"My darling," she cried, in distress, "I did not expect to grieve you!"
"Why should I be grieved?" said the girl, quietly. "The d.u.c.h.ess does not come to see me because she acted to me very cruelly; and I never write to her now."
Then Margaret for awhile was silent. How was she to bring forward the subject nearest to her heart? She cast about for words in which to express her thoughts.
"Madaline," she said, at last, "no one has a greater respect than I have for the honor of husband and wife; I mean for the good faith and confidence there should be between them. In days gone by I never spoke of your poor father"s faults--I never allowed any one to mention them to me. If any of the neighbors ever tried to talk about him, I would not allow it. So, my darling, do not consider that there is any idle curiosity in what I am about to say to you. I thought you were so happily married, my dear; and it is a bitter disappointment to me to find that such is not the case."
There came no reply from Lady Arleigh; her hands were held before her eyes.
"I am almost afraid, dearly as I love you, to ask you the question,"
Margaret continued; "but, Madaline, will you tell me why you do not live with your husband?"
"I cannot, mother," was the brief reply.
"Is it--oh, tell me, dear!--is it any fault of yours? Have you displeased him?"
"It is through no fault of mine, mother. He says so himself."
"Is it from any fault of his? Has he done anything to displease you?"
"No," she answered, with sudden warmth, "he has not--indeed, he could not, I love him so."
"Then, if you have not displeased each other, and really love each other, why are you parted in this strange fashion? It seems to me, Madaline, that you are his wife only in name."
"You are right, mother--and I shall never be any more; but do not ask me why--I can never tell you. The secret must live and die with me."
"Then I shall never know it, Madaline?"
"Never, mother," she answered.
"But do you know, my darling, that it is wearing your life away?"
"Yes, I know it, but I cannot alter matters. And, mother," she continued, "if we are to be good friends and live together, you must never mention this to me again."
"I will remember," said Margaret, kissing the thin white hands, but to herself she said matters should not so continue. Were Lord Arleigh twenty times a lord, he should not break his wife"s heart in that cold, cruel fashion.
A sudden resolve came to Mrs. Dornham--she would go to Beechgrove and see him herself. It he were angry and sent her away from Winiston House, it would not matter--she would have told him the truth. And the truth that she had to tell him was that the separation was slowly but surely killing his wife.
Chapter x.x.xVIII.
Margaret Dornham knew no peace until she had carried out her intention.
It was but right, she said to herself, that Lord Arleigh should know that his fair young wife was dying.
"What right had he to marry her?" she asked herself indignantly, "if he meant to break her heart?"
What could he have left her for? It could not have been because of her poverty or her father"s crime--he knew of both beforehand. What was it?
In vain did she recall all that Madaline had ever said about her husband--she could see no light in the darkness, find no solution to the mystery; therefore the only course open to her was to go to Lord Arleigh, and to tell him that his wife was dying.
"There may possibly have been some slight misunderstanding between them which one little interview might remove," she thought.
One day she invented some excuse for her absence from Winiston House, and started on her expedition, strong with the love that makes the weakest heart brave. She drove the greater part of the distance, and then dismissed the carriage, resolving to walk the remainder of the way--she did not wish the servants to know whither she was going. It was a delightful morning, warm, brilliant, sunny. The hedge-rows were full of wild roses, there was a faint odor of newly-mown hay, the westerly wind was soft and sweet.
As Margaret Dornham walked through the woods, she fell deeply into thought. Almost for the first time a great doubt had seized her, a doubt that made her tremble and fear. Through many long years she had clung to Madaline--she had thought her love and tender care of more consequence to the child than anything else. Knowing nothing of her father"s rank or position, she had flattered herself into believing that she had been Madaline"s best friend in childhood. Now there came to her a terrible doubt. What if she had stood in Madaline"s light, instead of being her friend? She had not been informed of the arrangements between the doctor and his patron, but people had said to her, when the doctor died, that the child had better be sent to the work-house--and that had frightened her. Now she wondered whether she had done right or wrong. What if she, who of all the world had been the one to love Madaline best, had been her greatest foe?
Thinking of this, she walked along the soft greensward. She thought of the old life in the pretty cottage at Ashwood, where for so short a time she had been happy with her handsome, ne"er-do-well husband, whom at first she had loved so blindly; she thought of the lovely, golden-haired child which she had loved so wildly, and of the kind, clever doctor, who had been so suddenly called to his account; and then her thoughts wandered to the stranger who had intrusted his child to her care. Had she done wrong in leaving him all these years in such utter ignorance of his child"s welfare? Had she wronged him? Ought she to have waited patiently until he had returned or sent? If she were ever to meet him again, would he overwhelm her with reproaches? She thought of his tall, erect figure, of his handsome face, so sorrowful and sad, of his mournful eyes, which always looked as though his heart lay buried with his dead wife.
Suddenly her face grew deathly pale, her lips flew apart with a terrified cry, her whole frame trembled. She raised her hands as one who would fain ward off a blow, for, standing just before her, looking down on her with stern, indignant eyes, was the stranger who had intrusted his child to her.
For some minutes--how many she never knew--they stood looking at each other--he stern, indignant, haughty, she trembling, frightened, cowed.
"I recognize you again," he said, at length, in a harsh voice.
Cowed, subdued, she fell on her knees at his feet.
"Woman," he cried, "where is my child?"
She made him no answer, but covered her face with her hands.
"Where is my child?" he repeated. "I intrusted her to you--where is she?"
The white lips opened, and some feeble answer came which he could not hear.
"Where is my child?" he demanded. "What have you done with her? For Heaven"s sake, answer me!" he implored.
Again she murmured something he could not catch, and he bent over her.
If ever in his life Lord Mountdean lost his temper, he lost it then. He could almost, in his impatience, have forgotten that it was a woman who was kneeling at his feet, and could have shaken her until she spoke intelligibly. His anger was so great he could have struck her. But he controlled himself.
"I am not the most patient of men, Margaret Dornham," he said; "and you are trying me terribly. In the name of Heaven, I ask you, what have you done with my child?"
"I have not injured her," she sobbed.
"Is she living or dead?" asked the earl, with terrible calmness.
"She is living," replied the weeping woman.
Lord Mountdean raised his face reverently to the summer sky.
"Thank Heaven!" he said, devoutly; and then added, turning to the woman--"Living and well?"
"No, not well; but she will be in time. Oh, sir, forgive me! I did wrong, perhaps, but I thought I was acting for the best."
"It was a strange "best,"" he said, "to place a child beyond its parent"s reach."