Wife in Name Only Part 41

But, as time wore on, people saw a great change in her. She gave herself more to the gayeties and follies of the world; there were few fashions which she did not lead, few gay pursuits in which she did not take an active part. The character of her beauty, too, seemed changed. She had always been brilliant, but somewhat of a strange unrest came into her face and manner; the dark eyes seemed to be always looking for something they could not find. Her mind, though charming and fascinating as ever, grew variable and unsteady. She had always been too proud for coquetry; she remained so now. But she no longer shunned and avoided all flattery and homage; it seemed rather to please her than not. And--greatest change of all--the name of Lord Arleigh never crossed her lips. He himself had retired from public life; the great hopes formed of him were all dying away. Men spoke of him with mystery, women with sad, gentle interest; those who had known him knew him no more.

He did not return to Beechgrove: it seemed to him that he could never again endure the sight of the place where he had separated from his wife--that his ancient home had been in some manner desecrated. The mansion was left in charge of Mrs. Chatterton, whose wonder at the new and strange state of things never ceased.

"Such a marriage!" She held up her hands in horror as she thought of it.

Indeed, to her the event appeared like a wedding and a funeral on the same day. She had not seen Lady Arleigh since, yet she had never forgot the fair, lovely young face that had shone for so short a time in the grand old home.

Lord Arleigh saw that his wife had everything needful for her; he settled a large income on her; he sent from London horses, carriages, everything that her heart could desire; he saw that she had a proper household formed. Whatever else the world might say, it could not say that he showed her any want of respect or any want of attention. Lord Arleigh did not live with his wife, never visited her, never spoke of her; but it was quite clear that his motive for doing none of these things lay deeper than the world knew or could even guess.

The family solicitor went down to Winiston House occasionally, but Lord Arleigh never. The few who met him after his marriage found him strangely altered. Even his face had changed; the frank, honest, open look that had once seemed to defy and challenge and meet the whole world had died away; he looked now like a man with a secret to keep--a secret that had taken his youth from him, that had taken the light from his life, that hod shadowed his eyes, drawn hard lines of care round his lips, wrinkled his face, taken the music from his voice, and made of him a changed and altered, a sad, unhappy man.

There were one or two intimate friends--friends who had known him in his youth--who ventured to ask what this secret was, who appealed to him frankly to make his trouble known, telling him that sorrow shared was sorrow lightened; but with a sad smile he only raised his head and answered that his sorrow was one of which he could not speak. Sometimes a kindly woman who had known him as boy and man--one with daughters, and sons of her own--would ask him what was the nature of his sorrow. He would never tell.

"I cannot explain," he would reply.

Society tried hard to penetrate the mystery. Some said that Lady Arleigh was insane, and that he had not discovered it until the afternoon of his wedding-day. Others said that she had a fierce temper, and that he was unaware of it until they were traveling homeward. These were the most innocent rumors; others were more scandalous. It was said that he had discovered some great crime that she had committed. Few such stories; Lord Arleigh, they declared, was not the man to make so terrible a mistake.

Then, after a time, all the sensation and wonder died away, society accepted the fact that Lord Arleigh was unhappily married and had separated from his wife.

He went abroad, and then returned home, sojourning at quiet watering places where he thought his story and himself would be unknown.

Afterward he went to Normandy, and tried to lose the remembrance of his troubles in his search after the picturesque. But, when he had done everything that he could do to relieve his distress of mind, he owned to himself that he was a most miserable man.

Chapter x.x.xI.

A year and a half bad pa.s.sed, and Lord Arleigh was still, as it were, out of the world. It was the end of April, a spring fresh and beautiful.

His heart had turned to Beechgrove, where the violets were springing and the young larches were budding; but he could not go thither--the picture-gallery was a haunted spot to him--and London he could endure.

The fashionable intelligence told him that the Duke and d.u.c.h.ess of Hazlewood had arrived for the season, that they had had their magnificent mansion refurnished, and that the beautiful d.u.c.h.ess intended to startle all London by the splendor and variety of her entertainments.

He said to himself that it would be impossible for him to remain in town without seeing them--and see them of his own free will he never would again.

Fate was, however, too strong for him. He had decided that he would leave London rather than run the risk of meeting the d.u.c.h.ess of Hazlewood. He went one morning to a favorite exhibition of pictures, and the first person he saw in the gallery was the d.u.c.h.ess herself. As their eyes met her face grew deadly pale, so pale that he thought she would faint and fall to the ground; her lips opened as though she would fain utter his name. To him she looked taller, more beautiful, more stately than ever--her superb costume suited her to perfection--yet he looked coldly into the depths of her dark eyes, and without a word or sign of greeting pa.s.sed on.

He never knew whether she was hurt or not, but he decided that he would leave London at once. He was a sensitive man more tender of heart than men as a rule, and their meeting had been a source of torture to him. He could not endure even the thought that Philippa should have lost all claim to his respect. He decided to go to Tintagel, in wild, romantic Cornwall; at least there would be boating, fishing, and the glorious scenery.

"I must go somewhere," he said to himself--"I must do something. My life hangs heavy on my hands--how will it end?"

So in sheer weariness and desperation he went to Tintagel, having, as he thought, kept his determination to himself, as he wished no one to know whither he had retreated. One of the newspapers, however, heard of it, and in a little paragraph told that Lord Arleigh of Beechgrove had gone to Tintagel for the summer. That paragraph had one unexpected result.

It was the first of May. The young n.o.bleman was thinking of the May days when he was a boy--of how the common near his early home was yellow with gorse, and the hedges were white with hawthorn. He strolled sadly along the sea-sh.o.r.e, thinking of the sunniest May he had known since then, the May before his marriage. The sea was unusually calm, the sky above was blue, the air mild and balmy, the white sea-gulls circled in the air, the waves broke with gentle murmur on the yellow sand.

He sat down on the sloping beach. They had nothing to tell him, those rolling, restless waves--no sweet story of hope or of love, no vague pleasant harmony. With a deep moan he bent his head as he thought of the fair young wife from whom he had parted for evermore, the beautiful loving girl who had clung to him so earnestly.

"Madaline, Madaline!" he cried aloud: and the waves seemed to take up the cry--they seemed to repeat "Madaline" as they broke on the sh.o.r.e.

"Madaline," the mild wind whispered. It was like the realization of a dream, when he heard his name murmured, and, turning, he saw his lost wife before him.

The next moment he had sprung to his feet, uncertain at first whether it was really herself or some fancied vision.

"Madaline," he cried, "is it really you?"

"Yes; you must not be angry with me, Norman. See, we are quite alone; there is no one to see me speak to you, no one to reveal that we have met."

She trembled as she spoke; her face--to him more beautiful than ever--was raised to his with a look of unutterable appeal.

"You are not angry, Norman?"

"No, I am not angry. Do not speak to me as though I were a tyrant.

Angry--and with you, Madaline--always my best beloved--how could that be?"

"I knew that you were here," she said. "I saw in a newspaper that you were going to Tintagel for the summer. I had been longing to see you again--to see you, while unseen myself so I came hither."

"My dear Madaline, to what purpose?" he asked, sadly.

"I felt that if I did not look upon your face I should die--that I could live no longer without seeing you. Such a terrible fever seemed to be burning my very life away. My heart yearned for the touch of your hand.

So I came. You are not angry that I came?"

"No, not angry; but, my darling, it will be harder for us to part."

"I have been here in Tintagel for two whole days," she continued. "I have seen you, but this is the first time you have gone where I could follow. Now speak to me, Norman. Say something to me that will cure my terrible pain--that will take the weary aching from my heart. Say something that will make me stronger to bear my desolate life--braver to live without you. You are wiser, better, stronger, braver than I. Teach me to bear my fate."

What could he say? Heaven help them both--what could he say? He looked with dumb, pa.s.sionate sorrow into her fair loving face.

"You must not think it unwomanly in me to come," she said. "I am you wife--there is no harm in my coming. If I were not your wife, I would sooner have drowned myself than return after you had sent me away."

Her face was suffused with a crimson blush.

"Norman," she said gently, "sit down here by my side, and I will tell you why I have come."

They sat down side by side on the beach. There was only the wide blue sky above, only the wide waste of restless waters at their feet, only a circling sea-gull near--no human being to watch the tragedy of love and pride played out by the sea Waves.

"I have come," she said, "to make one more appeal to you, Norman--to ask you to change this stern determination which is ruining your life and mine--to ask you to take me back to your home and your heart. For I have been thinking, dear, and I do not see that the obstacle is such as you seem to imagine. It was a terrible wrong, a great disgrace--it was a cruel deception, a fatal mistake; but, after all, it might be overlooked. Moreover, Norman, when you made me your wife, did you not promise to love and to cherish, to protect me and make me happy until I died?"

"Yes," he replied, briefly.

"Then how are you keeping that promise--a promise made in the sight of Heaven?"

Lord Arleigh looked down at the fair, pure face, a strange light glowing in his own.

"My dear Madaline," he said, "you must not overlook what the honor of my race demands. I have my own ideas of what is due to my ancestors; and I cannot think that I have sinned by broken vows. I vowed to love you--so I do, my darling, ten thousand times better than anything else on earth.

I vowed to be true and faithful to you--so I am, for I would not ever look at another woman's face. I vowed to protect you and to shield you--so I do, my darling; I have surrounded you with luxury and ease."

What could she reply--what urge or plead?

"So, in the eyes of Heaven, my wife, I cannot think I am wronging you."

"Then," she said, humbly, "my coming here, my pleading, is in vain."