HomeMy WebLinkAboutThe Wingham Times, 1916-09-21, Page 7September 21, 1916
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THE WINGHAM TIMES
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•moc,teiy. MI' brat tiros ner-rove nae
changed to hate. On that night she
had planned this terrible revenge.
'Her offering of friendship had been
a blind. He thought to himself that
'he had been foolish not to see it. A
'thousand circumstances presented
'themselves to his mind. This, then,
.was why Madeline had so persistent-
'ly-and, to his mind, so strangely -
refused his love. This was why she
had talkers incessantly of the distance
'between them -of her own unworthi-
•ness to be his wife. He had thought
that she alluded merely to her pov-
erty, where as it was her birth and
,parentage she referred to.
How cleverly, how cruelly Philippa
had deceived them both -Philippa, his
old friend and companion, his sister
in all but name ! He could see now
a thousand instances in which Made-
line and himself had played at cross-
purposes -a thousand instances in
which the poor girl had alluded to
her parent's sin, and he had thought
,she was speaking of her poverty. It
was a cruel vengeance, for, before he
had read the letter through, he knew
that if the story were correct she
could be his wife in name only -that
'they must part. Poverty, obscurity,
seemed as nothing now - but crime?
•Oh, Heaven, that his name and race
should be so cTishonored! If he had
known the real truth, he would have
died rather than have uttered one
word of love to her.
The daughter of a felon - and he
• had brought her to Beechgrove as a
successor to a roll of noble women,
each one of whom had been a her-
-eine,
er•oine, each one of whom had been of
noble birth! She was the daughter of
..a felon -no matter how fair, how
graceful, how pure. For the fust
time the glory of Beechgrove was
• tarnished. But it would not be for
.long -it could not be for Tong; she
must not remain. The daughter of a
felon to be the mother of his child-
ren -ah, no, not if he went childless
Ito the grave. Better that his name
••were extinct, better that the race of
.Arleigh should die out, than that his
children should be pointed at as
children with tainted. blood! It could
never be. He would expect the dead
• and gone Arleighs to rise from their
graves in utter horror, he would..ex-
pect spore terrible curse to fall on
!him, were so terrible a desecration
Ito happen. They must part. The
_girl he loved with all the passionate
glove of his heart, the fair young wife
be worshiped, must go from him, and
he must see her no more. She must
be his wife in, name only.
- He was young, and he loved her
very dearly. His head f•'!la forward
on his breast, and as bitter a sob as
ever left man's lips died on his. His
wife in name only ! The sweet face,
the tender lips were not for ;him -yet
• lie loved her with the whole passion
and force of his soul. Then he rare-
• ed bis head -for he heard a sound,
and knew that she was returning.
Great drops of anguish fell from his
brow -over his handsome faee had
come a terrible change; it had grown
:fierce with pain, haggard with despair,
white with sorrow.
Looking up, he saw her -she was
at the other end . of the gallery; he
•.saw the tall, slender figure and the
•;sweeping dress -he saw the white
-.arms with their graceful contour, the
golden hair, the radiant face -and he
:groaned aloud! he saw her looking
• up at the pictures as she passed "slow-
ly along -the ancestral Arleighs of
whom he was so proud. If they could
have spoken, those noble women,
what would they have said to this
*daughter of a Melon?
She paused for a few minutes to
:lbok up at her favorite, Lady Alicia,
hand then she came up to him and
• stood before him in all the grace df
her delicate loveliness in all the pride
at her dainty beauty. She was look-
-lug at the gorgeous Titian near him.
"Norman," she said, "the son has
• turned those rubies into drops of
•blood -they look almost terrible an
the white throat. What a strange pie -
tore ! What a tragical face r'
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A.
"err `my cIhr•1*ing, We •ffasallap-
pened? What is the matter?"
She had been away from him only
half an. hour, yet it seemed to ,trim
ages since be had watched her leave
the gallery with a smile on her lips.
"What is it, my darling?" she cried
again. "Dear Norman, you look as
though the shadow of death had pass-
ed over you. What is it?"
In another moment she had fil sg
herself on his breast, clasped ]eta'
arms round his neck, and was kis-
ing his pale, changed face as she had
never done before.
"Norman, my darling husband, yon
are ill," she said -"ill, and you wall
not tell me. That is why you 'sent
me away."
He tried to unclasp her arms, but
she clung the more closely to him.
"You shall not send me away. You
wish to suffer in silence! Oh, my
darling, my husband, do you forget
that I am your wife, for better for
worse, in sickness and in health?' You
shall not suffer without my knowl-
edge."
"I am not ill, Madeline," he said,
with a low moan. "It is not that."
"Then something has happened--
you have been frightened."
He unclasped her aims from his
neck -their caress was a torture to
him
"My poor darling, my poor wife. it
is far worse than that. No man has,
ever peen a !Wore ghastly spelt re than
I have seen of death in life."
She looked round in quick alarm.
A spectral" she cried, fearful/a;
and then something strange in bee
face attracted her attention. She
looked at him. "Norman," she said,
slowly, "is it -is it something about
me?'
How was he to tell her? He belt
that it would be easier to take her
out in the glorious light of the awe -
set and slay her than kill hex with
cruel words that he must al alp.
flow was he to tell her? No physi-
cal torti}re could be so great as that
which he must inflict; yet he would
have given his life to save her from
pain.
de -
da ed, siowty- met ingg is -I am quite sure,,abc at me.
Oh, Norman, what is it? I have not
been away from you long. Yet no
change from fairest day to darkest
night could be so great as the change
m you since I left you. Yon will
not tell me what it is -you have tak-
en my arras from your neck -yon do
not love me r
"Do not torture me, Madeline," he
said. "I am almost rnad. I cannot
bear much more."
"But what a • it? What have I
done? I whom you send from yea
now am the same Madeline wham
yon married this morning --whom you
kissed half an hour since. Norman,
I begin to think that, I .am in a ter-
rible dream."
"I would to Heaven it were a
dream. I am unnerved --un Waned --
I have lost my strength, MY coarse,
ry patience, my hope. Oh, Maga-
/toe, how can I tell you?'
The sight of this terzibie agitation
seemed to calm Ler; she took hes hand
in hers.
"Do not think of me," she said --
"think of ,yoareelf; I .can bear what
you can bear. Let me shame your
trouble, whatever it may be, my beta
band."
He looked at the sweet, pleading
face. How could he dash the light
and brightness from it? How could
he slay her with the creel story be
had to tell. Then, in a low, hoarse
voice, he said:
"You must know all, and I can-
not say it. Read this leiter, Made-
line, and then you will understand."
CHAPTER XXVII,
Slowly, wonderingly, Lady Arleigh
took, the Duchess of. Hazlewood's let-
ter from her husband's hands, and
opened it.
Is it from the duchess?" she asked.
"Yea, it is from the duchess," re-
plied her huebend.
He saw her sink slowly down upon
au•lounge. Above her, in the upper
penes, of thewindow beneath which
they wore' sitting, were the armored
bearings of the lamRy ;in richest hoes
of .stained slags. The colors and
bhadows fell with straage•elieet on i ar
white dress, gr at, bars of purple and
crimson crossing each other, and op-
posite; to her 'hang the, superb Titian,
with the blood -red rubies on the white
threat.
Lord Arleigh watched Madeline As
she read Whatever might .be 'tole
agony in •, hies own heart, it was ea-
eeeded by hers.. He saw the bright-
ness die but of her face, the light facie
trorn her .eye a the lips grow pale. Bat
'a few minutes betone that young face
had been bright With .fairest beau*.
eloquent with truest love, lit with
Passion and with poetry -now it was
eke, •a white mask.
Slowly,' as though it was with diffi-
culty that she understood, Lady Ar-
leigh read the letter through, and
.then -she did not .iscream or cry but
Abe 3aleed• het eyes to his face.. Ile
saw in them a depth of human sorrow
eb& hinsan wee which words wive
PayfffteOS asked aekiatd at each other in j'►w
Monate ,s .. [yip* ,P6890
'of,
�aat•, a Wens.
laeatt o e` other.. ,:'1'bey.'knew that
they mast • pwd, Then the clo dy-,
*Mari peon Ail to the ground. ;aid:
Medullae's hands clamped each other
helpBell forward a The olnb
d heed
eed
that in her agitation and sorrow she
MRire= er-Sli ' fd 'not "even touch
him. She seemed by instinct to under-
stand that she was his wife now in
name only.
So for some minutes they sat, while
the sunset glowed in the west. He was
the first to speak.
"My dear Madeline," he said, "my
poor wife" -his voice seemed to
startle her into new life and new pain
-"I would rather have died than
have given yon pain."
I know it -I am sure of it," she
said; "but, oh, Norman how can I
release your
"There is happily no question about
that," he answered.
He saw her rise from her seat and
stretch out her arms.
"What have I done," she cried,
"that I must suffer so cruelly? What
have I done?"
Madeline," said Lord Arleigh, "I
do not think that so cruel a .fate has
ever befallen any one as has befallen
us, I do not believe that any one has
ever had to suffer so cruelly, my dar-
ling. If death bad parted us, the trial
would have 'been easier to bear."
She turned her sad eyes to him.
"It is very cruel," she said, with a
shudder; "I did not think the duch-
ess could be so cruel."
It is more than that -it is infam-
ous!" he cried. "It is vengeance wor-
thier of a fiend than of a woman.
"And I loved her so!" said the
young girl, mournfully. "Husband, I
will not reproach yon -your love was
chivalrous and noble; but why did
you not let me speak freely to you? I
declare to you that no doubt ever
crossed my mind. I thought you
knew all, though I considered it
strange that you, so proud of your
noble birth, should wish to marry me.
I never imagined that you had been
deceived. The duchess told me that
you knew the whole history of my
father's crime, that you were familiar
with every detail of it, but that you
wished me never to mention it -
never even ever so remotely to allude
to it. I thought it strange, Nehmen,
that one in your position should be
willing to overlook so terrible a blot;
but she told me your love for me was
so great that you could not live with-
out me. She told me even more -that
I must try to make my own life so
perfect that the truest nobility of all,
the nobility of virtue, might be mine."
"Did she really tell you that?" ask-
ed Lord Arleigh, wonderingly.
"Yes; and, Norman, she said that
you would discuss the question with
me once, and once only -twat would
be on my wedding day. On that day
you would asic for and I should tell
the whole history of my father's
crime; and after that it was to be a
dead -letter, never to be named be-
tween us."
"And you believed her?" he said.
"Yes, as I. believe you? Why should
I have doubted her? My faith in her
was'plicit. Why should I have even
thought you would repent? More than
once. I was on the point of running
away. Hilt she would not let me go.
She said that I. must not be creel to
you -that you loved me so dearly
that to lose me would prove a death-
blow. So I believed her, and, against
my will, stayed on."
I wish you had told me this," he
said, slowlyy
She raised her eyes to his.
"You weld not lot my speak, Nor-
man. I ,tried so often, dear, but you
would not let me."
"I remember," he acknowledged;
"brit, oh, my darling, how little I
knew what you. had to say! I never
thought that anything stood between
us' except yuor poverty."
They remained silent, for a few
minutes --such sorrow as theirs need-
ed no words. Lord Arleigh was again
the first to speak.
"Med-Aline," he said, "will you tell
me all you remember of your lifer'
!'Yes; it is not much. It has been
with a simple life, Norman, half made
up: of. shadows. First, I can remember
being a child in some far-off woodland
hobos. I am sure it was in the woods;
fol I remember the nuts growing on
thte trees, the squirrels, and the brown
hares. I remember greet masses of
groan foliage, a 'running brook, and
the music of wild birds. I remember
small latticed ,.windows against which
tine Fry tapped.My lather rased to
come in With hie gun dlivag across
hip;, shoeilaeriaebe was a very hand-
was
bus pot kind . to,
of t my mother or me. My mother
was then, as s`fie anis nowpatient
kaid, wade, king-enfering. I ,have
rawer heard her complain She loved
me; with an absorbing love. 1 was her
only comfort. I.. did nor -.beet to de-
serve bet' affection. I loved her tea.
I cannot. remember thast she ever
spoke one mbkindU word to toe, and I'
can call to mind a thousand instances
of, ,indt*cnce: and kindness. I knew
that else .deprived. heaven of almost
everything to • give it to me. 1 have'
eeen bar eat they bread patiently,
while for me and my father theirs was
arrays .some little dainty.. The re-
membranae, of. ,the happ of my
lite•leeginie and ends with my
mbtber. My memories of her are t11
pleasant." She eontinoed. as.
recalling..berIbonghto with .
"I'. can remember some one else, I '
aoL know who or `whet he Wali, sae rat
Haat he wan. I blink, p "doti, e
wad to me nae, and neva to amuse
me. Then there ease a dark dray. I
tan append,"'lid•' �rir
cancel ll whet h
that, day I never saw soy trkeld.
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"TrAiiir you remember no more than
that about him,, Madeline?"
"No," she replied. "Then came a
time," she went on, "when it seemed
to me that my mother spent all her
days and nights in weeping. There fell
a terrible shadow over us, and we re-
moved. I have no recollection of the
journey -not the faintest, but I can
remember my sorrow at leaving the
bright green woods for a dull, gloomy
city lodging. My mother was still my
hope and comfort. After we came to
London she insisted that, no matter
what ease went wrong, I should have
a good education; she toiled, saved,
suffered for me. 'My darling must be
a lady,' she used to say. She would
not let me work, though I entreated
her with tears in my eyes. I used to
try to deceive her even, but I never
could succeed. She loved me so, my
poor mother. She would take my
hands in hers and kiss them. 'Such
dainty hands, dear,' she would say,
`mast not be spoilt.' After a great deal
of trouble and expense, she contrived
to get me an engagement as governess -
pupil in a lady's school; there I did
receive a good education. One failing
of my mother always filled me with
wonder -she used to fancy that people
watched me. 'Has any one spoken to
you darling?' She would ask.
Has any stranger seen you?'
I used to laugh, thinking it was
parental anxiety; but it has struck
me since as strange. While I was at
the ladies' social my father commit-
ted the crime for which I -alas !-aan
suffering now."
Will you tell me what the crime
was?'' requested Lord Arleigh.
A dreary hopelessness, inexpressibly
painful to see, came over her face, and
a deep -drawn sigh broke from her lips.
"I will tell you all about it," she
said -"would to Heaven that I had
done so before ! My mother, many
years ago, was in the service of Lady
L'Estrange; she was her maid then.
Miss L'Estrance married the Duke of
Haalewood, and, when my mother
was in great difficulties, some time
since, she went to the duchess to ask
her for employment. The duchess was
always kind," continued Madeline,
"and she grew interested in my mo-
ther. She came to see her, and I wars
at home. She told me afterward tleat
when she first saw me she conceived
a liking for me, I know now that I
was but the victim of her plot."
She stopped abruptly, but Lord Ar-
leigh encouraged her.
Tell me all, Madeline," he said,
gently; "none of this is your fault, my
poor wife. Tell me all."
'The duchess was very kind to my
mother, and befriended her in many
ways. She interested the duke in her'
case, and be promised to find employ-
ment for my unfortunate father, who
went to his house to see him. Whether
my father had ever done wrong before,
I cannot tell. Sometimes I fear that
he had done so, for 'no man falls sud-
denly into crime. In few words -oh,
Norman, how hard they are to sari -
what. be saw in the duke's mansion
tempted him. He joined some bur-
glars, and they robbed the house. My
unfortunate father was found with his
pockets filled with valuable jewelry.
My mother would not let me read the
history of the trial, but I learned the
result --he was sentenced to ten years*
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Sfie'"pa.ustif again; the dreary hope-
lessness of her face, the pain in her
voice, touched him inexpressibly.
"None of this is your fault, my der -
ling." he said. "Go on."
"Then," she continued, "the duch-
ess was kinder than ever to my mo-
ther. She furnished her with the
means of gaining het• livelihood; she
offered to finish my education and
adopt me. My mother was at first un-
willing; she did not wish me to leave
her. But the duchess said that her
love was selfish -that it was cruel to
stand in my light when such an offer
was made. She consented, and I, won-
dering ranch what my ultimate fate
was to be, was sent to school in Paris.
When I had been there for some time,
the duke and the duchess came to see
me. I must not forget to tell you, Nor-
man, that she saw me herself first
privately. She told me that the duke
must never know I was the daughter
of the man who had robbed his house.
She said he was so forgetful that he
would never remember having heard
the name of Dornham. She added that
the keeping of the secret was vary
important, for, if it became known,
all her kind efforts in our favor must
cease* at once. I promised to be most
careful. The duke and duchess ar-
ranged that I was to go home with
them and live as the duchess' com-
panion. Again she warned me never
upon any account to mention who I
was, or anything about me. She called
me the daughter of an old friend -and
so I was, although that friend was a
very humble one. From the first, Nor-
man, she talked so much about you;
you were the model of everything
chivalrous and noble, the hero of a
hundred pleasant stories. I had learn-
ed to love you long even before I saw
you -to love you after a fashion,
Norman, as a hero. I can see it all
now. She laid the plot -we were the
victims. I remember that the very
morning on which you saw me first
the duchess sent me into the trellised
arbor; I wan to wait there until she
summoned me. Rely upon it, Norman,
she also gave orders that you were to
be shown into the morning -room,
although she pretended to be
annoyed at it. I can see all the
plot now plainly, I can only say—
Oh, Norman, you and I were both
blind! We ought to have seen through
her scheme. Why should she have
brought us together if she had not
meant that we should love each other?
What had we in common -I, the
daughter of a felon; you, a nobleman,
proud of your ancestry, proud of your
name? Oh, Norman, if I could but die
here at your feet, and save you from
myself !"
Even as she spoke she sank sobbing,
no longer on to his breast, no longer
with her arms clasped round his neck,
but at his feet.
He eised her in his arms -for he
loved her with passionate love.
"Madeline," he -said, in a low voice,
" do not make my task harder for me.
That which I have to do is indeed bit-
ter to me -do not make it harder."
His appeal touched her. For his
sake she must try to be strong.
Slowly he looked up at the long line
of noble men and women whose faces
shone down upon him; slowly he look-
ed at the graceful figure and bowed
head of his wife, the daughter of a
felon -the first woman who had ever
entered•__those , walls_.wiela even• the
semblance of a stain upon her name.
As he looked at her the thought came
to him that, if his housekeeper had
told him that she had inadvertently
placed such a persona -the daughter of
a felon -in his kitchen, he would nev-
er have rested until she had been sent
a.
a He must part from her -this lovely
girl -wife whom he loved with such
passionate love. The daughter of a
criminal could not reign at Beech -
grove. If the parting cost his life and
hers it roust take place. It was cruel.
The strong man trembled with agita-
tion; his lips quivered, his face was
pale as death. He bent over his weep-
ing wife.
Madeline," he said, gently, "I do
not understand the ways of destiny.
Why you and I have to suffer this tor-
ture I cannot say. I can see nothing
in our lives that de!mem such pun-
ishment. Heaven knows best. Why we
have met and loved, only to undergo
-this anguish, is a puzzle I cannot
solve. There is only one thing plain to
me, and it is that we must part."
He never forgot how she sprung
away from him, her colorless face
raised to his.
"Part, Norman !" she cried. "We
cannot part now; I am your wife ! "
"I know it. But we must part."
"Part !" repeated the girt. "We can-
not; the tie that binds us cannot be
sundered so easily."
"My poor Madeline, it must be."
She caught his hands in hers.
"You are jesting, Norman. We can-
not be separated -we are one. Do you
forget the words -'for better for
worse,"'till death us do part'? You
frighten me!" And she shrank from
him with a terrible shudder.
"It must be as I have said," de-
clared the unhappy man. "I have
been deceived -so have you. We have
to suffer now for another's sin."
"We may suffer," she said, dully,
"but we cannot part. You cannot send
me away from you."
"I must," he persisted. "Darling, I
speak with deepest love and pity, yet
with unwavering firmness.. You can-
not think that, with that terrible stain
restingOn you, you can take your
place here."
"But I am your wife!" she cried,
in wild terror,
"You are my wife," he returned,
with gpivering lips; "but you must
remain so in name only." He paused
abruptly, for it seemed to him that
the words burned his lips as they
passed him. "My wife," he muttered,
"in name only.
With a deep sob she stretched out
her arms.
"But I love yon, Norman --you must
not send me away! I love yon --I shall
die if I have to leave you
The words seemed to linger on her
lips.
"My darling," he said, gently, "it is
even harder for me than for jou."
"No, Yio," she cried, "for I love ye
se dearly, Norman ---butter them my
life! Darling, my whole heart went
out to you long ago -you cannot give
it back to me."
"If it kilo you and myself too," he
declared, hoarsely, "I must send yon
avost,".•,
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No42
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"Send" me away? Oh, no, Norman,
not away ! Let me stay with you, hus-
band, darling. We were married only
this morning. My place is here by
your side -I cannot go."
Looking away from her, with those
passionate accents still ringing in his
ears, his only answer was:
Family honor demands it."
"Norman," she implored, "listen to
me, dear! Do not send me away from
yon. I will be so good, so devoted.
I will fulfill my duties so well. I will
bear myself so worthily that no one
shall remember anything against me;
they shall forget my unhappy birth,
and think only that you have chosen
well. Oh, Norman, be merciful to me!
Leaving you would be a living death!"
"You cannot suffer more than I do,"
he said-" and I would give my life
to save you pain; but, my darling, I
cannot be so false to the traditions
of my race, so false to the honor of
my house, so untrue to my ancestors
and to myself, as to ask you to stay
here. Tilers has never been a blot on
our name. The annals of our family
are pure and stainless. I could not
ask you to remain here and treat you
as my wife, even to save my life !"
"I have done no wrong, Norman;
why should you punish me so cruel-
ly?"
"No, my darling, you have done no
wrong -and the punishment is more
mine than yours. I lose the wife whom
I love most dearly -I lose my all."
"And what do I lose?" she moaned.
"Not so much as I do, because you
are the fairest and sweetest of wom-
en. You shall live in all honor, Made-
line. You shall never suffer social de-
gradation, darling -the whole world
shall know that I hold you blame-
less; but you can be my wife in name
only."
She was silent for a few minutes,
and then she held out her arms to
him again.
"Oh, my love, relent!" she cried.
"Do not be so hard on me -indeed I
have done no wrong. Be merciful! I
am your wife; your name is so mighty,
so noble, it will overshadow me. Who
notices the weed that grows under the
shadow of the kingly oak? Oh, my
husband, let me stay' I love you so
dearly -let me stay'"
The trial was so hard and cruel that
great drops fell from his brow and
his lips trembled.
"My darling, it is utterly impos-
sible. We have been deceived. The
consequences of that deceit must be
met. I owe duties to the dead as to
the living. I cannot transgress the
rules of my race. Within these time-
honored walls no woman can remain
who is not of stainless lineage and
stainless repute. Do not urge me fur-
ther."
"Norman," she said, in a trembling
voice, "you are doing wrong in send-
ing me away. You cannot outrage
Heaven's laws with impunity. It is
Heaven's law that husband and wife
should cleave together. You cannot
break it."
I have no wish to break it. I say
simply that I shall love you until you
die, but that you must be my wife in
name only."
It is bitterly hard," she observed,
and then she looked up at him sud-
denly. "Norman," she said, "let me
make one last appeal to you. I know
the stigma is terrible -I know that the
love -story must be hateful to you -I
know that the vague sense of . disgrace
which clings to you even now is al-
most more than yon can bear; but,
my darling, since you say you love me
so dearly, can you not bear this trial
for my sake, if in everything else I
please you -if ',prove myself a lov-
ing, trustful, truthful wife, if I fulfill
all my duties se fie to reflect honor
on you, if I prove: a worthy *estates
of your household?'
"I cannot," he replied, hoarsely;
but there must have boars something
in his face froth which she gathered
hope; for Sha went on, with li ring .of
passionate lova in her Voice:
"If, 'after We had beat fnaulfbd • I
had found t)ut that you had coneetalod
something from me, do abet think that
I should have loved yeti leas?"
"I do not think you Madi..
iii} a.MStt, o.ut ty�'emle fl
--ei ti?ety d1fie'eni; It is not f`or'm,
own sake, but for the honor of my
race. Better a thousand times that
my name should die out than that
upon it there should be the stain of
crime !"
But, Norman -this is a weak ar-
gument, I know -a woman's argu-
ment -still, listen to it, love -who
would know my secert if it were well
kept?"
"None; but I should know it," he
replied, "and that would be more
than sufficient. Better for all the
world to know than for me. I would
not keep such a secret. I could not.
It would hang over my head like a
drawn sword, and some day the sword
would fall. My children, should
Heaven send any to me, might grew
up, and then, in the height of some
social or political struggle, when man
often repeats against his fellow -man
all that he knows of the vilest and
the worst, there might be thrown into
their faces the fact that they were
decended from a felon. It must not.
he; a broken heart is hard to bear -
injured honor is perhaps harder."
She drew up her slender figure to
its full height, her lovely face glow-
ed with a light he did not understand.
"You may be quite right," she said.
"I cannot dispute what you say. Your
honor may be a sufficient reason for
throwing aside the wfe of less than
twelve hours, but I cannot see it. I;
cannot refute what you have said, but
my heart tells me you are wrong."
"Would to Heaven that I thought
the same!" he rejoined, quickly. "But
I understand the difficulties of the
case, my poor Madeline, and you do
not."
She turned away with a low, dreary
sigh, and the light died from her face.
Madeline," said Lord Arleigh,
quietly, "do not think, my darling,
that you suffer most -indeed, it is not
so. Think how I love you -think how
precious you are to me -and then ask
yourself if it is no pain to give you
up`„
I know it is painful," she return-
ed, sadly; "but, Norman, if the de-
cision and choice rested with me as
they do with you, I should act dif-
ferently."
I would, Heaven knows, if I
could," he said, slowly.
"Such conduct is not just to me,"
she continued, her face flushing with
the eagerness of her words. "I have
done no wrong, no harm, yet I am to
be driven from your house and home
-I am to be sent away from you, di-
vorced in all but name. I say it is
not fair, ltforman-not just. All my
womanhood rises in rebellion against
such a decree. What will the world say
of me? That I was weighed in the bal-
ance and found wanting -that I was
found to be false or light, due doubt-
less to my being lowly born. Do you
think I have no sense of honor -no
wish to keep my name and fame stain-
less? Could you do me a greater
wrong, do you think, than to put me
away, not twelve hours after our mar-
riage, like one utterly unworthy?"
He made no answer. She went on
in her low, passionate, musical, voice.
"When I read in history the story
of Anne of Cleves, I thought it creel
to be sought in marriage, brought over
from another land, looked at, peered
at, and dismissed: but, Norman, it
seems to me her fate was not so cruel
as mine."
"You are wrong," he cried. "I hold
you in all reverence, in all honor, in
deepest respect. You are rmtouched
by the disgrace attaching to those
nearest to you. It is not that. You
know that, even .while I say 'we must
part, i love you from the very depths
of my heart."
"I can say no more," she moanod,
wringing her hands. "My own heart,
my wntreee's instinct relit ane you are
wror , 1
ng caned argue With sou, nor
can I urge anything more."
She turned from him. Ile would
have given much to take her into his,
arias, liid, kissing her, bid her
1u' on remember theold soog,
t
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