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HomeMy WebLinkAboutThe Wingham Times, 1916-09-21, Page 7September 21, 1916 o c1 THE WINGHAM TIMES vSSS S SS 6,sys SSESSUSSS&S S&svSS Svs�'c..S� r EOM 55 55 -,&SSSSSSS A WIFE IN NAME ONLY vSSSvSvS BY BERTHA M. CLAY SSSSs g SSSSS )C niS,e, ciSnS'q v Cin C� ca v�vS�Sv S'c S SS •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' Suddenly with outstretched arms r,,.1...on-hgr_ lrnees at,his_sids_,. 'Was Troubled With tONSTIPATION FOR OVER FIVE YEARS. Aye Unless one has a free action of the !bowels, at least once a day, constipation is sure to ensue, then in the wake of constipation comes sick headache, bilious Headaches, jaundice, piles, and many .forms of liver complaint. Milburn's Taxa -Liver Pills will regu- date the flow of bile to act properly upon the bowels, thus making them active and regular, and removing the constipa- tion and all its allied troubles. Mr. Phil. G. Robichaud, Pokemouche, N.B., writes: "I have been troubled -with constipation for over five years, and I feel it my duty to letyou know: that -your Miilbum',s I;axa-Liver l'illa have tared me.- I Ably used " theca, vials, and X can faithfully say that they have saved gine from'a large doctor's bill." Milburn's Laxa-Liver' Pills are 2� ecn'ts tier vial, or five vials for $1.00; for sale int alt.dea1er§, ui dialled"direct on receipt .of price by The T. Milburn Co., Limited, `Toronto, Out. 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. 641.06$1 woo looking at her With wenderr- MILBURN'S HEART and NERVE PILLS CURED Salvation Army Captain. Capt, Wm, E. Sanford (Salvation Army), 38 Barlscourt Ave., Toronto, Ont., writes: "A short time ago I suffered from heart trouble, which seemed to come on me very suddenly. I was so bad, that at times it seemed as if it was all I could do to breathe. I noticed an announce- ment of Milburn's Heart and Nerve Pills, and decided to give thea; a trial. After taking two or three days' treat- ment I felt fine, and my heart has not bothered me since. If this testimony would be of any service to others you are at liberty to use it." To all who suffer from any form of heart trouble Milburn's Heart and Nerve Pills will give prompt and permanent relief. They strengthen and invigorate the action of the heart, and tone up the whole sys- tem. ,! Milburn's Heart and Nerve Pills are 50 cents per box, or 3 boxes for $1.25. rear sale at all dealers or mailed direct on receipt of price by The T. Milburn Co., Limited, Toronto, Ont. "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* Pgreal_ • iiimmeasawasimmemiii The Army of Constipation - 1s Growl"' Smaller Evil D. CARTER'S 11.UT114 1 v * Plt.L11 we spesfable-they set aaly pre laud-- theypermeneady owe Conneys- arm NOM 100 - lkea fir mu, Indigi,tbr, itch Aidaeie, Saw Shin, Small Pill, Smolt Dis% Small Plea. Genuuie sett low Signature ! Imusimpurraimpumwers 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,".•, gtt.,r w ,an ew "'a'+'' 'age 7 ...,...,,.._r.,.d,goy No42 The Propria arPateniMedicineid• Avegetable PreparationforAs• s i m i la t i ng the Food and Regula•;; ting the Stomachs andRoJ°f Promotes Digestion,Cheerfal`, ness and Rest.Contains neither Opium,Morphine norNmeral•; NOT NARCOTIC - i •8ecy�e o .4:r•rAve- P/I I'-11117 ui SOfd Akvuslift = eoaS oiralimatos,rm WoonSaal —.- = A perfect Remedy for Constps •' tion, Sour Stomach, Diarrhoea; Worms, Feverashnessand Loss or SLEEP. gacSimile SC,�f THE CAUR Co XNi'. MONTREAL & Nom' n the" old ,,,,rt#b mo?` , TS � K 11 SEt: -35_EN5 • Exact Copy of Wrapper. CASTORIAI For Infants and Children. Mothers Know That Genuine Castoria Always Bears the Signature of In Use For Over, Thirty Years CASTORIA THE CCNTAYN COMPANY. NCM YORK C,TY- "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 R(To B Noll lrliiiarr {,