Wife in Name Only Part 39

"Carlyle had no such fate as mine in his thoughts," she said, "when he wrote that. But, Lord Arleigh, I do not wish to complain. I am sorry that I have interrupted you. I have accepted my fate. Say all you wish--I will be silent."

"I have only to add, my darling, that if money, luxury, comfort can give you happiness, you shall have them all. You shall have respect and honor too, for I will take care that the whole world knows that this separation arises from no fault of yours. Promise me, darling wife--oh, Heaven help me, how hard it is!--promise me, when the first smart of the pain is over, that you will try to be happy."

She bent her head, but spoke no word.

"Promise me too, Madaline, that, if sickness and sorrow should come to you, you will send for me at once."

"I promise," she said.

"A few words more, and I have done. Tell me what course you wish me to pursue toward the d.u.c.h.ess."

"I have no wish in the matter," she replied, directly. "She was kind to me once; for the sake of that kindness I forgive her. She forgot that I must suffer in her wish to punish you. I shall leave her to Heaven."

"And I," he said, "will do the same; voluntarily I will never see her or speak to her again."

There remained for him only to say farewell. He took her little white hand; it was as cold as death.

"Farewell, my love," he said--"farewell!"

He kissed her face with slow, sweet reverence, as he would have kissed the face of a dead woman whom he loved; and then he was gone.

Like one in a dream, she heard the wheel of a carriage rolling away. She stretched out her hands with a faint cry.

"Norman--my husband--my love!" she called; but from the deep silence of the night there came no response. He was gone.

Madaline pa.s.sed the night in watching the silent skies. Mrs. Burton, after providing all that was needful, had retired quickly to rest. She did not think it "good manners" to intrude upon her ladys.h.i.+p.

All night Madaline watched the stars, and during the course of that night the best part of her died--youth, love, hope, happiness. Strange thoughts came to her--thoughts that she could hardly control. Why was she so cruelly punished? What had she done? She had read of wicked lives that had met with terrible endings. She had read of sinful men and wicked women whose crimes, even in this world, had been most bitterly punished. She had read of curses following sin. But what had she done?

No woman's lot surely had ever been so bitter. She could not understand it, while the woman who had loved her husband, who had practiced fraud and deceit, and lied, went unpunished.

Yet her case was hardly that, for Norman did not love her. Daughter of a felon as she--Madaline--was--poor, lowly, obscure--he had given her his heart, although he could never make her the mistress of his home. There was some compensation for human suffering, some equality in the human lot, after all. She would be resigned. There were lots in life far worse than hers. What if she had learned to love Norman, and he had never cared for her? What if she had learned to love him, and had found him less n.o.ble than he was? What if, in the bitterness of his disappointment and pa.s.sion, he had vented his anger upon her? After all, she could not but admire his sense of honor, his respect for his name, his devotion to his race; she could not find fault with his conduct, although it had cost her so dear.

"I think," she admitted to herself, "that in his place I should have done the same thing. If my parent's crime has brought sorrow and disgrace to me, who have no name, no fame, no glory of race to keep up, what must it have brought to him? In his place I should have done as he has done."

Then, after a time, she clasped her hands.

"I will submit," she said. "I will leave my fate to Providence."

When morning dawned she went to her room; she did not wish the household to know that she had sat up and watched the night through.

Once out of the house, Lord Arleigh seemed to realize for the first time what had happened; with a gesture of despair he threw himself back in the carriage. The footman came to him.

"Where to, my lord--to Beechgrove?"

"No," replied Lord Arleigh--"to the railway station. I want to catch the night-mail for London."

Lord Arleigh was just in time for the train. The footman caught a glimpse of his master's face as the train went off--it was white and rigid.

"Of all the weddings in this world, well, this is the queerest!" he exclaimed to himself.

When he reached Beechgrove, he told his fellow-servants what had happened, and many were the comments offered about the marriage that was yet no marriage--the wedding that was no wedding--the husband and wife who were so many miles apart. What could it mean?

Chapter XXIX.

Three days after Lord Arleigh's most inauspicious marriage. The d.u.c.h.ess of Hazlewood sat in her drawing-room alone. Those three days had changed her terribly; her face had lost its bloom, the light had died from her dark eyes, there were great lines of pain round her lips. She sat with her hands folded listlessly, her eyes, full of dreamy sorrow, fixed on the moving foliage of the woods. Presently Lady Peters entered with an open newspaper in her hand.

"Philippa, my dear," she said, "I am very uncomfortable. Should you think this paragraph refers to Lord Arleigh? It seems to do so--yet I cannot believe it."

The deadly pallor that was always the sign of great emotion with the d.u.c.h.ess spread now even to her lips.

"What does it say?" she asked.

Lady Peters held the paper out to her; but her hands trembled so that she could not take it.

"I cannot read it," she said, wearily. "Read it to me."

And then Lady Peters read:

"Scandal in High Life.--Some strange revelations are shortly expected in aristocratic circles. A few days since a n.o.ble lord, bearing one of the most ancient t.i.tles in England, was married. The marriage took place under circ.u.mstances of great mystery; and the mystery has been increased by the separation of bride and bridegroom on their wedding-day. What has led to a separation is at present a secret, but it is expected that in a few days all particulars will be known. At present the affair is causing a great sensation."

A fas.h.i.+onable paper which indulged largely in personalities, also had a telling article on Lord Arleigh's marriage. No names were mentioned, but the references were unmistakable. A private marriage, followed by a separation on the same day, was considered a fair mark for scandal. This also Lady Peters read, and the d.u.c.h.ess listened with white, trembling lips.

"It must refer to Lord Arleigh," said Lady Peters.

"It cannot," was the rejoinder. "He was far too deeply in love with his fair-faced bride to leave her."

"I never did quite approve of that marriage," observed Lady Peters.

"The scandal cannot be about him," declared the d.u.c.h.ess. "We should have heard if there had been anything wrong."

The next day a letter was handed to her. She recognized the handwriting--it was Lord Arleigh's. She laid the note down, not daring to read it before Lady Peters. What had he to say to her?

When she was alone she opened it.

"You will be pleased to hear, d.u.c.h.ess, that your scheme has entirely succeeded. You have made two innocent people who have never harmed you as wretched as it is possible for human beings to be. In no respect has your vengeance failed. I--your old friend, playmate, brother, the son of your mother's dearest friend--have been made miserable for life. Your revenge was well chosen. You knew that, however I might wors.h.i.+p Madaline, my wife, however much I might love her, she could never be mistress of Beechgrove, she could never be the mother of my children; you knew that, and therefore I say your revenge was admirably chosen. It were useless to comment on your wickedness, or to express the contempt I feel for the woman who could deliberately plan such evil and distress. I must say this, however. All friends.h.i.+p and acquaintance between us is at an end. You will be to me henceforward an entire stranger. I could retaliate. I could write and tell your husband, who is a man of honor, of the unworthy deed you have done; but I shall not do that--it would be unmanly. Before my dear wife and I parted, we agreed that the punishment of your sin should be left to Heaven. So I leave it. To a woman unworthy enough to plan such a piece of baseness, it will be satisfaction sufficient to know that her scheme has succeeded. Note the words 'my wife and I parted'--parted, never perhaps to meet again. She has all my love, all my heart, all my unutterable respect and deep devotion; but, as you know, she can never be mistress of my house. May Heaven forgive you.

Arleigh."

She could have borne with his letter if it had been filled with the wildest invictives--if he had reproached her, even cursed her; his dignified forbearance, his simple acceptance of the wrong she had done him, she could not tolerate.

She laid down the letter. It was all over now--the love for which she would have given her life, the friends.h.i.+p that had once been so true, the vengeance that had been so carefully planned. She had lost his love, his friends.h.i.+p, his esteem. She could see him no more. He despised her.

There came to her a vision of what she might have been to him had things been different--his friend, adviser, counselor--the woman upon whom he would have looked as the friend of his chosen wife--the woman whom, after all, he loved best--his sister, his truest confidante. All this she might have been but for her revenge. She had forfeited it all now.

Her life would be spent as though he did not exist; and there was no one but herself to blame.