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Home My WebLink AboutThe Wingham Times, 1916-10-05, Page 7L1 October 5, xgf6 THE WINGHAM TIMES Pa, -e EMS Sc IS51 1 ' ieeSSSISM: A WIFE IN NAME ONLY ptINSIS BY BERTHA M. CLAY S uSnr TSA 5,�5i'51..5 K' SSS' &51: c 5� eZeeeSSeceeS 1r�Slri 'i5 � Le" i 1 %•g? v ,o • i0571ieTor ad snort it—Cine au t b grair'ic d home. ! Lord Arloigh saw that his wife had thin needful for her: he settled :a large income on her; he sent from ,London horses, carriages, everything •Ithat her heart could desire; he saw that she had' a proper household 'formed. Whatever else the world mtight say, it could not say that he ;showed her any want of respect, or 'any want of attention. Lord Arleigh did not live with his wife, never visit- , ed her, never spoke of her; but it was quite clear that his motive for ••doing rune of these things lay deep- er thnu the world knew or could even • guess. The family solicitor went down to Wini'•ton Nouse occasionally, but Lord Arhigh never. The few Then who net him after his marriage found him strangely altered. Even his face had changed: the frank, honest, open look that had once seemed to defy and •t°hallenge and meet the whole world had died away; he looked now like a man with a secret to keep—a se- cret that had taken his youth from itim, that had taken the light from .•his life, that had shadowed his eyes, ,'drawn hard lines of care round his lips, wrinkled his face, taken the music from his voice, and made of him a changed and altered man, a sad, unhappy man. There were one or two intimate friends—friends who had known him in his youth—who ventured to ask • what this secret was, who appealed to him frankly to make his trouble known, telling him that sorrow shay- • ed was sorrow lightened; but with a ;sad smile he only raised his head and answered that his sorrow was • one of which he could not speak. Sometimes , a kindly woman who had known him as boy and man—one with daughters and sons of her own—would ask him what was the nature of his • sorrow. He would never tell. "I cannot explain," he would reply. Society tried hard to penetrate the mystery. Some• sail that .Lady Ar- • leigh was insane, and that he had not 4•1 discovered it until the afternoon of es wedding -day. Others said that she had a fierce temper, and that he was unaware of it until they were travel- ing homeward. These were the most innocent rumors; others were more scandalous. It was said that he had • discovered some great crime that she had committed. Few believed such •stories; Lord Arleigh, they declared, was not the man to make so terrible • a mistake. Then, after a time, all the sensa- tion and wonder died away. Society • accepted the fact that Lord Arleigh was unhappily married, and had : separated from his wife. He went abroad, and then he re- • turned home, sojourning at quiet wa- •tering places where he thought his • story and himself would be unknown. Afterward he went to Normandy, and tried to lose the remembrance of his troubles in his search after the pic- turesque. But, when he had done • everything that he could to relieve his distress of mind, he owned to himself that he was a most miserable man. Ieave -London raileY"ihau"Fan 'iaM' risk of meeting the Duchess of Fiaz1P- wood. He went one morning to a fav- orite exhibition of pictures, and the first person he saw in the gallery was the duchess herself. As their eyes met her face grew deadly pale, so pale that he thought she would faint and fall to the ground; her lips opened as though she would fain utter his name. To him she looked taller, more beauti- ful, more stately than ever—ear superb costume suited her to perfect tion—yet he looked coldly into the depths of her dark eyes, and without a word or sign of greeting passed on. • He never knew whether she was hurt or not, but he decided that he would leave London at once. He was a sensitive man, more tender of heart than men as a rule, and their meet- ing had been a source of torture to him. He could not endure even the thought that Philippa should have lost all claim to his respect. He de- cided to go to Tintagel, in wild, ro- mantic Cornwall; at least there would be boating, fishing, and the glorious scenery. I must go somewhere," he said to himself—"I must do something. My life hangs heavy on .rrty hands—how will it end?" So in sheer weariness and despera- tion he went to Tintagel, having, as he thourht, kept his determination to Nims• if; as he wished no one to know w::ither lie had retreated. One of the newspapers, however, heard of it, and in a little paragraph told that Lord Arleigh of Beechgrove had gone to Tintagel for the summer. That paragraph had one expected result. It was the first of May. The young nobleman was thinking of the May days when he was a boy—of how the common near his early home was yellow with gorse, and the hedges were white with hawthorn. He stroll- ed sadly along the seashore, think- ing of the sunniest May he had known since then, the May before his marriage. The sea was unusually calm, the sky above was blue, the air mild and balmy, the white sen -gulls circled in the air, the waves broke with gentle murmur on the yellow sands. He sat down on the sloping beach. They had nothing to tell him, those rolling, restless waves—no sweet story of hope or of love; no vague, pleasant harmony With a deep moan he bent his head as he thought of the fair young wife from whom he had parted for evermore, the beautiful, loving girl who had clung to him so earnestly. "Madaline, Madaline !" he cried aloud; and the waves seemed to take up the cry—they seemed to repeat: "Madaline" as they broke on the shore. "Madaline," the mild wind whispered. It was like the realization of a dream, when he heard his name murmured, and, turning, he saw his lost wife before him. The next moment he had sprung to his feet, uncertain at first whether it was really herself or some fancied vision. "Madeline," he cried, "is it really your' "Yes; you must not be anrgy with me, Norman. See, we are quite alone; there is no one to see me speak to you, no one to reveal that we have met." She trembled as she spoke; her face—to him more beautiful than ever—was raised to his with a look of unutterable appeal. "'You are not angry, Norman?" "No I am not angry. Do not speak to me as though I were a tyrant. Angry—and with you, Madaline—al- ways my best beloved—how could that be?" I knew that you were here," she said. "I saw in a newspaper that you were gone to Tintagel for the summer. I had been longing to see you again— to see you, while unseen myself; so I came hither." "My dear Madaline, to what pur- pose?" he asked, sadly. "I felt that if I did not look upon your face I should die—that I =Ad live no longer without seeing pea. My heart yearned for the touch of your hand. So I came. You are not angry that I camel/ "No, not angry; but, my darling, it will be harder for us to part." "I have been here in Tintagel far two whole days," she continued. "I have seen you, but this is the first time you have gone where I could follow. Now speak to me, Norman. Say something to me that will cure my terrible pain—that will take the weary aching from my heart. Say something that will make me strong- er to bear my desolate life—braver to live without you. Yeu are wiser, better, stronger, braver than I. Teach me to bear my fate.' What could he say? Heaven help them both—what could he say? He looked with dumb, passionate sor- row into her fair, loving face. "You must not think it uni.oman- ly in me to come," she said. "I am your wife—there is no harm in my coming. If I were not your wife, I would sooner have drowned myself than return after you had sent me away." Her face was suffused with a crim- son blush. entry. "sit "Norman,"' she said, g down herefiby my side, and I will tell CHAPTER XXXI. A year and a half had passed, and Lord Arleigh was still, as it were, out of the world. It was the end of April, a spring fresh and beautiful. His ' heart had turned to Beechgrove, •where the violets were springing and the young larches were budding; but he could not go thither—the picture - gallery was a haunted spot for him• and London he could endure. The fashionable intelligence told' him that the Duke and Duchess of Hazlewood had arrived for the season, that they had had their magnificent mansion refurnished, and that the beautiful duchess intended to startle all Lon- don by the splendor and variety of her entertainments. He said to himself that it would 'be impossible for him to remain in town without seeing them—and see them of his own free will he never would again. • Fate was, however, too strong for Lia, bed decidesi_ilaat_he—w_4230 ,A Sluggish Liver CAUSES LOTS OF TROUBLE. Unless the liver is working properly 'you may look forward to a great many troubles arising, such as constipation, .severe headaches, bilious headaches, sick Headaches, jaundice, sick stomach, etc. Mrs. J. Shellsworth, 227 Albemarle •St., 'Halifax, N.S., writes: "I take pleasure in writing you concerning the .treat value I have received by using your Milburn's taxa -Liver Pills for a sluggish liver. When my liver got bad I would have severe headaches, but after using a .,couple of vials of 'your pills I have not been hothercd with the headaches any more.' Milburn's Laxa-Liver Pills are, with- out a doubt, the best liver regulator on the market to -day. Twenty-five years of a reputation should surely prove this. Milburn's taxa -Liver Pills are 25 cents per vial, 5 vials for 81.00; for sale at alt dealers, or mailed direct on receipt of pries by 'rhe '1: Vtilburtt Co., Limited, `.'Toronto; Ont. —17 -nave come," she said, "to make one more appeal to you, Norman—to ask you to change this stern deter- mination which is ruining your life and mine—to ask you to take me back to your home and your heart. For I have been thinking, dear, and 1 do not see that the obstacle is such as you seem to imagine. It was a ter- rible wrong, a great disgrace—it was a cruel deception, a fatal mistake; but, after all, it might be overlook - ed. Moreover, Norman, when you made me your wife, did you not promise to love and to cherish, to pro- tect me and make me happy until I died?" "Yes," he replied, briefly. "Then how are you keeping that promise—a promise made in the sight of Heaven?" Lord Arleigh looked down at the fair, pure face, a strange light glow- ing on his own. "My dear Madaline," he said. "you must not overlook what the honor of my race demands. I have my own ideas of what is due to my ancestors; and I cannot think that I have sinned by broken vows. I vowed to love you—so I do, my darling, ten thousand times better than anything else on earth. I vowed to be true and faithful to you—so I am, for I would not even look at another woman's face. I vowed to protect and to shield you—so I do, my darling; I have sur- rounded you with luxury and ease." What could she reply—what urge or plead? "So in the eyes of Heaven, my wife, I cannot think I am wronging you." "Then," she said, humbly, "my coming here, my pleading is in vain." "Not in vain, my darling. Even the sight of you for a few minutes has been like a glimpse of Elysium." "And I must return," she said, "as I came—with my love thrown back, my prayers unanswered, my sorrow redoubled." She hid her face in her hands and wept aloud. Presently she bent for- ward. "Norman," she said, in a. low whis- per, "my darling, I appeal to you for my own sake. I love you so dearly that I cannot live away from you— it is a living death. You cannot rea- lize it. Th€re are few moments, night or day, in which your face is not be- fore me—few moments in which I do not hear your voice. Last night I dreamed that you stood before me with outstretched arms and called me. I went to you, and you clasped me in your arms. You said, 'My dar- ling wife, it has all been a mistake— a terrible mistake—and I am come to ask your pardon and to take you home.' In my dream, Norman, you kissed my face, my lips, my hands, and called me by every loving name you could invent. You were so kind to me, and I was so happy. And the dream was so vivid, Norman, that even after I awoke I believed it to be reality. Then I heard the sobbing of the waves on the beach, and I cried out `sTorman, Norman!' thinking you were still near me; but there was no reply. It was only the silence that aroused me to a full sense that my happiness was a dream. There was no husband with kind words and tender kisses. I thought my heart would have broken. And then I said to my- self that I could live no longer with- out making an effort once more to change your decision. Oh, Norman, for my sake, do not send me back to utter desolation and despair ! Do not send me back to coldness and dark- ness, to sorrow and tears ! Let me be near you—oh, my love, my love, let me be near you! You have a thou- sand interests in life—I have but one. You can live without love, I cannot. Oh, Norman, for my sake, for my love's sake, for my happiness' sake, take me back, dear—take me back !" The golden head drooped forward and fell on to his breast, her hands clung to him with almost despairing pain. "I will be so humble, darling. I can keep away from all observation. It is only to be with you that I wish —only to be near you. You cannot be hard—you cannot send me away; you will not, for I love you !" Her hands clung more closely to him. . "Many men have forgiven their wives even great crimes, and have taken them back after the basest de- sertion. Overlook my father's crime and pardon me, for Heaven's sake!" "My dearest Madaline, if you would but understand! I have no- thing to pardon. You ale sweetest, dearest, loveliest, beat. You are one of the purest and noblest of women. I have nothing to pardon; it is only that I cannot take disgrace into my family. I cannot give to my children an inheritance of crime." "But, Norman," said the girl, gent• ly, "because• my father was a felon, that does not make rrle one—because he was led into wrong, it does not follow that I must do wrong. Insanity may bo hereditary, but surely crime is not; besides, I have heard nay fa- ther say that his father was an hon- est, simple, kindly Northern farmer. My father had much to excuse him. Ile was a handsome man, who had you why I have tomo' been flattered and made much of. They sat down side by side on the nto mine and kiss them so, if hands "My take your beach. There was only the wide biro idarling, I could not above, only the wide waste of I fancied that they were ever so sky slightly tainted with sin." restless waters at their feet, only a «Then why not take mo home, circling sea -gull near—no human m any, Nor - being to watch the tragedyof 1 se t "I cannot," he replied, in a tone nnd pride played out by _ ji of determination. "You must not tor- �vtt.rt~ tuTe^.i11e,,...el d ,with afu.etber BURDOCK BLOOD BITTERS CURED DYSPEPSIA. Unless the stomach is kept in good shape your food will not digest properly but will cause a rising and souring of food, a feeling of rawness in the stomach, pains in the stomach or a feeling as if a heavy weight were lying there. Burdock Blood Bitters cannot be surpassed as a cure for dyspepsia and all its allied troubles. Mr. James R. Burns, Balmoral, N.S., writes: "About two years ago I was badly troubled with dyspepsia, and could not get any relief. I tried most everything, not even the doctors seeming to do me any good. One day a, friend told me to try Burdock Blood Bitters, as he had seen it advertised, I did so, and by the time the first bottle was gone I felt better, and after taking three bottles I was com- pletely cured. I highly recommend it to all sufferers from dyspepsia." B.B.B. is manufactured only by The T. Milburn Co.. Limited, Toronto, Ont. pleading: I cannot; -bFat is •sufficient." IIe rose and walked with rapid steps down the shore. How hard it was, how terrible—bitter almost as the anguish of death'! She was by his side again, walk- ing in silence. He would have given the whole world if he could have taken her into his arms and have kissed back the color into her sad young face. "Norman," said a low voice, full of bitterest pain, "I am come to say good-bye. I am sorry I have done harm—not good. I am sorry—forgive me, and say good-bye." "It has made our lot a thousand times harder, Madaline," he return- ed hoarsely. "Never mind the hardship; you will soon recover from that," she said. "I am sorry that I have acted against your wishes, and broken the long si- lence. I will never do it again, Nor- man." "Never, unless you are ill and need nae," he supplemented. "Then you have promised to send for me." "I will do so," she said. "You will remember, dear husband, that my last words to you were `Good-bye, and Heaven bless you.' " The words died away on her lips. He turned aside lest she should see the trembling of his face; he never complained to her. He knew now that she thought him hard, cold, unfeel- ing, indifferent—that she thought his pride greater than his love; but even that was better than that she should know he suffered more than she did —she must never know that. When he turned back from the tos- sing waves and the summer sun she was gone. He looked across the beach —there was no sign of her. She was gone; and he avowed to himself that it would be wonderful if ever in this world he saw her again. She did not remain at Tintagel; to do so would be useless, hopeless. She saw it now. She had hoped against hope; she had said to herself that in a year and a half he would surely have altered his mind—he would have found now how hard it was to live alone, to live with- out love—he would have found that there was something dearer in the world than family pride—he would have discovered that love outweigh- ed everything else. Then she saw that her anticipations were all wrong —he preferred his dead ancestors to his living wife. She went back to Winiston House and took up the dreary round of life again She might have made her lot more endurable and happier; she might have traveled, have sought so- ciety and amusement; but she had no heart for any of these things. She had spent the year and a half of her lonely married life in profound study, thinking to herself that, if he should claim her he would be pleased to find her yet more accomplished and educated. She was indefatigable, and it was all for him. Now that she was going back, she was without this mainspring of hope, her old studies and pursuits wearied her. To what end and for whatpurpose had bean all her study, all her hard work? He would never know of her proficiency, and she would not care to study for any other object than to please him. "What am I to do with my lifer' ally Meeeef1 "MgT'in*y't�Ie�, ltlr.% Feang" "WE nvt •mui`b than I." How often the words occurred to her: "The day is dreary, 'He cometh not,' she said: She said, `I am aweary, aweary, I would that I were dead.'" It was one of the strangest, dullest, saddest live;, that human being ever led. That she wearied of life was no wonder. She was tired of the sorrow, the suffering, the despair—so tired that after a time she fell ill, and then she lay longing for death. The Army of Constipation - la Growing Smaller Every Dy. CARTER'S LITTLE LIVER PILT.3 am respoaiible—theyaat only give relief — theypermanently cute Con.tipa- lien. Mil. lions tart them for Bilious. nus, Indigestion, Sick Headache, Sallow Skin. Small Pill, Small Dose, Small Price. Genuine moat bear Signature s CHAPTER XXXII. It was a glorious September, and the Scottish moors looked as they had not looked for years; the heather grew in rich profusion, the grouse were plentiful. The prospects for, sportsmen were excellent. Not knowing what else to do, Lord Arleigh resolved to go to Scotland for the shooting; there was a sort of savage satisfaction in the idea of living so many weeks alone, without on -lookers, where he could be dull if he liked without comment—where he could lie for hours together on the heather looking up at the blue skies, and puzzling over the problem of his life—where, when the fit of despair seized him, he could indulge in it, and no one wonder at him. He hired a shooting -lodge called Glaburn. In his present state of mind it seemed to him to be a relief to live where he could not even see a woman's face. Glaburn was kept in order by two then, who mismanaged it after the fashion of men, but Lord Arleigh was happier there than he had been since his fatal marriage -day, simply be- cause he was quite alone. If he spent more time in lying on the heather and thinking of Madaline than he did in shooting, that was his own con- cern—there was no one to interfere. One day, when he was in one of his most despairing moods, he went out quite early in the morning, de- termined to wander the day through, to exhaust himself pitilessly with fatigue, and then see if lie could not rest without dreaming of Madaline. But as he wandered east and west, knowing little and caring less, whi- ther he went, a violent storm, such as breaks at times over the Scottish moors, overtook him. The sky grew dark as night, the rain fell in a tor- rent—blinding, thick, heavy—he could hardly see his hand before him. He wandered on for hours, wet through, weary, cold, yet rather rejoicing than otherwise in his fatigue. Presently hunger was added to fatigue, and then the matter became more serious —he had no hope of being able to find his way home, for he had no idea in what direction he had stray- ed. At last he grew alarmed; life did not hold much for him, it was true, but he had no desire to die on those lonely wilds, without a human being near him. Then it became painful to him to walk; his fatigue was so great that his limbs ached at every step. He began to think that his life was drawing near its close. Once or twig he had cried "Madaline" aloud, and the name seemed to die away on the sobbing wind. He grew exhausted at last; for some hours he had struggled on in the face of the tempest. "I shall have to lie down like a dog by the road -side and die," be thought to himself. No other fate seemed to be before him but that, and he told himself that after all he had sold his life cheaply. "Found dead on the Scotch moors" would be the verdict about him. What' would the world say? What would his golden -haired darling say when she heard that he was dead? As the hot tears blinded his eyes -- tears for Madaline, not for himself— a light suddenly flashed into them, and he found himself quite close to the window of a house. With a deep - drawn, bitter sob, he whispered to himself that he was saved. He had just strength enough to knock at the door; and when it was opened he fell across the threshold, too faint and exhausted to speak, a sudden dark- ness before his eyes. When he had recovered a little, he found that several gentlemen had gathered round him, and that one of them was holding a flask of whisky to his lips. "That was a narrow escape," ' said a cheery, musical voice. "How long have you been on foot?" "Since eight this morning," he re- plied. "And now it is nearly eight at night! Well, you may thank Heaven for preserving your life." Lord Arleigh turned away with a sigh. How little could any one guess what life meant for him—life spent without love—without Madaline? "I have known several lose their lives in this way," continued the same voice. "Only last year poor Charley Hartigan was caught in a similar storm, and he lay four days dead before he was found. This gen- tleman has been fortunate." Lord Arleigh roused himself and looked around. He found himself the centre of observation. The room in which he was lying was large and well furnished, and from the odor of tobacco it was plainly used as 8. smoking -room. Over him leant a tall, handsome man, whose hair was slightly tinged with gray. „ i think. he said, "you are my neighbor, Lord Arleigh? I have often seen you on the moors." "I do not remember you," Lord Ar- leigh returned; "nor do I know where I a.m." "Then let me introduce myself as the Earl of Mountdean," wild the gentleman. "You are ett Rosortoit, a shooting -lodge lob nmaand beg that yuillkeyourseat home." Something in the kind, sympathetic voice pleased Lord Arleigh. He could not tell what it was, but it seemed ` as if there was a sound of half -for- hall be friends. gotten music in it. i "Yes," he replied, "we will be Every attention was paid to him. }friends." He was placed in a warn; bed, some So wail sr(treed that they should warm, nourishing soup was brought be strangers no longer --- that they to him, and he was left to rest. should visit and exchange neighborly "The Earl of Mounttleen. Thin courtesies and civilities. this was the tall figure he had seen Stddittt+�.vsr fd\t3al it tlai,5. na ihfi i 7 NP k2 The ProprietaryorPatrniT`•e Brine let AVegetable Prepare ionforle- s imitatingtheFood andRegoh• ting the Slomachsand Bowelsof i'IN1ANT.S,C1U DEJN Promotes Digesti no Cheerful'', nes s and Ret ne norsneiheer Oplum,Morp NOT N C0 IC' Ar�pe„o O Saari IP�LPIIl7la MLc,kr .crura $a tr Hair find ftepP m IJi.Ca,�^•��' Nem ,feed 1 ,, F/ar�ar, jv tion. Sour Stomach for Worms, Feverishness and loss OF Sin yacSiiy t Signature of Gifiv`�T!.4a THE CENTAUR COMPANY' MONTREAL & NFWYOUK. . •s s � (1.,m1jF,xIiS of s'. ToRit For Infanta and Children. Mothers Know That Genuine Castoria Always Y Bears the Signature of { In Use For Over. Thirty Years Exact Copy of Wrapper. 1 THE CENTAUR COMPANY.NEW YORK CITY. ',Nee 1. , •iV,l'.'lfd rie7gfil5bFlie;:aa"slit3ittlecl nialvoi�c Cd, preferring solitude. How kind he was, and how his voice affected him! It was like long -forgotten melody. He asked himself whether he had seen the earl anywhere. He could not re- member. He could not recall to his mind that they had ever met, yet he had most certainly heard his voice. He fell asleep thinking of this, and dreamed of Madaline all night long. In the morning the earl himself came to his room to make inquiries; and then Lord Arleigh liked him bet- ter than ever. Ile would not allow his guest to rise. ""Remember," he said, "prevention is better than cure. After the ter- rible risk you have run, it will not do for you to be rash. You must rest." So Lord Arleigh took the good ad- vice given to him to lay still, but on the second day he rose, declaring that he could stand no further confine- ment. Even then Lord Mountdean would not hear of his going. "I am compelled to be despotic with you," he said. "I know that at Glaburn you have no housekeeper, only men-servants—and they cannot make you comfortable, I am sure. Stay here for a few days until you are quite well." So Lord Arleigh allowed himself to be persuaded, saying, with a smile, that he had come to Glaburn pur- posely for solitude. "It was for the same thing that I came here." said the earl. `I have had a great sorrow in my life, and I like sometimes to be alone to think about it." The two men looked at each other, but they liked each other all the bet- ter for such open confession. When a few days had passed, it was Lord Arleigh who felt unwilling to leave his companion. He had never felt more at home than he did with Lord Mountdean. He had met no one so manly, so simple, so intelli- gent, and at the same time such a good fellow. There were little pecul- iarities in the earl, too, that struck liim very forcibly; they seemed to re- call some faint, vague memory, a something that he could never grasp, that was always eluding him, yet that was perfectly clear; and he was completely puzzled. "Have I ever met you before?" be end Lord were walking up a steep hill one day together, when, the former; feeling tired, they both sat down among the heather to rest. There was a warm sun shining, a pleasant wind blowing, and the purple heather seem- ed literally to dance around them.. They remained for some time in sil- ence; it was the earl who broke Al by saying: "How beautiful the heather is! And, here indeed on this hill top is soli-! tude. We might fancy ourselves quite' alone in the world. By the way, you, have never told me, Arleigh, what it is that makes you so fond of soli- tude." oli tude." "I have had a great trouble," bet replied, briefly. A trouble? But one suffers s, great deal before losing all interest, in life. You are so young, you can- not have suffered much." "I know no other life so utterly' hopeless as my own." The earl looked at him thought" fully. I should like to know what your} trouble is?" he said gently. "I can tell you only one hall of it," was the reply. ` I fell in love' with one of the sweetest, fairest,; purest of girls. How I loved her is known only to myself. I suppose' every man thinks his own love thea greatest and the best. My whole, heart went out to this girl—with myl whole soul I loved her! She was be -1 low me in the one matter of worldly wealth and position—above me in all others. When I first asked her tot marry me, she refused. She told mei that difference in our rank was too, great. She was most noble, most.self-, sacrificing; she loved me, I know,: most dearly, but she refused me. IF was for some time unable to overcome! her opposition; at last I succeeded.' I tell you no details either of her; name or where she lived, nor any' other circumstances connected with; her—I tell you only this, that, once! having won her consent to our mar-! nage, I seemed to have exchanged' earth for Elysium. Then we were; married, not publicly and with great' pomp, but as my darling wished --i privately and quietly. On that same! day—my wedding day — I took her home. I cannot tell you how great! was my happiness—no one could real lize it. Believe me, Lord Mountdean,� that she herself is as pure as a saint,, asked the earl one day. that I know no other woman at once! "I do not think so. I have no re- so meek and so lofty, so noble andi membrance of ever having seen you." so humble. Looking at her, one feels; "Your voice and face are familiar how true and sweet a woman's soul, to me," the younger man continued. can be. Yet, oh, that I should live' "One or two of your gestures are as to say it! --on my wedding day I dis- well known to me as though I lived covered something --it was no fault oft with you for years." hers, I swear—that parted us. Loving "Remembrances of that kind some- her blindly, madly, with my whole times strike me," said the earl—"a heart and soul, I was still compelled; mannerism, a something that one to leave her. She is my wife in name! cannot explain. I should say that only, and can never be more to me,' you have seen some one like Inc. yet. you understand, without any; perhaps." fault of hers." It was probable enough, but 'Lord "What a strange story !" said the' Arleigh was not quite satisfied. The earl. thoughtfully. "But this barrier,; earl and his guest parted in the most this obstacle• --can it never be remove friendly manner. ed?" "I shall never be quite so muen to "No," an:wered Lord Arleigh,; love with solitude again," said Lard "never!" Arleigh, as they were parting; "you "I assure you of my deepest sym hese taught me that there is some- pathy," said the earl. "It is a strange thing better." history." "1 have learned the same lesson "Yes, a sad fate," sighed Le • r -t from you," responded the earl, with leigh. "You cannot underste• ny a sigh. "You talk about solitude. I story entirely. Wanting a fell ex had not been at ltosorton ten days planation, you might fairly ask moi before a party of four, all friends of why I married with this drawback. mine, proposed to visit me. I could I did not know of it, but my wife' not refuse. They left the day after believed I did. We wore both most. you came." cruelly deceived; it does not matter. "I did not see them," said Lord how. She is condemned to a loveless, • Arleigh. joyless life; so ani I. With a wife' "No, I did not ask them to prolong beautiful, loving, young, I must lead. their stay, fearing that after all those a most solitary existence I must see;; hours on the moors you might have nay name die out for want of heirs--• a serious illness; but now, Lord Ar- T must see my race almost extinct,. Leigh, you will promise me that we my life passed in repining and misery, ' my heart broken. my days without sunshine. I repeat: that it is a sad foa." `.It is indeed," agreed the earl "and such it Strange one. ere you! quite sure: that nothing can be done, to remedy its''" t