She listened as one who hears but dimly.
"You have no objection to raise, have you, Madaline?"
"No," she replied, "it matters little where I live; I only pray that my life may be short."
"Hush, my darling. You pain me."
"Oh, Norman, Norman," she cried, "what will they think of me--what will they say--your servants, your friends?"
"We must not trouble about that," said Norman; "we must not pause to consider what the world will say. We must do what we think is right."
He took out his watch and looked at it.
"It is eight o"clock," he said; "we shall have time to drive to Winiston to-night."
There was a world of sorrowful reproach in the blue eyes raised to his.
"I understand," she said, quietly; "you do not wish that the daughter of a felon should sleep, even for one night, under your roof."
"You pain me and you pain yourself; but it is, if you will bear the truth, my poor Madaline, just as you say. Even for these ancient walls I have such reverence."
"Since my presence dishonors them," she said, quietly, "I will go.
Heaven will judge between us, Norman. I say that you are wrong. If I am to leave your house, I should like to go at once. I will go to my room and prepare for the journey."
He did not attempt to detain her, for he well knew that, if she made another appeal to him, he could not resist the impulse to clasp her in his arms, and at the cost of what he thought his honor to bid her stay.
She lingered before him, beautiful, graceful, sorrowful.
"Is there anything more you would like to say to me?" she asked, with sad humility.
"I dare not," he uttered, hoa.r.s.ely; "I cannot trust myself."
He watched her as with slow, graceful steps she pa.s.sed down, the long gallery, never turning her fair face or golden head back to him, her white robes trailing on the parquetry floor. When she had reached the end, he saw her draw aside the hangings and stand for a minute looking at the pictured faces of the Arleighs; then she disappeared, and he was left alone.
He buried his face in his hands and wept bitterly.
"I could curse the woman who has wrought this misery!" he exclaimed, presently.
And then the remembrance of Philippa, as he had known her years before--Philippa as a child, Philippa, his mother"s favorite--restrained him.
"Perhaps I too was to blame," he thought; "she would not have taken such cruel vengeance had I been more candid."
Lady Arleigh went to her room. The pretty traveling-costume lay where she had left it; the housekeeper had not put away anything. Hastily taking off her white dress and removing the jewels from her neck, and the flowers from her hair, Madaline placed them aside, and then having attired herself for the journey, she went down stairs, meeting no one.
Some little surprise was created among the servants when orders came for the carriage to be got ready.
"Going out at this time of night. What can it mean?" asked one of them.
"They are going to the Dower House," answered a groom.
"Ah, then his lordship and her ladyship will not remain at the Abbey!
How strange! But there--rich people have nothing to do but indulge in whims and caprices!" said the under house-maid, who was immediately frowned down by her superiors in office.
Not a word was spoken by husband and wife as Lady Arleigh took her seat in the carriage. Whatever she felt was buried in her own breast. Her face shone marble-white underneath her vail, and her eyes were bent downward. Never a word did she speak as the carriage drove slowly through the park, where the dews were falling and the stars were bright.
Once her husband turned to her and tried to take her hand in his, but she drew back.
"It will be better not to talk, Norman," she said. "I can bear it best in silence."
So they drove on in unbroken quietude. The dew lay glistening on the gra.s.s and trees; all nature was hushed, tranquil, sweet, and still. It was surely the strangest drive that husband and wife had ever taken together. More than once, noting the silent, graceful figure, Lord Arleigh was tempted to ask Madaline to fly with him to some foreign land, where they could live and die unknown--more than once he was tempted to kiss the beautiful lips and say to her, "Madaline, you shall not leave me;" but the dishonor attaching to his name caused him to remain silent.
They had a rapid drive, and reached Winiston House--as it was generally called--before eleven. Great was the surprise and consternation excited by so unexpected an arrival. The house was in the charge of a widow whose husband had been the late, lord"s steward. She looked somewhat dubiously at Lord Arleigh and then at his companion, when they had entered. Madaline never opened her lips. Lord Arleigh was strangely pale and confused.
"Mrs. Burton," he said, "I can hardly imagine that you have heard of my marriage. This is my wife--Lady Arleigh."
All the woman"s doubt and hesitation vanished then--she became all attention; but Lord Arleigh inwardly loathed his fate when he found himself compelled to offer explanations that he would have given worlds to avoid.
"I am not going to remain here myself," he said, in answer to the inquiries about rooms and refreshments. "Lady Arleigh will live at Winiston House altogether; and, as you have always served the family faithfull and well, I should like you to remain in her service."
The woman looked up at him in such utter bewilderment and surprise that he felt somewhat afraid of what she might say; he therefore hastened to add:
"Family matters that concern no one but ourselves compel me to make this arrangement. Lady Arleigh will be mistress now of Winiston House. She will have a staff of servants here. You can please yourself about remaining--either as housekeeper or not--just as you like."
"Of course, my lord, I shall be only too thankful to remain, but it seems so very strange--"
Lord Arleigh held up his hand.
"Hush!" he said. "A well-trained servant finds nothing strange."
The woman took the hint and retired. Lord Arleigh turned to say farewell to his wife. He found her standing, white and tearless, by the window.
"Oh, my darling," he cried, "we must now part! Yet how can I leave you--so sad, so silent, so despairing? Speak to me, my own love--one word--just one word."
Her woman"s heart, so quick to pity, was touched by his prayer. She stalled as sad, as sweet a smile as ever was seen on woman"s lips.
"I shall be better in time, Norman," she said, "and shall not always be sad."
"There are some business arrangements which must be made," he continued, hurriedly--"but it will be better for us not to meet again just yet, Madaline--I could not bear it. I will see that all is arranged for your comfort. You must have every luxury and--"
"Luxury!" she repeated, mockingly. "Why, I would rather be the sorriest beggar that ever breathed than be myself! Luxury! You mock me, Lord Arleigh."
"You will be less bitter against me in time, my darling," he said. "I mean just what I say--that you will have everything this world can give you--"
"Except love and happiness," she interposed.
"Love you have, sweet; you have mine--the fervent, true, honest, deep love of my heart and soul. Happiness comes in time to all who do their duty. Think of Carlyle"s words--"Say unto all kinds of happiness, "I can do without thee"--with self-renunciation life begins.""