Wife in Name Only Part 52

Lord Arleigh looked thoughtfully at her. The sunshine glistened through the green boughs, and touched her graceful golden head as with an aureole of glory.

"I am beginning to think," he said, "that all that happens is for the best. We shall be wiser and better all our lives for having suffered."

"I think so too," observed Madaline.

"And my darling," he said, "I am quite sure of another thing. There are many good gifts in the world--wealth, fame, rank, glory--but the best gift of all is that which comes straight from Heaven--the love of a pure, good wife."

Looking up, they saw the earl crossing the lawn to meet them.

"Madaline," he said, gently, when he was close to them, "how rejoiced I am to see that look on your face. You have no thought of dying now?"

"Not if I can help it, papa," she replied.

"I think," continued the earl, "that this is the happiest day of my life. I must say this to you, Norman--that, if I had chosen from all the world, I could not have chosen a son whom I should care for more than for you, and that, if I had a son of my own, I should have wished him to be like you. And now we will talk about our future--I am so proud to have two children to arrange for instead of one--our future, that is to have no clouds. In the first place, what must we do with this good foster-mother of yours, Madaline, whose great love for you has led to all this complication?"

"I know what I should like to do," said Lady Arleigh, gently.

"Then consider it done," put in her husband.

"I should like her to live with me always," said Lady Arleigh any capacity--as housekeeper, or whatever she would like. She has had so little happiness in her life, and she would find her happiness now in mine. When her unfortunate husband is free again, she can do as she likes--either go abroad with him, or we can find them a cottage and keep them near us."

So it was arranged; and there were few happier women than Margaret Dornham when she heard the news.

"I thought," she sobbed, in a broken voice, "that I should never be forgiven; and now I find that I am to be always near to the child for whose love I would have sacrificed the world."

Lord Mountdean insisted on the fullest publicity being given to Madaline's abduction.

"There is one thing," he said, "I cannot understand--and that is how you came to misunderstand each other. Why did Madaline believe that you knew all about her story when you knew nothing of it? That secret, I suppose, you will keep to yourselves?"

"Yes," replied Lord Arleigh. "The truth is, we were both cruelly deceived--it matters little by whom and how.'"

"That part of the story, then, will never be understood," said Lord Mountdean. "The rest must be made public, no matter at what cost to our feelings--there must be no privacy, no shadow over my daughter's name.

You give me your full consent, Norman?"

"Certainly; I think your proposal is very wise," Lord Arleigh replied.

"Another thing, Norman--I do not wish my daughter to go home to Beechgrove until her story has been made known. Then I will see that all honor is paid to her."

So it was agreed, and great was the sensation that ensued. "The Arleigh Romance," as it was called, was carried from one end of the kingdom to the other. Every newspaper was filled with it; all other intelligence sank into insignificance when compared with it. Even the leading journals of the day curtailed their political articles to give a full account of the Arleigh romance. But it was noticeable that in no way whatsoever was the name of the d.u.c.h.ess of Hazlewood introduced.

The story was fairly told. It recalled to the minds of the public that some time previously Lord Arleigh had made what appeared a strange marriage, and that he had separated from his wife on their wedding-day, yet paying her such honor and respect that no one could possibly think any the worse of her for it. It reminded the world how puzzled it had been at the time; and now it gave a solution of the mystery. Through no act of deception on the part of his wife, Lord Arleigh had believed that he knew her full history; but on their wedding-day he found that she was, to all appearance, the daughter of a man who was a convict.

Therefore--continued the story--the young couple had agreed to separate.

Lord Arleigh, although loving his wife most dearly, felt himself compelled to part from her. He preferred that his ancient and n.o.ble race should become extinct rather than that it should be tarnished by an alliance with the offspring of crime. Lady Arleigh agreed with her husband, and took up her abode at the Dower House, surrounded by every mark of esteem and honor. Then the story reverted to the Earl of Mountdean's lost child, and how, at length, to the intense delight of the husband and father, it was discovered that Lady Arleigh was no other than the long-lost daughter of Lord Mountdean.

As the earl had said, the only obscure point in the narrative was how Lord Arleigh had been deceived. Evidently it was not his wife who had deceived him--who, therefore, could it have been? That the world was never to know.

It was extraordinary how the story spread, and how great was the interest it excited. There was not a man or woman in all England who did not know it.

When the earl deemed that full reparation had been made to his daughter, he agreed that she should go to Beechgrove.

The country will never forget that home-coming. It was on a brilliant day toward the end of July. The whole country side was present to bid Lady Arleigh welcome--the tenants, servants, dependents, friends; children strewed flowers in her path, flags and banners waved in the sunlit air, there was a long procession with bands of music, there were evergreen arches with "Welcome Home" in monster letters.

It was difficult to tell who was cheered most heartily--the fair young wife whose beauty won all hearts, the n.o.ble husband, or the gallant earl whose pride and delight in his daughter were so great. Lord Arleigh said a few words in response to this splendid reception--and he was not ashamed of His own inability to finish what he had intended to say.

There had never been such a home-coming within one's memory The old house was filled with guests, all the _elite_ of the county were there.

There was a grand dinner, followed by a grand ball, and there was feasting for the tenantry--everything that could be thought of for the amus.e.m.e.nt of the vast crowd.

On that evening, while the festivities were at their height, Lord Arleigh and his lovely young wife stole away from their guests and went up to the picture-gallery. The broad, silvery moonbeams fell on the spot where they had once endured such cruel anguish. The fire seemed to have paled in the rubies round the white neck of t.i.tian's gorgeous beauty.

Lord Arleigh clasped his wife in his arms, and then he placed her at some little distance from himself, where the silvery moonlight fell on the fair, lovely profile, on the golden head, on the superb dress of rich white silk and on the gleaming diamonds.

"My darling," he said, "you are thousand times lovelier than even t.i.tian's beauty here! Do you remember all we suffered in this spot?'

"I can never forget it," she replied.

"But you must forget it--it is for that I have brought you hither. This is the pleasantest nook in our house, and I want you to have pleasant a.s.sociations with it. Where we suffered hear me say----" He paused.

"What is it?" she asked, quietly.

He threw his arms round her, and drew her to his breast.

"Hear me say this, my darling--that I love you with all my heart; that I will so love you, truthfully and faithfully, until death; and that I thank Heaven for the sweetest and best of all blessings, the gift of a good, pure, and loving wife."

Chapter XL.

Philippa, d.u.c.h.ess 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 amus.e.m.e.nt. The d.u.c.h.ess was queen of all gayety; the time that had pa.s.sed 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 d.u.c.h.ess 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 att.i.tude that would have charmed a painter. But the d.u.c.h.ess 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 d.u.c.h.ess had all that her heart, even in its wildest caprices, could desire. The duke loved her with as keen and pa.s.sionate 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.'