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

senses as that of a cool deep pool in the recesses of a wood.

She stood at the grand entrance, watching him depart, and she knew that with all her beauty, her grace, her talent, her sovereignty, no one had ever loved her as this man did. Then, after he was gone, she stood still on the broad stone terrace, with that strange smile on her face, which seemed to mar while it deepened her beauty.

"It will be a full revenge," she said to herself. "There could be no fuller. But what shall I do when it is all known?"

She was not one to flinch from the course of action she had marked out for herself, nor from the consequences of that course; but she shuddered even in the heat, as she thought what her life would be when her vengeance was taken.

"He will never forgive me," she said, "he will look upon me as the wickedest of women. It does not matter; he should not have exasperated me by slighting me."

Then the coppery haze seemed to gather itself together--great purple masses of clouds piled themselves in the sky, a lurid light overspread the heavens, the dense oppressive silence was broken by a distant peal of thunder, great rain-drops fell--fierce, heavy drops. The trees seemed to stretch out their leaves to drink in the moisture, the parched flowers welcomed the downpour; and still the Duchess of Hazlewood stood out on the terrace, so deeply engrossed in her thoughts that she never heeded the rain.

Madaline hastened out to her with a shawl.

"Dear duchess," she cried, "it is raining; and you are so absorbed in thought that you do not notice it."

She laughed a strange, weird laugh, and raised her beautiful face with its expression of gloom.

"I did not notice it, Madaline," she said; "but there is no need for anxiety about me," she added, proudly.

They re-entered the house together. Madaline believed that the duchess was thinking of and grieving over the departure of the duke. Lady Peters thought the same. They both did their best to comfort her--to amuse her and distract her thoughts. But the absent expression did not die from her dark eyes. When they had talked to her some little time she took up the "Lady of Lyons."

"How much you admire that play," said Madaline; "I see you reading it so often."

"I have a fancy for it," returned the duchess; "it suits my taste. And I admire the language very much."

"Yet it is a cruel story," observed Madaline; "the noblest character in it is _Pauline_."

"She was very proud; and pride, I suppose, must suffer," said the duchess, carelessly.

"She was not too proud, after all, to love a noble man, when she once recognized him, duchess."

"She learned to love the prince--she would never have loved the gardener," remarked Philippa; "it was a terrible vengeance."

"I do not like stories of vengeance," said Madaline. "After all, though, I love the _Claude_ of the story, and find much true nobility in him--much to admire. When reading the play I am tempted all the time to ask myself, How could he do it? It was an unmanly act."

There was a strange light in the dark eyes, a quiver on the scarlet lips, as Philippa said:

"Do you think so? Suppose some one had offended you as _Pauline_ offended _Claude_--laughing at the love offered, scorned, mocked, despised you--and that such vengeance as his lay in your power; would you not take it?"

The sweet face flushed.

"No, I would rather die," Madaline replied, quickly.

"I would take it, and glory in it," said the duchess, firmly

"If I were wounded, insulted, and slighted as _Claude_ was, I would take the cruelest revenge that I could."

Madeline took one of the jeweled hands in her own and kissed it.

"I should never be afraid of you," she said; "you can never hurt any one. Your vengeance would end in the bestowal of a favor."

"Do you think so highly of me, Madaline?" asked Philippa, sadly.

"Think highly of you! Why, you would laugh if you knew how I loved you--how I adore you. If all the world were to swear to me that you could do the least thing wrong, I should not believe them."

"Poor child!" said the duchess, sadly.

"Why do you call me 'poor child?'" she asked, laughingly.

"Because you have such implicit faith, and are sure to be so cruelly disappointed."

"I would rather have such implicit faith, and bear the disappointment, than be without both," said Madaline.


Chapter XIX.


On the day of his departure the duke had said to his wife: "I have invited Norman to spend a few weeks with you; have some pleasant people to meet him. He tells me he shall not go to Scotland this year."

"I will ask Miss Byrton and Lady Sheldon," Philippa had promised.

"Only two ladies!" the duke had laughed. "He will want some one to smoke his cigar with."

"I will trust to some happy inspiration at the time, then," she had replied; and they had not mentioned the matter again.

Early in August Lord Arleigh wrote that if it were convenient he should prefer paying his promised visit at once. He concluded his letter by saying:

"My dear Philippa, your kind, good husband has said something to me about meeting a pleasant party. I should so much prefer one of my old style visits--no parties, no ceremonies. I want to see you and Verdun Royal, not a crowd of strange faces. Lady Peters is _chaperon_, if you have any lingering doubt about the 'proprieties.'"

So it was agreed that he should come alone, and later on, if the duchess cared to invite more friends, she could do so.

The fact was that Lord Arleigh wanted time for his wooing. He had found that he could not live without Madaline. He had thought most carefully about everything, and had decided on asking her to be his wife. True, there was the drawback of her parentage--but that was not grievous, not so terrible. Of course, if she had been lowly-born--descended from the dregs of the people, or the daughter of a criminal--he would have trampled his love under foot. He would have said to himself "_Noblesse oblige_," and rather than tarnish the honor of his family, he would have given her up.

This was not needed. Related to the Duke of Hazlewood, there could not be anything wrong. The duchess had told him distinctly that Madaline's mother had married beneath her, and that the whole family on that account had completely ignored her. He did not remember that the duchess had told him so in as many words, but he was decidedly of the opinion that Madaline's mother was a cousin of the duke's, and that she had married a drawing-master, who had afterward turned out wild and profligate. The drawing-master was dead. His darling Madaline had good blood in her veins--was descended from an ancient and noble family. That she had neither fortune nor position was immaterial to him. He had understood from the duchess that the mother of his fair young love lived in quiet retirement. He could not remember in what words all this had been told to him, but this was the impression that was on his mind. So he had determined on making Madaline his wife if he could but win her consent. The only thing to be feared was her own unwillingness. She was fair and fragile, but she had a wonderful strength of will.

He had thought it all over. He remembered well what the duchess had said about the duke's not caring to hear the matter mentioned. Lord Arleigh could understand that, with all his gentleness, Hazlewood was a proud man, and that, if there had been a _mésalliance_ in his family, he would be the last to wish it discussed. Still Lord Arleigh knew that he would approve of the marriage. It was plain, however, that it would be better for it to take place while he was away from England, and then it would not, could not in any way compromise him. A quiet marriage would not attract attention.

If he could only win Madeline's consent. She had been so unwilling to promise him her friendship, and then so unwilling to hear that he loved her. He could form no idea how she would receive the offer of marriage that he intended to make her.

That was why he wished to go alone. He would have time and opportunity then. As for Philippa, he did not fear any real objection from her; if she once believed or thought that his heart was fixed on marrying Madaline, he was sure she would help him.

Marry Madaline he must--life was nothing to him without her. He had laughed at the fever called love. He knew now how completely love had mastered him. He could think of nothing but Madaline.

He went down to Verdun Royal, heart and soul so completely wrapped in Madaline that he hardly remembered Philippa--hardly remembered that he was going as her guest; he was going to woo Madeline--fair, sweet Madaline--to ask her to be his wife, to try to win her for his own.

It was afternoon when he reached Verdun Royal. The glory of summer was over the earth. He laughed at himself, for he was nervous and timid; he longed to see Madaline, yet trembled at the thought of meeting her.

"So this is love?" said Lord Arleigh to himself, with a smile. "I used to wonder why it made men cowards, and what there was to fear; I can understand it now."

Then he saw the gray towers and turrets of Verdun Royal rising from the trees; he thought of his childish visits to the house, and how his mother taught him to call the child Philippa his little wife. Who would have thought in those days that Philippa would live to be a duchess, and that he should so wildly worship, so madly love a fairer, younger face?

He was made welcome at Verdun Royal. Lady Peters received him as though he were her own son. Then the duchess entered, with a glad light in her eyes, and a smile that was half wistful. She greeted him warmly; she was pleased to see him--pleased to welcome him; the whole house was at his service, and everything in it. He had never seen the duchess look better; she wore her favorite colors, amber and white.

"I have attended to your wishes, Norman," she said; "you must not blame me if you are dull. I have asked no one to meet you."

"There is no fear of my ever being dull here, Philippa," he returned. "You forget that I am almost as much at home as you are yourself. I can remember when I looked upon coming to Verdun Royal as coming home."

A shadow of pain crossed her face at this reference to those early, happy days. Then he summoned up courage, and said to her:

"Where is your fair companion, Philippa?"

"She is somewhere about the grounds," replied the duchess. "I can never persuade her to remain in-doors unless she has something to do. So you have not forgotten her?" added the duchess, after a short pause.

"I have not forgotten her, Philippa. I shall have something very important to say to you about her before I go away again."

She gave no sign that she understood him, but