Wife in Name Only, Charlotte Mary Brame [carter reed txt] 📗

it was from a very different motive." And then he paused abruptly. What was he going to say? How far had he already left all conventionality behind? He stopped just in time, and then continued, gravely: "The Duchess of Hazlewood and myself are such true and tried friends that we never think of keeping any secrets from each other. We have been, as I told you before, brother and sister all our lives--it was only natural that she should tell me about you."

"And, having heard my story, you ask me to be one of your friends?" she said, slowly. There were pain and pathos in her voice as she spoke.

"Yes," he replied, "having heard it all, I desire nothing on earth so much as to win your friendship."

"My mother?" she murmured.

"Yes--your mother's unfortunate marriage, and all that came of it. I can repeat the story."

"Oh, no!" she interrupted. "I do not wish to hear it. You know it, and you would still be my friend?"

"Answer me one question," he said, gently. "Is this sad story the result of any fault of yours? Are you in any way to blame for it?"

"No; not in the least. Still, Lord Arleigh, although I do not share the fault, I share the disgrace--nothing can avert that from me."

"Nothing of the kind," he opposed; "disgrace and yourself are as incompatible as pitch and a dove's wing."

"But," she continued, wonderingly, "do you quite understand?"

"Yes; the duchess told me the whole story. I understand it, and am truly grieved for you; I know the duke's share in it and all."

He saw her face grow pale even to the lips.

"And yet you would be my friend--you whom people call proud--you whose very name is history! I cannot believe it, Lord Arleigh."

There was a wistful look in her eyes, as though she would fain believe that it were true, yet that she was compelled to plead even against herself.

"We cannot account for likes or dislikes," he said; "I always look upon them as nature's guidance as to whom we should love, and whom we should avoid. The moment I saw you I--liked you. I went home, and thought about you all day long."

"Did you?" she asked, wonderingly. "How very strange!"

"It does not seem strange to me," he observed. "Before I had looked at you three minutes I felt as though I had known you all my life. How long have we been talking here? Ten minutes, perhaps--yet I feel as though already there is something that has cut us off from the rest of the world, and left us alone together. There is no accounting for such strange feelings as these."

"No," she replied, dreamily, "I do not think there is."

"Perhaps," he continued, "I may have been fanciful all my life; but years ago, when I was a boy at school, I pictured to myself a heroine such as I thought I should love when I came to be a man."

She had forgotten her sweet, half sad shyness, and sat with faint flush on her face, her lips parted, her blue eyes fixed on his.

"A heroine of my own creation," he went on; "and I gave her an ideal face--lilies and roses blended, rose-leaf lips, a white brow, eyes the color of hyacinths, and hair of pale gold."

"That is a pretty picture," she said, all unconscious that it was her own portrait he had sketched.

His eyes softened and gleamed at the _naïveté_ of the words.

"I am glad you think so. Then my heroine had, in my fancy, a mind and soul that suited her face--pure, original, half sad, wholly sweet, full of poetry."

She smiled as though charmed with the picture.

"Then I grew to be a youth, and then to be a man," he continued. "I looked everywhere for my ideal among all the fair women I knew. I looked in courts and palaces, I looked in country houses, but I could not find her. I looked at home and abroad, I looked at all times and all seasons, but I could not find her."

He saw a shadow come over the sweet, pure face as though she felt sorry for him.

"So time passed, and I began to think that I should never find my ideal, that I must give her up, when one day, quite unexpectedly, I saw her."

There was a gleam of sympathy in the blue eyes.

"I found her at last," he continued. "It was one bright June morning; she was sitting out among the roses, ten thousand times fairer and sweeter than they."

She looked at him with a startled glance; not the faintest idea had occurred to her that he was speaking of her.

"Do you understand me?" he asked.

"I--I am frightened, Lord Arleigh."

"Nay, why should you fear? What is there to fear? It is true. The moment I saw you sitting here I knew that you were my ideal, found at last."

"But," she said, with the simple wonder of a child. "I am not like the portrait you sketched."

"You are unlike it only because you are a hundred times fairer," he replied; "that is why I inquired about you--why I asked so many questions. It was because you were to me a dream realized. So it came about that I heard your true history. Now will you be my friend?"

"If you still wish it, Lord Arleigh, yes; but, if you repent of having asked me, and should ever feel ashamed of our friendship, remember that I shall not reproach you for giving me up."

"Giving you up?" cried Lord Arleigh. "Ah, Madaline--let me call you Madaline, the name is so sweet--I shall never give you up! When a man has been for many years looking for some one to fill his highest and brightest dreams, he knows how to appreciate that some one when found."

"It seems all so strange," she said, musingly.

"Nay, why strange? You have read that sweetest and saddest of all love stories--'Romeo and Juliet?' Did _Juliet_ think it strange that, so soon after seeing her, _Romeo_ should be willing to give his life for her?"

"No, it did not seem strange to them," she replied, with a smile; "but it is different with us. This is the nineteenth century, and there are no _Juliets_."

"There are plenty of _Romeos_, though," he remarked, laughingly. "The sweetest dreams in my life are the briefest. Will you pluck one of those roses for me and give it to me, saying, 'I promise to be your friend?'"

"You make me do things against my will," she said; but she plucked a rose, and held it toward him in her hand. "I promise to be your friend," she said, gently.

Lord Arleigh kissed the rose. As he did so their eyes met; and it would have been hard to tell which blushed the more deeply. After that, meetings between them became more frequent. Lord Arleigh made seeing her the one great study of his life--and the result was what might be imagined.


Chapter XVIII.


The yacht of Mr. Conyers, one of the richest commoners in England--a yacht fitted as surely no yacht ever before had been fitted--was for sale. He was a wealthy man, but to keep that sea-palace afloat was beyond his means. The Duchess of Hazlewood was sole mistress of a large fortune in her own right; the duke had made most magnificent settlements upon her. She had a large sum of money at her command; and the idea suddenly occurred to her to purchase Mr. Conyers' yacht unknown to her husband and present him with it. He was fond of yachting--it was his favorite amusement. She herself was a wretched sailor, and would not be able to accompany him; but that would not matter. It was not of her own pleasure that the Duchess of Hazlewood was thinking, while the old strange brooding smile lingered on her beautiful face and deepened on her perfect lips.

"It would be the very thing," she said to herself, "it would afford to me the opportunity I am seeking--nothing could be better."

She purchased the yacht and presented it to the duke, her husband. His pleasure and astonishment were unbounded. She was, as a rule, so undemonstrative that he could not thank her sufficiently for what seemed to him her great interest in his favorite pursuit.

"The only drawback to the splendid gift, Philippa, is that you can never enjoy it; it will take me away from you."

"Yes, I do indeed deplore that I am a wretched sailor, for I can imagine nothing pleasanter than life on board such a yacht as that. But, while you are cruising about, Vere, I shall go to Verdun Royal and take Madaline with me; then I shall go to Vere Court--make a kind of royal progress, set everything straight and redress all wrongs, hold a court at each establishment I shall enjoy that more than yachting."

"But I shall miss you so much, Philippa," said the young husband.

"We have the remainder of our lives to spend together," she rejoined; "if you are afraid of missing me too much, you had better get rid of the yacht."

But he would not hear of that--he was delighted with the beautiful and valuable present. The yacht was christened "Queen Philippa"; and it was decided that, when the end of the season had come, the duke should take his beautiful wife to Verdun Royal, and, after having installed her there, should go at once to sea. He had invited a party of friends--all yachtsmen like himself--and they had agreed to take "Queen Philippa" to the Mediterranean, there to cruise during the autumn months.

As it was settled so it was carried out; before the week had ended the duke, duchess, and Madeline were all at Verdun Royal. Perhaps the proud young wife had never realized before how completely her husband loved her. This temporary parting was to him a real pain.

A few days before it took place he began to look pale and ill. She saw that he could not eat, that he did not sleep or rest. Her heart was touched by his simple fidelity, his passionate love, although the one fell purpose of her life remained unchanged.

"If you dislike going, Vere," she said to him one day, "do not go--stay at Verdun Royal."

"The world would laugh if I did that, Philippa," he returned; "it would guess at once what was the reason, because every one knows how dearly I love you. We should be called _Darby_ and _Joan_."

"No one would ever dare to call me _Joan_," she said, "for I have nothing of _Joan_ in me."

The duke sighed--perhaps he thought that it would be all the better if she had; but, fancying there was something, after all, slightly contemptuous in her manner, as though she thought it unmanly in him to repine about leaving her, he said no more.

One warm, brilliant day he took leave of her and she was left to work out her purpose. She never forgot the day of his departure--it was one of those hot days when the summer skies seemed to be half obscured by a copper-colored haze, when the green leaves hang languidly, and the birds seek the coolest shade, when the flowers droop with thirst, and never a breath of air stir their blossoms, when there is no picture so refreshing to the