Wife in Name Only - Charlotte Mary Brame (digital e reader TXT) 📗

/> "When I read in history the story of Anne of Cleves, I thought it cruel to be sought in marriage, brought over from another land, looked at, sneered 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, all honor, in deepest respect. You are untouched by the disgrace attached 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 moaned, wringing her hands. "My own heart, my woman's instinct, tells me you are wrong. I cannot argue with you, nor can I urge anything more."

She turned from him. He would have given much to take her into his arms, and kissing her, bid her stay.

"You remember the old song, Madaline?


"'I could not love thee, dear, so much,
Loved I not honor more.'


If I could be false to the dead, Madaline, I should be untrue to the living. That I am not so is your security for my faith. If I could be false to the traditions of my race, I could be false to my vows of love."

"I can say no more--I can urge no more. You are a man--wise, strong, brave. I submit."

It was a cruel fate. He looked round on his pictured ancestors Would they have suffered, have sacrificed as much for the honor of their house as he was about to sacrifice now? Yes, he knew they would, for love of race and pride of name had always been unspeakably dear to them.


Chapter XXVIII.


Lord Arleigh raised his head from his breast. His wife was kneeling sobbing at his feet.

"Norman," she said, in a broken voice, "I yield, I submit. You know best, dear. In truth, I am not worthy to be your wife. I urge no claim on you; but, my darling, must I leave you? You are the very light of my life, heart of my heart, soul of my soul--must I leave you? Could I not remain here as your servant, your slave, the lowliest in your house--somewhere near, where I may hear the tones of your voice, the sound of your footsteps--where I may stand sometimes at the window and see you ride away--where I may render you little attentions such as loving wives render? Oh, Norman, be merciful and grant me that at least!"

"My darling, I cannot--do not tempt me. You do not understand I love you with a fierce, passionate love. If you were near me, I should be compelled to show that love to you every hour of the day--to treat you as my dear and honored wife. If you were near me, I might forget my resolves and remember only my love."

"No one should know," she whispered, "that I was your wife. I should take the guise of the humblest servant in the place. No one should know, love. Oh, darling, let it be so!"

She saw great drops of agony on his brow; she saw a world of pain in his eyes which alarmed her.

"It cannot be," he replied, hoarsely. "You must urge me no more--you are torturing me."

Then she rose, humbly enough, and turned away.

"I will say no more, Norman. Now do with me what you please."

There was silence for a few minutes. The sun was sinking low in the western sky, the chirp of the birds was growing faint in the trees. She raised her colorless face to his.

"I submit, Norman," she said. "You have some plan to propose. Do with me just as you will."

It was cruel--no crueler fate had ever fallen to a man's lot--but honor obliged him to act as he did. He took her hand in his.

"Some day, dear wife," he said, "you will understand what suffering this step has cost me."

"Yes," she murmured, faintly; "I may understand in time."

"While I have been sitting here," he went on, "I have been thinking it all over, and I have come to a decision as to what will be best for you and for me. You are Lady Arleigh of Beechgrove--you are my wife; you shall have all the honor and respect due to your position."

She shuddered as though the words were a most cruel mockery.

"You will honor," she questioned, bitterly, "the daughter of a felon?"

"I will honor my wife, who has been deceived even more cruelly than myself," he replied. "I have thought of a plan," he continued, "which can be easily carried out. On our estate not twenty miles from here--there is a little house called the Dower House--a house where the dowagers of the family have generally resided. It is near Winiston, a small country town. A housekeeper and two servants live in the house now, and keep it in order. You will be happy there, my darling, I am sure, as far as is possible. I will see that you have everything you need or require."

She listened as one who hears but dimly.

"You have no objection to raise, have you, Madaline?"

"No," she replied, "it matters little where I live; I only pray that my life may be short."

"Hush, my darling. You pain me."

"Oh, Norman, Norman," she cried, "what will they think of me--what will they say--your servants, your friends?"

"We must not trouble about that," said Norman; "we must not pause to consider what the world will say. We must do what we think is right."

He took out his watch and looked at it.

"It is eight o'clock," he said; "we shall have time to drive to Winiston to-night."

There was a world of sorrowful reproach in the blue eyes raised to his.

"I understand," she said, quietly; "you do not wish that the daughter of a felon should sleep, even for one night, under your roof."

"You pain me and you pain yourself; but it is, if you will bear the truth, my poor Madaline, just as you say. Even for these ancient walls I have such reverence."

"Since my presence dishonors them," she said, quietly, "I will go. Heaven will judge between us, Norman. I say that you are wrong. If I am to leave your house, I should like to go at once. I will go to my room and prepare for the journey."

He did not attempt to detain her, for he well knew that, if she made another appeal to him, he could not resist the impulse to clasp her in his arms, and at the cost of what he thought his honor to bid her stay.

She lingered before him, beautiful, graceful, sorrowful.

"Is there anything more you would like to say to me?" she asked, with sad humility.

"I dare not," he uttered, hoarsely; "I cannot trust myself."

He watched her as with slow, graceful steps she passed down, the long gallery, never turning her fair face or golden head back to him, her white robes trailing on the parquetry floor. When she had reached the end, he saw her draw aside the hangings and stand for a minute looking at the pictured faces of the Arleighs; then she disappeared, and he was left alone.

He buried his face in his hands and wept bitterly.

"I could curse the woman who has wrought this misery!" he exclaimed, presently.

And then the remembrance of Philippa, as he had known her years before--Philippa as a child, Philippa, his mother's favorite--restrained him.

* * * * *


"Perhaps I too was to blame," he thought; "she would not have taken such cruel vengeance had I been more candid."

Lady Arleigh went to her room. The pretty traveling-costume lay where she had left it; the housekeeper had not put away anything. Hastily taking off her white dress and removing the jewels from her neck, and the flowers from her hair, Madaline placed them aside, and then having attired herself for the journey, she went down stairs, meeting no one.

Some little surprise was created among the servants when orders came for the carriage to be got ready.

"Going out at this time of night. What can it mean?" asked one of them.

"They are going to the Dower House," answered a groom.

"Ah, then his lordship and her ladyship will not remain at the Abbey! How strange! But there--rich people have nothing to do but indulge in whims and caprices!" said the under house-maid, who was immediately frowned down by her superiors in office.

Not a word was spoken by husband and wife as Lady Arleigh took her seat in the carriage. Whatever she felt was buried in her own breast. Her face shone marble-white underneath her vail, and her eyes were bent downward. Never a word did she speak as the carriage drove slowly through the park, where the dews were falling and the stars were bright.

Once her husband turned to her and tried to take her hand in his, but she drew back.

"It will be better not to talk, Norman," she said. "I can bear it best in silence."

So they drove on in unbroken quietude. The dew lay glistening on the grass and trees; all nature was hushed, tranquil, sweet, and still. It was surely the strangest drive that husband and wife had ever taken together. More than once, noting the silent, graceful figure, Lord Arleigh was tempted to ask Madaline to fly with him to some foreign land, where they could live and die unknown--more than once he was tempted to kiss the beautiful lips and say to her, "Madaline, you shall not leave me;" but the dishonor attaching to his name caused him to remain silent.

They had a rapid drive, and reached Winiston House--as it was generally called--before eleven. Great was the surprise and consternation excited by so unexpected an arrival. The house was in the charge of a widow whose husband had been the late, lord's steward. She looked somewhat dubiously at Lord Arleigh and then at his companion, when they had entered. Madaline never opened her lips. Lord Arleigh was strangely pale and confused.

"Mrs. Burton," he said, "I can hardly imagine that you have heard of my marriage. This is my wife--Lady Arleigh."

All the woman's doubt and hesitation vanished then--she became all attention; but Lord Arleigh inwardly loathed his fate when he found himself compelled to offer explanations that he would have given worlds to avoid.

"I am not going to remain here myself," he said, in answer to the inquiries about rooms and refreshments. "Lady Arleigh will live at Winiston House altogether; and, as you have always served the family faithfull and well, I should like you to remain in her service."

The woman looked up at him in such utter bewilderment and surprise that he felt somewhat afraid of what she might say; he therefore hastened to add:

"Family matters that concern no one but ourselves compel me to make this arrangement. Lady Arleigh will be mistress now of Winiston House. She will have a staff of servants here. You can please yourself about remaining--either as housekeeper or not--just as you like."

"Of course, my lord, I shall