Wife in Name Only Part 24

"You are unlike it only because you are a hundred times fairer," he replied; "that is why I inquired about you--why I asked so many questions. It was because you were to me a dream realized. So it came about that I heard your true history. Now will you be my friend?"

"If you still wish it, Lord Arleigh, yes; but, if you repent of having asked me, and should ever feel ashamed of our friends.h.i.+p, remember that I shall not reproach you for giving me up."

"Giving you up?" cried Lord Arleigh. "Ah, Madaline--let me call you Madaline, the name is so sweet--I shall never give you up! When a man has been for many years looking for some one to fill his highest and brightest dreams, he knows how to appreciate that some one when found."

"It seems all so strange," she said, musingly.

"Nay, why strange? You have read that sweetest and saddest of all love stories--'Romeo and Juliet?' Did _Juliet_ think it strange that, so soon after seeing her, _Romeo_ should be willing to give his life for her?"

"No, it did not seem strange to them," she replied, with a smile; "but it is different with us. This is the nineteenth century, and there are no _Juliets_."

"There are plenty of _Romeos_, though," he remarked, laughingly. "The sweetest dreams in my life are the briefest. Will you pluck one of those roses for me and give it to me, saying, 'I promise to be your friend?'"

"You make me do things against my will," she said; but she plucked a rose, and held it toward him in her hand. "I promise to be your friend,"

she said, gently.

Lord Arleigh kissed the rose. As he did so their eyes met; and it would have been hard to tell which blushed the more deeply. After that, meetings between them became more frequent. Lord Arleigh made seeing her the one great study of his life--and the result was what might be imagined.

Chapter XVIII.

The yacht of Mr. Conyers, one of the richest commoners in England--a yacht fitted as surely no yacht ever before had been fitted--was for sale. He was a wealthy man, but to keep that sea-palace afloat was beyond his means. The d.u.c.h.ess of Hazlewood was sole mistress of a large fortune in her own right; the duke had made most magnificent settlements upon her. She had a large sum of money at her command; and the idea suddenly occurred to her to purchase Mr. Conyers' yacht unknown to her husband and present him with it. He was fond of yachting--it was his favorite amus.e.m.e.nt. She herself was a wretched sailor, and would not be able to accompany him; but that would not matter. It was not of her own pleasure that the d.u.c.h.ess of Hazlewood was thinking, while the old strange brooding smile lingered on her beautiful face and deepened on her perfect lips.

"It would be the very thing," she said to herself, "it would afford to me the opportunity I am seeking--nothing could be better."

She purchased the yacht and presented it to the duke, her husband. His pleasure and astonishment were unbounded. She was, as a rule, so undemonstrative that he could not thank her sufficiently for what seemed to him her great interest in his favorite pursuit.

"The only drawback to the splendid gift, Philippa, is that you can never enjoy it; it will take me away from you."

"Yes, I do indeed deplore that I am a wretched sailor, for I can imagine nothing pleasanter than life on board such a yacht as that. But, while you are cruising about, Vere, I shall go to Verdun Royal and take Madaline with me; then I shall go to Vere Court--make a kind of royal progress, set everything straight and redress all wrongs, hold a court at each establishment I shall enjoy that more than yachting."

"But I shall miss you so much, Philippa," said the young husband.

"We have the remainder of our lives to spend together," she rejoined; "if you are afraid of missing me too much, you had better get rid of the yacht."

But he would not hear of that--he was delighted with the beautiful and valuable present. The yacht was christened "Queen Philippa"; and it was decided that, when the end of the season had come, the duke should take his beautiful wife to Verdun Royal, and, after having installed her there, should go at once to sea. He had invited a party of friends--all yachtsmen like himself--and they had agreed to take "Queen Philippa" to the Mediterranean, there to cruise during the autumn months.

As it was settled so it was carried out; before the week had ended the duke, d.u.c.h.ess, and Madeline were all at Verdun Royal. Perhaps the proud young wife had never realized before how completely her husband loved her. This temporary parting was to him a real pain.

A few days before it took place he began to look pale and ill. She saw that he could not eat, that he did not sleep or rest. Her heart was touched by his simple fidelity, his pa.s.sionate love, although the one fell purpose of her life remained unchanged.

"If you dislike going, Vere," she said to him one day, "do not go--stay at Verdun Royal."

"The world would laugh if I did that, Philippa," he returned; "it would guess at once what was the reason, because every one knows how dearly I love you. We should be called _Darby_ and _Joan_."

"No one would ever dare to call me _Joan_," she said, "for I have nothing of _Joan_ in me."

The duke sighed--perhaps he thought that it would be all the better if she had; but, fancying there was something, after all, slightly contemptuous in her manner, as though she thought it unmanly in him to repine about leaving her, he said no more.

One warm, brilliant day he took leave of her and she was left to work out her purpose. She never forgot the day of his departure--it was one of those hot days when the summer skies seemed to be half obscured by a copper-colored haze, when the green leaves hang languidly, and the birds seek the coolest shade, when the flowers droop with thirst, and never a breath of air stir their blossoms, when there is no picture so refres.h.i.+ng to the senses as that of a cool deep pool in the recesses of a wood.

She stood at the grand entrance, watching him depart, and she knew that with all her beauty, her grace, her talent, her sovereignty, no one had ever loved her as this man did. Then, after he was gone, she stood still on the broad stone terrace, with that strange smile on her face, which seemed to mar while it deepened her beauty.

"It will be a full revenge," she said to herself. "There could be no fuller. But what shall I do when it is all known?"

She was not one to flinch from the course of action she had marked out for herself, nor from the consequences of that course; but she shuddered even in the heat, as she thought what her life would be when her vengeance was taken.

"He will never forgive me," she said, "he will look upon me as the wickedest of women. It does not matter; he should not have exasperated me by slighting me."

Then the coppery haze seemed to gather itself together--great purple ma.s.ses of clouds piled themselves in the sky, a lurid light overspread the heavens, the dense oppressive silence was broken by a distant peal of thunder, great rain-drops fell--fierce, heavy drops. The trees seemed to stretch out their leaves to drink in the moisture, the parched flowers welcomed the downpour; and still the d.u.c.h.ess of Hazlewood stood out on the terrace, so deeply engrossed in her thoughts that she never heeded the rain.

Madaline hastened out to her with a shawl.

"Dear d.u.c.h.ess," she cried, "it is raining; and you are so absorbed in thought that you do not notice it."

She laughed a strange, weird laugh, and raised her beautiful face with its expression of gloom.

"I did not notice it, Madaline," she said; "but there is no need for anxiety about me," she added, proudly.

They re-entered the house together. Madaline believed that the d.u.c.h.ess was thinking of and grieving over the departure of the duke. Lady Peters thought the same. They both did their best to comfort her--to amuse her and distract her thoughts. But the absent expression did not die from her dark eyes. When they had talked to her some little time she took up the "Lady of Lyons."

"How much you admire that play," said Madaline; "I see you reading it so often."

"I have a fancy for it," returned the d.u.c.h.ess; "it suits my taste. And I admire the language very much."

"Yet it is a cruel story," observed Madaline; "the n.o.blest character in it is _Pauline_."

"She was very proud; and pride, I suppose, must suffer," said the d.u.c.h.ess, carelessly.

"She was not too proud, after all, to love a n.o.ble man, when she once recognized him, d.u.c.h.ess."

"She learned to love the prince--she would never have loved the gardener," remarked Philippa; "it was a terrible vengeance."

"I do not like stories of vengeance," said Madaline. "After all, though, I love the _Claude_ of the story, and find much true n.o.bility in him--much to admire. When reading the play I am tempted all the time to ask myself, How could he do it? It was an unmanly act."

There was a strange light in the dark eyes, a quiver on the scarlet lips, as Philippa said:

"Do you think so? Suppose some one had offended you as _Pauline_ offended _Claude_--laughing at the love offered, scorned, mocked, despised you--and that such vengeance as his lay in your power; would you not take it?"

The sweet face flushed.

"No, I would rather die," Madaline replied, quickly.

"I would take it, and glory in it," said the d.u.c.h.ess, firmly