take."
"But I say it was! I helped myself before, and, if I were out of this
place, having the chance, I would help myself again."
"That would be equally criminal," said Lord Arleigh, fearlessly and
again Henry Dornham laughed his cynical laugh.
"It is too late in the day for me to talk over these matters," said the
convict. "When I roamed in the woods as a free man, I had my own ideas;
prison has not improved them. I shall never make a reformed convict--not
even a decent ticket-of-leave man. So if you have any thought of
reclaiming me, rid your mind of it at once."
"It will be best to do so, I perceive," observed Lord Arleigh. "I had
some little hope when I came in--I have none now."
"You do not mean to say, though, that I am not to be any the better off
for your visit?" cried the man. "I do not know your name, but I can see
what you are. Surely you will try to do something for me?"
"What can I do?" asked Lord Arleigh. "If you had been innocent--even if
there had been what they call extenuating circumstances--I would have
spent a fortune in the endeavor to set you free; but your confession
renders me powerless."
"The only extenuating circumstance in the whole affair," declared the
man, after a pause, "was that I wanted money, and took what I thought
would bring it. So you would give a small fortune to clear me, eh?" he
interrogated.
"Yes," was the brief reply.
The man looked keenly at him.
"Then you must indeed have a strong motive. It is not for my own sake, I
suppose?" A new idea occurred to him. A sudden smile curled his lip. "I
have it!" he said. "You are in love with my--with pretty little
Madaline, and you want to marry her! If you could make me out innocent,
you would marry her; if you cannot--what then? Am I right?"
All the pride of his nature rose in rebellion against this coarse
speech. He, an Arleigh of Beechgrove, to hear this reprobate sneering at
his love! His first impulse was an angry one, but he controlled himself.
After all, it was Madaline's father--for Madaline's sake he would be
patient.
"Am I right?" the prisoner repeated, with the same mocking smile.
"No," replied Lord Arleigh, "you are not right. There is no need for me
to offer any explanation, and, as I have failed in my object, I will
go."
"You might just as well tell me if you are in love with my little
Madaline. I might make it worth your while to let me know."
It was with great difficulty that Lord Arleigh controlled his
indignation; but he replied, calmly:
"I have nothing to tell you."
A look of disappointment came over the dark, handsome face.
"You can keep your secrets," he said--"so can I. If you will tell me
nothing, neither shall I; but I might make it worth your while to trust
me."
"I have nothing to confide," returned Lord Arleigh; "all I can say to
you on leaving is that I hope you will come to your senses and repent of
your past wickedness."
"I shall begin to think that you are a missionary in disguise," said
Henry Dornham. "So you will not offer me anything for my secret?" he
interrogated.
"No secret of yours could interest me," rejoined Lord Arleigh abruptly,
as he went away.
So, for the second time in his life, he was at the door of the mystery,
yet it remained unopened. The first time was when he was listening to
Lord Mountdean's story, when the mention of the name Dornham should lead
to a denouement; the second was now, when, if he had listened to the
convict, he would have heard that Madaline was not his child.
He left Chatham sick at heart. There was no help for him--his fate was
sealed. Never, while he lived, could he make his beautiful wife his own
truly--they were indeed parted for evermore. There remained to him to
write that letter; should he consent to Madaline's mother living with
her or should he not?
He reflected long and anxiously, and then having well weighed the matter
he decided that he would not refuse his wife her request. He must run
the risk, but he would not caution her.
He wrote to Madaline, and told her that he would be pleased if she were
pleased, and that he hoped she would be happy with her mother, adding
the caution that he trusted she would impress upon her mother the need
of great reticence, and that she must not mention the unfortunate
circumstances of the family to any creature living.
Madaline's answer touched him. She assured him that there was no
fear--that her mother was to be implicitly trusted. She told him also
how entirely she had kept the secret of his separation from her, lest it
should add to her mother's trouble.
"She will know now that I do not live with you, that I never see you,
that we are as strangers, but she will never know the reason."
He was deeply moved. What a noble girl she was, bearing her troubles so
patiently, and confiding them to no human soul!
Then he was compelled to go to Beechgrove--it was long since he had been
there, and so much required attention, he was obliged to go, sorely
against his will, for he dreaded the sight of the place, haunted as it
was by the remembrance of the love and sorrow of his young wife. He
avoided going as long as possible, but the place needed the attention of
a master.
It was June when he went--bright, smiling, perfumed, sunny June--and
Beechgrove was at its best; the trees were in full foliage, the green
woods resounded with the song of birds, the gardens were filled with
flowers, the whole estate was blooming and fair. He took up his abode
there. It was soon noticed in the house that he avoided the
picture-gallery--nothing ever induced him to enter it. More than once,
as he was walking through the woods, his heartbeat and his face flushed;
there, beyond the trees lived his wife, his darling, from whom a fate
more cruel than death had parted him. His wife! The longing to see her
grew on him from day to day. She was so near him, yet so far away--she
was so fair, yet her beauty must all fade and die; it was not for him.
In time he began to think it strange that he had never heard anything of
her. He went about in the neighborhood, yet no one spoke of having seen
her. He never heard of her being at church, nor did he ever meet her on
the high-road. It was strange how completely a vail of silence and
mystery had fallen over her.
When he had been some time at Beechgrove he received one morning a
letter from the Earl of Mountdean, saying that he was in the
neighborhood, and would like to call. Lord Arleigh was pleased at the
prospect. There was deep and real cordiality between the two men--they
thoroughly understood and liked each other; it was true that the earl
was older by many years than Lord Arleigh, but that did not affect their
friendship.
They enjoyed a few days together very much. One morning they rode
through the woods--the sweet, fragrant, June woods--when, from between
the trees, they saw the square turrets of the Dower House. Lord
Mountdean stopped to admire the view.
"We are a long distance from Beechgrove," he said; "what is that pretty
place?"
Lord Arleigh's face flushed hotly.
"That," he replied, "is the Dower House, where my wife lives."
The earl looked with great interest at Lady Arleigh's dwelling-place.
"It is very pretty," he said--"pretty and quiet; but it must be dull for
a young girl. You said she was young, did you not?"
"Yes, she is years younger than I am," replied Lord Arleigh.
"Poor girl!" said the earl, pityingly; "it must be rather a sad fate--so
young and beautiful, yet condemned all her life to live alone. Tell me,
Arleigh, did you take advice before you separated yourself so abruptly
from her?"
"No," replied Lord Arleigh, "I did not ever seek it; the matter
appeared plain enough to me."
"I should not like you to think me curious," pursued the earl. "We are
true friends now, and we can trust each other. You have every confidence
in me, and I have complete faith in you. I would intrust to you the
dearest secret of my heart. Arleigh, tell me what I know you have told
to no human being--the reason of your separation from the wife you
love."
Lord Arleigh hesitated for one half minute.
"What good can it possibly do?" he said.
"I am a great believer in the good old proverb that two heads are better
than one," replied the earl. "I think it is just possible that I might
have some idea that has not occurred to you; I might see some way out of
the difficulty, that has not yet presented itself to you. Please
yourself about it; either trust me or not, as you will; but if you do
trust me, rely upon it I shall find some way of helping you."
"It is a hopeless case," observed Lord Arleigh, sadly. "I am quite sure
that even if you knew all about it, you would not see any comfort for
me. For my wife's sake I hesitate to tell you, not for my own."
"Your wife's secret will be as safe with me as with yourself," said the
earl.
"I never thought that it would pass my lips, but I do trust you,"
declared Lord Arleigh; "and if you can see any way to help me, I shall
thank Heaven for the first day I met you. You must hold my wife
blameless, Lord Mountdean," he went on. "She never spoke untruthfully,
she never deceived me; but on our wedding-day I discovered that her
father was a convict--a man of the lowest criminal type."
Lord Mountdean looked as he felt, shocked.
"But how," he asked, eagerly, "could you be so deceived?"
"That I can never tell you; it was an act of fiendish revenge--cruel,
ruthless, treacherous. I cannot reveal the perpetrator. My wife did not
deceive me, did not even know that I had been deceived; she thought,
poor child, that I was acquainted with the whole of her father's story,
but I was not. And now, Lord Mountdean, tell me, do you think I did
wrong?"
He raised his care-worn, haggard face as he asked the question and the
earl was disturbed at sight of the terrible pain in it.