Wife in Name Only Part 34

They are true. Fire, fury, and hatred rage now in my heart as I write this to you. You have scorned me--this is my revenge. I am a proud woman--I have lowered my pride to you. My lips have never willfully uttered a false word; still they have lied to you. I loved you once, Norman, and on the day my love died I knew that nothing could arise from its ashes. I loved you with a love pa.s.sing that of most women; and it was not all my fault. I was taught to love you--the earliest memory of my life is having been taught to love you.

"You remember, too. It may have been injudicious, imprudent, foolish, yet while I was taught to think, to read, to sing, I was also taught to consider myself your 'little wife.' Hundreds of times have you given me that name, while we walked together as children--you with your arm about my neck, I proud of being called your 'little wife.'

"As a child, I loved you better than anything else in the wide world--better than my mother, my home, my friends; and my love grew with my growth. I prided myself on my unbroken troth to you. I earned the repute of being cold and heartless, because I could think of no one but you. No compliments pleased me, no praise flattered me; I studied, learned, cultivated every gift Heaven had given me--all for your sake. I thought of no future, but with you, no life but with you, no love but for you; I had no dreams apart from you. I was proud when they talked of my beauty; that you should have a fair wife delighted me.

"When you returned home I quite expected that you were coming to claim me as your wife--I thought that was what brought you to England. I remember the day you came. Ah, well, revenge helps me to live, or I should die! The first tones of your voice, the first clasp of your hand, the first look of your eyes chilled me with sorrow and disappointment.

Yet I hoped against hope. I thought you were shy, perhaps more reserved than of yore. I thought everything and anything except that you had ceased to love me; I would have believed anything rather than that you were not going to fulfill our ancient contract, and make me your wife. I tried to make you talk of old times--you were unwilling; you seemed confused, embarra.s.sed I read all those signs aright; still I hoped against hope. I tried to win you--I tried all that love, patience, gentleness, and consideration could do.

"What women bear, and yet live on! Do you know that every moment of that time was full of deadly torture to me, deadly anguish? Ah, me, the very memory of it distresses me! Every one spoke to me as though our engagement was a certainty, and our marriage settled. Yet to me there came, very slowly, the awful conviction that you had ignored, or had forgotten the old ties. I fought against that conviction. I would not entertain it. Then came for me the fatal day when I heard you tell the d.u.c.h.ess of Aytoun that you had never seen the woman you would care to make your wife. I heard your confession, but would not give in; I clung to the idea of winning your love, even after I had hoped against hope, and tried to make you care for me. At last came the night out on the balcony, when I resolved to risk all, to ask you for your love--do you remember it? You were advocating the cause of another; I asked you why you did not speak for yourself. You must have known that my woman's heart was on fire--you must have seen that my whole soul was in my speech, yet you told me in cold, well-chosen words that you had only a brother's affection for me. On that night, for the first time, I realized the truth that, come what might, you would never love me--that you had no idea of carrying out the old contract--that your interest in me was simply a kindly, friendly one. On that night, when I realized that truth, the better part of me died; my love--the love of my life--died; my hopes--the life-long hopes--died; the best, truest, n.o.blest part of me died.

"When you had gone away, when I was left alone, I fell on my knees and swore to be revenged. I vowed vengeance against you, no matter what it might cost. Again let me quote to you the lines:

"'Heaven has no rage like love to hatred turned, Nor h.e.l.l a fury like a woman scorned.'

You scorned me--you must suffer for it. I swore to be revenged, but how was I to accomplish my desire? I could not see any way in which it was possible for me to make you suffer. I could not touch your heart, your affections, your fortune. The only thing that I could touch was your pride. Through your pride, your keen sensitiveness I decided to stab you; and I have succeeded! I recovered my courage and my pride together, made you believe that all that had pa.s.sed had been jest, and then I told you that I was going to marry the duke.

"I will say no more of my love or my sorrow. I lived only for vengeance, but how my object was to be effected I could not tell. I thought of many plans, they were all worthless--they could not hurt you as you had hurt me. At last, one day, quite accidentally I took up 'The Lady of Lyons,'

and read it through. That gave me an idea of what my revenge should be like. Do you begin to suspect what this present is that the d.u.c.h.ess of Hazlewood intends making to you on your wedding-day?"

As he read on his face grew pale. What could it mean--this reference to "The Lady of Lyons?" That was the story of a deceitful marriage--surely all unlike his own.

"You are wondering. Turn the page and you shall read that, when an idea once possesses a woman's mind, she has no rest until it is carried out.

I had none. My vengeance was mapped out for me--it merely required filling in. Let me show you how it was filled up--how I have lied to you, who to another have never uttered a false word.

"Years ago we had a maid whom my mother liked very much. She was gentle, well-mannered, and well-bred for her station in life. She left us, and went to some other part of England. She married badly--a handsome, reckless ne'er-do-well, who led her a most wretched life.

"I know not, and care nothing for the story of her married life, her rights and wrongs. How she becomes of interest to you lies in the fact that shortly after my marriage she called to see me and ask my aid. She had been compelled to give up her home in the country and come to London, where, with her husband and child, she was living in poverty and misery. While she was talking to me the duke came in. I think her patient face interested him. He listened to her story, and promised to do something for her husband. You will wonder how this story of Margaret Dornham concerns you. Read on. You will know in time.

"My husband having promised to a.s.sist this man, sent for him to the house; and the result of that visit was that the man seeing a quant.i.ty of plate about, resolved upon helping himself to a portion of it. To make my story short, he was caught, after having broken into the house, packed up a large parcel of plate, and filled his pockets with some of my most valuable jewels. There was no help for it but to prosecute him, and his sentence was, under the circ.u.mstances, none too heavy, being ten years' penal servitude.

"Afterward I went to see his wife Margaret, and found her in desperate circ.u.mstances; yet she had one ornament in her house--a beautiful young girl, her daughter, so fair of face that she dazzled me. The moment I saw her I thought of your description of your ideal--eyes like blue hyacinths, and hair of gold. Forthwith a plan entered my mind which I have most successfully carried out.

"I asked for the girl's name, and was told that it was Madaline--an uncommon name for one of her cla.s.s--but the mother had lived among well-to-do people, and had caught some of their ideas. I looked at the girl--her face was fair, sweet, pure. I felt the power of its beauty, and only wondered that she should belong to such people at all; her hands were white and shapely as my own, her figure was slender and graceful. I began to talk to her, and found her well educated, refined, intelligent--all, in fact, that one could wish.

"Little by little their story came out--it was one of a mother's pride and glory in her only child. She wors.h.i.+ped her--literally wors.h.i.+ped her.

She had not filled the girl's mind with any nonsensical idea about being a lady, but she had denied herself everything in order that Madaline might be well educated. For many years Madaline had been what is called a governess-pupil in a most excellent school. 'Let me die when I may,'

said the poor, proud mother, 'I shall leave Madaline with a fortune in her own hands; her education will always be a fortune to her.'

"I asked her one day if she would let me take Madaline home with me for a few hours; she seemed delighted, and consented at once. I took the girl home, and with my own hands dressed her in one of my most becoming toilets. Her beauty was something marvelous. She seemed to gain both grace and dignity in her new attire. Shortly afterward, with her mother's permission, I sent her for six months to one of the most fas.h.i.+onable schools in Paris. The change wrought in her was magical; she learned as much in that time as some girls would have learned in a couple of years. Every little grace of manner seemed to come naturally to her; she acquired a tone that twenty years spent in the best of society does not give to some. Then I persuaded Vere, my husband, to take me to Paris for a few days, telling him I wanted to see the daughter of an old friend, who was at school there. In telling him that I did not speak falsely--Madaline's mother had been an old friend of mine. Then I told him that my whim was to bring Madaline home and make a companion of her; he allowed me to do just as I pleased, asking no questions about her parents, or anything else. I do not believe it ever occurred to him as strange that the name of my _protegee_ and of the man who had robbed him was the same--indeed, he seemed to have forgotten all about the robbery. So I brought Madaline home to Vere Court, and then to London, where I knew that you would see her. My husband never asked any questions about her; he made no objection, no remark--everything that I did was always well done in his eyes.

"But you will understand clearly that to you I told a lie when I said that Madaline's mother was a poor relative of the duke's--you know now what relations.h.i.+p there is between them. Even Lady Peters does not know the truth. She fancies that Madaline is the daughter of some friend of mine who, having fallen on evil days, has been glad to send her to me.

"Knowing you well, Norman, the accomplishment of my scheme was not difficult. If I had brought Madaline to you and introduced her, you might not have been charmed; the air of mystery about her attracted you.

My warning against your caring for her would, I knew, also help to allure you. I was right in every way. I saw that you fell in love with her at once--the first moment you saw her--and then I knew my revenge was secured.

"I bought my husband the yacht on purpose that he might go away and leave me to work out my plans. I knew that he could not resist the temptation I offered. I knew also that if he remained in England he would want to know all about Madaline before he allowed you to marry her. If the marriage was to take place at all, it must be during his absence. You seemed, of your own free will, Norman, to fall naturally into the web woven for you.

"I write easily, but I found it hard to be wicked--hard to see my lost love, my dear old companion, drift on to his ruin.

"More than once I paused, longing to save you; more than once I drew back, longing to tell you all. But the spirit of revenge within me was stronger than myself--my love had turned to hate. Yet I could not quite hate you, Norman--not quite. Once, when you appealed to my old friends.h.i.+p, when you told me of your plans, I almost gave way. 'Norman!'

I cried, as you were leaving me; but when you turned again I was dumb.

"So I have taken my revenge. I, Philippa, d.u.c.h.ess of Hazlewood on this your wedding-day, reveal to you the first stain on the name of Arleigh--unvail the first blot on one of the n.o.blest escutcheons in the land. You have married not only a low-born girl, but the daughter of a felon--a felon's daughter is mistress of proud Beechwood! You who scorned Philippa L'Estrange, who had the cruelty to refuse the love of a woman who loved you--you who looked for your ideal in the clouds, have found it near a prison cell! The daughter of a felon will be the mistress of the grand old house where some of the n.o.blest ladies of the land have ruled--the daughter of a felon will be mother of the heirs of Arleigh. Could I have planned, prayed for, hoped for, longed for a sweeter revenge?

"I am indifferent as to what you may do in return. I have lived for my revenge, and now that I have tasted it life is indifferent to me. You will, of course, write to complain to the duke, and he, with his honest indignation justly aroused, will perhaps refuse to see me again. I care not; my interest in life ended when my love died.

"Let me add one thing more. Madaline herself has been deceived. I told her that you knew all her history, that I had kept nothing from you, and that you loved her in spite of it, but that she was never to mention it to you."

He read the letter with a burning flush on his face, which afterward grew white as with the pallor of death; a red mist was before his eyes, the sound of surging waters in his ears, his heart beat loud and fast.

Could it be true--oh, merciful Heaven, could it be true? At first he had a wild hope that it was a cruel jest that Philippa was playing with him on his wedding-day. It could not be true--his whole soul rose in rebellion against it. Heaven was too just, too merciful--it could not be. It was a jest. He drew his breath with a long quivering sigh--his lips trembled; it was simply a jest to frighten him on his wedding day.

Then, one by one--slowly, sadly, surely--a whole host of circ.u.mstances returned to his mind, making confirmation strong. He remembered well--only too well--the scene in the balcony. He remembered the pale starlight, the light scarf thrown over Philippa's shoulders, even the very perfume that came from the flowers in her hair; he remembered how her voice had trembled, how her face had shown in the faint evening light. When she had quoted the words of _Priscilla_, the loveliest maiden of Plymouth, she had meant them as applicable to her own case--"Why don't you speak for yourself, John?" They came back to him with a fierce, hissing sound, mocking his despair. She had loved him through all--this proud, beautiful, brilliant woman for whom men of highest rank had sighed in vain. And, knowing her pride, her haughtiness, he could guess exactly what her love had cost her, and that all that followed had been a mockery. On that night her love had changed to hate. On that night she had planned this terrible revenge. Her offering of friends.h.i.+p had been a blind. He thought to himself that he had been foolish not to see it. A thousand circ.u.mstances presented themselves to his mind. This, then, was why Madaline had so persistently--and, to his mind, so strangely--refused his love. This was why she had talked incessantly of the distance between them--of her own unworthiness to be his wife. He bad thought that she alluded merely to her poverty, whereas it was her birth and parentage she referred to.

How cleverly, how cruelly Philippa had deceived them both--Philippa, his old friend and companion, his sister in all but name! He could see now a thousand instances in which Madaline and himself had played at cross purposes--a thousand instances in which the poor girl had alluded to her parent's sin, and he had thought she was speaking of her poverty. It was a cruel vengeance, for, before he had read the letter through, he knew that if the story were correct, she could be his wife in name only--that they must part. Poverty, obscurity, seemed as nothing now--but crime?

Oh, Heaven, that his name and race should be so dishonored! If he had known the real truth, he would have died rather than have uttered one word of love to her.

The daughter of a felon--and he had brought her to Beechgrove as successor to a roll of n.o.ble women, each one of whom had been of n.o.ble birth! She was the daughter of a felon--no matter how fair, how graceful, how pure. For the first time the glory of Beechgrove was tarnished. But it would not be for long--it could not be for long; she must not remain. The daughter of a felon to be the mother of his children--ah, no, not if he went childless to the grave! Better that his name were extinct, better that the race of Arleigh should die out, than that his children should be pointed at as children with tainted blood!

It could never be. He would expect the dead and gone Arleighs to rise from their graves in utter horror, he would expect some terrible curse to fall on him, were so terrible a desecration to happen. They must part. The girl he loved with all the pa.s.sionate love of his heart, the fair young wife whom he wors.h.i.+ped must go from him, and he must see her no more. She must be his wife in name only.

He was young, and he loved her very dearly. His head fell forward on his breast, and as bitter a sob as ever left man's lips died on his. His wife in name only! The sweet face, the tender lips were not for him--yet he loved her with the whole pa.s.sion and force of his soul. Then he raised his head--for he heard a sound, and knew that she was returning.

Great drops of anguish fell from his brow--over his handsome face had come a terrible change; it had grown fierce with pain, haggard with despair, white with sorrow.

Looking up, he saw her--she was at the other end of the gallery; he saw the tall, slender figure and the sweeping dress--he saw the white arms with their graceful contour, the golden hair, the radiant face--and he groaned aloud; he saw her looking up at the pictures as she pa.s.sed slowly along--the ancestral Arleighs of whom he was so proud. If they could have spoken, those n.o.ble women, what would they have said to this daughter of a felon?

She paused for a few minutes to look up at her favorite, Lady Alicia, and then she came up to him and stood before him in an the grace of her delicate loveliness, in all the pride of her dainty beauty. She was looking at the gorgeous t.i.tian near him.

"Norman," she said, "the sun has turned those rubies into drops of blood--- they looked almost terrible on the white throat. What a strange picture! What a tragical face!"

Suddenly with outstretched arms she fell on her knees at his side.

"Oh, my darling, what has happened? What is the matter?"

She had been away from him only half an hour, yet it seemed to him ages since he had watched her leave the gallery with a smile on her lips.

"What is it, my darling?" she cried again. "Dear Norman, you look as though the shadow of death had pa.s.sed over you. What is it?"

In another moment she had flung herself on his breast, clasped her arms round his neck, and was kissing his pale changed face as she had never done before.

"Norman, my darling husband, you are ill," she said--"ill, and you will not tell me. That is why you sent me away."

He tried to unclasp her arms, but she clung the more closely to him.

"You shall not send me away. You wish to suffer in silence? Oh, my darling, my husband, do you forget that I am your wife, for better, for worse, in sickness and in health? You shall not suffer without my knowledge."

"I am not ill, Madaline," he said, with a low moan. "It is not that."

"Then something has happened--you have been frightened."

He unclasped her arms from his neck--their caress was a torture to him.