Philippa, Duchess of Hazlewood, was sitting in the superb drawing-room
at Vere Court. It was some time since she had left town, but she had
brought some portion of the gay world back with her. The court was
filled with visitors, and nothing was thought of but brilliant
festivities and amusement. The duchess was queen of all gayety; the time
that had passed had simply added to her beauty--she was now one of the
handsomest women in society.
It was a warm day, the last day in June, and Vere Court had never seemed
so brilliant. The lovely young duchess had withdrawn for a short time
from her guests. Most of them had gone out riding or driving. There was
to be a grand ball that evening and her Grace of Hazlewood did not wish
to fatigue herself before it came off. As for driving or riding in the
hot sun simply because the day was fine and the country fair, she did
not believe in it. She had retired to her drawing-room; a soft couch,
had been placed near one of the open windows, and the breeze that came
in was heavy with perfume. On the stand by her side lay a richly-jeweled
fan, a bottle of sweet scent, a bouquet of heliotrope--her favorite
flower--and one or two books which she had selected to read. She lay,
with her dark, queenly head on the soft cushion of crimson velvet in an
attitude that would have charmed a painter. But the duchess was not
wasting the light of her dark eyes over a book. She had closed them, as
a flower closes its leaves in the heat of the sun. As she lay there,
beautiful, languid, graceful, the picture she formed was a marvelous
rich study of color. So thought the duke, who, unheard by her, had
entered the room.
Everything had prospered with his grace. He had always been extremely
wealthy, but his wealth had been increased in a sudden and unexpected
fashion. On one of his estates in the north a vein of coal had been
discovered, which was one of the richest in England. The proceeds of it
added wonderfully to his income, and promised to add still more. No
luxury was wanting; the duchess had all that her heart, even in its
wildest caprices, could desire. The duke loved her with as keen and
passionate a love as ever. He had refused to go out this morning,
because she had not gone; and now he stood watching her with something
like adoration in his face--the beautiful woman, in her flowing
draperies of amber and white. He went up to her and touched her brow
lightly with his lips.
"Are you asleep, my darling?" he asked.
"No," she replied, opening her eyes.
"I have something to read to you--something wonderful."
She roused herself.
"Your geese are generally swans, Vere. What is the wonder?"
"Listen, Philippa;" and, as the duke scanned the newspaper in his hands,
he sang the first few lines of his favorite song:
"'Queen Philippa sat in her bower alone.'
"Ah, here it is!" he broke off. "I am sure you will say that this is
wonderful. It explains all that I could not understand--and, for
Arleigh's sake, I am glad, though what you will say to it, I cannot
think."
And, sitting down by her side, he read to her the newspaper account of
the Arleigh romance.
He read it without interruption, and the queenly woman listening to him
knew that her revenge had failed, and that, instead of punishing the man
who had slighted her love, she had given him one of the sweetest,
noblest and wealthiest girls in England. She knew that her vengeance had
failed--that she had simply crowned Lord Arleigh's life with the love of
a devoted wife.
When the duke looked up from his paper to see what was the effect of his
news, he saw that the duchess had quietly fainted away, and lay with the
pallor of death on her face. He believed that the heat was the cause,
and never suspected his wife's share in the story.
She recovered after a few minutes. She did not know whether she was more
glad or sorry at what she had heard. She had said once before of herself
that she was not strong enough to be thoroughly wicked--and she was
right.
* * * * *
A year had elapsed, and Lord Arleigh and his wife were in town for the
season, and were, as a matter of course, the objects of much curiosity.
He was sitting one evening in the drawing-room of his town-house, when
one of the servants told him that a lady wished to see him. He inquired
her name and was told that she declined to give it. He ordered her to be
shown into the room where he was, and presently there entered a tall
stately lady, whose face was closely vailed; but the imperial figure,
the stately grace were quite familiar to him.
"Philippa!" he cried, in astonishment.
Then she raised her vail, and once again he saw the grandly-beautiful
face of the woman who had loved him with such passionate love.
"Philippa!" he repeated.
"Yes," said the duchess, calmly. "And do you know why I am here?"
"I cannot even guess," he replied.
"I am here to implore your pardon," she announced, with deep
humility--"to tell you that neither by night nor by day, since I planned
and carried out my revenge, have I known peace. I shall neither live nor
die in peace unless you forgive me, Norman."
She bent her beautiful, haughty head before him--her eyes were full of
tears.
"You will forgive me, Norman?" she said in her low, rich voice.
"Remember that it was love for you which bereft me of my reason and
drove me mad--love for you. You should pardon me."
Leaving her standing there, Lord Arleigh drew aside the velvet hangings
and disappeared. In a few moments he returned leading his wife by the
hand.
"Philippa," he said, gravely, "tell my wits your errand; hear what she
says. We will abide by her decision."
At first the duchess drew back with a haughty gesture.
"It was you I came to see," she said to Lord Arleigh; and then the sweet
face touched her and her better self prevailed.
"Madaline," she said, quietly, "you have suffered much through me--will
you pardon me?"
The next moment Lady Arleigh's arms were clasped round her neck, and the
pure sweet lips touched her own.
"It was because you loved him," she whispered, "and I forgive you."
* * * * *
The Duke of Hazlewood did not understand the quarrel between his wife
and Lord Arleigh, nor did he quite understand the reconciliation; still
he is very pleased that they are reconciled, for he likes Lord Arleigh
better than any friend he has ever had. He fancies, too, that his
beautiful wife always seems kinder to him when she has been spending
some little time with Lady Arleigh.
In the gallery at Verdun Royal there is a charming picture called "The
Little Lovers." The figures in it are those of a dark-haired, handsome
boy of three whose hand is filled with cherries, and a lovely little
girl, with hair like sunshine and a face like a rosebud, who is
accepting the rich ripe fruit. Those who understand smile as they look
at this painting, for the dark-haired boy is the son and heir of the
Duke of Hazlewood, and the fair-faced girl is Lord Arleigh's daughter.
The Earl of Mountdean and his wife, _neé_ Lady Lily Gordon, once went to
see that picture, and, as they stood smiling before it, he said:
"It may indicate what lies in the future. Let us hope it does for the
greatest gift of Heaven is the love of a good and pure-minded wife."
PG Errata
1. Changed from "implicity".
2. Changed from "philosphers".
3. Changed from "Thenceforwarward".
4. Changed from "prevaded".
5. Changed from "quicky".
6. Changed from "refained".
7. Changed from "Long".
8. Changed from "surprisng".